LaToya: Episode XLII – Secrets Beneath the Floor

 

For what felt like an eternity, I stared down at the skull. My heart pounded in my chest, a cold sweat creeping down my face. With a shaky breath, I pulled up another plank, revealing more of him—a grim relic frozen beneath the floor.

It was Reuben Hightower. The unmistakable windcheater, the corduroy trousers, and even the forked stick with a snapped, perished elastic lay right beside him. It confirmed what my gut already knew. A bullet hole and powder burn marked the left side of the windcheater, telling me he'd been shot—up close. My mind whirled, trying to understand how no one in the house, barely a hundred yards from the cabin, heard the gunfire that sealed his fate.

I worked quickly, forcing myself to stay calm. I replaced the planks, screwed them back down, flicked the carpet into place, and pushed the furniture where it belonged. Every second I spent here was a gamble. I wiped the sweat from my brow, chest tightening with the realization—I’d seen what I came to see, and staying any longer would be flirting with death.

As I made my way to the light switch, the hair on my arms stood up—a board creaked, somewhere on the verandah. Panic gripped me. I turned off the light and froze, every muscle tense, straining to listen. Only the heavy pounding of my heartbeat and the sigh of wind through the trees met my ears. But someone—something—had to be out there.

I moved, cat-quiet, to the window. Slowly, I pulled the drapes back just enough to see the clearing bathed in moonlight. Trees loomed like silent giants, their shadows swallowing everything beneath them. Too dark to tell if someone lurked there. My fingers found the butt of Hwang’s gun in my hip pocket, and I slid back the safety catch. I doubted anyone was out there—at least that’s what I tried to tell myself. But my gut… my gut had a different story, a gnawing feeling that someone, or something, was waiting.

I stayed there, against the wall, eyes glued to the darkened clearing, gun at the ready. The seconds dragged on, feeling like hours. Nothing. No sounds, no shadows shifting. Just as I started to think maybe it was just my imagination, a wild goose suddenly let out a squawk and exploded from a tree, wings flapping so loud it nearly scared me senseless.

My heart nearly stopped. I peered out, gun aimed into the night. Someone was out there—I could feel it. They had to have startled the bird. My attention snapped back to the room, to a faint sound so close it made my skin crawl—like someone pressing down on a loose board.

Fear rooted me in place. I couldn’t even bring myself to glance over my shoulder. If someone was behind me, they’d have a perfect shot. I felt like a fool—standing there, framed in the window, just waiting to be picked off. Was that breathing I heard? Or was it just my wild imagination making everything worse?

The settee was within reach—a quick leap, and I'd be behind cover. But before I could make a move, her voice cut through the silence.

“Don’t move, and drop that gun!” Mrs. Tara Graves’s voice came out of the darkness, as cold and sharp as a knife.

I froze, feeling my stomach drop. There was a bite in her tone that told me she wasn’t playing games. I swallowed hard, eased the safety back on, and let the gun fall to the carpet. The light clicked on, and I slowly turned.

She stood there, pressed against the wall, a .22 automatic trained on me. Her expression was one of disgust, like she'd just spotted a fly in her coffee. The red lipstick on her lips was too bright against her pale face, her eyes cold as ice. She wore a black silk shirt, matching slacks, and crepe-soled sandals that explained how she’d gotten in without a sound.

For a long moment, we stared at each other. It all clicked into place—Reuben, her husband—I had no doubt she’d killed them both. And now here she was, with every reason to put me down too. If she recognized me, I was a dead man. My life hinged on playing this right, on her not knowing who I was.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her eyes narrowed, her stance tense and ready.

I tried to make my face go slack, to look harmless. I plastered on what I hoped looked like a sheepish smile.

“Lady, I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I just… I heard there was liquor in the cabin, and, well, with all the money you have, I figured you wouldn’t miss a bottle.”

Her eyes flickered, taken aback. It wasn’t the story she expected, so I kept at it, pushing the lie.

“Maybe you don’t know what it’s like… the craving for a drink,” I said, wiping a hand across my mouth, trying to look desperate. “I swore to my girlfriend I wouldn’t buy the stuff, but I never promised I wouldn’t steal it. I had to have a drink tonight. I didn’t think anyone would be here. I swear… it’s just when the craving hits me…”

I let my voice trail off, hoping it was enough. If I overplayed it, she’d see right through me.

