LaToya: Episode XXXVIII – Grave Secrets

 

 

A girl in a grubby green sweater peered over a battered portable typewriter, one penciled eyebrow arching high like it carried the weight of the world’s boredom.

"If you’re looking for Mr. Garrick," she said, her voice as distant as a far-off radio signal, "he isn’t in."

The office was barely big enough to swing a cat—if the cat was on a diet. Behind the girl was a door labeled Private, its lettering chipped and tired. A fireproof filing cabinet leaned by the window, as if it was ready to give up and fall over. There was an armchair for clients, the headrest shiny and greasy from years of surrender to hair oil. It stared at me like an old dog that couldn’t be bothered to get up.

"I did want to see him," I said, shutting the door behind me with a soft click. "Any idea when he’ll be back?"

She tilted her head toward the fly-specked clock on the wall, squinting at its hands as if they might suddenly tell her more than the time. "He’s usually here by now."

"Then I’ll wait."

I perched on the arm of the chair. It let out a mournful creak, groaning under my weight like it was giving me a personal warning. Ignoring the protest, I flicked a lighter and lit a cigarette, the flame dancing briefly in the stale air. The girl gave me a look—half curious, half indifferent—then decided I wasn’t her problem and went back to her typewriter, its keys clicking like the steady drip of a leaky faucet.

Time trickled by, each passing moment marked by the soft rhythm of her typing. My mind drifted. I'd rolled back into Alexandra at five-thirty that morning and slunk into my hideout, catching sleep like a thief grabs an unlocked purse. By nine-thirty, I was awake, had downed a cup of coffee, and exchanged a few cryptic words with Godson Arora. He’d pointed me toward this dingy office on N. Patrick Street, where Garrick was supposed to be waiting to give me answers. After Garrick, I had plans to visit Jessica Laidlow, LaToya’s friend. If she knew anything useful, I’d steer her toward Captain Donald. And if the stars aligned, a conversation with Timothy Wright—Anthony Graves’s ex-secretary—might also bear fruit, despite Captain Wilkens’ warning: Timothy’s no talker.

At exactly ten-forty-five, the door burst open like it had been kicked by an invisible boot. In hurried a lanky man wearing a light grey suit that looked like it had survived more bad days than good. Creased and stained, it sagged on him like it had lost faith. His sharp, beady eyes scanned me like a security camera that hadn’t quite decided if I was a threat. Then he cracked a grin, a little too hopeful, showing off oversized plastic teeth that gleamed unnaturally. He looked exactly like the kind of man who’d spent half his life skulking down hotel corridors, pressing his ear to keyholes, and standing in the rain with the patience of a saint. 

"You lookin' for me?" he asked, shifting his gaze between the girl and me like we were pieces on a chessboard.

"Mr. Garrick?" I confirmed, raising an eyebrow.

"That’s right," he said with a nod. "Come on in."

With long strides, he moved to the door labeled Private, pulling a key from his pocket like a magician about to reveal a trick. He twisted it in the lock and threw a look over his shoulder at the girl.

"As soon as this gentleman leaves, Miss LaRose, I’ll have my mail," he said with forced cheerfulness.

She didn’t even blink. "There isn’t any," she replied flatly, her voice as dry as week-old toast.

The corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a snarl. He clenched his jaw, likely resisting the urge to slap her sideways, and waved me into the office with a stiff hand.

The Private room was the size of a broom closet, and I had to squeeze against the wall to let him shuffle behind a desk that had seen better days—maybe back when Truman was president. He flopped into a chair, its springs squealing in protest.

"I didn’t catch your name," Garrick said, gesturing toward an upright chair that looked about as comfortable as a church pew.

I sat down, the smell of stale cigars and regret lingering in the air between us, my knees tapping against the front of the desk like a drumroll heralding something big.

“I’m a staff writer for the Baltimore Star newspaper,” I began, letting the weight of my words hang in the stale air, “and right now, I’m working with the Baltimore City police.” 

The fixed smile on the man’s face vanished like a rat darting down a drain, and those small, black eyes of his hardened to granite. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” he shot back, resting his elbows on the desk, cupping his bony chin between hands that looked like they hadn’t seen soap in a decade. 

“Some time ago, you were hired to watch a showgirl—a stripper—who danced at the Golden Triangle club,” I said, not missing a beat. “Leisha York.” 

I slid a photograph across the desk like a poker chip, stopping it right in front of him. “This girl.” 

He glanced down at the picture, then up at me, his lips curling into a scowl. 

“Look, Mack,” he sneered, his voice sharp enough to slice through metal, “you’re wasting your time. I don’t talk about my clients. If that’s all you’ve got, pull up anchor and float your way outta here.” 

“Your client, Miss Ashley,” I said slowly, “is sitting with the Baltimore City police right now, spilling her guts in a statement. We need you to back her up.” I leaned in closer, baiting the hook. “I can line your pockets with some cash and splash your face all over the *Baltimore Star*. You’ll be the first private dick with a photo spread in the city’s top paper.” 

He tilted his hat back, narrowing his eyes at me like I’d just told him the moon was made of money. 

“What is all this about?” he muttered. 

“Leisha York is dead,” I said, locking eyes with him. “Word is, Saul Bolton fingered her to Dajon Price—one of Baltimore’s finest killers. That’s what you saw, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t know any Dajon Price,” he snapped. 

“But you saw Saul Bolton point her out to someone in a car, didn’t you?” I pressed. 

“Suppose I did?” His eyes danced with defiance. 

“I need you to put that in writing,” I said, keeping my tone level. 

He worked his plastic teeth like they were gears grinding in his head, calculating. 

“What’s it worth to you?” he finally asked. 

“Publicity—and fifty bucks a day for expenses,” I replied, not blinking. 

He mulled it over, then shook his head like a gambler folding a losing hand. 

