Murder on the Down Low (36 page)

“A big part of the reason these dudes are the way they are is because they were raised by single women. A woman can’t teach no boy to be a man.”

Vernetta picked up the brush from the dresser and threw it at him. Jefferson ducked just before it clacked against the headboard.

“Hey! You coulda put my eye out.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I was aiming for your forehead, not your eye. Sometimes the most ridiculous things come out of your mouth. So now you’re saying these guys are on the down low because they were raised by single mothers?”

“I’m saying it’s part of the problem,” Jefferson insisted. “I know a dude whose mama taught him to take a piss sitting down. That’s crazy. Black women are teaching their sons to be too soft. They do everything for ’em and give ’em everything and then wonder why they can’t stand up and be men. Black mothers need to stop raising their sons to be punks and force ’em to man up.”

“You’re actually serious?”

“Yeah, I am. Nobody wants to speak the truth because it’s not politically correct. Well, I ain’t with the gay thing. Johnny ain’t supposed to have two fathers.”

Jefferson was growing more and more animated as he spoke, stabbing the air with his finger for emphasis. “And a lot of these dudes have major self-esteem issues. Their mamas chose men who were no good, and all they heard growing up was how much of an asshole their daddy was. So when they look in the mirror, that’s exactly what they see. An asshole.”

Vernetta was surprised at how impassioned Jefferson was about this topic. She tied her hair with a scarf, then went to the bathroom and turned on the faucet, partly to drown out her husband’s ranting. Jefferson was still in the midst of his tirade when she reentered the bedroom.

“I had no idea you were so homophobic,” she said.

“I’m not homophobic,” he said defensively. “As long as those dudes ain’t trying to rock my way or undress near me at the gym, I couldn’t care less what they do.” He grinned. “Now, I’m cool with the lesbian thing. I could watch two fine lesbians do their thing all day long.”

Vernetta picked up a paperback book from the corner of the dresser and hurled it across the room. This time she hit her mark.

“Ow!” Jefferson rubbed the side of his head. “I’m reporting you for spousal abuse.”

“You’re a man, aren’t you?” Vernetta laughed and slid next to him in bed. “Just suck it up and act like a man.”

D
etective Jessup inspected Lamont Wiley’s roomy, West Hollywood apartment as if he were Alice and had just stepped into Wonderland. “So this guy is actually gay?”

“Could you please lower your voice,” J.C. warned through clenched teeth.

They were standing just inside the doorway, waiting for Eugene’s ex-lover to conclude a telephone call.

When J.C. learned that Detective Jessup planned to interview Lamont, she begged him to let her tag along. He consented, knowing it was against the lieutenant’s order. J.C. figured he wanted something to hold over her head. She would deal with that when it came up.

Detective Jessup’s eyes scanned the apartment. “This place looks macho enough for me to be living here.”

The living room was decorated in basic bachelor. Black leather couch, off-white walls, a couple of abstract paintings, a 42-inch flat screen and end tables that didn’t match.

“What did you expect,” J.C. said, “pink walls?” Before she could caution Jessup to stop acting like an idiot, Lamont walked back into the room. He had answered the door shirtless. Now his muscular upper torso was covered by a wrinkled white T-shirt.

Lamont motioned toward the couch. “Have a seat.” He took the armchair on the other side of a glass coffee table, facing them.

“I’m sure you heard about Eugene Nelson’s murder,” Detective Jessup began.

Lamont nodded.

“I understand you were . . . involved with Eugene.”

Lamont nodded again, but didn’t follow up with an explanation.

J.C. saw the pain of loss in the man’s eyes. “When was the last time you saw or talked to Eugene?”

Detective Jessup gave her an annoyed look. She knew what he was thinking. This was
his
interview. She wasn’t even supposed to be there.

“It’s been a while,” Lamont said.

Detective Jessup took the lead back. “What’s a while?”

Lamont peered to his right, down a long hallway. J.C. and Detective Jessup looked in the same direction.

“Are we alone?” Detective Jessup asked.

“No, my . . .” he glanced down the hallway again. “My roommate’s here.”

“Would you prefer that we talk someplace else?”

