Latoya: Episode XLIV – The Final Episode

 

 

When I arrived in Baltimore, the city felt alive in the most intoxicating way—the kind of buzz that makes you feel like anything is possible. My first stop was the florist. I handpicked the freshest bouquet of roses, their petals soft and red as a lover’s whispered promise. For Tosha, nothing but the best. But I didn’t stop there. Next, I walked into the jeweler’s shop, the kind where the lighting makes gold glow like a dream you’re finally awake to. I chose a stunning gold necklace and had her name engraved on it, just the way she’d love. Every detail was perfect. The cost? I put it all on the expense account Mr. Sessoms had given me—a perk I wasn’t going to feel guilty about using this time.

But guilt…oh, guilt still found me. As I left the jeweler, a pang of regret hit me square in the chest. How could I not feel bad? I hadn’t called Tosha in weeks. Weeks! My obsession with cracking the LaToya case had consumed me, blinding me to everything else. I’d neglected the one person who believed in me without question, the one woman who could have made the perfect wife. How had I let that happen?

Determined to make things right, I decided to surprise her. No calls, no warnings—just me, showing up at her door, roses in one hand, her name glinting on the necklace in the other. I could already see her radiant smile as she opened the door.

But when I knocked, the door didn’t open to Tosha. Instead, a man—a white man—stood there. My heart slammed into my ribs. For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Neither of us spoke. We just stared at each other, two strangers trying to make sense of an unexpected meeting.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said finally, forcing a smile. “I think I have the wrong apartment.”

I turned to leave, my legs heavy, my mind racing. But then I heard a voice behind me, a voice that shattered my last shred of hope.

“No, you didn’t, Emeka,” Tosha said. Her voice was calm, almost too calm. “You’re at the right apartment. I’d like you to meet Alexander, my boyfriend.” She turned to the man in the doorway. “Honey, this is Emeka. I told you about him.”

Alexander’s face lit up with a practiced ease that made my stomach churn. He extended a hand. “Yes, you did, hon. Nice to meet you at last.”

I reached out and shook his hand, my grip firm but my soul crumbling. “Ditto,” I replied, my voice a stranger to me.

What could I say? What could I do? The shock, the betrayal—it all hit me at once, leaving me numb. But deep down, I knew this wasn’t Tosha’s fault. No, it was mine. I had left her to wait, to wonder, while I chased shadows and solved mysteries that couldn’t hold her hand or whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

I left her apartment that night feeling like the loneliest man on Earth. The roses felt heavier than before, their fragrance now cloying, the necklace’s shimmer a cruel reminder of what could have been. But even as despair threatened to swallow me whole, I clung to one small truth: I wasn’t a bad person. I had solved a cold case, bringing justice for a murdered girl who had once been nothing more than a forgotten name in a file. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

Later that week, life threw me a curveball. Mr. Sessoms called me into his office at the Baltimore Star, a broad smile on his face. “Emeka,” he said, “you’re no longer an intern. Congratulations, you’re officially an employee.” Before I could fully process his words, he added, “Oh, and one more thing. We’re applying for an expedited green card for you. You’ll have it in two months, tops.”

Two months. The words felt surreal, almost too good to be true. As I left his office, a strange sense of pride washed over me. Whatever heartbreak I’d endured, at least my green card would come through on merit. I didn’t need to compromise my values or manipulate someone to get ahead. No, I earned this—every single bit of it.

And as much as it hurt to lose Tosha, I knew one thing for sure: life had a funny way of balancing the scales. Today, I might be licking my wounds, but tomorrow? Tomorrow was a blank page waiting to be written. And trust me, I’d be holding the pen.

 

                                             THE END

 

LaToya: Episode XLIII – Deadly Room Duel

 

 

Time stood still as we locked eyes. I could see the glint in her eyes, the way her lips twitched, and I knew what was coming. My instincts kicked in. I grabbed the cushion and hurled it at her, my heart pounding like a jackhammer. In the same breath, I rolled off the settee, scrambling frantically to get behind it.

The cushion flew through the air just as she fired, her movements slick, dodging my makeshift shield. The vicious crack of the .22 echoed in the room, and I saw the big glass ashtray on the occasional table shatter into a thousand splinters. I barely made it behind the settee.

Another shot. I heard the slug rip through the fabric, missing me by mere inches. This couldn't go on. I knew the next bullet had my name on it. Sweat poured off my face, my pulse racing out of control. I watched her shadow, thin and predatory, creeping across the carpet towards me. Desperation clawed at me. I got a grip on the side of the settee and held my breath.