“Look, I gotta live here, mister,” he muttered. “You’re gunning for Saul Bolton, right? But you’re dreamin’ if you think you can touch him. He’s too sharp. And if he finds out I talked? I’ll be lucky to last two hours. That guy’s poison. Hell, even the cops love him around here. No, sir. You’re not getting a statement from me.” 

“You don’t seem to get it,” I said, my voice steady. “The girl’s dead. If you hold out on us, you’ll be an accessory.” 

He stared down at his desk, the weight of my words settling in. 

“I don’t know anything about her being dead,” he said quietly. “And I don’t know a thing about Saul.” 

I was done playing nice. The grime in his office was seeping into my patience. I hit him hard, gloves off. 

“You’ve got two choices,” I growled. “You head to Baltimore right now, give Captain Donald Pomperleau your statement, or I run your refusal in tomorrow’s edition of the Baltimore Star. That’ll cost you your license, and I’ll make sure the whole city knows it.” 

That hit him where it hurt. He straightened in his chair, panic flashing across his face. 

“Hold on now!” he stammered, waving his hands. “If you print that, I’ll sue you and your paper.” 

I chuckled, low and menacing. 

“Go right ahead,” I said. “We’ll eat that lawsuit for breakfast.” 

He glared at me for a long beat, then his shoulders sagged in defeat. 

“Yeah, I guess you would,” he admitted with a bitter smirk. “Alright. I know when I’m beat. Should’ve never taken that job. Watching Saul Bolton was askin’ for trouble from the get-go. I’ll go see Captain Donald.” 

I pulled out my wallet and slid two crisp fifty-dollar bills onto the desk. 

“That’s two days’ retainer,” I said. “I’ll call Captain Donald and let him know you’re on your way.” 

He scooped up the bills like a man snatching at life preservers, tucking them out of sight before I could change my mind. 

“How long did you tail Leisha York?” I asked. 

“Three days and two nights,” he replied without hesitation. 

“Was she with Saul most of that time?” 

“Not at first,” he said. “The first day, she went out to Mrs. Graves’s place in the morning.” 

That made me sit up straighter, every nerve buzzing. 

“When exactly?” I asked, my pulse quickening. 

He scratched his chin, then reached into his desk, pulling out a thick, battered notebook. After flipping through pages, he found what he was looking for and slid the book back into the drawer. 

“Morning of July 27,” he said. 

“Did she take a cab?” I asked. 

“Nope,” he answered. “Quentin Powell—the magazine artist—picked her up. They drove off together in his car.” 

“How long were they there?” 

“No clue,” he said with a shrug. “There’s a security guy at the gate. I couldn’t hang around, so I picked her up at her apartment that evening.” 

“You’re sure it was Powell?” 

“Yeah,” he replied. “I know the guy by sight. No mistaking him.” 

I kept probing, fishing for any scrap of information Mr. Garrick hadn’t already coughed up. But no luck—nothing I hadn’t already heard from Ashley Robles.

“Alright,” I said, rising to my feet with a determined sigh. “Head straight to Captain Donald. He’ll be waiting.”

From Mr. Garrick’s office, I cruised over to a nearby drugstore. I found myself a creaky phone booth on the wall, slid in, and dialed up Captain Donald. He picked up quickly, as if expecting my call.

“Garrick’s headed your way,” I told him.

Captain Donald didn’t waste time. “Got something for you,” he said, his voice full of that telltale cop’s urgency. “Two years ago, Mrs. Graves bought a gray BMW convertible from Weaver and Martel over in West Baltimore. She traded it in last August, right after LaToya disappeared—three days after, to be exact—for a green Mercedes Benz. And here’s the kicker: Saul Bolton was spotted driving that exact car around Baltimore.”

“A green Mercedes?” I repeated, my brain already connecting the dots.

“That’s right,” Donald confirmed. “We checked with Weaver and Martel. There weren’t any other green Mercedes Benz sold in Baltimore or Alexandria around that time. Green was a rare color—scarce as a snowstorm in July. So yeah, it’s gotta be the same one Saul was tooling around in.”

“Looks like we’re closing in,” I muttered, adrenaline kicking in. “I’m tracking down more witnesses. I’ll keep you posted.” And with that, I hung up.

Next, I dialed Jessica Laidlow’s number, hoping for a breakthrough. No answer. No surprise—she was probably at work this early in the morning. I switched gears and called the Old Town Construction Company, hunting down Timothy Wright. It took some persuading—well, arm-twisting, really—but I finally got his secretary to connect me. Wright grudgingly agreed to give me ten minutes if I called within the next thirty. 

At exactly 11:33, I strolled into his office, ushered in by a stunning young woman with a voice like a melody. “Mr. Emeka is here, Mr. Wright,” she chimed, as if Wright was blind and couldn’t see me standing there. Then she slipped away, closing the door so delicately it felt like it might crumble into sugar dust. 

Wright was a man who carried himself with the kind of swagger that only comes from good food, good money, and a lot of self-importance. He was big, with cold, calculating eyes and a Caribbean lilt to his voice that hinted at a life spent climbing the corporate ladder.

He gave me the classic power play—waving me to a chair while pretending to be engrossed in a document. After a moment, he yanked off his thick glasses and barked, “Well? What do you want?”

“I need your help, Mr. Wright,” I said, leaning forward. “I’m working with the Baltimore Police. You might have some information that could help us crack a murder case that’s been cold for fourteen months.”

That threw him off his game. His jaw dropped, but only for a second before he clamped it shut, eyes narrowing like a cat cornered by a stray dog. 

“What the hell kind of information would I have?” he demanded, sounding more curious than defensive. “Whose murder?”

“Leisha York,” I said, watching his face closely.

The name hit him like a punch to the gut. His expression faltered—just for a flicker of a second, but it was enough to confirm he knew more than he let on.