“Who are you?” she demanded, her eyes still hard, but the gun wavered slightly.

“You don’t really need my name, do you?” I tried to look ashamed. “If you’ll let me go this time, I swear I won’t come back.”

She hesitated, then asked, “Did you come by car?”

“That’s right,” I nodded quickly.

“Show me your license,” she demanded.

“I left it in the car,” I lied, keeping my voice steady.

Her eyes bore into mine, then shifted, confusion clouding her face. She was trying to place me, trying to figure out why I seemed familiar. My pulse quickened—I had to push her, had to make her decide before she pieced it all together.

“Sit down,” she snapped, her voice sharp.

“Please, listen,” I blurted, my voice urgent. “I haven’t touched a thing. I swear I won’t come back. Just let me go, okay?”

“Sit down!” she snarled, her finger tightening on the trigger. “I’m calling the police.”

I edged closer to her, adrenaline rushing through my veins. I had a wild, reckless idea—if I could just get near enough, I could grab the gun. But she sidestepped along the wall, eyes glued to me, her arm as steady as steel. The gun didn't waver an inch.

"Sit down!" she shouted again, her voice cracking like a whip.

I watched as her knuckles whitened around the handle, her finger tightening against the trigger. Reluctantly, I sank into a chair, my mind racing. I couldn't let her call the police. Once I ended up in Sergeant Montgomery's grasp, it’d be a one-way ticket to hell, no return.

She backed away, gliding towards the bar where the telephone waited. She picked up the receiver. My stomach sank. This round was slipping through my fingers. But I still had one more card to play.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Even if Sergeant Montgomery's in your pocket, it won’t save you once he finds what’s under the floor.”

Her hand froze, and she slowly put the receiver back in its cradle. Her eyes transformed, black and hollow, like two empty voids.

"It’s Mr. Emeka, isn’t it?" she asked, her voice brittle and polite, like porcelain about to crack.

"That’s right," I replied, my eyes locked on hers. "We’re both caught in a mess, aren’t we?"

"I don't think I am," she said, leaning against the bar. The barrel of the gun drifted slightly to the side, not quite aimed at me anymore. "But you, Mr. Emeka, certainly are."

"I think we both are," I countered, my voice as steady as I could make it.

She let out a harsh laugh, her eyes narrowing. "You’re wanted for murder. I just need to make one phone call, and it’s all over for you."

“You're forgetting Mr. Hightower," I shot back.

Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a joyless, mocking grin. "No, I’m not. No one knows he’s here except you. My story will be simple: I saw a light, grabbed my gun, and came out to see who’d broken in. I found you—a wanted man—hiding. You attacked me, and I shot you in self-defense. Why would Sergeant Montgomery check under the floorboards? He'll be too busy dealing with your dead body.”

“That's a bit too simple, don’t you think?” I said, my tone sardonic.

"You can—" she began, but I interrupted before she could finish.

"Don’t tell me you really thought I came here alone," I said, forcing a grin, pretending at confidence. "You’re finished, Mrs. Graves. I've got everything I need to bury you. The story’s written, and if I go missing, my colleague will send it straight to the Baltimore Star. They’ll print every single word."

She let out another harsh laugh, disbelief flashing across her face. "You don’t expect me to fall for that, do you?"

“I can convince you,” I said. “We could make a deal. I'm not fool enough to think you wouldn't shoot me, just like you shot Hightower. You could drop me down with him, two-for-one special. But if we make a deal…”

“I don’t make deals,” she snapped, the edges of her words sharp as glass.

“I can prove you killed your husband,” I pressed. “Do you want to hear how?”

"You can't prove a thing," she sneered, but her lips tightened, and a pale ring formed around her mouth. Her finger tensed again on the trigger, and for a heartbeat, I was certain she’d fire.

“But I can,” I said, words spilling out in a rush, desperate to keep her listening. "Get this—Saul Bolton wanted the Golden Triangle Club, but your husband wouldn’t sell. You and Bolton were lovers. You wanted to help him, and you wanted your husband’s money. Fifty million reasons to make it worth your while. You decided to kill him—classic tale of two birds, one stone."

Her finger relaxed, just a little. She was listening.

