Also by Pamela Samuels Young
* * *
Every Reasonable Doubt
In Firm Pursuit
Setup (LAndmarked for Murder anthology)
Murder on the Down Low
Goldman House Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-0-9815-6270-4
ISBN-10: 0-9815-6270-1
© 2008 by Pamela Samuels Young
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or used in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, including but not limited to xerography, photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the express written permission of Goldman House Publishing.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, dialogue, incidents, and places, except for incidental references to public figures, products or services, are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. No character in this book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional. The author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of the information contained in this book and assume no responsibility for any errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or inconsistencies contained herein.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact the author or Goldman House Publishing.
Goldman House Publishing
P.O. Box 6029-117
Artesia, CA 90702
www.goldmanhousepublishing.com
www.pamelasamuelsyoung.com
Cover design by Marion Designs
Author photo by Sir Harrison Photography
Printed in the U.S.A.
For my sister-friends whose support went way beyond the call of duty,
Olivia Smith, Russana Rowles, Sharlene Moore, Donna Lowry Reid, Jewelle Johnson, Cynthia Hebron, Nichelle Norris, and Bettie Lewis.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Discussion Questions for Murder on the Down Low
About the Author
Chapter 1
Dr. Quentin Banks was a man’s man. The kind of guy other men liked being around. Handsome, but not a pretty boy. Wealthy, but not a showoff. Versatile enough to host a fundraiser one night and chill out with his buddies over a game of dominoes the next.
Standing outside Exam Room 5, the doctor scanned the chart of the first patient he was scheduled to see after his lunch meeting. His office suite in the Horton Medical Plaza was tastefully decorated with muted walls and dark slate tile. Colorful prints of jazz musicians lined the long, bright hallway. The place was classy, but not over the top. Just like Dr. Banks.
He checked his watch. It was almost eleven-thirty. Time to leave. The doctor closed the chart and dropped it into the plastic casing posted at eye level outside the exam room. He strode into his private office, locked the door, then retrieved a throwaway cell phone from his desk.
“I’m about to leave,” he said. “The President’s Suite, right?”
It was always that cut and dry. He was a happily married man who did not have the time or the need for emotional connections. His lunch meetings were all about the sex.
The doctor slipped out of his white coat and hung it on a metal rack. Casually but impeccably dressed, he wore a khaki-colored shirt and black slacks made from an expensive linen fabric. The kind that didn’t wrinkle much. He was forty-two years old, just shy of six feet, and a hearty 215 pounds. He had the build of an aging ex-football player. Not nearly as lean as in his prime, but thick and firm enough to advertise that he still hit the gym on a regular basis.
After telling his office manager that he’d be back by one-thirty, Dr. Banks took an elevator to the parking structure. He eased his black Jag onto Hillcrest Street. At the light, he turned left on Manchester Boulevard and headed for the northbound ramp of the 405 Freeway.
Without question, Dr. Banks was one of the best OB/GYNs in Southern California. From the day he had applied to Howard Medical School, he had vowed to return home to Inglewood to set up shop. And despite the sacrifices, he’d kept his word, turning down opportunities that were far more lucrative, in terms of both prestige and compensation. Having a predominantly black and Latino patient base meant keeping late office hours and working one, sometimes two, Saturdays a month. The people he served couldn’t afford to take time off from work. Not even for medical care.
When he wasn’t working, the doctor cherished his family life. Though he now lived just a few miles from his childhood stomping grounds, in many respects it was a world away. View Park was a haven for L.A.’s black elite. Professionals with six and seve
n-figure salaries who actually liked the idea of having neighbors who looked like them. The doctor’s residence spanned five thousand square feet and had a full-length basketball court, a circular swimming pool, and a guesthouse. The Mrs. was a stay-at-home mom who loved her job as wife and mother to their two sons as much as she loved her husband. All in all, life was good.
The doctor pulled his Jag to a stop in front of the Marina Marriott on Admiralty Way, hopped out, and took a ticket from the valet. He felt invigorated by the very thought of the treat that awaited him. Dr. Banks rotated his lunch meetings among different hotels in the area. His favorite was the much more elegant Ritz-Carlton just up the street. As he crossed the hotel lobby, he tossed the cell phone into the trash, then made a mental note to switch locations for next week. He was many things. Sloppy wasn’t one of them.
