It was just past 11 o'clock when I climbed down from the bunk bed in Godson's secret hiding place. I stretched, yawned, and headed to the bathroom to splash some water on my face.
Godson's hideout was really impressive, and I couldn’t help but wonder about its history. It was built under his bar with solid concrete and steel, with a hidden entrance that was tough to spot, plus an emergency exit leading to the alley behind the bar. Inside, there was a refrigerator stocked with food, a radio, a TV, a phone, a table, three comfy chairs, and plenty of liquor.
While I was shaving, I listened to the police signals coming through on the shortwave radio, but nothing seemed to be about me. Just as I finished rinsing my razor, Godson walked in with a few paper parcels. He set them on the table and pulled out four small packages and a folded newspaper from his pockets.
"I hope I didn’t forget anything," he said as he plugged in the electric kettle.
I unfolded the newspaper and immediately saw the big story about the double murder. In his statement, Lieutenant Brandon said the police had important clues and were looking for a tall, Black, young man with an African background who wore a peaked hat. They thought he might have information to help solve the murders. I was surprised they didn’t mention my name and how vague the description was.
"Is that you?" Godson asked while dropping two eggs into a saucepan.
"Yeah, that’s me," I answered as I checked out the stuff he’d brought for me.
He handed me a twist of black hair, a small bottle of spirit gum, hair dye, and a few other things. I didn’t need the hair dye, though—I’m African, and my hair’s already dark. While I continued reading the newspaper and looking through the items, he started cooking soft-boiled eggs and making coffee and toast for breakfast.
Once he was done, I figured I’d eat first before trying out the fake mustache he’d given me, made from the black hair and special glue. He leaned against the wall, holding a cigarette, watching me eat.
"Do you know Captain Wilkens well?" I asked, cracking open an egg.
"Twelve years," Godson said, staring at the glowing tip of his cigarette. "He was my boss during Vietnam. He saved my life twice, helped me avoid a court martial, and even got me three weeks off when my wife was dying—General Westmoreland himself had said no leave for anyone, but Wilkens made it happen. I owe him everything."
"This place is something else," I remarked.
He grinned at me.
"Don’t get the wrong idea, pal," he said, taking a drag from his cigarette. "This spot was here when I bought it. It was one of Al Capone’s old liquor joints. Sometimes people need a place to cool off, and it comes in handy. When Captain Wilkens was running things, I kept it closed. But now, with the new crowd in charge of the Alexandria police force, I help out when I can. It'll run you thirty bucks a day. I’m saving up for a trip to the Caribbean, otherwise I wouldn’t charge you."
I grinned back. "That’s fine," I said. "I’ll keep track of the expenses for my boss."
He sighed, clearly envious.
"I’ve always wanted to do that," he admitted. "But don’t worry. As long as you’re here, you’re safe."
I cracked open another egg. "Why don’t you sit down and relax?" I suggested.
He grabbed a beer bottle, popped it open with his teeth, and sat down, taking a sip.
"I can’t stay long," he said. "Got some work to do."
"How do I reach you if I need you?" I asked.
"Just call me on the phone," he replied. "I’m the only one who answers."
"Do you have someone who can run errands for me? I need to send a package to Baltimore."
"I’ve got a boy," he said, "but he might talk. Why not mail it?"
"It needs to get there today," I insisted.
"Take my advice, mail it for safety," he suggested.
"No problem," I agreed. "But could you get me a good amount of writing paper?"
"There’s some in the drawer of the table," he said.
"Perfect," I acknowledged. "That settles it for now."
He took a long swig from his beer, sighed contentedly, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood up.
"You’ve got plenty of food here," he said. "Help yourself. I’ll be back later."
I pulled out my wallet, counted my cash, and handed him three fifty-dollar bills. I’d already paid him for the things he bought for me. As he grabbed the tray and left, I opened the packages and slipped into the brown sports suit he got. It fit perfectly, not too flashy, just the right kind of blend-in-with-the-crowd look.
I spent the next thirty minutes carefully crafting a mustache. Every single hair was placed with care, and it turned out pretty convincing. With the new suit and mustache, I was sure not even Medgar would recognize me. Heck, I barely recognized myself.
I wrapped the .36 revolver carefully, doing my best to hide its shape. Then I sat by the phone and dialed Baltimore City Police Headquarters. When the call went through, I asked for Police Captain Donald.
"Emeka here," I said as he picked up.
"I knew it was you from the sound of your voice," he replied, and we both chuckled.
"Anyway, I've got a report and a gun for you," I explained. "I need you to pick them up today. Can you send someone to get them?"
"I can do that," Captain Donald said. "What's the deal with Mr. Powell? Who killed him?"
"Your people here think it was me. That’s what the papers are saying, and they’re out looking for me. Until I can get this sorted, I’m laying low and staying out of your sight, too. You’ll find everything in the report. The gun was used in the shooting, and I need you to run prints and check ownership. I’ll leave it with Godson Arora at his bar on King’s Street. Send someone fast."
"How’d they pin this on you?" Donald asked, his voice sharp.
"I got there a few minutes after it happened," I answered. "Sergeant Montgomery caught me snooping, so I got out of there fast."
"Listen, Emeka, if they’re gunning for you..."