"You knew if your husband died violently, you’d be the first suspect," I continued. "So you planned to be in the clear. And then Mr. Powell brought Leisha York to your house. You saw her—a girl who matched your height, your build. Suddenly, the plan clicked. A week later, you were off to Hollywood. You couldn’t do it alone, though, could you? So you brought Bolton in. His reward was the club. He probably didn’t have the stomach for murder back then, but you did. And your alibi would be airtight.”

I paused, watching her closely. “How am I doing, Mrs. Graves? Enjoying the story so far?”

“You actually think anyone would believe this garbage?” she scoffed, her voice dripping disdain. “You’ve got nothing.”

"Let’s take a few more steps, shall we?" I said, my eyes flicking to the gun and back to her. "Bolton cozied up to Miss York, made her think he loved her. He had to stay careful, keep things secret in case it all went south. She was going to take your place in Hollywood, right? But once the deed was done, she’d be a loose end—she had to go too. Cement shoes kind of gone. Bolton knew just the guy—Dajon Price, a hitman from Baltimore. He fingered York for Price. When she returned from Hollywood, she was marked.

"It was working. Bolton spun some tale about why you needed to stay here while looking like you were in Hollywood. York bought every word. You fed her cash, gave her your clothes, even your driver’s license. Dark glasses, floppy hat—suddenly she’s Mrs. Graves, boarding a flight. Nobody blinked twice at her. And instead of your usual spot, the Ritz in LA, you booked her into the Hollywood Hotel—somewhere they wouldn’t know her. She stayed four days, blending in perfectly. What you didn’t foresee was Breonna Adams, a girl with a knack for sniffing out the rich and famous. She made friends with York, thinking she was you. And now… well, you might like to know that one of my colleagues took a little trip to Hollywood. We’ve got witnesses ready to testify that Miss York stayed at the Hollywood Hotel under your name.”

“I see,” she said, shifting restlessly in her chair, her eyes narrowing. “But that doesn’t prove I killed my husband, does it?”

“It doesn't prove it outright,” I replied, giving her a long, level look, “but it sure does upset your alibi. Let’s not rush things, though. Let’s take it step by step. On August 2, you supposedly left for Hollywood, right? But I suspect you never made it that far. My guess? You got as far as Mr. Bolton’s place, where Miss York was already waiting. She went to the airport in your place and flew out to Hollywood. Meanwhile, you stayed hidden with Bolton. You were clever, no doubt, you and Bolton made sure your alibis were rock solid. But here’s the thing—from the police angle, who else could have killed your husband? And that's where you overplayed your hand, isn't it? You needed a scapegoat. You set up Reuben Hightower, knowing he loved hunting on your husband’s estate. On the night of August 5, you came here with a gun and waited for him.”

“Do you actually believe anyone would fall for that nonsense?” she interrupted, her eyes glittering, a flash of defiance. “How on earth was I supposed to know he’d come that night?”

That stopped me for a second. It was a valid point. A sharp attorney would seize on that in a heartbeat. She would’ve needed to know for sure that Hightower was planning to hunt that night. The whole success of her plan depended on him showing up.

I stared at her, then looked around the room. Suddenly, it all clicked into place. There was only one explanation—she and Hightower had been lovers. It made perfect sense. He'd come by often, knowing that with her on his side, he wouldn’t face any trouble.

“Yes… I did miss that detail,” I admitted, my eyes narrowing as the realization dawned. “Why else would you have a place like this, secluded, deep in the woods, fully furnished—even a stocked bar—unless it was your love nest? Did Graves know about it?”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re very clever, Mr. Emeka,” she said. “Yes, he knew. But there was nothing he could do. He refused to give me a divorce, no matter what I did. That’s why… that’s why I had to kill him.”

My hands turned cold, clammy even. She was admitting it—she had killed Graves, her own husband. And the way she said it made me sure of one thing: she had decided I wasn’t walking out of there alive.

“How come no one heard a gunshot when you killed Hightower?” I asked, my voice even though my heart was pounding.

Her lips curled into that unnerving smile again. “If you must know,” she said, almost playfully, “I muffled the shot with a cushion.” She moved slightly, the gun still pointed at me. “It didn’t make much noise.”

“Did you feel anything when you killed him?” I pressed. “I mean, he was your lover. Was it just… business as usual? Or did you have a moment of doubt?”

