Murder on the Down Low (9 page)

She pulled out a chair and sat down, hoping her concern didn’t show. Opening a folder, Vernetta took out several sheets of yellow legal paper with her handwritten notes. “I started preparing a case plan.”

“Great,” Haley said. “So did I.” She handed both of them a three-page, typed document. “We can just combine our ideas. I guess you didn’t have time to type up anything.”

Vernetta smiled. “No, I had time.” She pulled copies of a six-page document from another folder Haley hadn’t seen.

It pleased her to see Haley’s red cheeks turn even rosier. “Let’s go over your document first,” Vernetta said.

An hour later, after they had shared their respective ideas, it was clear who had the superior legal knowledge. Haley’s document was not nearly as comprehensive as Vernetta’s. Haley had never handled a wage and hour case before. Vernetta had. O’Reilly gave both of them several follow-up tasks and appeared to conclude the meeting. But Vernetta wasn’t leaving before Haley and Haley apparently had the same idea.

After O’Reilly mentioned an upcoming conference call, they finally left together.

“I forgot to mention to O’Reilly that we could probably use a first-year associate on the case,” Haley said.

Why? So you’ll have somebody to boss around?
“It’s a little early to make that decision. The three of us and a team of paralegals should be able to handle everything for the time being.”

“Okay. Sorry you weren’t able to join us for lunch.”

Something in her gut told her to keep moving, but she ignored the warning. She stopped and faced her colleague. “I’m surprised that I missed you. I was in my office all morning. When did you drop by?”

“Oh . . .Well, I asked my secretary to go look for you. Maybe you were in the ladies’ room.”

“I didn’t leave my office until I ran into the two of you.” Vernetta stared in a way that she hoped communicated that she knew Haley had intended to exclude her.

“I don’t know how she could’ve missed you. Sorry about the mix-up.”

Since their offices were on opposite ends of the floor, Vernetta turned to leave.

“This should be a fun case to work on,” Haley called out after her.

Vernetta did not bother to look back. “Sure should be.”

W
hy didn’t I get a call last night?”

J.C. had not wanted her words to sound so angry, but there was no way to take them back now. Detective Jessup was talking to a USC campus security officer outside the Trojan Arms apartment complex. He continued his conversation, ignoring her.

J.C. stood there, arms folded, waiting for him to finish. It was important to keep her temper in check. Her partner got off on getting her riled up.

The Trojan Arms student apartments were located directly across from USC. The scene was complete chaos. Cops, crime scene techs and campus security fought over turf while more than a hundred looky-loos milled about the parking lot of the 32nd Street Market across the street. The crowd was a combination of scared-looking, white college students and the black and Hispanic residents who lived in the low-income neighborhood surrounding the prestigious university.

When the security officer left, Detective Jessup turned to J.C. “Now what were you saying?”

“You should’ve called me.”

“And you should’ve called
me
before you went over and interviewed that doctor’s wife.” He waited for a reaction, but J.C. didn’t give him one. “Saw your notes. Looks like you didn’t get much from her. I could’ve helped you pose better questions.”

J.C. took a second to carefully craft her response. Anger turned him on, so she couldn’t go there. “You were out of the office when I did that interview.” She reached out and patted his shoulder. “Just keep me in the loop next time, cowboy. Okay?”

She saw Lieutenant Wilson getting out of a police cruiser and took off in his direction.

“Anybody know where the closest 7-Eleven is?” The lieutenant was chomping on a Snickers. “I need a dose of java. Bad.”

A young campus security officer eagerly responded. “Not sure about a 7-Eleven, but there’s a gourmet coffee house across the street.”

“I ain’t paying four bucks for a cup of coffee,” Lieutenant Wilson barked.

The security officer shrank away.

“I don’t like this,” the lieutenant said as J.C. walked up. He cracked his knuckles, then flexed his fingers. “This is murder number three in less than a week. They’re a couple of rumors hitting the streets that could make it a long, angry spring in L.A.”

“What rumors?” J.C. asked.