When Dr. Banks reached the hotel room, there was no need to knock. The door was always left open just a crack. He could not risk being seen with his lunch date for even the few seconds it would take to open and close the door.
As usual, the main room of the spacious suite was empty. His lunch sat on a sterling silver room service tray on the coffee table in front of the couch. He’d have the turkey sandwich, root beer, and Caesar salad after his other hunger had been satisfied.
Stepping over to the large picture window, Dr. Banks stared across the street at the sailboats lolling in the Marina. Maybe he’d buy himself a boat.
He walked back to the couch, undressed, and slipped into the white terrycloth robe left waiting for him. Another part of the ritual. Dr. Banks sank down onto the couch and for the next five minutes, fell into a deep, calming meditation. The more intensely he fantasized about what awaited him in the adjoining room, the longer and harder his erection grew. He reached down and gently stroked himself, then picked up the condom on the end table and slipped it on.
Dr. Banks entered the bedroom and nodded at his lunch date, who sat naked in a velvet club chair, a sly grin stretched across his bearded face. Clarence Mitchell was his youngest son’s soccer coach. They had been hooking up on a semi-regular basis for over a year.
Clarence stood up, showing off a solid, mink brown body. “Good to see you, man,” he said, smiling.
Dr. Banks didn’t respond, his growing excitement over what was about to occur more internal than external. The two men awkwardly embraced, then let go. Extended foreplay or professions of love were unnecessary. They saved that for the women in their lives.
Clarence walked over to the bed. Following close behind, Dr. Banks discarded his robe and prepared to treat himself.
Just over an hour later, as he exited the freeway, Dr. Banks heard his cell phone ring. He glanced at the caller ID before picking up.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said into the phone.
“Hi, honey,” his wife chirped back. “I’m catching a movie with Karen tonight. The kids are with my parents.”
“Have a good time.”
Diana was always good about making sure he knew her precise whereabouts, and Dr. Banks appreciated that. Now that he was free for the evening, the thought of arranging another hookup with Clarence crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed the thought. He was not a greedy man. He never prowled for sex and the thought of going to a gay bar disgusted him. Only gay men did that, and he wasn’t gay.
His lunchtime excursions were just a freaky little hobby. Nothing more. Nothing less. He was a fanatic about safe sex and always chose partners who were family men with as much to lose as he had. Dr. Banks even required his sexual partners to periodically produce written proof that they were HIV negative, and he gladly did the same. He loved his wife too much to demand anything less. In the twelve years since he’d said I do, there had only been five other men besides Clarence.
Dr. Banks turned left into the parking structure, made his way to the second level and backed into a stall that bore his name in neat block letters. He hummed his favorite Temptations song, My Girl, as he took off his shades and clipped them onto the sun visor.
Pushing open the car door, Dr. Banks planted his left foot on the ground at the same moment that a bullet pierced his cheek, just below his right eye. The force of the shot sent his head hurtling backward, then slowly forward, as a splash of crimson darkened the car’s pristine beige interior.
As the second and third bullets entered his neck and chest, Dr. Banks’ body fell sideways toward the open car door. His hand reached out for something to grasp, but found nothing to break his fall.
In what looked like a slow motion videotape, Dr. Banks tumbled onto the dirty garage pavement, head first.
Chapter 2
Vernetta Henderson could not remember the last time she’d seen Mt. Moriah Baptist Church crammed with so many people. Crowds this big only showed up on Easter Sunday or right after some natural disaster. Like a 7.0 earthquake or a hurricane like the one that nearly wiped New Orleans off the map.
A lone tear inched its way down Vernetta’s right cheek, but she didn’t bother to wipe it away. Another one would replace it soon enough. She peered over her shoulder for the umpteenth time, praying that she’d spot her best friend, Special Moore, somewhere among the mourners. Instead, she saw Jefferson, her husband, slip in and take a seat on the back pew.
Where in the hell was Special? She was taking her cousin’s death pretty hard, but Vernetta couldn’t believe Special would actually miss the entire funeral.