Her face, lovely but cold, remained unreadable. “What does it matter to you?” she said. “You seem to have plenty of time for this guessing game. Anything else you've ‘figured out’?”

I leaned back slightly, my eyes still on her. “Let’s talk about your husband,” I said. “He had a habit of going for an early morning ride. You stayed here the night before, with Hightower under the floorboards.” I paused for a moment, watching her face. “Did you have nightmares that night? Or maybe you just don’t dream at all.”

She shook her head, lips quirking in a mocking smile. “I’m one of those lucky people who never dream,” she said.

Her calmness, her sheer lack of humanity, was starting to make me sweat.

“Early the next morning, you were on the hill, waiting for Graves,” I continued. “He thought you were in Hollywood, so it must have been quite a shock seeing you sitting there, admiring the view. He never noticed the gun, did he? Not until it was too late. He probably leaned over from his horse, curious, maybe to ask why you were there—and that’s when you shot him. You had to move fast. You’d gotten yourself a pair of corduroy slacks and a leather windcheater, just like Hightower’s. You hid the gun, put on Hightower’s helmet and goggles, and ran down to where his motorcycle was parked. Then you rode to the harbor. People saw you, and that’s exactly what you wanted—for them to think they were seeing Hightower. After that, you left the bike in a rarely-used shed, changed into other clothes you’d left there, and caught the first train to Washington, D.C., where Saul Bolton was waiting for you. You knew Mr. Wright would send a cable to the Hollywood Hotel with the news, and Miss York was instructed to return immediately if anything like that happened. Bolton was there to meet her, and you took her place when she arrived at the airport.”

Her eyes never left mine as she reached for the whiskey bottle, splashed some into her lipstick-smeared glass, and took a drink. Her hand was trembling—just slightly, but it was enough.

“And then there was Miss York,” I went on. “She had to be dealt with, didn’t she? Bolton took her to Baltimore. He was hesitant, a reluctant killer. He didn’t want to go through with it unless it was absolutely necessary. He wanted to be sure—to see if you could handle the pressure, see if you wouldn’t crack if the police turned up the heat. So, he convinced Miss York to change her look, assume a new identity, and start working at the Zodiac nightclub. By that point, Miss York knew she was in way over her head. She was terrified, and did whatever she was told. And then, Breonna Adams showed up, didn’t she? It must have rattled you both when she realized you weren’t the woman she’d worked on back in Hollywood. She probably tried to squeeze you for money. You told Bolton, and that sealed the deal. Miss York and Miss Adams had to go. Bolton gave Dajon Price the go-ahead, and Price followed through.”

I paused, my eyes on her as she set her glass down with a soft clink. Something shifted in her demeanor—suddenly, she looked relaxed. Too relaxed. She leaned her elbows on the bar, that deadly little gun hanging loosely from her fingers as if it were no more threatening than a half-empty drink.

“And you can prove all this?” she taunted, a mocking smile playing at her lips.

“Yeah,” I replied, my voice steady. “I can prove it. You made it way too complicated. See, the more twisted a case gets, the easier it is to unravel, as long as you’ve got the right thread. I got that lead when I figured out just how much you and Miss York looked alike. That’s when it all started making sense—how you set up that airtight alibi of yours. You had the upper hand from the start: the police were eating out of your hand. If you’d just kept calm after Miss York’s death, you might’ve gotten away with the whole thing. But when I started poking around in the past, you panicked. When Dajon Price called you, said someone was asking questions, and that Devon Weaver had blabbed, you lost your cool. You told Price to take care of Weaver—and me.”

Her expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in her eyes, a tiny crack in that cool front.

“Then, when you heard I’d gone to see Mr. Powell,” I continued, “you panicked again. You knew Powell had sketches—ones he’d drawn of Miss York sitting on your balcony. You were terrified I’d see the resemblance between you two, that I’d put it all together. You tried to get those sketches, but maybe Powell wouldn’t play ball. Maybe he realized what was going on, realized that Miss York had been your alibi all along. Whatever happened, he called me, said he needed to talk. Were you hiding there in the room when he made that call?”

She gave a slight nod, and that smug smile melted right off her face, leaving her looking... old. Her cheekbones jutted out, her eyes hollow, like the mask had slipped.

