Murder on the Down Low (34 page)

His last comment threw her. “I don’t know how you could possibly have information about what Special supposedly told her therapist. But even if you do, you can’t use it. Those conversations are protected by the therapist-patient privilege.”

“Not here. If a therapist has reason to believe that a patient is a threat to herself or others, she has an obligation to report it to the authorities. And that’s exactly what she did. The therapist contacted the police because she feared your client was a very real threat to Mr. Nelson. Turns out she was right.”

“You can’t possibly be basing your entire case on what you’ve just told us.” Vernetta tried to keep her voice level. She didn’t want Martinez to think she was running scared, though she was.

“There’s more, but I’m sure you’re well aware of it. She hacked into the computer system at Mr. Nelson’s law firm and outted him. She ruined a set of perfectly good tires by leaving nails in his driveway and also vandalized his home and car.”

Vernetta grumbled. “You have no evidence that she did any of that. And even if you did, it doesn’t mean she killed Eugene.”

“We understand that she was also stalking him. She admitted to Belynda Davis, a friend of Mr. Nelson’s, that she had trespassed on his property and took a photograph of him with another man through his kitchen window. Police believe the killer entered Mr. Nelson’s house through that same window. It’s my hunch that we’ll find your client’s fingerprints somewhere in the vicinity.” He paused for effect. “I’d say most juries would convict based on the facts I’ve just recounted even without a smoking gun.”

Vernetta’s blood pressure edged skyward, making it hard to keep her cool. “Eugene and Maya entertained at his place all the time. So Special’s prints are probably all over that house, including the window on his back deck. I suspect my prints are
somewhere in the vicinity
of that window, too. And as far as that stuff about Special taking a picture of Eugene and some man, for all we know, Belynda made that up.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Martinez said calmly. “We confiscated your client’s camera during the search of her home earlier today. If that photograph turns up, it only strengthens our case.”

“Or, perhaps, our case.” Vernetta smiled.

“How so?” Martinez asked.

“Assuming there is a picture of Eugene and some man, he could well be the killer. Eugene could’ve been murdered by a jealous lover for all we know. And I don’t think you’re likely to garner much sympathy for your victim. The jury will feel a lot more compassion for Special, who lost her cousin because her fiancé deceived her in the cruelest way.”

Ray smiled, then nodded. “Interesting approach, but jury nullification is rare. Jurors look at the facts and the law. If they think Ms. Moore committed murder, it won’t matter what they think about Mr. Nelson’s conduct. They’re going to convict her.”

Vernetta could tell the man was shrewd. It would be quite a challenge going up against him. Sam interrupted their stare-down.

“Eugene was the fifth professional African-American man to be shot to death in L.A. in only a five-week period,” Sam added. “According to the
Times
, there’s a serial killer on the loose. It’s more likely that Eugene was also one of the killer’s victims.”

“Frankly,” Martinez said, “I don’t think it’s too farfetched to assume that your client killed those other men, too.”

Vernetta felt an icy chill shoot through her. “You can’t possibly believe that!”

“As a matter of fact, Ms. Henderson, I do. We have evidence that links Ms. Moore to four of the five victims. And we’re working on a link to the fifth.”

“Evidence like what?” Sam asked.

“The first victim was killed at the Ramada Inn on Bristol Parkway. That hotel is walking distance from Ms. Moore’s apartment and we found out that it’s part of her regular jogging route.”

“Is that what you call evidence?” Vernetta said facetiously. “That doesn’t prove she killed him.”

“Not by itself. But it does present opportunity. Your client was also the patient of an ear, nose, and throat doctor who just happens to have an office in the Horton Medical Plaza on the same floor as the second victim, Dr. Quentin Banks. He was shot to death getting out of his car in the parking garage.”

“So, what are you saying?” Vernetta asked. “Every woman who saw a doctor in that building is a suspect in that doctor’s death?”

Martinez ignored her question. “Your client was also seen near the Trojan Arms apartments across from USC on the night Nathaniel Allen was shot.”

That surprised her. Special had absolutely no reason to be in that area. “You can’t be serious.”

“The police have a very solid witness who can place her near the crime scene at the time of Allen’s shooting.”