She couldn't see me, but she knew I was there. She closed in, just six feet away. With every ounce of strength, I heaved the settee towards her. She leapt clear, the settee crashing down with a deafening thud, barely missing her.

My only cover was gone. Now, it was just her and me. She smiled, her eyes dancing with wicked glee. She had me cornered—ten feet from the light switch and fifteen feet from Hwang Yun's gun by the window. I could feel death looming, ready to pounce, when suddenly a voice shattered the tension.

"Drop that gun!"

Mrs. Graves' eyes widened in shock. Her gaze flicked to the window, her gun instinctively swinging around. A thunderous roar split the air—the deep, powerful crack of a .45, drowning out the pop of her .22. I saw her gun flash, but the .45 slug hit her hard, throwing her back like a rag doll. The .22 slipped from her grip as she slammed against the bar, her body lifeless before it even touched the lush carpet.

"Don't move!" Sergeant Montgomery's voice rang out from the window. He swung one thick leg over the sill, his smoking .45 locked on me. He slid into the room, keeping me in his sights. His face twisted into a mocking smile, the kind that said he knew he had me where he wanted.

"Well, well, Emeka, the peeper," he sneered. "Seems like you've been having a real party."

I couldn’t say anything. My tongue was as dry as scorched leather, my knees barely holding me up. I watched as he walked over to Mrs. Graves, nudging her limp body with his boot before giving a quick glance down at her.

"Guess she won't be cashing any checks where she's going," he said, his voice thick with dark humor. He finally holstered his .45, much to my relief. "Take a drink, Emeka. You look like you need one."

My legs barely worked as I staggered over to the bar. I poured myself three fingers of Scotch, and downed it in one gulp. The burn in my throat was a welcome reminder that I was still alive.

"You're one lucky guy, Emeka," Montgomery said, pouring himself a hefty drink too. "If I hadn't shown up when I did, you'd be strumming a harp with your ancestors by now."

"That's a fact. Thanks, Sergeant," I managed, wiping my face with a handkerchief. I refused to look at Mrs. Graves' body. "How did you happen to look in, anyway?"

He grinned at me, showing off his big, white teeth.

"I was keeping tabs on you, like she asked," he said, his tone casual. "Figured you were shacked up at Godson Arora's place. It made sense—you'd been talking to Captain Wilkens, and Wilkens and Godson Arora were tight. Arora had a hideout, so that's where you'd be."

"Pretty sharp," I admitted. "Then why didn't you nab me at Arora's place if you knew I was there?"

"And ruin all the fun?" He chuckled. "I never thought you killed Mr. Powell, you know. It looked bad, sure, but you had no reason to do it. I figured if I stuck close, you'd crack the case for me. She was in too deep with Commissioner Lawson for any Alexandra cop to handle her."

"Well, it's over now," I said, trying to steady my voice. "You won’t let Mr. Bolton slip away, will you?"

"He won’t get far," he promised. He reached for the phone, his hand massive over the receiver. "Get me Alexandra Police headquarters," he said into the line. While he waited, he poured himself another drink. "This is Sergeant Montgomery. I want Saul Bolton picked up, and fast. I’ll be down there to charge him myself. Just get him."

He hung up, drained his glass, and then pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering me one.

"You weren't bluffing when you told her you could prove she did it, right?" he asked as we lit up.

"Not at all," I replied, the cigarette shaking slightly in my hand. "The case is locked. Captain Donald is handling the witnesses."

"Captain Donald, huh? Covering all the bases—smart," Montgomery grinned. "And you're going to run the story in your paper?"

"That's the plan," I said, exhaling smoke.

"Goodbye, Commissioner Lawson," he laughed. "I've been waiting for that sleazebag to run into something he couldn't wriggle out of, and this is it. You know how the game goes? Lawson's taking the fall. Captain Fitzgerald will move up, Lieutenant Brandon will take his spot, and me? I'll be Lieutenant Montgomery before long. In six months, Fitzgerald will be out, and guess who’ll be sitting in the big chair?"

He winked at me, and I knew this wasn't just about justice. This was about power, ambition, and a game far bigger than I'd imagined. The room seemed to tilt for a second, as I realized I was caught in something much larger, something that wouldn't end with tonight.

I couldn’t help but wonder—who would be next in this game of power? One thing was for sure, Montgomery wasn't just stopping here. And as much as I wanted to walk away from it all, a part of me knew I was already in too deep to turn back. The story was only beginning, and it was my job to tell it—no matter where it led.