“And then you shot him,” I said softly. “Powell’s housekeeper heard the gunshot, ran upstairs, terrified. But you went after her too. You pulled the trigger again. And you thought you’d get away with it because you knew I was on my way over, knew Sergeant Montgomery was tailing me. You wanted me to take the fall, just like Mr. Hightower had.”

A slow, sinister smile spread across her face, and she tilted her head to one side. “And I have gotten away with it, Mr. Emeka,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “The police still think you killed Powell. They’re still hunting for you. This is where it all comes full circle, isn’t it? So, tell me—are you quite finished?”

I’d been talking to stall for time, hoping for a miracle, and now I knew I’d gotten all the time I was going to get. I could see it in her eyes. Any second now, she’d pull that trigger. The distance between us was about fifteen feet. Even with a .22, it’d be a tough shot if the target was moving.

While I’d been talking, my mind had been racing, desperately searching for a way out. Ten feet. That’s how far I was from the light switch. Ten feet that felt like a mile. If I could just get to that switch, plunge the room into darkness, maybe—just maybe—I’d have a shot.

“Let’s talk about a deal,” I said, keeping my voice steady while my muscles coiled like springs. There was a cushion beside me on the settee, big and soft. As casually as I could, I let my hand slide down onto it, my eyes locked on hers, trying to keep her focus on my face and not on what my hand was doing.

“No deals, Mr. Emeka,” she said, her voice dripping with scorn. Her finger tightened on the trigger, her knuckle going white. “I think you’re bluffing. And, frankly, you’re a lot less trouble when you’re dead.”

Everything slowed. I saw her finger tighten just a fraction more, felt my muscles tense as I readied myself to dive for that switch. My heart pounded in my ears, my breath caught in my throat.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 42

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 43, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XLI – Blood on Pine

 

At ten-thirty, with a thick quilt of clouds smothering the moon's light into a hazy glow over the city, Godson Arora and I were speeding down the highway that ran just behind the north side of Arundel Hall. In ten swift minutes, we pulled up by the gate that Mr. Hightower had once used on his last, fateful hunting trip.

Godson stopped the car, the glowing ember of his cigarette briefly lighting up his face as he looked my way.

"I’ll ditch the car and join you," he offered, his voice low.

“No, you’re not,” I shot back, firm as iron. “I’m going in alone, Godson. You need to stay out of this. I might need you as a witness later on.”

“What if you run into trouble?” His brow furrowed, a glimmer of concern flickering in his eyes.

“I'll make sure I don’t," I said, with more confidence than I felt. I opened the door and stepped out. "Just leave this to me. I can handle it.”

He studied my face, doubt written across his features, before sighing.

“Well, okay, if you say so. But are you really sure?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Don’t worry about me. I'll find my way back on my own steam. If I’m not back by dawn, go straight to Captain Donald. Just remember, you've got to keep yourself out of trouble. You know the setup now, and one of us has to be here to straighten out the kinks.”

Godson lifted his shoulders in a resigned shrug.

“You’re the boss,” he muttered, shifting gears. “If you don’t want me, then I’ll scram. So long—and good luck.”

I watched the car fade into the distance, its red taillights swallowed by the night. Taking a deep breath, I climbed the gate and made my way up the winding path, the gentle slope carrying me towards the woods where Mr. Graves had met his violent fate.

At the top of the small rise in the middle of the clearing, I paused. It was here, some fourteen months ago, that Mr. Graves had ridden up to survey his grand estate. And it was here that the killer had been waiting, shotgun in hand. Seconds later, Mr. Graves was dead on the ground, and his horse was trotting back home, raising the alarm. From where I stood, I could see the thin, glowing ribbon of the highway below and the distant headlights of cars making their way toward Alexandra. Everything was eerily silent up on the hill, an atmosphere so ghostly that it made the hairs on my arms prickle.

I set off downhill, staying on the narrow path that wound through the trees. The moon, veiled behind layers of gauzy clouds, gave just enough light for me to make my way. After what felt like forever, I caught sight of the lights of Arundel Hall—the Graves' sprawling residence—nestled in the hollow below. The moonlight revealed a vast expanse of immaculately cut lawns and tightly packed flower beds that circled the grand mansion.