“We got one report that a Hispanic gang, 18th Street, might be behind the shootings. Either the Crips or the Bloods, depending on who you believe, screwed ’em on a drug deal so they’re gunning down black men. Figured they’d get more attention shooting prominent black guys.”

“And the other rumor?”

“The Klan. A white hate group. Some hick white boy gone mad. Take your pick.”

“So what do you think?”

“The gang thing sounds believable.”

Detective Jessup joined them. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Wilson barely nodded.

Detective Jessup envied J.C.’s relationship with their boss and tried everything he could think of to get on Lieutenant Wilson’s good side. All he needed to do was stop being a jerk.

The two detectives followed the lieutenant over to the body of Nathaniel Allen, sprawled outside the entrance of the apartment complex.

A man wearing a navy blue T-shirt with the words
Crime Scene Investigator
plastered across his chest in white block letters joined them. “So what do we have here?”

Detective Jessup responded even though the question wasn’t specifically addressed to him. “I think we have a—”

“Don’t say another word.” Lieutenant Wilson waved his hand high in the air. “Hey, Officer,” he yelled to a uniformed cop a few yards away. “How did this reporter make it past you?”

The officer’s face blushed with embarrassment.

The reporter grinned as two other officers approached. “What gave me away?”

“I can smell your kind,” the lieutenant said. “Now get the hell away from my crime scene.”

Lieutenant Wilson turned to Detective Jessup. “Media Relations and only Media Relations talks to the press. You got that?”

Detective Jessup took a step back. “I didn’t know he was a—”

“I don’t want to hear what you didn’t know. It’s your job to know.”

J.C. was enjoying this.

“Now go fetch me some coffee. Two creams, three packets of sugar. Real sugar. And it better be from 7-Eleven.”

J.C. chuckled to herself as Detective Jessup slithered off.

“What’re you smiling at?” the lieutenant griped. “You didn’t know he was a reporter either.”

J.C. started to defend herself when everyone’s attention turned to a tall, red-headed man desperately trying to get past the yellow crime scene tape.

“I need to know what’s going on!” the man shouted.

The lieutenant shook his head. “There goes his bank account.”

“Who’s that?” J.C. asked.

“A scum-sucking agent. He was waiting in the wings to orchestrate Allen’s break into the pros.”

J.C. felt her cell phone vibrate. She answered it and heard the voice of Patricia Kilgore, the sister-in-law of the second victim, Dr. Banks.

“Sorry, I didn’t call you earlier, but we’ve been busy with funeral arrangements. I was hoping you might have some time to talk.”

“Sure.” J.C. heard anxiety in Patricia’s voice. “I can head over there now.”

“No,” she said quickly, “not here. Can you meet me in the Marina in an hour?”

J
.C. sat on a long, cushioned bench in the waiting area of the El Torito Mexican restaurant on Admiralty Way, ten minutes early for her meeting with Patricia Kilgore. J.C. was more than anxious to hear what information the woman might have about her murdered brother-in-law.

“Detective Sparks?”

J.C. looked up to find Patricia standing in front of her. J.C. stood and extended her hand. “Thanks for coming.”

Patricia looked even more like her sister than she had during their initial meeting. She was a thin woman with short reddish-brown hair.

The hostess showed them to a table with a view of the marina. A waiter appeared seconds later.

“I’ll just have a Coke,” Patricia said, when the waiter attempted to hand her a menu.

J.C. started to order a salad, then changed her mind and chose the crab enchiladas.

“Thanks for calling me,” she began, once the waiter left. “Your brother-in-law’s case has been pretty baffling for us. Any information you could provide would be helpful.”

Patricia slowly exhaled. “It’s been hard for Diana. Quentin was her world.”

“I can imagine.” J.C. wanted her to get to the point, but knew she had to be patient.

“What I have to tell you is something I’ve never shared with anyone,” Patricia said. “Not even my husband. And I don’t want anyone to know that this information came from me.”

J.C. hoped that she would not be forced to betray the woman’s trust. “Okay. Go ahead.”

“I’m not saying that this has anything to do with Quentin’s murder, but you said
any
information could be helpful.”