“What witness?” Sam asked. Vernetta admired his cool demeanor.

“A clerk at Starbucks says he served Ms. Moore about twenty minutes before Allen was gunned down. He even remembers what she ordered. A Java Chip Frappuccino. That Starbucks is in the shopping center across from the apartment complex. Twenty minutes was more than enough time for her to shoot Allen and drive home.”

The stuff about Special being near USC had to be a case of mistaken identity. Vernetta had accompanied Special to Starbucks a million times. Day or night, rain or sunshine, she’d never ordered anything other than a White Chocolate Mocha.

“I’m sorry, guys,” Martinez said, “my experience tells me that when there are this many coincidences, they’re not.”

“But what motive would Special have for killing these men?” Vernetta said, still reeling from his revelations.

Martinez smiled ruefully. “Oh, she had a motive. One which I’m not at liberty to reveal to you at this time. But you’ll find out soon enough.”

Vernetta and Sam couldn’t help staring at each other.

“I’m waiting for our investigator to get back to me regarding a few other loose ends,” Martinez said. “And when they’re all tied up, Ms. Moore is going to be facing multiple murder charges.”

T
he traffic on the Santa Monica freeway moved at a crawl and it took Vernetta close to an hour to get to Special’s apartment.

She found Nichelle and Special sitting in the living room with TV trays, eating Golden Bird fried chicken and watching a rerun of
Girlfriends.
Nichelle had completely abandoned her diet. Food had always been her stress buster.

It was good to hear Special laugh again, but the news Vernetta was about to deliver would surely put a stop to that.

Special tossed a sweet pickle wedge into her mouth, then noticed Vernetta’s troubled expression. “What’s the matter?” The alarm in Special’s eyes was a mirror image of Vernetta’s. “Please don’t tell me I have to go back to jail!”

Vernetta sat down on the couch next to her. “Sam and I just met with Ray Martinez. He’s the deputy D.A. who’s going to be prosecuting your case. He shared some of the evidence he has against you.”

Nichelle picked up the remote control from the coffee table and muted the television.

“What evidence?” Special said worriedly. “They ain’t got no evidence ’cause I didn’t kill that man.”

“
I
know that and
you
know that, but sometimes the facts can make an innocent person appear guilty. The killer entered Eugene’s house through the kitchen window. They’ll be comparing your fingerprints to the ones they found at the scene.” Vernetta inhaled then slowly exhaled. “Please tell me you didn’t touch that window when you were over there playing peeping Tom?”

The chicken leg in Special’s hand fell to her plate with a loud thud and she pressed her palm to her chest. “I almost fainted when I saw that man walk up behind Eugene. I had to hold on to the windowsill to keep from passing out.”

Vernetta took in a breath. “We’ll just deal with that when we have to.”

Special gave Nichelle a wide-eyed look, then faced Vernetta again. “Sounds like they’re going to railroad me,” she said in a shaky voice.

“We’re not going to let that happen.” Vernetta pulled a legal pad from her bag. “I need to ask you some other questions. And I don’t want you to overreact, okay?”

Special pushed her plate away. Vernetta saw the muscles along Special’s jawline tense and she heard the gritting of her teeth.

“First, do you have a regular jogging path?”

Special’s entire face crumpled in confusion. “What? What’s that got to do with—”

“I’ve had an extremely long day. Can you please just answer my question?”

“Okay, okay. Yeah, I guess so.”

“Tell me where you run.”

“Um . . . I usually go left out of my apartment on Buckingham Drive, then left onto Green Valley Circle. After that, I run north along Centinela past the Ramada Inn, then I backtrack.”

Vernetta tried to remain stone-faced. “Do you have an ear, nose, and throat doctor?”

Special looked even more puzzled. “Yeah . . .”

“What’s his name?”

“It’s not a him, it’s a her. Dr. Fletcher. Dr. Flaxie Fletcher.”

“How long has she been your doctor?”

“I don’t know. About six years.”

“Special,” Nichelle interrupted, “can I have your pickles?”

“Take ’em.” Special dumped the small paper cup of pickles onto Nichelle’s plate.

