Murder on the Down Low

by Pamela Samuels Young

  Vernetta placed a hand on Special’s shoulder. “Maya’s family doesn’t want people to know.”

  “I’m her family, too,” Special replied stubbornly. “And I think they should know.”

  A muffled clamor drew all eyes to the front pew. Maya’s mother slowly rose to her feet. Pearl Washington was a young woman. Just over fifty. But the weight of her daughter’s death had added a good ten years to her otherwise flawless face.

  “Special’s right . . . ” Mrs. Washington said in a weathered voice that had Maya’s feminine raspiness. “People should know. Let her speak.”

  After a long, uncertain moment, J.C. took a step back. It took another few seconds before Vernetta reluctantly did the same.

  As the congregation waited, Special dropped her head as if she had suddenly lost her nerve and was searching for it on the floor. But in an instant, she straightened into a lofty, almost regal pose.

  “Maya wasn’t just my cousin,” Special began, fighting to control her emotions. “She was like a sister to me. And she shouldn’t be lying in that casket. The only reason she is, is because somebody deceived her. And it would be a crime to deceive all of you.”

  She stopped and rubbed her right eye with the heel of her hand. “Maya didn’t die of pneumonia. Maya died of AIDS. And Eugene Nelson was the man who infected her.”

  An elderly woman gasped from the back row, and a teenager sitting up front cupped his mouth with both hands.

  “Maya didn’t know that Eugene was gay or on the down low or whatever you want to call it,” Special continued, ignoring the waves of shock ricocheting through the church. “Eugene needs to pay for what he did. And I promise you . . .” Her lower lip began to quiver and for a second it seemed as if she would not be able to go on. “I plan to make sure that he does.”

  Special let out a loud, agonizing wail as her three friends rushed over to her. Reverend Jones waved frantically at the pianist, whose fingers hit the wrong keys, then broke into Amazing Grace.

  Vernetta wasn’t sure what emotion she felt as they escorted Special from the pulpit. But she didn’t blame her friend for what she had just done. It didn’t make sense for Eugene to be walking around looking like the picture of health when Maya was dead. What was God’s lesson in that? Special was absolutely right. Eugene had to pay.

  As a matter of fact, they had already come up with a plan to make sure that he did.

  Chapter 3

  Vernetta felt her breath catch as she watched Maya’s casket descend into the ground. A whimpering Nichelle held hands with Maya’s mother. This time, even J.C. couldn’t hold back her tears.

  It was barely sixty degrees. Cold in L.A. for March. Vernetta scanned the cemetery grounds, hoping to spot Special someplace in the distance.

  “I’ve already looked,” J.C. whispered into her ear. “She’s not here.”

  When the church service ended, Special had insisted on driving to the burial site alone. They had tried to follow her in J.C.’s Range Rover, but lost her in the long funeral procession. So where is she?

  Reverend Jones said a final prayer and several mourners formed a haphazard line to extend condolences to Maya’s mother.

  “I can’t believe Special didn’t show up,” Nichelle said, her cries having finally tapered off.

  “She’s having a hard time,” J.C. reasoned. “She’ll be alright.”

  J.C. wore her hair short, with just enough perm to enhance its natural curl. Her slimming black skirt and leather pumps showed off long, muscular legs. She was a pretty woman with flawless chocolate skin. She wasn’t one of those female cops who hid her femininity, but she didn’t flaunt it either.

  Vernetta linked her arm through Nichelle’s, more for her own comfort than her friend’s. Nichelle was of average height, barely five-six, with a thick, brick house frame. She was always stylishly dressed and wore her size fourteens with the swagger of a runway model. The color, print and design of her clothes always separated her from the crowd. Today she donned a flower-print dress that was tapered at the waist with yellow rhinestones along the collar. She said funerals were already too depressing, so she never wore black.

  Looking down at her black pants suit, Vernetta wished that she had worn something colorful. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. Other than her favorite bronze lipstick, she hadn’t bothered to put on any makeup.

  “We should head over to the repast to help out,” J.C. said.