J.C. encouraged her along with a nod.

Patricia paused for a long while before continuing. “I think my brother-in-law had a lover.” She fiddled with her napkin. “And I think his lover was a man.”

J.C. tried not to visibly react. “And what makes you think that?”

“I don’t just think it. I know it.”

J.C. waited for her to continue.

“Several months ago, I saw him at this Indian restaurant on Melrose. He was having dinner with a very attractive man who looked to be in his early thirties. I just sensed that something was up. When I walked over to their table to say hello, both of them acted as if they’d been caught stealing.”

Disappointment flooded J.C.’s face and she fell back against the padded booth. What Patricia had just said was not enough to support her accusation.

“And that’s not all,” she said hurriedly. “I started following him.”

J.C. sat forward again.

“Nearly every Saturday he’d go to a hotel during the lunch hour. I followed him three different times. The first time he went to the Marina Marriott right up the street. Another time the Ritz-Carlton. The third time it was the Airport Hilton on Century.”

“Did you actually see him with another man?”

Patricia shook her head. “I hung out in the lobby after Quentin went in and waited. About an hour and a half later, he walked out. And all three times, about fifteen minutes after Quentin left, so did another attractive, well-dressed black man. The same man I saw him with at the restaurant.”

J.C. was intrigued but not totally convinced. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to need more than that to convince me that they were lovers.”

“On three different occasions Quentin walks into a hotel in the middle of the day and leaves ninety minutes later? What else could they be doing?”

“Do you even know for sure that they went to the same room?”

“No. I never followed Quentin up there. I couldn’t run the risk of him seeing me.”

J.C. pursed her lips.

“There’s no reason for two grown men to be hanging out in a hotel room in the middle of the day,” Patricia insisted. “I checked and there were no conferences going on at any of those hotels on the days I saw them. Quentin was on the down low. I just know it. He’d always been a little suspect as far as I was concerned. He was just too darn perfect.”

J.C. wondered how much of what Patricia was telling her was the result of jealousy over her sister’s picture perfect life. “Did you ever share your suspicions with your sister?”

Patricia laughed softly. “Of course not. That would’ve killed her. Anyway, I doubt Diana would’ve left him.”

Again, J.C. wondered about Patricia’s motives.

“I didn’t know what to do.” Patricia reached for her water glass. “So I didn’t do anything except pray that the man had the decency to wear a condom.”

E
quipped with a detailed description of Dr. Banks’ alleged lover, J.C. drove the short distance to the Marina Marriot.

She took a seat at the bar to the left of the entrance and quietly observed the activity. Windows that stretched to the ceiling sent surges of sunlight into the lobby. Tall leafy trees created a tropical atmosphere.

J.C. ordered a Sprite and mulled over which of the three clerks at the registration desk she should approach. After a few minutes, two of the clerks left, leaving a young black woman alone at the desk.

When J.C. flashed her badge, the clerk’s eyes rounded into quarters. “I can’t talk to you without getting my manager’s permission first.” J.C. pegged the girl to be in her early twenties. “And he’s out at the moment.” She enunciated her words like a speech major.

J.C. ignored her reticence. “I have just a couple of questions. Off the record.” There was no such thing as off the record as far as cops were concerned, but people always seemed to loosen up a bit when she said that.

“Do you recognize this man?” She placed the photo of Dr. Banks on the counter.

The woman’s eyes signaled recognition, but her lips remained zipped.

“So, you
do
recognize him.”

The clerk looked around furtively. “We’re trained to protect our guests’ privacy. I could get in trouble for talking to you.”

“I promise you won’t get in trouble. Just tell me what you know.”

Her eyes swept the lobby again, then she leaned across the counter and dropped her preppy tone. “That brother’s on the D-L. He marched his ass in here at least one Saturday a month just before noon and went straight to the President’s Suite where his boy was waiting on him.”

“His boy? How do you know someone was waiting for him?”

“Because I checked the other guy in. He was the one who always registered and ordered lunch. Two turkey sandwiches, two root beers and one Caesar salad. Every single time.”

“How do you know what they ordered?”