On my way back to Alexandra, my mind was racing. Finally, after so long, I felt like I was getting the breaks I deserved. Mr. Wright had given me the goods, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I could pry the lid off this whole case. I was almost giddy with the thought. As I pulled into Alexandra's main street, I parked the Pontiac outside a quick snack bar, grabbed a newspaper, and strolled in.
I ordered a tuna sandwich and a coffee. While waiting, I scanned the front page. The shooting at the Coral Hills Motel hadn’t made the splash I thought it would. The article said that two gunmen, suspected to be from Alexandra, were cornered at a motel last night and shot to death. Police Captain Donald Pomperleau announced that Alexandra Police were being asked to help identify the gunmen. I smirked.
While I munched on my sandwich, my thoughts drifted to Saul Bolton. He had to know by now that Miss Ashley had slipped through his fingers, but there was no way he’d know she was in police custody. After a moment of thought, I figured, why not give him a little surprise?
“Hey, give me another tuna sandwich,” I said to the barman, sliding off my stool. “I’m gonna make a quick call.”
I shut myself inside the pay booth, flipped open the directory, found the number for the Golden Triangle Club, and dialed. The voice that answered was as smooth as warm honey.
“Golden Triangle Club, good morning. How can I help you?” she purred.
“I need to speak to Mr. Saul Bolton,” I said, layering urgency into my voice.
The honey suddenly congealed.
“Who’s calling?” she asked, her voice sharp.
“Just tell him it’s an old pal from Alcatraz,” I said, letting a grin curl my lips.
There was a long pause, then the line clicked, and a man’s voice came on, barking, “Who’s this?”
“Mr. Bolton?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s me. What is it?” he demanded.
“Just a tip-off, pal,” I said. “Baltimore Police have Miss Ashley, and she’s singing like a bird. She’s tying you to Anthony Graves’ murder, so you better watch your step.”
The startled grunt that came over the line was music to my ears, but I didn’t wait for more. I hung up gently, savoring the thought of the look on his face. That should shake him up a little.
I returned to the bar, and my sandwich was waiting for me. The place had started filling up, and as I took a bite, I felt a sharp jostle. I turned, ready to give the guy a piece of my mind, but then my heart did a somersault. The man who’d bumped me was Sergeant Luke Montgomery—a big, broad-shouldered man whose face I knew all too well.
Montgomery was leaning forward, barking at the barman. “Beef sandwich and a coffee. Make it snappy.”
The barman must have recognized him because he moved faster than I'd ever seen, slapping down Montgomery’s order in record time. My first instinct was to bolt out of there—get to the Pontiac and peel out. But then I remembered: I hadn’t paid for my meal, and besides, I still had the sandwich in my hand.
The crowd at the bar pressed me closer to Montgomery, who seemed oblivious, focused on his food. I reached into my pocket, pulled out some bills, and inched my way to the bar, careful not to touch him. I dropped the money on the counter.
The barman swept it up, shoved it into the cash drawer, and tossed me the change. Just as I picked it up, Montgomery, with his great rubbery mouth full of beef, turned and looked straight at me. My heart thudded painfully in my chest.
For a second, our eyes locked. I managed to keep my face blank, then grabbed my change and tried to ease away. My shirt was sticking to my back, and my mouth felt like sandpaper. I expected Montgomery to say something, maybe even grab me, but he just scowled, turned his back, and went back to eating.
Still clutching the sandwich, I slipped out of the bar and crossed to the Pontiac. My eyes fell on the police car parked just behind it, with a bored-looking detective at the wheel. He glanced at me with zero interest. I got into the Pontiac, tossed the sandwich onto the passenger seat, started the engine, and pulled away.
As I drove, I checked the rearview mirror. The detective behind the wheel yawned—one of those big, jaw-popping yawns. He probably hadn’t even seen me. I kept driving, steady and smooth, heading for Godson Arora’s bar. It wasn’t until I parked in the garage and got down into the hideout that my heart finally began to beat normally again.
I called up Godson.
“Can you spare a minute?” I asked.
“Not right now,” he replied. “Give me an hour, will you? This is my busy time.”
“Sure thing,” I said, hanging up. I poured myself a beer, took a long swig, and picked up my sandwich. As I munched, I thought back to what Jessica Laidlow had told me about Tyler Goldman, the advertising man. I found his number in the book and put through a call.
Jessica herself answered.
“This is Emeka,” I said. “Remember me?”
“Of course I do,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “Have you found Miss York, Emeka?”
“Not yet, but I’m still working on it,” I replied. “I wanted to ask—did Miss York ever mention Mrs. Tara Graves?”
“Why, yes,” she said. “Mrs. Graves was having her portrait painted, and Miss York stood in for her.”
“Do you know if Quentin Powell did the painting at the Graves’ place?” I asked.
“Oh, you know about that?” she said, sounding surprised.
“I heard,” I said casually.
“Well, he didn’t finish it there,” she said. “He made a bunch of sketches of LaToya on the balcony, but he completed the portrait in his studio.”
I should have asked her about this sooner, but no point dwelling on that now.
“Did Miss York ever say how she got along with Mrs. Graves?” I pressed.
“Oh, yes,” Jessica said warmly. “She liked her a lot. Mrs. Graves was very kind, took a real interest in her.”