  They trudged toward J.C.’s SUV and were almost there when Nichelle abruptly stopped and pointed. “There she is!”

  Special was sitting alone on a stone bench at a gravesite adjacent to Maya’s.

  “It’s just not right,” they heard Special mutter as they approached. “It’s not right for that man to be walking around without a care in the world.”

  “I’m sure he cares,” Nichelle said, unable to be anything but sympathetic. “He’s hurting as much as we are. He loved Maya, too.”

  Special shot Nichelle a look meant to wound, if not kill. “He didn’t love her enough to tell her he was out screwin’ men. He should be the one in that casket, not Maya.”

  Vernetta sat down next to Special and pulled her close. “We need to get over to Maya’s place. Where’s your car?”

  Special raised a limp hand and pointed to her decade-old Porsche several yards away. She pulled her keys from her purse and dropped them into Vernetta’s lap. “You drive. I’m lucky I made it here alive.”

  “You guys ride back with Special,” J.C. said. “I’ll meet you at the house.”

  As J.C. drove off, Nichelle struggled to stuff herself into the backseat of Special’s Porsche. Vernetta had just started up the engine when Special flung open the passenger door and charged out of the car. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  Before Vernetta could cut off the engine, Special was halfway to Maya’s gravesite, where Eugene stood staring down at her casket.

  Special was jabbing her finger in Eugene’s face by the time they caught up with her.

  “Why didn’t you come to the church?” Special demanded, giving him no time to answer. “Because you’re a coward and a murderer, that’s why.”

  Eugene looked anxiously over his shoulder. He seemed disoriented and had a disheveled look about him. His eyes were sunken, and he needed a shave. His black shoes, brown slacks, and tieless green shirt did not match.

  “I didn’t come because I knew you would make a scene.” He sounded as defeated as he looked. “You don’t have to keep doing this, Special.”

  “I hate you!” She was sobbing now and pounding his chest with feeble punches that seemed to do little damage. Eugene took a single, controlled step backward but did not bother to otherwise protect himself from Special’s blows.

  Vernetta slid between them and clutched Special by the wrists. “None of this is going to change anything, Special. Let’s just go.”

  She jerked free and charged at Eugene. “You’re a murderer, you know that? You’re a goddamn murderer!”

  Eugene closed his eyes and looked away. “There’s nothing I can say, so I’m not going to even try. I loved Maya as much as you did, I only wish that—”

  “You didn’t love her!” Special spat at him. She was about to strike him again when Vernetta grabbed her from behind and hauled her several feet away.

  “Take her to the car,” Vernetta said to Nichelle, handing Special off like a rag doll. Her tirade had sent Nichelle into another crying fit. The two of them were now bawling uncontrollably.

  “You’re going to pay for this!” Special yelled back at Eugene as Nichelle dragged her toward the car. “I swear on Maya’s grave, you’re going to get yours!”

  Vernetta studied Eugene’s pained expression. Even in his rumpled state, he was a striking man. She could still remember Maya’s excitement after meeting him at a singles’ retreat sponsored by a friend’s church. “Fine, successful, and saved!” Maya had bragged to her friends over dinner. “I’ve finally met my soul mat
e.”

  Eugene proposed nine months later, and they had all celebrated Maya’s lucky catch.

  Vernetta could think of nothing to say to Eugene so she turned to leave.

  “Could I talk to you for a minute?” Uncertainty filled his voice. “If there’s anything I can do to help out. . .” His words trailed off. “If Maya’s mother needs anything, would you let me know?”

  “We’ll take care of anything she needs,” Vernetta snapped. She had never gone off on the man the way Special had, but she wasn’t about to give him the impression that she had even an ounce of sympathy for him.

  She was about twenty feet away when Eugene called out to her again. She stopped and waited as he hurried over.

  “Uh, what do . . . um . . .” He looked down at his hands as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “People still think Maya died of pneumonia, right?”

  The resentment Vernetta had been carefully holding in check teetered on an eruption. She took a second to compose herself. “So it’s still all about you, huh, Eugene? You and your deadly little secrets.”

