Murder on the Down Low (13 page)

After that admission, the other women seemed to loosen up. “It sounds stupid,” said Gloria, a registered nurse and the only Latina of the group, “but my boyfriend complained that he couldn’t feel anything when he wore a condom. I guess I was afraid that if I didn’t give in, he wouldn’t want to be with me.”

A visible chill went through Nichelle as she recalled the many times she had not insisted on using protection. She was astounded to learn that HIV was also devastating the Hispanic community. Gloria pointed out that HIV infection was the fourth leading cause of death for Hispanic women ages thirty-four to forty-four.

“I have to say I’m surprised that I don’t get the sense that any of you are angry at the men who infected you.”

There was a chortle of laughter from all six of the women. “That’s because we’ve been coming here,” said Teri. Nichelle had correctly pegged her as the lawyer because she was the only one wearing a suit. “You should’ve been within the vicinity during the first six months after I learned that I was HIV positive. I was ready to kill any man who had the nerve to look at me. I was shell-shocked for months. My fiancé was a successful stockbroker
and
a body builder. The thought that he was gay never crossed my mind.”

“But these guys claim they aren’t gay?”

“That’s complete bull.” Kiana, the Macy’s sales assistant, crossed a pair of long, sleek legs. She was nineteen years old, but could easily pass for sixteen. “They’re hiding behind this
I’m just a freak
crap
.
My boyfriend was in a rap group, if you can believe that, and tried to say
I
infected
him
. But I later confirmed that he had definitely been screwing other men.”

Seneca rustled about in her seat. “Well, my husband wasn’t gay,” she said quietly. The software engineer had remained at her husband’s side during his lengthy battle with the disease. “He was infected by a woman.”

The other women collectively rolled their eyes.

“That’s another big problem,” said Brenda, the rape crisis counselor. “Even when the signs are staring us in the face, we refuse to believe that our wonderful, manly men are out there sleeping with other men.”

Seneca was about to defend herself when Wanda intervened. “We do have rules here, ladies,” she gently reminded them. “No matter what, we respect each other’s views and feelings. People seem to forget that women are also infecting men. Men who are not gay
or
on the down low.” She turned to Nichelle. “There’s a big misconception that we can only contract HIV from a man who’s sleeping with another man. That’s just plain wrong. HIV is an equal opportunity disease.”

Seneca sat more erect, as if Wanda had just proven her point.

“Do you have men in your lives now?” Nichelle asked no one in particular.

Everyone nodded except Seneca.

“And can you believe that I meet guys who know I’m HIV positive, but still don’t want to wear a condom?” Kiana said.

The look on Nichelle’s face conveyed that she couldn’t.

“They think they’re safe because I’m taking medication and because it’s supposedly harder for men to get it from women. But it’s possible to get reinfected and I’m not about to let that happen.”

The door opened and another woman rushed in. “Sorry I’m late,” she said as she breathlessly took a seat. “I’m Vickie.”

Nichelle thanked her for coming and asked her to share her story.

“I don’t have HIV,” she said. “But I lost my father to AIDS six years ago. He told us he had pneumonia and we had no reason to think otherwise. You just don’t think of your sixty-three-year-old father as being gay.”

“I’m sorry,” Nichelle said.

“That’s just the beginning of the story,” Vickie said with a stiff smile. “Because of the medical privacy laws, the doctors never told my mother that my father had HIV. If she’d known, she would’ve been tested and started taking medication. She just died of complications from AIDS two months ago. First there was the pain of losing my father, followed by a lot of anger and confusion after finally learning the truth when my mother became ill. Then my sisters and I had to watch her die only because she didn’t get treatment.”

Silence blanketed the room for a full minute. Nichelle scanned the circle of faces. “Is there anything you’d like to tell other women?” she asked of no one in particular.

“Use a condom,” said Brenda, the counselor. “No matter what. Love yourself more than you love any man.”

“Get tested,” said Darlene, the college professor. “Even if you think you’re not at risk. And demand that anyone you sleep with be tested, too. The disease isn’t a death sentence anymore. Me and Magic Johnson are living proof of that.”