“What kind of interest?” I asked, curiosity piqued.
“Well, she asked about LaToya’s background—her parents, if she planned on getting married, things like that,” she said.
“Thanks, Jessica,” I said. “I just wanted to clear that up. Maybe when I have more free time, we could do another seafood dinner?”
Jessica laughed softly. “I’d like that, Emeka. Just let me know.”
I hung up, and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply as I sank into the old armchair, brooding in the kind of silence that only comes when you're teetering on the edge of a revelation. I was still lost in thought when Godson burst through the door, the air around him always buzzing with unspoken stories.
"Godson, we need to talk about your buddy, Reuben Hightower," I said, exhaling a puff of smoke.
Godson raised an eyebrow, clearly puzzled, but unfazed. "What about him?" he asked, reaching for a can of beer. He wrenched off the cap with his teeth, letting it fall to the floor with a clink.
"I hear he used to go after Mr. Graves' wild geese," I said, my voice laced with curiosity.
Godson gave a crooked grin, shrugging. "Yeah, that's right. Mr. Graves didn't seem to give a damn. The old man had more wild geese than he knew what to do with."
I leaned forward, flicking ashes into a tray. "Mr. Graves was shot on August 6th, correct?" I asked, my eyes locking on Godson's. "Where was Hightower that morning?"
Godson paused, shaking his head slowly. "I don't know, man," he said. "The day before, he told me he was going on a hunt..."
I tilted my head, pressing on. "You mean the night before Mr. Graves was shot?"
"Yeah," Godson said, nodding. "He even asked if I wanted a brace of birds. I used to buy them off him sometimes, you know? He said he'd be in after 11, but he never showed. Figured he didn't have any luck that night."
I narrowed my eyes, trying to connect the dots. "So, let me get this straight. The last time you saw Hightower, he was offering you a brace of wild geese, right?"
"That's right," Godson confirmed, his face serious.
"He would've had no reason to be on the Graves estate at seven in the morning, then?" I asked, watching his expression.
Godson shook his head again, more firmly this time. "Nah, no way. Reuben always hunted with a flashlight and a catapult. Strictly nighttime work. He didn't even own a gun."
I leaned back, tapping my cigarette thoughtfully against the ashtray. "Did he ride his motorcycle to the Graves estate?"
"Yeah," Godson said, his voice steady. "He'd go in by the gate off the highway, right behind the north side of Arundel Hall. That's what the Graves estate is called, you know? He'd leave his bike in the bushes just inside the gate, then hike over the hill, down to where the wild geese hung out."
I nodded, thinking. "He wore a crash helmet and goggles, didn't he? What else did he usually wear?"
Godson scratched his head, his eyes distant as he pictured it. "Most times, he had on a leather windcheater and some corduroy trousers. Where's all this leading, Emeka?"
I took one last drag of my cigarette, letting the silence linger before I spoke. "I think he was murdered on the estate."
Godson blinked, surprised. Then he shook his head, as if shaking off a bad dream. "Nah, that doesn’t add up. He was seen on the highway around eight, coming from the estate the morning Mr. Graves got shot. I think he was killed somewhere near the harbor where his motorcycle was found."
A sly grin tugged at my lips. "A crash helmet and goggles make for a pretty decent disguise, don't you think? What if it wasn't Reuben they saw, but his killer—laying a red herring?"
Godson's eyes widened as the idea settled in. "I hadn't thought of that..." He rubbed his jaw, his expression shifting. "You might be right, Emeka."
I could feel the pieces starting to click into place. "Was Hightower a big guy?"
Godson snorted, his face softening into a smirk. "Nah, not even close. He was a shrimp, just like me. But tough, you know? Tough and wiry."
The telephone rang then, slicing through the tension. I stubbed out my cigarette and grabbed the receiver. "Baltimore calling," the operator said, her voice flat. "Will you hold a moment?"
A few clicks echoed on the line, and then a girl’s voice came through. "Is Mr. Emeka there? Mr. Sessoms wants to speak with him."
"Speaking," I said. "Put him through."
Mr. Sessoms' familiar voice filled my ear. "How are you doing, Emeka?"
I smiled, though I knew he couldn't see it. "I'm alright, Mr. Sessoms. How about you?"
He gave a dry chuckle. "You're probably doing better than me. Listen, I just got a call from Medgar, and I figured you’d want to hear this right away. Let me read it out to you."
I leaned forward, anticipation prickling my skin. "Go ahead."
"Here's what he says," Mr. Sessoms began, his tone shifting to something more official. "Woman staying at The Hollywood Hotel on August 3rd last year, calling herself Mrs. Tara Graves, positively—repeat, positively—identified by reliable hotel witnesses as LaToya Young. Returning immediately with affidavit. Medgar."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "Any use to you?"
I let out a slow whistle, my heart pounding. "You bet it is. That's the last nail in the coffin, Mr. Sessoms. By tomorrow, I’ll have this case wrapped up. Thanks for the heads-up. Be seeing you," I said, and with that, I hung up.
The room was buzzing, the air electric with possibility. Godson watched me, his eyes curious, but I just gave him a knowing grin. Tomorrow, everything was going to change.
And that was a promise.
END OF EPISODE 40
P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 41, which
will be published here next Sunday.
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