As I walked, I couldn't help but wonder if Mrs. Graves was at home, and if she was, what she might be doing at this very moment. Had her good-for-nothing friend Saul Bolton already gotten to her? Had he warned her that Miss Ashley had started talking? These questions raced through my mind as I slowed my pace, noticing the path began to blur into a clearing up ahead. I took cover behind a thick bush, pulling out the map Mr. Wright had given me. Shielding my flashlight, I checked my bearings.

I had to turn right at the end of the path, cross the clearing, skirt around the house, and then walk about a hundred yards until I reached the summer house. From there, the wild geese's enclave was just another fifty yards or so further beyond.

Sliding the map back into my hip pocket, I moved forward again, imagining Mr. Hightower taking these very steps on the night he was murdered. Sticking to the shadows, I crossed the clearing, keeping low and moving silently as I passed within forty yards of the dark, looming structure of the house. The windows glimmered with faint, slivered light. The massive shape of Arundel Hall seemed to pulse in the darkness, its presence heavy and menacing. I pressed on, slipping into another wooded area and pausing to check my bearings once more.

Somewhere to my right lay the summer house. The path led into a patch of woods, dark and silent as a graveyard. I moved forward slowly, but as I stumbled into a tree for the third time, I decided it was time to use my flashlight again.

Shielding the beam with my fingers, I forged ahead more confidently. Suddenly, a loud whirring sound broke the silence, making my heart leap into my throat. I looked up to see row after row of wild geese perched in the trees, their silhouettes barely visible. They sat shoulder to shoulder, dozens of beady little ruby eyes staring down at me. The sight of those birds, watching with such silent intensity, sent a chill down my spine. I quickened my pace, moving another twenty yards until I finally came to another clearing.

And there, smack dab in the center of the clearing, was the summer house.

It stood there, waiting, and tt was a verandah-wrapped cabin, its knotty pine walls rugged and worn. The dark windows stared back like vacant eyes, drinking in the moonlight.

I crossed the clearing, each step a whisper, and ascended the steps that led to the verandah. I reached for the door and gave it a firm push—it was locked, refusing to budge. A sigh escaped my lips. Windows it would be.

I slid around the back of the cabin, avoiding the creaky old planks. A quick look revealed two small windows and a larger casement. My eyes lingered on one of the smaller ones—unlatched. Perfect. I pulled out my pocket knife, wedging it in until I managed to lever the window half open. Pausing, I listened, ears straining for the slightest sound.

The night air was rich with eerie music—trees swaying under the gentle wind, branches groaning under the weight of sleepy birds, wings fluttering in startled bursts, a climbing vine tapping insistently against the cabin wall. It was a symphony that could easily drown out the approach of a guard creeping closer. I shivered but didn’t let the fear take root. No turning back now.

I pushed up the window and, with one deep breath, swung my leg over, dropping into the darkness. My foot hit a thick carpet, muffling the landing. Flashlamp in hand, I shielded the beam, surveying my surroundings.

The room was spacious, dotted with lounging chairs and well-worn settees. Heavy drapes loomed at the windows. I tested them—perfect for blocking out light. I yanked them across and flipped on the lights.

Dust lay like a shroud over everything. The place hadn’t been touched in months, maybe longer. Cobwebs drooped lazily from the ceiling. My eyes swept over the bar tucked in the corner—bottles gleamed under the dim lights. A glass with a faded smear of lipstick stood abandoned beside a bottle of Whiskey. A bowl of salted almonds, coated in a film of dust, lingered untouched.

It felt like this little getaway spot had been shut tight in a hurry, forgotten ever since.

The Persian rug sprawled across the floor caught my eye. Could it be beneath here? My heart pounded at the thought. I pushed a settee to the side and rolled back the edge of the rug. Knotty pine floorboards stared up, their creamy hue unmarred. Nothing. But there was still more to search.

Moving quickly, I shoved furniture around, rolling the rug further back, my eyes scanning every inch of the planks. My breath hitched in my throat when I finally found it. In the far right-hand corner of the room, a dark stain the color of aged mahogany tainted the pale wood—roughly a foot square. I knelt down, shining my flashlamp over it.

No question about it—an old bloodstain. Someone had laid here, bleeding, the life ebbing from their body. And I knew whose it was—Reuben Hightower.

With trembling fingers, I pulled out my pocket screwdriver. I inspected the screws holding down the planks. Some of them looked newer, brighter, less rusted than the rest. I worked quickly, removing the newer screws. They came out almost too easily. Once done, I slipped the point of my screwdriver between the planks, levered one up, and hesitated. My heart thudded wildly, my mouth suddenly dry.