“Leisha York?” he echoed, his brow furrowing. “Isn’t she the one who stood in for Mrs. Graves’ portrait?”

I blinked, stunned by the unexpected connection.

“This girl,” I said, sliding LaToya’s photograph across the desk.

Wright studied the photo like it held all the answers to life’s mysteries. After a moment, he gave a slow nod. The man looked shaken, like someone who’d just realized the ground beneath him wasn’t as solid as he’d thought.

“That’s her,” he muttered. “So, she’s dead?”

“Yes,” I confirmed grimly. “We found her body last week, sealed in a barrel of cement at the Inner Harbor—Baltimore’s little inlet from the Patapsco River. She’s been dead for fourteen months.”

Wright winced like I’d just socked him in the stomach. “That’s awful,” he murmured, shaking his head. “But I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. “You mentioned she posed for Mrs. Graves’ portrait. That was Quentin Powell’s painting, right?”

“Yeah,” Wright admitted with a shrug, but I could see him shifting in his seat. “But what’s that got to do with her murder?”

“Every clue counts,” I pressed. “Why did she pose for the portrait?”

Wright sighed, clearly wishing he was anywhere else but here. “Mrs. Graves was always busy,” he explained. “Leisha had the same measurements as Mrs. Graves, and Powell just needed someone to sit in for the rest of the painting after he’d finished Mrs. Graves’ face.”

My pulse quickened. Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.

“So, Leisha looked a lot like Mrs. Graves?” I asked, hanging on every word.

Wright nodded. “Not in the face, no. But her build, her movements—they were uncannily similar. In fact, the first time I saw her on Mrs. Graves’ balcony, wearing one of her dresses while Powell painted her, I honestly thought she was Mrs. Graves. I didn’t realize the truth until I got close enough to notice the difference.”

I leaned back in my chair, my mind racing.

This was it. The connection I’d been hunting for—the link that tied everything together. And just like that, the whole tangled mess started to make sense.

 

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 38

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 39, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XXXVII – Lights, Gunfire, Escape

 

I flung the cabin door open, my heart hammering, and dashed onto the verandah. The blinding flash of car headlights pierced through the trees. For a split second, I felt a spark of hope. Then, a burst of yellow flame blazed across the lawn—something hissed past my face, biting into the front door, sending a spray of splinters flying. The silence of the night shattered as gunfire thundered, and I threw myself back into cover.

I had made a fatal mistake—I’d forgotten about the second gunman, and he had nearly taken me out. Panic roared in my ears as I bolted down the narrow passage to the backroom, desperate for my gun.

The room was empty, and my stomach dropped. The sight made my nerves crawl. Ryan—he had recovered faster than I expected. He could be hiding somewhere inside, or worse, he'd gone out the window. With no time to think, I snatched my gun, jumped across the room, and plunged the room into darkness.

Carefully, inch by inch, I made my way back to the front door. Tires screeched. I heard the unmistakable sound of a car pulling up. The car doors slammed shut, and suddenly there were footsteps—heavy, quick, coming down the cinder path. The next thing I knew, two policemen, guns at the ready, were charging towards me.

Then—BANG!—from across the lawn behind the cabin, the flash and roar of gunfire lit up the night. The policemen scattered like startled deer, diving behind trees for cover. One of them fired at the cabin, and the sharp crack of shattering glass followed. A scream—a woman’s—cut through the chaos.

Lights flickered on in nearby cabins, illuminating the lawn like a makeshift stage. My gaze darted across the confusion, and that’s when I spotted him—a squat, thickset figure creeping towards the trees. Ryan.

With my heart pounding, I lifted my gun. I aimed and fired. Ryan bolted. He was fast, but the officer was faster. Before Ryan could reach the trees, one of the policemen fired—the shot rang true.

Ryan went down on one knee, fighting to get back up, but it was hopeless. He stumbled out into the open, the gun still clutched in his hand, and in one last desperate attempt, he fired. The muzzle flashed in the darkness. The policemen opened fire. Ryan staggered back, his gun slipping from his grip, and he collapsed, spread out like a discarded doll on the grass.

From the shadows, I saw the second gunman break into a desperate sprint, trying to make it to the cinder path. One of the policemen spun on his heel, his gun already snapping up, and fired. The gunman dropped. He rolled, twisted, tried to rise to his knees, but collapsed again, sprawling on the cinders, unmoving.

“You’ve got both of them now!” I called out, stepping cautiously onto the verandah, my gun hanging low at my side.

The two policemen approached, wary and slow, their guns still fixed on me. I could almost see the nervous twitch in their trigger fingers—they weren’t taking any chances.

“I’m Emeka,” I said, keeping my movements painfully slow, my voice calm, almost a whisper. These guys were on edge, and it struck me that they could be very, very trigger-happy.

“Drop that gun!” one of them barked.

Without hesitation, I bent down and placed my gun on the floor of the verandah, careful not to make any sudden moves.

“Alright,” the second officer said, stepping closer, “now identify yourself.”

I handed over my press card and driver’s license. He scrutinized them under the moonlight, his eyes flickering between the documents and my face.

“Alright, Mr. Emeka,” the policeman finally said, nodding. “Looks like we showed up at just the right time. Sergeant Bruce is sending another car—should be here any moment.”

I nodded, still trying to calm my frayed nerves. “Did you see a girl around here? She was with me.”

The officer shook his head, lips pursed. “Didn’t see anyone else. Just those two punks.”

I was about to respond when, from the corner of my eye, I caught movement—Ashley. She was emerging from the shadows, her steps slow and unsteady, her face pale and frightened but alive. Relief crashed over me like a tidal wave.

“There she is!” I said, my voice breaking. I ran towards her, my heart lighter, my fear dissipating like smoke in the morning breeze.