“Where’s her office?” Vernetta held her breath as she waited for Special’s answer. The questions were clearly baffling her. Vernetta would explain later.

“In the Horton Medical Plaza. In Inglewood.”

“When was the last time you were there?”

“I don’t know. I only see her when my sinuses flare up.”

“Special, this is important. I need you to tell me, to the best of your recollection, the last time you went to that medical building.”

She stopped to think about the question. “About six months ago, I guess.”

“Were you anywhere near her office on Saturday, March third?”

“How am I supposed to remember where I was weeks ago?” Still, Special stopped to think. “That was the day of Maya’s funeral. No, I didn’t go there that day.”

Vernetta cupped her forehead in her hand.

“What? What’s the matter?” Special grabbed Vernetta’s arm. “Girl, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

“You were late getting to the church. Where were you before that?”

“I was right here. Crying my eyes out.”

“Did anybody see you?”

“Did anybody see me? I don’t know.”

“Special, I need you to think. Did you talk to anybody in your building that morning? Go to the store? To the gas station? Anywhere? It’s very important that we pinpoint your exact whereabouts before you got to the church.”

Special stared off into space. “I don’t know if anybody saw me, and I don’t recall talking to anybody. I was so messed up that day I wouldn’t even remember if I
had
talked to anybody.”

“What about telephone calls? Did you call anybody from your home phone or cell phone that morning?”

“Um . . . I don’t know. I don’t think so. I got dressed for Maya’s funeral and just sat here crying and staring at the walls. Then I realized that I was late and ran over to the church. Vernetta, please tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m sure you heard about it on the news. There was a shooting in the Horton Medical Plaza. A doctor who worked there. That’s where J.C. went when she left Maya’s repast. His name was Dr. Quentin Banks. His shooting happened around the same time that you don’t seem to have an alibi for.”

It took less than a second for Special to comprehend the meaning of what Vernetta was telling her. “Why in the hell would I need an alibi for that?”

“Oh, no!” Nichelle’s eyes welled with tears. “Please don’t tell us they’re trying to say Special murdered that man, too.”

Vernetta nodded.

Special pulled her knees to her chest, looped her arms around them and started rocking back and forth the way she had in court. “Somebody needs to wake me up right now because I don’t think I can take any more of this.”

“Please, Special, just keep it together,” Vernetta said. “I only have a few more questions.”

Special stared straight ahead.

“Two days after Maya’s funeral—that would’ve been a Monday— where were you between nine and ten o’clock that night?”

“You have to be kidding. I don’t know. My memory’s not that good.”

“This is important. I need you to think.”

“I can hardly remember what I did last night.”

Nichelle interjected. “Maybe this’ll help jog your memory. That was the same week we watched my first television interview at T.G.I. Friday’s on Wednesday evening, remember? Right before I got there, Eugene called me accusing you of hacking into his firm’s email system and leaving nails in his driveway. You weren’t there, Vernetta, because you were working late.”

“Okay, Special,” Vernetta said, “does that help you remember?

“Yeah.” She cringed. “I’m gonna have to take the Fifth on that one.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry but I can’t tell you or anybody else where I was Monday night.”

“Why?”

“Duh?” Special said. “Because it might incriminate me.”

“Special, I don’t have time for this. We’re your attorneys. Whatever you tell us is protected by the attorney-client privilege.”

Special started rocking again. “Uh . . . well . . . Don’t be mad at me, but I lied when I said I didn’t send that email to Eugene’s law firm.”

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Vernetta said. “So where were you?”

“That’s what I was doing that night.”

“You barely know how to turn on a computer,” Nichelle said. “Exactly when did you become a computer hacker?”

“I had some help.”

“From who?” Vernetta demanded.

“I can’t tell you. I don’t wanna get him into any trouble.”

Vernetta felt her temples throb. “Eugene’s law firm has a whole team of computer experts trying to track down the source of that email. When they finally do, do you really think your friend’s not going to give you up? Who was it?”

Special abruptly stopped rocking. “It was one of the guys who works part-time in the IT Department at my office, Eddie Chin. I went to his apartment that night and we did it there.”