Murder on the Down Low (31 page)

“Any idea what you’d like to do next?” Nichelle asked.

“Actually,” Vernetta said, brightening for the first time, “me and Jefferson are talking about adopting.”

Nichelle affectionately squeezed Vernetta’s hand. “Congratulations!”

“I thought Jefferson didn’t want to adopt,” Special said.

“He didn’t at first. I guess it just took some time for him to warm up to the idea.”

“Just be careful who you bring home,” Special warned. “I’m not babysitting no bad ass kids.”

“I didn’t say anything about kids with an
s
. Just one will do for now.”

“So you’re going to be a full-time mommy?” Nichelle asked.

Special acted as if the question had been addressed to her. “Ain’t no way Ms. Workaholic can stay at home every day. She’ll be at another firm by the end of the month.”

“For your information, I promised Jefferson I was going to take at least three months off before looking for another job.”

Special took a loud sip of her Long Island iced tea. “You can make all the promises you want. That’ll happen right after I win the Miss America Pageant.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you couldn’t take three months off if somebody tied you up and glued your butt to a chair.”

“I think you’re going to be surprised.”

“If
you
take three months off,” Special said, “I
will
be surprised.”

Nichelle laid down her fork. “Well, there goes my big plan.”

Vernetta reached for another nacho, spilling guacamole on the table in the process. “What big plan?” she asked.

Nichelle grinned playfully. “Never mind. You probably wouldn’t be interested anyway.”

“Interested in what?”

Nichelle let a few more beats pass before she finally spilled it. “What would you think about joining our firm? We need an attorney with employment law expertise. A lot of the companies that Sam and Russell represent have labor issues. You’d have a built-in client base.”

Nichelle’s offer surprised her. “Wow.”

“Wow, nothing.” Special wagged her finger in Vernetta’s face. “Didn’t you just tell us you promised Jefferson you’d take three months off?”

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothing. That man has been hanging with you through thick and thin. You need to use this time off to give him some TLC. You know how needy men are.”

Vernetta was only half listening. She had actually been thinking about starting her own law practice, but she was concerned about the hefty start-up costs. Joining Nichelle’s firm would be the perfect solution. She could set her own hours, so she would still be able to devote time to Jefferson and a new baby.”

“Dang,” Special said. “I can see the gleam in your eyes already. Poor Jefferson.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” Vernetta said to Nichelle. “I don’t want to commit to joining as a partner or even as an associate. I just need a place to practice for a while. I could be an independent contractor until I figure out my next move.”

“However you want it,” Nichelle said.

Then Vernetta remembered her rocky relationship with Sam. “I know Russell would be an easy sell. But I’m not so sure Sam would go for it.”

“He will,” Nichelle assured her. “He’s not as much of a brute as he comes off sometimes. His bottom line is green. I’m sure we could figure out a fee arrangement that will work out for you and the firm. That’s all Sam will need to hear.”

“Thanks for the offer. I think it’s something I’d seriously like to consider. But before you discuss it with Russell and Sam, I need to talk to Jefferson.”

“Great.” Nichelle eyed the plate of nachos, then bravely dug into her salad.

Special wagged her finger in Vernetta’s face. “Jefferson’s going to be hella mad at you.”

Nichelle gave Special a pointed scowl. “If I were you, I’d be trying to encourage Vernetta to come to our firm. If they end up charging you with Eugene’s murder, you’re going to need all the legal help you can get.”

Vernetta could almost see the light bulb flash in Special’s head.

“On second thought,” she said, cozying up to Vernetta, “I think Nichelle’s firm would be the perfect place for you. How soon can you start?”

R
ay Martinez walked into the conference room where his trial team sat waiting and slapped a thick manila folder on the battered, rectangular table.

“Okay, everybody, let’s get started. What do you have for me, Denny?”