“Ashley!” I called, closing the distance between us. She looked up, her eyes meeting mine, and for the first time that night, I felt like maybe—just maybe—everything was going to be alright.

Before I could reach her, Ashley's knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the grass. My heart stopped for a moment, and I sprinted to her side. The two policemen caught up, and we all huddled over her. Panic struck me—was she shot? There wasn't a drop of blood, though. One of the officers leaned down, his fingers pressing against her neck.

“She'll be fine,” he said, looking up at me. “She just fainted.”

I let out a long breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. By now, people were spilling out from the cabins, whispering in tight clusters around the fallen gunmen. The shriek of sirens sliced through the night, announcing the arrival of two more squad cars, bouncing down the gravel drive-in.

“I’ll get her to my car,” I said, scooping Ashley up like she weighed nothing.

With the policemen flanking me, I carried her to the car park, where officers poured out of their vehicles, guns ready. A sergeant strode over, his gaze locking onto me.

“You’re Emeka, right?” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“That’s me,” I confirmed, my voice steady.

“The Captain wants you back at headquarters,” he said, his gaze shifting to Ashley. “Who’s the girl? Is she hurt?”

“No,” I replied. “She just fainted. She's part of the story. Are you gonna give me an escort, or do I make my own way there?”

I maneuvered Ashley into the Pontiac, her head leaning gently against my shoulder.

“I’ll send someone with you,” the sergeant said, signaling one of his men. He barked a few orders, then turned and headed down the cinder path, his boots crunching against the gravel.

It took just under an hour to reach headquarters. As we drove, Ashley slowly came to, blinking at me through dazed eyes. She looked rattled, every muscle tense, but I pulled her closer, whispering that everything would be okay. Her head nestled into the crook of my neck, and gradually, she relaxed, her body leaning heavily against mine.

Bruce was waiting when we rolled up outside the station. His eyes went wide when he saw me helping Ashley out of the car. He blinked twice, staring as if I were a ghost.

“The guy hiding under this mustache is your old friend Emeka,” I said, giving him a smirk.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, breaking into a grin. “You had me fooled for a second there. Looks like you’ve been having quite the adventure. Come on, the Captain’s just gotten here. I dragged him out of bed, and he’s madder than a bear with a boil.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked to Ashley, who clung to me, her eyes wide and scared. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask.

“Let’s head in,” I said, giving him a nod.

Together, we climbed the stairs leading to Police Captain Donald’s office, each step echoing in the empty hall. At the door, I turned to Bruce.

“While I talk to the Captain, can you look after Miss Robles?” I asked. “She’s been through a lot and needs some rest.”

“Sure thing,” Bruce said, offering Ashley a gentle smile. “You come with me, Miss. I’ll get you fixed up.”

Leaving them behind, I knocked sharply on the Captain’s door, then pushed it open without waiting for a response. Captain Donald was hunched over his desk, his face worn and weary, dark bags sagging beneath his eyes. The wall clock behind him read twenty minutes past three, and I realized just how much of a wreck I felt myself.

For a moment, he just stared at me, his eyes drilling into mine.

“Emeka, reporting in,” I said, my voice breaking the silence. 

“You sure know how to stir up a hornet’s nest,” Captain Donald growled, his tone laced with irritation.

“Looks like it,” I replied, hooking a chair with my foot and dragging it closer before sinking down. “Captain Fitzgerald is on my tail, and I had to change my look just to keep moving freely. I’ve also brought a witness—Ashley Robles. She used to be Saul Bolton’s girlfriend. Have you had the chance to read my report?”

He gave a tired nod, rubbing a hand across his jaw.

“Let me catch you up to speed,” I said, leaning back in the chair. I launched into the story, detailing everything that had happened since I filed that report. Every twist, every chase, every gunshot. When I finally finished, I leaned forward, my eyes locked onto his.

“Miss Robles can testify that Saul Bolton and LaToya Young were thick as thieves,” I said. “And I can track down that private investigator, Thaddeus. He’ll prove Saul set LaToya up for Dajon Price. We've got the pieces, Captain—now we just need to put them together.”

The room went quiet, Captain Donald's eyes narrowing as he processed everything I'd just unloaded. It was all coming together, but we weren’t out of the woods yet—not by a long shot.

He took out a cigar, bit off the end, and gave me a sideways smirk.

"That won't do us much good," he said, shaking his head. "As long as he stays holed up in Alexandra, we can't touch him. I've checked out that gun you sent in. Stolen from a gun shop in Roland Park—eight years ago, no less. Could've belonged to anybody. No prints on it." He lit his cigar, puffed once, then shot me a loaded look. "What's the motive behind Quentin Powell's murder?"

I leaned back, shaking a cigarette loose from the pack. I lit it, the flame casting shadows across my face. "In my opinion? The motive behind all of these murders is sheer panic." My voice dropped as I continued, "Since LaToya disappeared, there have been five murders connected to her. Let's run through them in order: first, Lamar Hooke. He helped kidnap her. He was a lush, the type of guy who might start spilling secrets when he was drunk. He was dangerous, so they took him out—hit-and-run. Clean and simple." I paused for a drag, letting the suspense simmer. "Next up was Breonna Adams. A blackmailer. My bet? She picked up something juicy when she was in Hollywood and tried to cash in. They made sure she never had the chance. Then, fourteen months later—when everyone thought it had all blown over—Devon Weaver messed up. Told me himself that he knew LaToya. He was gone before I could put pressure on him." I blew out a plume of smoke, watching Captain Donald's expression grow darker. "Mr. Powell? He offered you information. When I first reached out, he didn't have much. But later? He called me back. Said he had a theory. Something he thought I'd want to hear. But someone beat me to him. And then there's his house help—the Mexican lady—probably saw something she shouldn't have. They silenced her too. It's all panic. Someone out there is desperately covering up a murder. And I think it's not LaToya's they're worried about. It's Anthony Graves' death that they're trying to bury." I leaned in, my voice a whisper. "Fifty million bucks is one hell of a motive. That's what Graves left to his wife."