Nichelle waited, but it appeared that the other women didn’t have anything to add. Then Gloria, the nurse, spoke up.

“Don’t be so judgmental of others.” She toyed with the keys in her lap. “Some people assumed I got infected because I was promiscuous. And that’s exactly what I used to think about people who got HIV. But I didn’t do anything wrong but love my man. So be careful about judging others because you just might end up in their shoes.”

J
.C. drove westbound on the Century Freeway with a determined sense of purpose. Sometimes police work was all about instinct. J.C. was convinced that she was about to uncover evidence that would conclusively link the deaths of the three murdered men.

She now realized with frightening certainty that the deaths of the View Park doctor and that running back had nothing to do with a gang rivalry or white supremacists. Even before Special’s revelation about Nathaniel Allen, her gut told her that the shootings were not random attacks. These killings were motivated by rage or revenge. Maybe both.

And now she had a very plausible theory to support what her gut was telling her. Both the doctor and the football player were dead because they were on the down low. J.C. was sure of it.

The excitement of her discovery made her want to run straight to the lieutenant with her theory. But good detectives were thorough. And J.C. was a good detective. She knew it was important to take her time, gather all the facts, and make sure that her theory was airtight. And at the moment, she had one more loose end to tie up: Marcus Patterson, the engineer killed at the Ramada Inn. If she could prove that the first victim was living a secret gay life, that would cinch her theory.

Patterson worked as a software engineer for Raycom. Interviews with his wife, sister, and two brothers led nowhere. There was no way J.C. could just come right out and ask his grieving family if Patterson had a secret, male lover. But there was someone else who might be able to lead her to the information she needed.

J.C. exited the freeway at Nash Street. Minutes later, she entered the Raycom lobby and asked for Shondra Simpson.

When Patterson’s long-time secretary greeted her, J.C. was surprised to see a woman in her mid-forties. On the telephone, Shondra sounded much younger.

“I don’t have a lot of time.” She displayed none of the typical uneasiness most people exhibited when a cop showed up asking questions. “My new boss isn’t going to cut me any slack when her work isn’t done at the end of the day.”

Shondra was professionally dressed in a simple black skirt and white blouse. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun and her long bangs fell into her eyes.

“As I told you over the telephone, I’m investigating Mr. Patterson’s death. I was hoping you might be able to fill in some blanks for me.”

They walked to the farthest corner of the lobby and sat down on furniture that looked like huge toy blocks with cushions on top.

J.C. assumed that in a corporate environment like this, most bosses, particularly male bosses, had a special bond with their secretaries, sharing things they might not share with others, including their wives. Even if no such bond existed, secretaries often knew things about their superiors that no one else did.

“I’m not going to waste time beating around the bush,” J.C. said. “I’m looking into an allegation that Mr. Patterson might’ve had a lover.”

Shondra didn’t react. “I didn’t get into Marcus’ personal life.”

“I understand that you two were pretty close.” Both Patterson’s wife and brother had confirmed that.

“We were. But only professionally. He was a wonderful man to work for. He treated you like you mattered. Not like a lot of people around here.”

J.C. waited for her to go on, but Shondra left it at that.

“So, did he have a lover?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t go around spreading rumors.”

“I think you know more than you’re saying.”

Shondra shrugged. “You can think what you want.”

“Don’t you want to help the police find your boss’ killer?”

Shondra’s eyes refused to meet hers. “If I could, I would.”

“I think you can,” J.C. pushed. “So, we can talk here, or we can talk down at Parker Center.”

Finally, J.C. saw a hint of a crack in the woman’s tough exterior. Shondra pursed her lips and looked away. “I’ll talk to you, but not here.”

Shortly after five, Shondra walked through the door of a Denny’s restaurant three blocks away and eased into the booth across from J.C. “I have acting classes at six-thirty. So we have to make this quick.”

An actress, J.C. thought. That explained a lot.

“I think the shooting of your boss was personal. If he was having an affair with someone, that person could possibly have information that could be key to our investigation.”

“Is this off the record?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you have to tell me.”