Denny Marconi was an investigator with the D.A.’s Felony Unit. Ray had never worked with him before, but he was considered one of the unit’s shining stars. The rest of the prosecution team assigned to the Eugene Nelson murder case included Deputy D.A. Colleen Carraway Higgs, who was serving as second chair, and their long-time paralegal, Carolyn Gildersleeve Jones.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have much,” Denny said. He was a bearded, pear-shaped man in his fifties who enjoyed getting paid to dig up dirt on people. In his younger days, he had longed to be a cop, but couldn’t meet the physical requirements, even after they lowered the height requirement.

“The law firm where Nelson worked still hasn’t been able to link Special Moore to that email,” Denny said, “and we don’t have anything that conclusively proves she threw those nails in his driveway or vandalized his house and car.”

“As far as I’m concerned that video of her attacking Nelson with pepper spray is some pretty good evidence as far as motive is concerned,” said Carolyn, the paralegal. “We also have three witnesses who can attest to the comments she made at her cousin’s funeral. She told the whole church she wanted revenge.”

Carolyn had found six witnesses and obtained written statements from each of them. She was a quiet introvert who blushed at off-color jokes. But when it came time to dig into a case, she transformed into super sleuth.

“Motive alone isn’t going to get us a conviction,” Colleen said. She was as cautious as they came. A tall, cream-colored black woman with sexy hips, her no-nonsense personality suited Ray. Colleen’s assignment to the case was no huge surprise. Hathaway was playing to the public. The Latino/African-American duo would be pitched to the press as a model of diversity, which would in turn translate into a few extra votes for the man who teamed them up. The D.A. was destined to go far.

“We need something solid to link her to his death, and so far, we have nothing,” Colleen said.

“It’s still early,” Ray reminded them. “But I agree. We have a strong motive, but without some solid evidence to support it, we can’t move forward with an indictment. Unfortunately, the D.A. is on my butt for a quick conviction.”

“Did we get confirmation of the time of death yet?”

Denny opened a folder and pulled out a page. “The coroner puts it sometime between midnight Saturday and six Sunday morning. I read your notes from Moore’s interrogation. The fact that her attorneys refused to let her answer any questions tells me she has something to hide.”

“I agree,” Ray said. “We just need to find out what it is.”

“Finding the murder weapon sure would be nice,” Colleen said wistfully.

“If she’s smart,” Denny said, “she’s already dumped it.”

“Do we know what we’re looking for?” Martinez asked.

“Yeah.” Denny riffled through more pages in his folder. “Definitely a small-caliber gun. I’d bank on a twenty-two. The perfect weapon for close-range shooting. Also the weapon of choice for female killers. Fits nicely in a small purse.”

“Belynda Davis, a close friend of Nelson, claimed Moore approached her the day before and tried to show her a picture of him kissing some man,” Colleen said. “Moore supposedly took the picture on her digital camera the night before. We need to get a search warrant ASAP.”

“That’s in the works,” Denny said.

“Won’t do us much good now,” Carolyn, the paralegal added. “She probably erased that picture a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” Denny said, “but there’s a good chance we can restore it. So the sooner we get our hands on that camera, the better.”

Ray got up and took a seat on the edge of the table. “What I’m about to say can’t leave this room.” He waited until he was certain that he had everyone’s full attention. “I received a heads up this morning about a news story that’s going to break tomorrow. And it’s going to make this case much bigger than it already is.”

Everyone was piqued with interest. “Nelson was the fifth African-American man—professional African-American man—to be murdered in a three-week period. The
L.A. Times
thinks the cases are linked. That one killer is responsible for all of the murders.”

“You’re pulling my leg,” Denny said.

“No, I’m serious. The
Times
story isn’t going to say this, but Special Moore is considered a person of interest in each of those murders.”

Colleen blinked. “The police think this woman is a serial killer?”

Ray nodded.

“If this story is breaking in the
Times
tomorrow,” Carolyn said, “then it can’t be much of a secret.”

“I haven’t told you the confidential part yet,” Ray said. “And I want to make it clear, one more time, this information can’t leave this room.”

They all nodded.

“It appears that each of the victims led heterosexual lives, but were involved in covert gay relationships,” Ray continued.