Captain Donald ran his fingers through his hair, scowling as he listened.

"You think Saul Bolton and Mrs. Graves are behind this whole mess?" he asked, suspicion etched across his face.

I didn't flinch. "I'm certain of it," I said, exhaling a plume of smoke.

"But you're still guessing," he countered. "Where's the connection between Anthony Graves' murder and LaToya Young?"

"If I knew that, this case would already be closed," I shot back. "But there's definitely a connection—there has to be. Look at it this way: Saul Bolton dropped his old girlfriend for LaToya. But he kept it all hush-hush. Why? If Ashley Robles hadn't had LaToya followed, no one would even know Saul and LaToya were an item. Saul fingered LaToya to Dajon Price, then brought her to Baltimore where no one knew her, careful not to be seen. Dajon, Lamar Hooke, and Devon Weaver kidnapped her—and Dajon killed her. He went to great lengths to hide her body. Mrs. Graves knew LaToya. She must have. You should've seen her face when I showed her LaToya's photo. Mr. Powell employed LaToya as a model. I think he remembered something dangerous—something that put either Saul or Mrs. Graves at risk. Before he could spill it, he got silenced. There's a connection, Donald. We just need to find it."

"Yeah," Captain Donald muttered, begrudgingly impressed. "So how do we do it?"

"We're missing one vital clue," I said, rising from my chair. "Maybe Medgar will find it out in California. I've sent him there to trace Mrs. Graves' movements. I need him to find what Breonna Adams stumbled on. Me? I'm heading back to Alexandra. Saul's anxious to silence Ashley Robles—and he failed. He and Mrs. Graves might start to panic, and I need to be there when they do."

Captain Donald's face hardened, his eyes narrowing. "You're sticking your neck out, Emeka," he said, his voice serious. "If Captain Fitzgerald decides to arrest you for murder, there's nothing I can do to help."

I gave him a shrug. "I'll take my chances. The key to this case is in Alexandra. Until we crack it, don't let Ashley out of your sight. She's a crucial witness—we can't afford to lose her."

"I keep telling you," Donald snapped, frustration seeping into his voice, "we have no authority in Alexandra. Saul and Mrs. Graves could get away even if we have proof. Commissioner Lawson isn't going to put a filthy-rich lady like Mrs. Graves on trial."

I smiled—a slow, dangerous smile. "Oh, he'll put her on trial if I can prove she killed her husband. You might not be able to do much, but I can. We'll publish the whole story in the Baltimore Star—statements, photos, everything. That'll force Commissioner Lawson's hand. He'll have no choice but to put her on trial."

Captain Donald's eyes widened, a grin tugging at his lips.

"Now that’s an idea," he said, nodding. "But you'll need proof—proof that'll stand up to scrutiny."

I turned toward the door, tossing him one last look. "Oh, I'll get it, alright. And when I do, my proof won't just stand up—it'll leap right at Lawson and bite him where it hurts."

Captain Donald chuckled, shaking his head as I walked out. He might not have been entirely convinced, but he couldn't deny the thrill of the chase.

And I—I was ready to turn Alexandra upside down to make sure the truth came out.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 37

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 38, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XXXVI – Outrun the Danger

 

 

The four-lane highway stretched out in front of me, straight as an arrow, dark as a bottomless pit. At a blistering sixty miles an hour, I knew I had no shot at losing the car tailing us. It felt more like a twisted game of cat and mouse, except the only place I could hide was in my rearview mirror. 

Those yellow headlights behind us were creeping closer and closer. 

Ashley, tense in the passenger seat, kept glancing over her shoulder at them, her face pale in the dim glow from the dashboard. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on the lights. I gave her a nudge with my knee. 

“Can we get off this road?” I yelled over the roar of the engine. 

She blinked, snapping out of her trance. 

“There’s a turn coming up soon,” she replied, her voice shaky. 

I flicked off the headlights, trying to lose the car tailing us. But they were still about a quarter mile back. I strained my eyes, searching for the sign marking the turn. Almost missed it. 

“There!” Ashley cried, her hand gripping my arm. 

“Hold on!” I shouted back. 

I slammed on the brakes, the car’s tires screeching in protest. Ashley braced herself, hands on the dashboard, her body swaying against me as the car fishtailed, back wheels locked tight. For a split second, the wheels lifted off the ground. My heart pounded in my chest. I released the brakes, and we shot down the narrow, winding road, the sharp bends forcing my speed down to a nerve-wracking thirty miles per hour. 

Driving without headlights on a road that twisted like a snake, I had to fight to keep us on the asphalt. After what felt like an eternity but was only a few hundred yards, Ashley gasped from the backseat. 

“They passed us! They missed the turn!” 

“Where does this road go?” I asked, flipping the headlights back on, easing the speed up to forty. 

“Coral Hills,” she answered, her voice still trembling. “It’s a small beach town.” 

“Can we get back on the highway to Baltimore from there?” 

She shook her head. “No. This is the only road in and out. They’ll double back. They’ll figure out we took the turn!” Her voice rose in panic, and she clenched her fists in frustration. 

She wasn’t wrong, but I didn’t want to admit it. 

“Calm down,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “We’ll ditch the car, find somewhere to hide. If I can find a phone, I’ll call the Baltimore Police. They’re tight with Coral Hills cops. I think Coral Hills is part of their district anyway.” 

The road began to straighten, and I spotted the faint glow of streetlights up ahead. I stepped on the gas, pushing the speedometer higher. 

Ashley gripped my arm tighter. 

“They’re coming!” she gasped. 