In the pulpit just a few feet away, the testimonials were going into overkill now. Another twenty or so people were lined up along the church’s east wall, waiting for their chance to speak. A petite white woman with curly red hair had already been at the microphone way too long.
“. . . and when we first joined the D.A.’s office,” the woman sniffed in a mousy voice that matched her appearance, “Maya and I would work late into the night. And whenever I needed help with one of my cases, she would always stay to help me out.” The woman paused to blow her nose, blaring right into the microphone. “I couldn’t believe it when I found out she had pneumonia.”
Pneumonia. Yeah, right.
Vernetta closed her eyes and tried to shut out the anguish that felt like it was oozing from her pores. Maya Lavelle Washington was not supposed to be dead. Not at thirty-two. The comforting presence of the friend sitting to Vernetta’s left made it a little easier to cope with the pain. Nichelle Ayers held Vernetta’s hand in a grip so tight it nearly cut off her blood supply. Every two seconds she blubbered something incoherent and dabbed at her cheeks with a wadded up Kleenex.
The woman at the microphone stopped to honk her nose again, and the willowy Reverend Jones seized the opportunity, making it over to her in two long strides. He gave her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, then waved up the next person in line.
Just over two years ago, they had all celebrated Maya’s thirtieth birthday with a blowout party at The Savoy in Inglewood. Maya had danced so hard her press ’n curl had poofed into a kinky afro by the time the last guest departed. Afterwards, the four of them—Maya, Special, Nichelle, and Vernetta—buzzed from way too many strawberry margaritas, headed over to the Denny’s on Jefferson, where they drank coffee and hot chocolate and laughed until daylight. That had been the last really good time they had all shared together. Three weeks later, Maya found out about her illness.
Nichelle’s cries had turned into hiccupping sobs now, which was only to be expected. Nichelle was so emotional Vernetta often wondered how the girl was able to function as a lawyer. She had barely lasted two years at the City Attorney’s Office in West L.A. before throwing in the towel. Nichelle was a more-than-competent prosecutor. She just had a bad habit of letting her heart cloud her legal judgment. Every defendant Nichelle was assigned to prosecute, she wanted to set free. Her current law practice was limited to preparing living trusts and helping people through the probate process. Now she could feel sorry for her clients and get paid for it.
J.C. Sparks, the woman on Vernetta’s opposite side, shifted in her seat. J
.C. was a colleague of Maya’s who had been just as much of a fixture at Maya’s bedside as they all had been during the final weeks of her life. Vernetta could see that J.C. was struggling to maintain her composure. In her line of work—she was a detective with the infamous LAPD—J.C. saw death on a regular basis. Tears weren’t in her job description.
A portly Hispanic man stood before the microphone now, praising Maya’s pro bono work for a homeless shelter in Watts. Vernetta listened without hearing, her thoughts now focused on the mountain of work that awaited her back at the offices of O’Reilly & Finney, one of L.A.’s top law firms. Lately, her professional life had been nothing but drama, drama, drama, and she was not looking forward to more of it come Monday morning.
A commotion emanating from the back of the church wrenched Vernetta’s attention away from her work woes. When she turned around, she saw Special stalking down the center aisle, her arms swinging wildly with each step. Special was tall and curvaceous, with a fun, outrageous personality to match. But today, she looked haggard and borderline anorexic. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying and her long thick hair was mussed together in a scraggly bun.
To everyone’s amazement, including Vernetta’s, Special sidestepped two ushers, shrugged off a funeral director and charged straight into the pulpit. The mourner who was speaking stumbled aside as Special snatched the microphone from its stand.
“Everybody thinks Maya died from pneumonia,” Special said, choking back a sob. “Well, she didn’t.”
Vernetta shot out of her seat and was at Special’s side in a flash. “What’re you doing?” she whispered, covering the mike with her hand. “Don’t do this!”
J.C. followed after her, and the two of them formed a tight half circle around their distraught friend. Reverend Jones took a half step toward them, but froze when J.C. shot him a cop glare that didn’t require any verbal instructions.
“People need to know the truth,” Special replied in a weak but angry voice.
Nichelle had also joined them, which was a surprise considering how much she hated confrontation. She stood off to the side, still dabbing her eyes with the tattered Kleenex.
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