Denny slammed his folder on the table. “So these guys were a bunch of fruitcakes?”

Ray flinched, but didn’t otherwise react. “It appears that they were gay or perhaps bisexual.”

“What’s this either or stuff?” Denny said. “If a guy’s banging another guy, he’s a fruitcake.”

Ray knew he was going to hear a lot worse during the course of this case, so he needed to get used to letting comments like that roll off his back. Both Colleen and Carolyn knew he was gay, though they had never discussed it. Carolyn looked away when Ray glanced in her direction.

“These guys claim they’re not gay, just adventurous,” Colleen explained. “They call it being on the down low. Oprah did a whole show on it.”

Denny snorted. “What in the hell is the world coming to?”

Ray quietly sighed. He knew that as soon as the meeting ended, Colleen would pull Denny aside to tell him Ray was gay and warn him to watch his mouth. Ray just hoped Denny would still want to remain on the team. He needed his expertise.

“Anyway,” Ray said, “the police believe Special Moore murdered the other men for the same reason she targeted Nelson. Because of their double lives.”

T
he hostile look on Lieutenant Wilson’s face made J.C. want to run for cover. She had just pulled out of a McDonald’s drive-up when she received an urgent call from dispatch summoning her to his office.

“You wanted to see me?” She stepped inside.

“Have a seat.” Instead of asking her to close the door, he got up and did it himself, then perched on the corner of his desk, inches away from her.

J.C. braced herself.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” The lieutenant was extremely ticked off about something.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, is there anything you want to tell me?”

“No, not that I can think of.” J.C. wondered what was going on.

The lieutenant snatched a copy of the
Times
from his desk and tossed it into her lap. “What’s this crap?”

J.C. picked up the newspaper and read the bold headline splattered across page one.
Serial Killer Targets African-American Men.

Scanning the story, J.C. quickly ascertained that thereporter’s account was fairly accurate. It reported that the police believed each of the victims were killed by a single gunman. The story, however, made no mention of the Department’s theory about the men’s sex lives.

“This story quotes
sources close to the investigation
,” the lieutenant said with more than mild sarcasm. “Is that you?”

J.C. placed the newspaper on the corner of the lieutenant’s desk. “No,” she said, “I had nothing to do with that story. But what’s the big deal? It doesn’t mention anything about the victims being gay.”

“As I understand it, the
Times
reporter is well aware of your theory. His editors were just too afraid of being sued, so they left that angle out of the story. For now.”

The lieutenant narrowed his eyes and scowled as if he were trying to scare her into confessing.

She defiantly scowled back. “I’m not stupid, Lieutenant. There’s no way I’d run to the media with that information
.
I had nothing to do with that story.”

“So where’s the leak coming from?”

“I don’t know. You said you discussed my theory with the captain. It’s possible he mentioned it to others. There’s no telling who leaked that information.”

After a long stretch of silence, the lieutenant’s anger seemed to thaw. He took a seat behind his desk. “Since the cat’s about to be out of the bag, what’s the latest on your investigation?”

“There were wineglasses on a coffee table in Eugene’s living room. One glass had prints belonging to Eugene. The other one didn’t. The prints definitely belong to a man. He could be our killer.”

“Any idea who he might be?”

“Not yet. The prints on the wineglass don’t match the ones found on the window, which is how we think the killer entered Eugene’s house.”

“Just remember,” he said, “if your friend is charged, you’re off the case. I’m already cutting it close.”

“I understand.”

“The mayor’s ready to proceed with that press conference I mentioned a while back. This story has put even more fire under his ass. It’s tomorrow morning at ten in the City Hall Press Room. Media Affairs has some talking points for you just in case some jackass reporter shoves a mike in your face.”

J.C. nodded.

“I have no idea how extensive this leak is,” the lieutenant continued. “So, if someone happens to ask you about this down low crap tomorrow, fudge your answer.”

“Fudge? What exactly does that mean?”

“It means lie, Detective. Nobody can find out that you suspected weeks ago that all the vics were—” he caught himself, “homosexuals.”