I glanced in the mirror. Sure enough, the headlights were back, blazing down the winding road behind us. I floored the gas pedal, and the Pontiac shot forward like a bullet. 

Just then, a neon sign flashed ahead: *Turn left for Coral Hills Motel.* 

I killed the headlights again and yanked the car to the left, tires screeching as we barreled down a narrow driveway that led into a large parking lot. There were at least forty or fifty cars parked in neat rows. I swung the Pontiac into a spot beside a dusty Mazda sedan, hit the brakes hard, and the car came to a screeching halt. 

I jumped out, heart racing, adrenaline pumping. 

“Come on!” I shouted, motioning to Ashley.

I could see the headlights of the car swing into the drive-in, their bright beams cutting through the night like searchlights. Grabbing Ashley’s wrist, I yanked her along with me across the car park, our feet pounding the pavement as we darted through a double gateway. The path was rough, scattered with cinders that crunched under our feet, leading us into a large grass-covered lot, surrounded by fifty or so shadowy cabins, like silent sentinels in the night.

In the center of the lot stood the cabin housing the renting office, dark and unwelcoming. My pulse quickened as I felt the cold weight of Hwang’s gun in my hand. Glancing back, I saw the car park glowing from the headlights of the following car.

There was no time to waste. I tried the office door—locked, of course. "Damn it," I muttered under my breath. We needed cover, fast. Seconds were all we had.

Then I heard it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps, someone running down the cinder path toward us. My stomach clenched. I bolted, pulling Ashley along as we raced across the grass toward a row of dark, silent cabins. One of them had a “vacant” sign hanging from the front door handle. Bingo.

I released Ashley’s hand for a moment, leaping up the two steps to yank the sign off. Then I was back beside her, grabbing her hand again and tugging her around to the back of the cabin. I hurled the sign into the darkness. No time to think.

“We’ll get in here,” I panted, trying to catch my breath.

I spotted a back window that was slightly ajar, and without hesitating, I wedged my fingers under the frame and shoved it up. “Hold on,” I whispered to Ashley. With one arm around her waist and the other under her knees, I hoisted her through the window, my muscles burning from the effort. I scrambled in after her, pulling the window shut and locking it.

“They’ll find us,” she said, her voice shaking. “They’ll trap us like rats.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I replied, crouching by the window, my eyes darting through the shadows outside. The tension was thick, suffocating. I could hear her rapid breathing behind me, and it made me even more on edge.

Silence. Just the heavy darkness pressing in on us. No footsteps, no voices.

“I’m going to check if there’s a phone,” I said, rising to my feet.

The cabin was pitch black as I fumbled my way across the room, groping for anything familiar. My hand found a door. I pushed it open and was swallowed by more darkness. Flicking a match to life, I saw a narrow passage. Another door was on the left. I snuffed the match out and cautiously turned the handle.

Inside, I found a sitting room. I moved toward the window, careful to stay out of view, and peeked outside. My heart skipped a beat. There, right in the middle of the neatly trimmed lawn, stood Ryan. Even in the faint light of the cloud-covered moon, his bulky frame was unmistakable. His back was to the cabin, and in his hand gleamed the cold steel barrel of a gun.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and yanked the curtains shut. Another match sparked to life in my hand, and I saw it—a telephone on a small table by the window. Rushing over, I snatched the receiver and dialed emergency.

The operator’s voice crackled with politeness. She seemed eager to assist.

“Baltimore Police,” I said, my voice low but firm. Sweat clung to my back, my heart hammering in my chest as I listened to the clicks on the line.

“Baltimore Police Headquarters,” a gruff voice answered.

“Is Captain Donald Pomperleau there?” I asked, my nerves threatening to spill over.

“No, he’s not,” the voice said with no sympathy. “Who’s calling?”

“Put me through to Sergeant Bruce,” I demanded.

“Hold on,” the voice replied, followed by more clicks.

Finally, Bruce’s voice came through. “Bruce talking.”

“It’s Emeka,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “How are you, Bruce?”

“I’m doing great, Emeka,” Bruce answered, sounding calm as ever. “What’s going on with you?”

“Not good, man. Not good at all,” I replied, trying to keep my cool. “I’m holed up in a motel in Coral Hills. There are two gunmen after me, and I need help. Can you do anything?”

“I’ll handle it,” Bruce said confidently before hanging up.

I stumbled back to the other room, my legs trembling. Ashley was by the window, her silhouette outlined by the faint light filtering through the curtains.

“The police are on their way,” I whispered, trying to sound reassuring. “They’ll be here soon. Did you see anyone?”

“No,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

The air in the room was thick with fear, and outside, the night pressed in on us like a predator waiting for its prey.

I could feel her trembling beside me, her fear nearly as palpable as the cold air pressing against the windows. We stood side by side, watching, listening. Every creak of the floorboards sent chills through the room.

Suddenly, her hand clamped onto my wrist, cold as ice. "Did you hear something?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

I held my breath, straining to listen. Somewhere in the cabin, a board groaned under weight. In the tense silence, it sounded like an alarm. Ashley shivered violently, her grip tightening around me.

"Take it easy," I whispered, my lips so close to her face I could feel her breath. "Move as quietly as you can." I led her slowly across the room to the door, every step deliberate. Pressing her against the wall, I positioned her so that if anyone came through, she'd be behind the door and out of sight.

But then, another board creaked—this time outside. The sound of a door opening down the passage sent a shiver of dread down my spine.

"They're here," Ashley gasped, her voice trembling.

"Leave it to me," I said, though I barely believed my own words. Confidence was the last thing I felt. My heart was thundering in my chest, and I could feel the adrenaline pulsing in my veins.

A soft scraping noise from the hallway made my heart leap into my throat. Then came the sound of the door handle creaking under pressure. I tensed, stepping in front of Ashley, finger on the trigger, waiting for the inevitable.