“You’ve forgotten Lieutenant Brandon,” I said, my voice sharp with tension.

“No, I haven’t,” Sergeant Montgomery replied, flashing a wolfish grin that showed his teeth. He looked like he was about to devour something—or someone. “I’ll take care of him. He’s not gonna be a problem for me.” He reached out, his hand heavy and solid as a hunk of concrete, and patted my shoulder like he was patting down the earth on a grave. “Now, go on and write your story,” he continued, his tone dismissive. “Make it good. And don’t forget to tell ‘em how I saved your sorry life.” He turned his eyes toward Mrs. Graves—toward her lifeless body sprawled out—and sneered, “Baby, if you only knew the chaos you’re about to cause. If you only knew.”

“Then you don’t want me for Mr. Powell’s killing?” I asked, a shred of hope stirring in my chest.

Montgomery’s face twisted in mockery. “Don’t be a dope,” he said. “You’re as free as air.” He grabbed the front of my coat, his enormous hand crumpling the fabric like it was paper. “I’ve been eyeing that magazine of yours, pally. It’s got a nice layout. How ‘bout you put a picture of me on the cover when you break the story, huh?”

I looked up at his face—that ugly mug, a face that looked like it had been molded out of leftover clay, a face only a mother could love, and maybe not even then. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?” I asked, suppressing a grin. “We don’t wanna get sued for scaring the kiddies, do we?”

His piggish eyes narrowed, his expression darkening as he gave me a bone-rattling shake that made my spine protest. “What’s that again?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“I said it’s a great idea,” I hurriedly corrected. “Would you mind letting go of my suit?”

He shoved me back, almost sending me sprawling. “Fine,” he said, his tone dismissive. “But don’t forget—I’ve pulled you out of a real mess. I expect something in return, got it?”

“Oh, you’ll get it,” I said, smiling. “You’ll get exactly what you deserve, Sergeant.”

He grunted, clearly unimpressed. “Sit down and stay outta my way,” he ordered, reaching for the telephone. “I gotta get the Captain down here.”

While he made the call, I dropped into a chair and poured myself another drink. The whiskey burned my throat, but it felt good—like fire and ice all at once. I hadn’t forgotten the way he’d booted me the first time we’d met, that vicious kick to my ribs. The memory still stung, as raw as if it had happened an hour ago. And now, well, maybe it was time for some payback. All I needed to do was drop a little whisper in Captain Fitzgerald’s ear—a suggestion about Sergeant Montgomery’s oh-so-generous bank account. I’d bet my last dime that Mrs. Graves had been paying him off, and I wouldn’t put it past him to have killed her just to keep her from talking. He knew she’d sing like a canary if she got to trial. He saw an easy way out and grabbed it. And nobody—nobody—kicks a Nigerian man like me in the pants without paying for it. I’m an African man—a true son of Nigeria. And I don’t forget.

Montgomery hung up the phone and headed over to where Mr. Hightower’s body was hidden. He bent down and started pulling up the floorboards, grunting with the effort. “I’ll take the credit for finding Hightower’s body, pally,” he said, barely sparing me a glance. “Your job is to back me up. I tell the story, you keep your mouth shut, and you say amen when I tell you to. Got it?”

“Sure,” I said, my voice dripping with false cheer. “Anything you say, Sergeant.”

His cold, piggy eyes scanned me from head to toe, like he was weighing me. “And don’t try anything funny,” he warned. “Or I’ll make you regret it.”

“That’s fine by me, Sergeant,” I said, lighting a cigarette. I took a deep drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs, calming my nerves. Yeah, I’d drop that hint to Fitzgerald—but I’d wait until I was safely back in Baltimore. No sense risking it while Montgomery was breathing down my neck. I’d be smart about this.

While I waited for Captain Fitzgerald to arrive, I started to put together the bones of the story in my head, thinking about how I’d dictate it to Medgar. The more I thought about it, the more I realized—if anyone was gonna have their face on the cover of Baltimore Star, why shouldn’t it be me? Why let this brute steal my thunder? But I knew I was kidding myself. Mr. Sessoms, my editor, hated giving publicity to his writers. He’d rather chew glass than let one of us bask in the spotlight. He didn’t think we deserved it—and maybe we didn’t. But damn if I wasn’t gonna try.

I glanced back at Montgomery, who was sweating over the floorboards, his face twisted in effort. Yeah, I’d give him what he deserved—all right. And when it was all over, I’d be the one standing tall, not this thug. One way or another, I’d make sure of it.

 

 END OF EPISODE 43

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 44, which  will be published here next Sunday.