Murder on the Down Low

by Pamela Samuels Young

  “It’s hard to predict the traffic on the 405.” Vernetta took a seat next to O’Reilly and opposite Haley.

  “You’ve got that right. That’s why I always add at least thirty minutes to any trip that involves the 405.”

  Vernetta fought the twinge of annoyance that seemed to surface whenever she was in Haley’s presence for more than five seconds. A sexual harassment case that they had jointly litigated had not been a pleasant experience. After Haley’s backstabbing ways had been exposed, she apologized and extended an olive branch of friendship. Vernetta’s instincts told her not to trust the girl and her gut had been right. Within weeks of Haley’s sympathetic overture, she was up to her old treacherous tricks again.

  “You guys ready to wow ’em?” O’Reilly stretched his arm along the back of the couch. He looked as cool and confident as he always did. “This wage and hour lawsuit could be an important case for the firm. It’ll involve more than twenty-five Vista facilities across the country.”

  In other words, they could bill the heck out of the client.

  An African-American woman in a dark suit greeted them and handed out visitor’s badges. Vernetta pegged the woman to be in her mid-thirties. “I’m Sheryl Milton, Director of Human Resources.”

  She led the way to a conference room where the Assistant General Counsel for the Labor and Employment Group and two staff attorneys were waiting. The AGC began by briefly describing a lawsuit they expected to be served with any day.

  When he was done, O’Reilly handed out a summary of cases O’Reilly & Finney had successfully litigated for Vista Electronics in the past, then described his extensive experience with wage and hour lawsuits. “And here with me,” he said, pinning his gaze solely on Haley, “are two of our firm’s brightest associates, Haley Prescott and Vernetta Henderson.”

  “I’d like to hear your strategy for litigating the case,” one of the staff attorneys said. The question was directed at Vernetta, but Haley snatched the ball and ran with it.

  “Being able to coordinate a large amount of information is crucial in a wage and hour matter,” Haley began. “As the junior associate and the cheapest attorney in the room, most of that grunt work will fall into my lap.” Haley smiled and everybody chuckled. Except Vernetta. Haley was using her feminine appeal to the hilt. Her clothes were professional, but acceptably sexy. A pink silk blouse accented her charcoal grey suit. A long pendant fell right at the crest of her cleavage.

  “It’s crucial to get in as soon as possible to conduct interviews with the employees to tie them down on the number of overtime hours they claimed to have worked.” She leaned forward, planting her forearms on the table. The move revealed just a glimpse of a lacy pink bra. “If the plaintiffs’ attorney gets to them first, they’re going to exaggerate their hours. So the first thing we would do is interview everyone in the proposed class as soon as possible.”

  “Sounds good,” the Assistant General Counsel said.

  “There’s a new case out of the Ninth Circuit that should be a big help in fighting class certification.” Haley went on to explain an incredibly complicated decision. Vernetta hated to admit it, but even she was impressed.

  The Assistant General Counsel smiled at Haley like he wanted to screw her. So far Vernetta had yet to say a word. That wasn’t good. She needed to get her foot in the door.

  Just as she was trying to figure out the right place to insert herself, the HR Director threw her a lifeline. “Ms. Henderson,” she said, “tell us a little bit about your wage and hour experience.”

  “I’ve had quite a bit.” Vernetta was about to describe a case where she had obtained a dismissal when her cell phone started ringing. And ringing and ringing and ringing. As everybody waited, staring at her, she fumbled around inside her purse, desperate to find the thing and turn it off.

  She finally spotted it buried beneath her makeup bag. The second she turned it off, her mind went blank. She couldn’t remember the last thing she had said or what question had been posed. Just as the silence threatened to blow up the room, O’Reilly opened his mouth to speak, but once again, Haley took charge.

  “Vernetta and I have worked pretty well as a team,” she lied. Haley clasped her hands and leaned forward again, giving the men another glimpse of her fancy pink bra. “Maybe I can tell you something about my colleague’s experience.”

  Chapter 12

  J.C.’s eyes burned with fatigue. For the last three hours, she had been pouring over the files from the shootings of Dr. Quentin Banks and Marcus Patterson, the engineer gunned down days earlier outside the Ramada Inn.

  People who complained about doctors’ handwriting had never tried to read a handwritten crime scene report, J.C. thought. At least doctors could spell. After examining all of the evidence, she still wasn’t buying the crime scene tech’s theory that the two murders were connected. But she also wasn’t ready to dismiss the possibility either. Both men were shot in broad daylight with a small caliber gun. Both appeared to have been ambushed and both were successful family men with no financial problems, no history of drug abuse, no known enemies and no run-ins with police.

  Wolfing down the remainder of the steak sandwich she’d picked up at the Quiznos a block from the station, she hurriedly drank the last few drops of her Sprite. She had a three o’clock appointment at the home of Dr. Banks and needed to leave right away if she expected to make it on time.

  Thirty minutes later, she turned off Slauson onto Corning Street and hopped out of her Range Rover. J.C. had only knocked once before the door opened and she was invited in. Gospel music played softly in the background and a dozen or so people milled about the living room.

  The teenager who greeted her apparently assumed that J.C. was there to pay her respects. “Come in,” the girl said, not bothering to ask her name.

  J.C. stepped just inside the doorway, but did not go any further. “I’m here to see Mrs. Banks? I’m Detective Sparks. With the LAPD.”

  The girl’s numb expression came to life. “My aunt’s in the den.”

  An even larger group occupied couches, stools, and folding chairs in a room the size of a small banquet hall. The girl introduced her and Diana Banks rose from the couch, shook J.C.’s hand, then led the way to her husband’s study. Her sister, Patricia, followed.