The bedroom door opened before Lamont could respond and a young Tom Hanks look-a-like joined them.

“I’m Ken.” The man extended his hand to J.C., then to Detective Jessup. “Lamont’s partner.” Ken announced that fact as if he were daring them to challenge it. He sat on the arm of Lamont’s chair, closer than necessary.

“We were just asking Lamont some questions,” J.C. said, taking control again. There was something going on here, she thought. Lamont looked even more uncomfortable now that Ken had joined them. “It’s probably best for us to talk to Lamont alone.”

“He can stay,” Lamont said. “So where were we?”

“We were asking about the last time you saw or heard from Eugene,” Detective Jessup said again.

“Like I just said, it’s been a while. We talked a couple of times after I left the firm, but that was it. It’s been several months since I’ve seen him.”

“Okay, so you haven’t seen him. What about
talking
to him?” Detective Jessup said. “On the telephone?”

Lamont’s eyes darted about evasively. “I haven’t.”

J.C. felt Detective Jessup’s eyes on her. Lamont was lying. They were only there because Eugene’s cell phone records showed that the last call he made was to Lamont.

“When was the last time he called you?” J.C. asked.

He half shrugged. “Months ago.”

“Lamont hasn’t been with Eugene since we got together,” Ken said possessively. “I hope you’re not here because you think Lamont had anything to do with Eugene’s murder.” He did not try to hide his indignation.

J.C. ignored Ken and continued to direct her questions to Lamont. “Where were you between the hours of midnight Saturday and six Sunday morning the weekend Eugene was killed?”

Ken was quick to answer. “He was here with me.”

It had been a bad idea to allow Ken to stay. She turned to Lamont. “Were you?”

“Yeah,” Lamont said.

Detective Jessup moved to the edge of the couch. “Would you mind giving us a set of your fingerprints?”

Lamont visibly tensed. “For what?”

“To see if they match the prints we found at Eugene’s place.”

“Of course, he wouldn’t mind,” Ken said, hand on hip. “But since he’s not a suspect and because he didn’t kill the man, he’s not going to.”

They waited for a response from Lamont. He seemed tongue-tied. “If I’m not a suspect, I see no reason why I should give you my fingerprints.”

Detective Jessup turned to Ken. “What about you? Can we get your prints?”

“Don’t try to intimidate me, Officer,” Ken snorted. “I didn’t even know the man. But I do know my rights.”

“So I guess that means no.”

“You got it, big boy.” Ken winked. The detective winced.

They spent the next twenty minutes asking a bunch of innocuous questions designed to give them an opportunity to observe Lamont’s demeanor and perhaps catch him in more lies.

When Lamont showed them to the door, he stepped out into the hallway along with them. J.C. gave him a puzzled look.

“I need to check my mail,” he explained.

Lamont hurried down the stairs ahead of them. They watched from the top of the stairs as he opened his mailbox slot and thumbed through the mail. He tossed several pieces of junk mail into a small trashcan near the lobby door, then brushed past them back to his apartment.

“Looks like we may have a new suspect,” Detective Jessup said, after he heard the apartment door close.

“Or suspects,” J.C. said.

Lamont could very well be the man Special photographed that night at Eugene’s place. But something was also going on with Ken. He was way too defensive. If Lamont and Eugene were sneaking around, that would have given Ken a motive for murder.

Detective Jessup pulled open the lobby door. He had already stepped outside when he realized J.C. wasn’t behind him. He stuck his head back inside the lobby.

J.C. had a big grin on her face.

“Why do you look so happy?”

She reached into the trashcan and gingerly pulled out three pieces of junk mail that Lamont had just discarded, carefully holding them along the edges. “I bet we could get a decent set of Lamont’s prints from one of these.”

An even bigger grin formed on Detective Jessup’s lips. “That’s pretty good, Detective,” he said. “Too bad I didn’t think of it.”

S
pecial sat down on the edge of her bed, slipped on a pair of thick, white ankle socks and laced up her running shoes. Exercise always made her feel better. She had spent much of the morning meditating and praying and had just finished reading some of the Bible verses Reverend Sims had recommended. She was amazed at how much better she felt.