“Look, Marcus’ wife is a nice lady, and her husband hasn’t even been dead a good two weeks. She doesn’t need this.”

J.C. felt a tingle of excitement. Shondra knew something. J.C. decided to try bluffing her. “Look, I know for a fact that Patterson was having an affair.”

Shondra clucked her tongue. “So what’s this?
Law & Order 101
? You act like you know something you don’t and then I spill my guts and tell all. Get real.” Her words were drenched in sarcasm.

“And I know,” J.C. said, plowing ahead, “that he was having an affair with a man.”

This time Shondra’s acting talent failed her. Her mouth gaped open and her rigid posture turned limp. “I need you to talk to me, Shondra.”

She was about to speak when the waitress appeared. Shondra ordered a vegetarian burger. J.C. asked for the real thing.

J.C. was surprised to see a lone tear roll down Shondra’s left cheek.

“Marcus was so confused.” Shondra wiped her face with her napkin. “I know he loved his wife, but he couldn’t help himself. He was attracted to men. I can’t condone what he did, but I know he really struggled with it.”

Shondra ended up skipping her acting lesson and spent the next two hours telling J.C. everything she knew about Marcus Patterson and his secret life. He did not have a steady man as far as Shondra knew, and arranged most of his hookups over the Internet. He had planned to meet someone for breakfast at the Ramada Inn the day he was killed, but Shondra didn’t know who. Marcus had confided in her to a degree, but he had never disclosed specifics.

After cheesecake and coffee, J.C. practically skipped back to her car. She couldn’t wait to talk to Lieutenant Wilson. She was certain they had a serial killer on their hands.

A killer who was targeting men on the down low.

V
ernetta sat in O’Reilly’s office discussing her legal argument for a discovery motion she had to argue in a few days. She felt so relaxed it was almost like old times.

“Sounds like you have everything under control,” O’Reilly said. “Just don’t expect Judge Miller to know the facts because he never reads the briefs. Be prepared to recount all the hoops opposing counsel has put you through, even though it’s in your papers.”

For weeks, they had been trying to get some medical records and other documents from a plaintiff in an age discrimination case. The opposing counsel blocked them at every turn, even though he had no legitimate legal basis for withholding the records.

“I definitely will. At least Miller is one of the nicest judges on the bench. I argued my first motion before him and he cut me a lot of slack.”

Haley stuck her head in the door. “What are you two up to?”

Vernetta had never seen a smile as big as the one that suddenly radiated across O’Reilly’s face.

“C’mon in.” He waved Haley inside. “We should’ve invited you to join us. You’re on this case, too.”

Haley pranced in and took a seat on the couch to the right of O’Reilly’s desk. She crossed her legs, and her skirt, which was way too short for an office setting, inched up almost to her crotch. She tugged it down, but it slid right back up again.

“We’re discussing the Jackson discovery motion,” O’Reilly explained.

Vernetta could almost swear he was staring between her legs.

“Vernetta,” Haley said teasingly, “I can’t believe you didn’t invite me to this meeting. After all, I
did
write the motion.”

No, you wrote a crappy draft of the motion that I spent two hours rewriting.
“You didn’t miss much,” Vernetta said. 

“I think we’ve covered everything.” O’Reilly directed his words to Vernetta, but his eyes were on Haley.

Now that his little tart had arrived, Vernetta was being dismissed.

“Thanks for the feedback.” Vernetta was about to hoist herself out of the chair when Haley stopped her.

“Oh, don’t leave, yet. I have a proposition for you.” Haley turned to O’Reilly. “Well, really, it’s for both of you.”

“I was wondering if you guys would be willing to let me argue the motion. I know the case backward and forward and I’ve been itching for my first oral argument. The only court appearances I’ve made so far have been status conferences.”

She turned her smile on Vernetta. “Please, Vernetta.”

“The plaintiff’s counsel can be kind of difficult to handle,” Vernetta said. “It’s probably best if I argue this one.”

Haley put a hand on her hip. “I handled him just fine when I defended the depositions of the two HR witnesses.”