"I know, I know. I’m not asking for help. I can handle it. Just get the gun checked for me. That’s all I need. I’ll reach out again soon. Goodbye for now." I hung up.
An hour later, I finished writing a full report on what was going on. As I sealed the envelope, Godson walked in and just stared at me.
"Oh my God!" he exclaimed, walking around me. "I wouldn’t have known it was you! Relax, my friend. No cop in Alexandria would recognize you."
"I guess the disguise worked, huh?" I said, touching my mustache. "I should be able to move around unnoticed. I’ve arranged for someone from the Baltimore City Police to pick up this package and letter from you. That okay with you?"
"Sure," he said, taking the package and the letter. "Feels like a gun in here."
"That’s because it is," I replied, leaning back in my chair. Then I asked, "How long have you been living in Alexandria?"
"I’ve been here since the Vietnam War," he said.
"So, you must know a lot of important people around here," I said.
"Yeah, I know some of them," he nodded.
"What about the ones who aren't so good?" I asked.
"I know quite a few of them, too," he admitted.
"Have you ever seen this girl?" I showed him a picture of LaToya Young. He looked at it and shook his head.
"I don’t think so," he said. "All these girls kind of look the same to me, but I don’t remember her."
I slipped the photo back into my wallet.
"Do you know anything about Mrs. Tara Graves?" I asked.
His face hardened.
"She’s the one who got Captain Wilkens kicked off the Alexandria Police Force," he said. "Yeah, I know her. Why are you asking?"
"I don’t know, but I have a feeling she’s tied to all my problems," I said.
"She’s tight with Commissioner Lawson’s crew," he said. "If she doesn’t like you, you’ve got trouble. Even Sergeant Montgomery works for her."
"Really? How do you know that?"
"A bartender hears a lot of things," he said. "Montgomery’s just a sergeant, but he’s got a lot of pull. Money talks in Alexandria, and he's got plenty. You should see the Mercedes he drives and his fancy house."
"Do you think all that comes from her?" I asked.
"That’s what they say," he answered. "I’d bet he’ll make Lieutenant next year, then Captain after that."
"Why do you think so?"
He gave me a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
"She doesn’t give things for free," he said. "He's definitely earned whatever he's got."
"Captain Wilkens thinks she murdered her husband," I shared. "What do you think?"
"I don't really know," he replied. "But what I do know is that just two days after her husband was shot, Sergeant Montgomery bought that fancy car."
"They say Reuben Hightower was the one who shot him. Did you ever meet Reuben?" I asked.
"Wait a minute, are you looking into this murder?" he asked, sinking into one of the armchairs in the room.
"It might be connected to another case I'm working on," I said. "So, have you ever crossed paths with Reuben?"
"Reuben and I were in the same battalion during the Vietnam war," he shared. "He was more like my professional colleague. But he didn't kill Mr. Anthony Graves."
"What happened to him?"
Godson shrugged his shoulders.
"He was taken care of. When you want to kill someone as rich and powerful as Mr. Anthony Graves, it’s smart to have someone else to blame. Reuben was that guy."
"How does Saul Bolton fit into all of this?"
Godson looked confused.
"Does he? I didn’t know that," he said.
"Captain Wilkens thinks Saul Bolton set up the killing because Mrs. Graves told him to," I explained. "He got something in return, like the club."
"That’s an idea, but I don’t really know," he replied. "The fancy Golden Triangle club is not my area. Why not talk to Saul’s ex-girlfriend? She seems ready to hurt him if she’s sure there won’t be any consequences. Around the time Mr. Anthony Graves was killed, Saul and she had a big fight. He kicked her out."
"Who is she, and where can I find her?" I asked.
"Her name is Ashley Robles," he told me. "She works at the Black and Proud Nightclub on Potomac Boulevard." He stood up and said, "If I have more time and you want to talk, I'd like to know more about this situation. Reuben was my friend."
"Sure," I agreed.
He took the letter and the package. Once he left, I picked up the phone and called Medgar personally. After waiting for a while, he answered.
"How’s everything going, buddy?" he asked. "Long time no talk."
"I’m managing without you," I replied. "It’s time you did some work too."
"I thought I heard the wind," he joked. "The story is going well. Even Mr. Sessoms likes it. Give me a couple more weeks..."
"A couple of weeks won’t do," I interrupted. "You’re going on a long trip. You’re going to California."
"California?" He sounded really excited. "Wow, that’s great! Do you think Mr. Sessoms will agree?"
"He will after he reads the report I’m sending him," I assured him. "I want you to find out what Mrs. Tara Graves did when she was there. I'll give you all the information. Take a picture of LaToya Young and show it to people in the hotels I’ll tell you about."
"Did she really go to California?"
"I don’t know, but I want to find out," I said. "Also, check on Breonna Adams."
"Sounds like a lot of work," Medgar complained. "There are fun things to do in California too, you know."
"Come on, Medgar," I encouraged. "You’re the one in charge, remember? Besides, this is really important. I’m in trouble here. The police think I did something bad, and they’re looking for me. They’re tough, and they mean business. If you don’t help me, I’ll go to California myself, and you can handle things here."
"Okay,
calm down," Medgar said quickly. "I’ll give you what you want. Just
tell me, and you’ll have it."
END
OF EPISODE 32
P.S.
Stay tuned for Episode 33, which will be published here next Sunday.
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