She took the elevator down to the lobby of her apartment building and crossed Buckingham Drive to the small park across the street. When she had first moved to Fox Hills, she was thrilled to have a park so close. But in recent months, she hadn’t gotten over there much.

Fox Hills Park had a jogging track, tennis courts, picnic tables, and several exercise contraptions. The park was a popular hangout spot for young singles. Special had picked up a date or two there herself.

She was debating whether to jog or walk, then opted for the latter since she didn’t want to sweat out her press ’n curl. She was avoiding the beauty shop until all of this stuff with Eugene blew over. There was no way she was about to face all those gossiping women.

The worst part of the whole ordeal was that her face was now as recognizable as Paris Hilton’s. Almost every place she went people were doing a double take.

Except for an elderly Asian couple and a few people letting their dogs roam about on the grass, the park was deserted. It was after ten o’clock, so most people in her neighborhood were at work.

She passed the Asian couple who did a half bow and smiled at her. At least two people in L.A. didn’t watch TV news, she thought.

Special settled into a speed walk, pumping her arms for forward momentum. On her second lap around the track, she came upon two twenty-something African-American women, jabbering and strolling along the track at a leisurely pace. She stepped around them and hurried past.

On her third lap, when she was several feet behind the two women, one of them peered over her shoulder, then nudged the other one with her elbow. “Girl, that
is
her! I told you!”

The other woman turned to see for herself.

Special looked straight ahead and tried to ignore the women. She was only a few feet behind them when the taller one stopped and blocked her path.

“We just wanna say, we’re with you.” The woman had dark skin and her thick hair was corn-rowed into a long braid. “If a brother had done that to my cousin, I woulda killed his ass, too.”

Special was about to set the woman straight, but before she could, the other one offered her two cents.

“Don’t worry, girlfriend, you’re gonna get off. All you have to do is make sure your lawyer gets at least one black woman on that jury. There ain’t a sister in this city who would send you to jail for killing that man. As far as I’m concerned, he got what he deserved.”

“Sho did,” the other woman echoed.

Special managed a weak smile, then plowed past them.

The realization that everybody in L.A. thought she was a cold-blooded killer made her want to throw up. Special picked up her speed and tried to fight back tears. She passed the Asian couple again and hoped they mistook her moist cheeks for sweat.

If everybody in L.A. thought she was guilty, that meant there was a good chance that she
would
be convicted. What in the hell happened to innocent until proven guilty? Vernetta was trying to be upbeat about her case, but every time they met, Special saw more distress on her friend’s face than the time before.

She decided not to do another lap for fear of running into the two women again. So she descended the short flight of steps at Green Valley Circle and walked downhill to Centinela Boulevard. The steep, uphill climb on the way back would give her a good workout.

Special knew that she had to keep it together. Mentally, physically, and spiritually. Her faith in God was going to get her through this. One of the verses Reverend Sims had given her came to mind. She repeated it out loud as she marched down Green Valley Circle, not caring if passersby thought she was talking to herself.

“Do not be afraid or dismayed,” she said in a strong, confident voice, “for the Lord God, my God, is with you.”

F
ollowing her workout, Special showered, put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and decided to pick up a few snacks from the grocery store.

She drove to the Ralph’s supermarket in the Ladera Center and hopped out of her car. Before she had even made it to the entrance, she could feel the curious gazes pressing down on her. Judging her. She did an abrupt about face and hurried back to her car. She’d do her shopping at Ralph’s on Lincoln Boulevard in the Marina, where she wouldn’t run into that many blacks. White people didn’t seem to recognize her as much. Or if they did, they didn’t gawk at her the way black folks did.

She made the short drive up the 90 Freeway, parked, and put on sunglasses to hide her face. Next time, she would wear a hat. She had less than forty bucks in her checking account so her shopping options were limited. She picked up a frozen pepperoni pizza, four oranges, a party-size bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos, and a two-liter bottle of fruit punch. Telecredit was contesting her workers’ comp claim and she had yet to receive a dime. She was already a month behind in her rent before her leave started.