The door swung open with a loud creak, pinning us behind it. Ashley’s fingers dug deep into my wrist, hard enough to leave marks. My only thought was praying she wouldn’t scream. Through the tiny crack between the door and the jamb, I caught a glimpse of a wide-shouldered silhouette—Ryan. He stood in the doorway for what felt like an eternity, scanning the dark room.

Then, he moved forward, two slow steps, his boots loud on the floor.

I was on edge, every muscle in my body tight, ready to spring. He crossed the room toward the window. His next move would be to look behind the door, and when that happened, it would be down to who was quicker on the draw. I wasn’t going to risk that. He had the upper hand, and I knew it.

I yanked my wrist free from Ashley's grip and slid out from behind the door. I couldn't afford to wait any longer.

Ryan had just opened the window, leaning out to peer into the dark night. My heart hammered as I lunged toward him, desperate to catch him off guard.

He jerked back, startled, turning just as I reached him. I swung my gun by the barrel, aiming for his head. The blow glanced off, the butt of the gun scraping down the side of his face. He staggered, dazed, his own weapon falling from his hand.

But he wasn’t done. In an instant, his massive arms were around me, crushing me with a force that could have belonged to a gorilla. I pushed back with everything I had, but it was like shoving a wall of solid steel. He was shorter than me, but he used it to his advantage, driving his head into my jaw with the force of a sledgehammer.

The impact was like getting hit with a rock. My knees wobbled, my vision blurred. He tried again, but this time, I dodged, managing to hook my heel behind his leg. I heaved forward, sending us both crashing to the floor. The sound was deafening, rattling the very bones of the cabin.

Luck was on my side. I landed on top of him. The jolt shook his grip loose, and I scrambled to my feet. Before I could grab my gun, a fist came out of the shadows, slamming into my bicep with the force of a battering ram. The blow knocked me down again.

Grunting, Ryan came at me, relentless. I lashed out with my foot, driving it hard into his chest. He flew backward like a sack of bricks, crashing against the wall.

I didn’t wait. I grabbed a nearby chair and swung it at him as he struggled to get up. The chair splintered over his head. He fell, then somehow got to his knees again, lunging forward like an unstoppable machine. Before I could react, he swept my legs out from under me, and I hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of me.

He was on top of me again before I could catch my breath. I shoved my hand into his face, desperately holding him back, but he slammed a fist into the side of my neck. Pain exploded through my body. I kicked out, catching him square in the chest again, sending him rolling onto his back. But Ryan was a beast. Nothing seemed to slow him down.

As he struggled to his feet, my hand closed around the leg of the bedside table. His silhouette was outlined perfectly against the window—a perfect target. I swung the table leg with all my might, connecting with the top of his head. The table shattered into pieces, and Ryan dropped to the floor.

This time, he stayed down.

Panting, I bent over him, rolling him onto his back to make sure he wasn’t playing possum. He was out cold. I felt like I’d been run over by a freight train.

I looked around the room, expecting to see Ashley. But she wasn’t there.

"Ashley!" I shouted, panic rising in my chest. No answer.

I stumbled to the light switch, flicking it on. The room was empty.

I ran into the hallway, shouting her name, but all I could hear was the wail of an approaching police siren.

 

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 36

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 37, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XXXV – Unseen Pursuit Begins

 

 

I moved away from the door when someone knocked again. Ashley whispered, “Who is it?” so softly, it was like leaves rustling in the wind.

“I’m not sure. Some short, stocky guy,” I whispered back, just as quietly.

Her eyes widened in fear.

“It’s Ryan,” she said, scanning the room nervously. “He won’t be alone. Don’t let him in.”

The door handle turned, and the door creaked as someone leaned against it. I grabbed her wrist, pulling her into the bedroom and locking the door behind us.

“You’ll have to leave your bags,” I told her, heading toward the window. I opened it, revealing the dark garden outside, shadows shifting among the bushes. “We’ll go this way.”

She hurried to join me, and I lifted her through the window into the garden. Then, I climbed out after her.

“My car is around the corner,” I explained. “Can we make it there?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I’ll show you the way.”

We dashed across a stretch of lawn toward a gate.

“Let me go first,” I said, pulling out Hwang’s gun.

I opened the gate, and we stepped into a deserted alley that faded into darkness. We moved quietly down the narrow space, Ashley close behind me, her breathing fast and panicked. The alley led us to a side street, and I could see the faint glow of my car’s parking lights at the far end.

The street looked empty, so I took Ashley’s arm, and we stayed hidden in the shadows as we moved toward the car.

“Who’s this Ryan guy?” I asked.

“He’s one of Saul Bolton’s men,” she explained, her voice tight with fear. “They won’t let me get away.”

“They haven’t caught you yet,” I reassured her.

We were just twenty or thirty feet from the Pontiac when I stopped.

“I’ll go first,” I said. “Wait here, but be ready to move fast.”

I stepped away from her and cautiously approached the street corner. Glancing up Duke Road, I saw a large SUV parked outside Ashley’s apartment building. A man stood next to it, keeping watch. I quickly crossed the sidewalk, slipped into the Pontiac, started the engine, and softly called to her, “Come on!”

As soon as she jumped into the car, I hit the gas.

Maybe Godson had kept the Pontiac running, but I could tell from the engine’s weak response that it wouldn’t handle a high-speed chase. This definitely wasn’t a good getaway car.

I kept checking the rearview mirror, but the darkness stayed empty—no headlights appeared behind us. I hoped we’d escaped unnoticed.

I swerved onto the main road out of Alexandra and slowly pushed the speed up to sixty-five. At that point, the car began to shake.

I pulled out a pack of cigarettes from my pocket and handed it to Ashley.

“Light one for me and take one for yourself,” I said, glancing in the rearview mirror again to make sure no one was following us.