  “No, I . . . uh . . . I just wanted to know.” He looked down again and kicked the grass with his foot. “If people know, it’s fine. I just . . .”

  “Well, you know what?” Vernetta’s lips eased into a wicked smile. “Everybody knows Maya suffered from AIDS and everybody knows that you infected her. In fact, Special stood up at the funeral and announced it to the whole congregation.”

  Vernetta chuckled softly to herself as she turned away, relishing the horrified look on Eugene’s face.

  The brother wasn’t on the down low anymore.

  Chapter 4

  As much as she hated funerals, J.C. actually enjoyed the gathering that followed. The repast was a shot of anesthetic for the soul. A chance to eat, laugh, and reminisce. If only temporarily.

  Several people greeted her as she stepped into Maya’s living room. The two-bedroom home in the middle-class Leimert Park neighborhood had a cheery, homey atmosphere. Even without the bright peach walls and the chocolate wood trim, it still would have felt that way. Maya’s spirit permeated the place.

  Making her way to Maya’s kitchen, J.C. offered to help, but three older women from Mt. Moriah shooed her away. Seeing strangers take charge of Maya’s kitchen left her with an uneasy feeling.

  J.C. had easily bonded with Maya after testifying in a murder case Maya was prosecuting. Her friendship with Vernetta, Special and Nichelle began during the latter days of Maya’s illness. At first, J.C. felt like an outsider, but the three women soon welcomed her into their sister-circle.

  Nichelle and Maya had attended Loyola Law School together. Vernetta became part of the group as a result of being Special’s best friend. She wondered what would become of their friendship now that their anchor was gone. J.C. had never made friends easily, particularly not with other women. Growing up with a name like Johnine Cleopatra Sparks hadn’t made things any easier.

  J.C. grew anxious as she watched the crowd of strangers traipsing through Maya’s front door. She wandered from the living room into the tiny dining room. A dinner table draped with Kente cloth was stacked with the kind of food that the normally health-conscious Maya rarely indulged in. An oval platter was piled high with fried chicken, while large metal tins held thinly sliced roast beef and ham. There were two big bowls of macaroni and cheese, plus large Tupperware containers with potato salad, collard greens, fried cabbage, and hot water cornbread. J.C. counted six sweet potato pies and three pound cakes. All of her favorite dishes. And she had no appetite for any of it.

  She decided to head to the backyard and was relieved to see Special and Nichelle come through the back gate. Special no longer looked angry enough to bite somebody, and Nichelle finally seemed all cried out.

  “Where’s Vernetta?” J.C. asked.

  “We dropped her off at home,” Nichelle replied. “She’s coming over with Jefferson.”

  They each found a folding chair and formed a small circle away from the other mourners. Special sat on the edge of her chair. “We’re still going through with our plan, right?”

  Nichelle and J.C. looked at each other, then nodded.

  Nichelle pulled a fresh Kleenex from her purse and loudly blew her nose. “So when should we talk to Maya’s mother?”

  “Let’s do it tonight,” Special said. “She’s going back to Detroit Monday morning.”

  Nichelle shook her head. “No way. Not on the same day she buries her only child.”

  “How about tomorrow?” J.C. suggested. “After church.” The women again consented with silent nods of the head.

  “You think she’ll do it?” Nichelle asked.

  “If she doesn’t, we’ll just have to convince her otherwise.” Special sounded confident that she could. “Eugene has to pay.”

  J.C. felt torn about what they were planning to do. She should’ve objected when Special first came up with the idea. It was too late to jump ship now. She heard her cell phone ring and pulled it from her purse. Flipping it open, she saw that the call was from her partner, Detective Gerald Jessup. J.C. found a deserted corner of the backyard.

  Seconds later, she hurried back to her friends, her pulse racing.

  “I have to run over to a crime scene in Inglewood,” J.C. said. “Somebody just murdered a doctor in broad daylight.”

  Chapter 5

  Exactly twenty-four minutes later, J.C. turned her Range Rover off Manchester onto Hillcrest. The Horton Medical Plaza was bustling with police activity. Yellow crime scene tape roped off the driveway leading into the parking structure. A crowd of onlookers watched from across the street, craning their necks and pointing. J.C. parked between two police cruisers and climbed out.