I angled the flashlamp down, and as the beam pierced the darkness, I froze. A grinning skull stared back at me, empty sockets gazing into my soul. The bones, picked clean by rats, lay among the shadows. The dusty remnants of a leather windcheater peeked out, unmistakable even in its decay. Reuben Hightower.

The breath I’d been holding whooshed out. I’d found him!

 

 

END OF EPISODE 41

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 42, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XL – A Twist at Dawn

 

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.

 

LaToya: Episode XXXIX – Tangled Alibis

 

The discreet buzz of one of the telephones sliced through the tension in the room, giving me a moment to catch my breath. Mr. Wright's eyes darted toward the phone, and with an exasperated snap, he grabbed the receiver.

"Do not disturb me," he barked before slamming it back down with an ominous click that seemed to echo in the charged atmosphere.

“How many times did Miss York pose for the portrait?” I asked, trying to mask the excitement building inside me.

Mr. Wright shot me a look that screamed annoyance. He frowned, checked his gleaming gold Citizen watch, and then, with a huff, muttered, “Three or four times, I think. I can’t give you much longer. Was there anything else you wanted to know?”

I felt a rush of determination. I knew I was teetering on the edge of breaking this case wide open, and there was no way I’d let him rush me. I threw out the question I knew would grab him by the throat.

“There is a question,” I said, leaning forward. “Who do you think murdered Mr. Anthony Graves?”

His face froze, his thick features turning rigid. He leaned over his desk, his glare so fierce it could have cut glass. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded. “What has Mr. Anthony Graves’ death got to do with you?”

“Are you aware that Captain Wilkens thinks Mrs. Graves was responsible for her husband’s death?” I countered, watching his reaction like a hawk.

His nostrils flared. “Captain Wilkens had no right to say such a thing,” he snarled. “He had no proof, and he lost his job because he was stupid enough to suspect her.”

“But do you really think Reuben Hightower killed Mr. Anthony Graves?” I pressed on.

He hesitated, his lips tightening. “How do I know?” he said curtly. “I’m not a policeman. The police thought so. What more do you want?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Graves was supposed to have horsewhipped Mr. Hightower,” I said. “Captain Wilkens thought this was unlikely.”

“Of course it was,” Mr. Wright retorted, a touch of scorn creeping into his voice. “It was absurd. Mr. Graves was always lenient with hunters. I personally caught Mr. Hightower trespassing on the estate several times, but Mr. Graves wouldn’t prosecute. Utter nonsense.”

“And yet Mrs. Graves said he horsewhipped Mr. Hightower,” I pointed out. “That supplied the motive for the murder, didn’t it?”

Mr. Wright shifted uneasily, his polished exterior cracking just a little. “I know that,” he admitted. “I told Commissioner Lawson that Mr. Graves would never have done such a thing, but it was my word against hers. And Lawson preferred to believe her.” He stared down at his snowy blotter, his fingers drumming rhythmically. “Another reason why I thought it unlikely that Mr. Hightower was involved was that he never used a gun. He hunted at night with a catapult and a flashlight. He’d blind the wild geese with the light, then knock them down with the catapult. He could get close to the house without us ever hearing him. Mr. Graves was killed in a clearing far from the geese, nowhere near where Hightower hunted. He always stayed around the summer house on the west side of the estate.”

“Would that be far from where Mr. Graves was murdered?” I asked.

Mr. Wright stood, walked to a filing cabinet, and pulled out a folded map. “This,” he said, spreading it across his mahogany desk, “is Mr. Graves’ estate. Here’s where Mr. Graves was shot. And here’s the summer house. As you can see, it’s a good half-mile between the two places.”

I traced the path on the map, frowning. “How did Mr. Hightower get into the estate? Weren’t there guards patrolling?”

He folded his arms. “We had a guard at the gate and another patrolling near the house,” he said. “Mr. Hightower came through the main road gate, up the clearing, into the woods, and down to the summer house,” Mr. Wright explained, his finger gliding over the route on the map.

“Then he did pass the place where Mr. Graves was shot?” I asked, my mind racing.

“Yes,” he conceded. “But only at night. He’d never be there at seven in the morning when Mr. Graves was shot.”