“Can’t you go faster?” she asked, her hands shaking as she tried to get a cigarette out of the pack.

“If we have to, I can, but for now this speed should work, as long as no one’s chasing us,” I replied.

She lit the cigarettes, handing one to me.

“Let’s talk,” I said, trying not to alarm her, though I knew time might be running out. “What do you know about Leisha York?”

“What happened to her?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Where is she?”

I didn’t hold back.

“She’s dead,” I said bluntly. “They found her body in a pond in West Baltimore. Saul Bolton was with her at a hotel there. She worked at a nightclub. The night she disappeared, Saul Bolton left town.”

Ashley’s hands clenched tightly in her lap.

“So she’s dead,” she muttered, her voice filled with regret. “I warned her. That foolish girl wouldn’t listen. I told her Saul Bolton was using her. He likes black women, but he’d never fall for a naïve girl like her.”

“Tell me everything from the beginning,” I pressed. “What was Saul Bolton to you?”

She slumped forward, staring at the headlights cutting through the darkness ahead of us.

“Who was Saul to me?” she repeated, her voice cold and detached. “Everything! We were supposed to get married. We were happy, and he was completely obsessed with me. Then, out of nowhere, it all started falling apart. He began to pull away, and he didn’t even bother to hide it. At first, I thought it was because of Tara Graves. You know, her husband owns the club?”

I nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“But then I found out it wasn’t Tara,” she said bitterly. “It was Leisha York. She and Saul were sneaking around behind my back. I had them followed. When he was supposed to be at the club in the mornings, he was driving her around. When he told me he had club business and sent me back to the apartment, he was taking her to dinner at Jacobs’, where no one knew them.”

“Was this before Mr. Graves’ death?” I asked.

She turned her head slowly, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears under the dim light from the dashboard.

“What does Mr. Graves’ murder have to do with her?” she shot back.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe nothing. I was just trying to piece together the timeline.”

“It was just before, about two weeks…”

“You said they were meeting in secret. How secret was it? Did anyone else know about their relationship?” I asked, leaning in.

“No, no one would’ve known if I hadn’t hired an investigator to follow her.”

“But why would Saul go through all that trouble to keep it hidden? Was he afraid you'd cause some drama?”

She let out a bitter laugh, her voice cold as it echoed around the car.

“With the thugs he had around him for protection, he didn’t have to fear anyone,” she replied.

“Then why all the secrecy?” I pressed.

“I don’t know. I tried to find out, but I hit a dead end. I even confronted Leisha York. She was obsessed with him, I could tell. The way her face lit up whenever his name was mentioned, it was obvious. But she denied ever being with him. I made the stupid mistake of telling her I had her followed. That’s probably the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.” Her fists tightened in her lap. “She told Saul. He came to the apartment, and the moment I saw his face, I knew it was over. I thought he was going to hurt me. He ordered me to pack and leave. I was too scared to say a word. That’s probably the only reason he didn’t lay a hand on me. He stood in the bedroom doorway, watching me pack. When I was done, he grabbed me by the arms and squeezed so hard that I had bruises for weeks. He warned me not to leave town. He said I had to work at the Black and Proud Nightclub and never speak a word about him. He told me Hwang would keep an eye on me, and if I even tried to mention his name, leave town, or get anywhere near him, Hwang would deal with me. I knew he meant it. That’s been my life for the past eighteen months. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since. He didn’t give me anything—not a single dime. And now, look at what I’ve done. If they find me, they’ll kill me.”

“They won’t find you,” I said, trying to sound confident as I pushed the car’s speed up to seventy. I still had a little room to push further, but not much. The engine roared loudly, making it hard to hear, and we practically had to shout to keep the conversation going. For a moment, I just drove in silence, processing everything she had shared. I wasn’t much further along, but at least now I had confirmation that Saul Bolton and Eddie Peterson were one and the same, tying Saul Bolton directly to LaToya Young’s disappearance. It was something, but I knew this story had many more layers I hadn’t uncovered yet.

“Have you ever heard of someone named Dajon Price?” I asked suddenly.

She shook her head slowly.

“No,” she said. “Why?”

“He’s involved in this somehow,” I explained. “Maybe you’ve run into him. He’s a short, stocky black man with a long, dark scar on his left cheek. The last time I saw him, he was wearing a camouflage jacket and an old, dirty papa’s cap pulled low over his right eye. Does that sound familiar? Have you seen anyone like that?”

It was a long shot, but to my surprise, it hit the mark.

“Thaddeus saw him,” she said quietly.

“Thaddeus?” I asked.

“Thaddeus Garrick, the investigator I hired,” she explained. “He gave me a description of someone that sounds exactly like that.”

“Where did he see him?” I asked, my curiosity growing.

“It was at Jacobs’ restaurant one night when Saul and Leisha were there,” she began. “Thaddeus saw this man sitting in a car parked outside. When Saul and Leisha walked past the car, the man pointed at Leisha without being obvious about it. After a while, the guy got out of the car and stood near the restaurant’s entrance, keeping his eyes on her. Thaddeus thought Saul had pointed her out to him, but I didn’t believe him.”

“Why didn’t you believe him?” I asked.

“He wasn’t a great investigator,” she admitted. “He was always trying to get more money out of me. I thought he was just making things up to seem like he was doing more work than he really was.”

The pieces were starting to come together. It was looking more and more like Saul Bolton had hired Dajon Price to take care of LaToya Young.

I was about to ask if Thaddeus had seen the man again when something in the rearview mirror caught my eye. I had gotten so caught up in the conversation that I had forgotten to stay alert for any signs of danger. What I saw behind us made my stomach drop.

Two large, yellow headlights were closing in on us from behind. They were about half a mile back, but they were moving fast.

Ashley saw them too. She gasped as I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 35

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 36, which  will be published here next Sunday.