  As she neared the entrance to the building’s parking structure, she eyed the young officer charged with logging everyone into the crime scene. J.C. could tell from his body language that he was about to give her flack. It was the same thing over and over and over. She waited until she was within arm’s reach of the rookie before flashing her badge.

  “Homicide.” Her curt greeting silenced his lips, but his eyes flashed disbelief. A female homicide detective in L.A. was rare enough. A black, female dick was about as common as a unicorn strolling down Crenshaw Boulevard.

  J.C. gave her name and unit number, then waited as he wrote it down on his clipboard.

  “Second level,” he mumbled, then lifted the tape high enough for her to slide underneath.

  Inside the parking structure, J.C. spotted a stairwell and took the steps two at a time. When she got to the second level, she saw several men, most of them in plainclothes, crowded around a black Jaguar in the northwest corner of the structure.

  Lieutenant Donny Wilson was the first person she recognized. As usual, he had a bite-sized Snickers bar in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

  J.C. owed her rank as a detective after only six years on the force in large part to Lieutenant Wilson. One of the Department’s first black officers to rise to the rank of lieutenant, he had experienced his share of discrimination and felt compelled to protect other minorities and women from similar abuse. He had taken the time to school J.C. not only on proper police procedures, but the politics of climbing the blue ladder.

  “What’s going on?” J.C.’s two-inch heels placed her at eye-level with her boss.

  Lieutenant Wilson took a sip of coffee, which he drank any way it came: hot, cold or in between. He had a thick, but toned body and a gruff exterior that camouflaged a soft side few knew he possessed. “The vic got it once in the head. Another in the neck and a third in the chest.”

  “I’m surprised you’re here,” J.C. said. “Is this guy somebody important?”

  He took a bite of his candy bar. “Let’s just say he has friends in high places. And one of ’em is the mayor. He donated big bucks to the mayor’s last campaign.”

  J.C. examined the black man sprawled on the pavement in a pool of his own blood. He was casually dressed, but the ex
pensive leather of his shoes and the style and fabric of his clothing advertised not just wealth, but class. “What do we know about him?”

  Before Lieutenant Wilson could respond, Detective Jessup, J.C.’s partner for the past four months, answered for him. “Dr. Quentin Banks. OB/GYN. Has an office on the fourth floor. Married with two kids. Owns what his nurses describe as a mansion up in View Park. Very successful practice.”

  Detective Jessup was a young, wannabe police chief. When he wasn’t talking about himself, he was usually being an all-around pain. Unlike most people in law enforcement, Detective Jessup loved telling people he was a cop. He claimed to be writing a screenplay about a black detective and a Hispanic drug dealer. A hip-hop version of Beverly Hills Cop. He wanted Fat Joe and Jamie Foxx to star in it.

  “So, did anybody see anything?” J.C. asked.

  “Yep, and here it is.” Detective Jessup flipped open his notepad and held up a blank page. “At least fifty people are standing across the street over there, but nobody saw a thing.”

  Lieutenant Wilson’s cell phone rang and he stepped away to answer it. J.C. crouched down to examine the bullet wounds, which wasn’t easy to do in her tight-fitting skirt.

  Detective Jessup knelt down beside her. “You think gynecologists ever get tired of staring between women’s legs?” He inspected J.C.’s exposed thigh through the slit in her skirt.

  “I don’t know, Gerald. You ever get tired of being such an asshole?”

  “You should start being nicer to me, you know. Once my movie gets produced, I can get you a job as an extra.”

  J.C. stood up. “You have major issues.”

  The lieutenant finished his call and loudly drained his cup. “Ahhhhh,” he said, with exaggerated satisfaction. “What a meal! I don’t understand why anyone would pay four dollars for a cup of supposedly gourmet coffee when you can get the same thing for just over a buck at 7-Eleven.” He tossed the empty cup into a trashcan near a wall scarred with graffiti.