I glanced at him. “Would you mind if I borrowed this map for a couple of days?”

He hesitated but finally shrugged. “All right,” he said. “But I want it back.”

“Thanks,” I said, tucking the map under my arm. I leaned in, my voice dropping. “And for what it’s worth, I think Captain Wilkens was right. Mrs. Graves is responsible for her husband’s death.”

Mr. Wright sank into his chair, staring at his manicured hands. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and troubled. “She couldn’t have done it,” he insisted. “She was in Hollywood at the time. Yes, she had motive. They didn’t get along. He didn’t approve of her extravagance, even though he adored her. There were whispers about her and that fellow, Saul Bolton. She wanted Mr. Graves to sell the Golden Triangle club to Saul, but Mr. Graves wouldn’t hear of it. He was planning to get rid of Saul.” Mr. Wright’s fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm. “At the time, I was in a tight spot. Mr. Graves left me in a position of trust. It was hard to contradict Mrs. Graves in the press. Honestly, I didn’t want to get dragged into it. I was relieved to leave.”

He sat back, silent, leaving a thick cloud of unanswered questions hanging between us.

As I carefully folded the map, I couldn't help but let curiosity spill out of me. “Mrs. Graves tells me she stayed at the Hollywood Hotel in California," I said. "I suppose she and her husband were regulars in California?”

He nodded, with a knowing look. “At least twice a year,” he replied, a trace of nostalgia in his voice. “Mr. Graves is crazy about California. Loves the place like it’s paradise on Earth.”

My brow furrowed. “They always stayed at the Hollywood Hotel?” I prodded.

“Not exactly,” he admitted. “Their usual spot was the Ritz in Los Angeles. Honestly, I was floored when Mrs. Blake—Mrs. Graves’ sister—asked me to book a suite at the Hollywood Hotel. Said she needed a change of scenery.”

I tilted my head, intrigued. “I see,” I said slowly, eyeing Mr. Wright. “One more thing, Mr. Wright. While Mrs. Graves was in California, she supposedly met a stripper named Breonna Adams. Does that name ring any bells?”

His expression tightened, and he leaned in. “A girl by that name did show up at Mrs. Graves’ house two days after she returned from California,” he revealed. “Security at the gate called me, wondering if Mrs. Graves would want to see her.”

My heart raced with anticipation. “And did she?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he confirmed. “I didn’t see the girl myself—I was knee-deep in Mr. Graves’ affairs at the time—but Mrs. Graves instructed me to tell the security guard to let her in.”

I latched onto the thread. “You wouldn’t know if this girl gave an address along with her name, would you?” I asked, hopeful.

“It should be in the visitors’ book,” he said, scratching his chin. “I remember it was just the town, though. No specific address.”

My pulse quickened. “Was it Baltimore?” I pressed.

“That’s right,” he confirmed, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.

I took a deep breath, ready to connect the dots. “Mr. Graves was murdered on August 6. Two days later, on August 8, Miss Adams paid a visit. Sound correct?” I asked.

“Yep,” he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Then on August 9, Miss York—using the alias LaToya Young—pops up in Baltimore. That very evening, Saul Bolton, masquerading as Eddie Peterson, also makes his entrance,” I continued. “August 17, Miss York is kidnapped and brutally murdered. Same night, Saul Bolton vanishes from Baltimore. Then, on August 20, Miss Adams has a 'freak' fall down a flight of stairs and snaps her neck, and the stage doorkeeper at the club where Miss York worked—the one who played a role in her kidnapping—gets killed in a hit-and-run. Quite the dramatic series of events, wouldn’t you say?”

Mr. Wright’s eyes went wide, confusion clouding his face. He looked at me like I’d just slapped him with a cold fish. “I don’t understand,” he said, his voice shaking. “What on Earth are you getting at?”

I flashed him a sly smile as I stood up, tucking the map of the Anthony Graves estate into my hip pocket. “If luck’s on my side,” I said, my voice dripping with mystery, “I’ll have all the answers in a day or two. But luck has to be in my corner first.”

He sputtered, “But wait, hold on…”

“Just give me a couple of days, Mr. Wright,” I cut him off with a wink, and then I left him there, his mouth hanging open. He stared at me, wide-eyed, like a codfish dangling helplessly on a hook.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 39

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 40, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

 

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.