  “You have a beautiful home,” J.C. said once they were behind closed doors.

  Diana managed a weak smile. “We just finished remodeling the kitchen three weeks ago. Quentin was very proud of this place.”

  Mrs. Banks had the graceful presence of a kept woman. Every strand of her dark brown hair was in place. Her French manicure looked freshly done and she’d taken the time to put on lipstick. She was wearing blue jeans and a simple white blouse.

  J.C. settled into a chair that felt like sitting on a bed of cotton. Diana and Patricia sat across from her behind a small oak coffee table.

  “First, let me apologize for having to bother you at a time like this,” J.C. said, “but I need to talk to you while everything’s still fresh in your mind.”

  Diana nodded.

  “When was the last time you spoke to your husband?”

  “About five minutes before he was killed.” Diana’s voice quivered. “I called to tell him I was going to a movie.” She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her jeans and wiped the corner of her eye.

  Patricia reached over and squeezed her sister’s hand.

  “Was he at the office when you spoke to him?”

  “I called him on his cell. It sounded like he was in the car. But I didn’t ask.”

  “What time was it?”

  “It was exactly one-twenty-one,” she said. “I remember because I had a nail appointment at two and I checked the time before calling him.”

  “Did he tell you where he was headed?”

  “No, but his office manager later told me he was returning from lunch.”

  “Any idea where he had lunch?”

  Diana inhaled. “No.”

&n
bsp; “Were there any friends he regularly met for lunch?”

  “I don’t think so. He often came home, except on Saturdays.”

  “Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill your husband?”

  Tears fell from Diana’s eyes. “My husband didn’t have an enemy in the world. You couldn’t find a man with more integrity.”

  Something in her sister’s body language said she disagreed with that characterization of her brother-in-law. J.C. would follow up with her later. She had been a cop long enough to know that spouses rarely knew everything they thought they did about their mates. “I hate to ask this next question, but did your husband use drugs?”

  Diana chuckled. “No. He wasn’t even much of a drinker. When we socialized, he’d have a single glass of wine or brandy and that was it.”

  J.C. covered a few more questions then asked for a picture of the doctor. Diana opened a built-in cabinet and pulled out a heavy photo album with the words My Family embossed in gold across the front.

  “They’re some nice close-up shots on both of these pages,” she said, handing the open album to J.C. “You can pick out one you like.”

  J.C. felt a pang of sadness as she scanned the photos. There was nothing but pride on Dr. Banks’ face. What a storybook life they had led. She selected a photograph taken last summer during a family vacation in Cancun.

  J.C. closed the album. “Do you mind if I attend your husband’s funeral service?”

  Diana hunched her shoulders. “Not at all.”

  Patricia spoke for the first time. “You don’t think the killer would show up there, do you?” Except for their differing hair styles, the two women could have been twins.

  “It’s been known to happen, but you shouldn’t be concerned.” J.C. stood up. “Here’s my card. Please call me if you think of anything helpful.”

  “Why don’t you go back into the den,” Patricia said to her sister. “I’ll show Detective Sparks out.”

  When they reached the front door, instead of saying goodbye, Patricia stepped outside and escorted J.C. down the walkway.

  “I’d like one of your cards, too,” she whispered.

  J.C. pulled out a business card and handed it to her. She’d been right. Patricia knew something. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  Patricia shot a worried glance over her shoulder. “Yes,” she said hesitantly, “but we can’t talk now.”

  J.C. started to speak, but Patricia raised a finger to her lips.

  “I’ll give you a call.” She turned and disappeared through the front door.

  Chapter 13

  Special entered Eddie Chin’s studio apartment on McCarthy Street, just north of the USC campus, and plunked down her laptop on one of the four card tables scattered about the room.

  At work, Eddie usually dressed in slacks and short-sleeve shirts. Special was surprised to see him in an oversized white T-shirt and sagging jeans. From the neck down, he looked like a pint-sized rapper.

  “Okay, let’s get to it.” Special looked around for a place to sit. The stuffy little apartment was a jumble of squares and rectangles in bright orange, pea-green, and sunshine yellow. Vintage Ikea. There were five or six metal folding chairs, but each one held stacks of books and magazines. Eddie could afford three desktop computers and two laptops, but no couch.

  A faint smell of mildew seemed to emanate from the area that housed Eddie’s rumpled futon bed. Special didn’t even realize they still made futons. If he hadn’t been a computer nerd she would’ve made some smart-ass crack. But weird guys like Eddie were supposed to live in places that looked like high-tech junk yards.

  Eddie thrust out his hand. “Payment please.”

  Special was hoping to talk him down, but seeing the look on his face, she doubted she would be able to.

  “Uh . . . I need to talk to you about the price, Eddie. I was wondering if you could—”

  “It’s seven hundred dollars and I’m not taking any IOUs,” Eddie snapped. “Computer hacking is a felony. You’re lucky I’m even willing to do it this cheap. I’ve already put a lot of time into this. I stayed up until two last night working on it.”

  “You said it would only take a few hours.”

  “Well, I was wrong. I’m used to working with stateful inspection firewalls. That law firm has proxy firewalls.”

  Special started to ask what the hell he was talking about, but let it drop.

  “And if you don’t have cash,” Eddie continued, his hand still extended, “the deal’s off.”

  Since when did Eddie get so assertive? At the office he barely spoke above a mumble and rarely looked anyone in the eye.

  Special reluctantly pulled an envelope from her suede Prada bag. “Here,” she said, slapping it into his hand. She had borrowed three hundred dollars from Vernetta and the rest from her father. “But if this doesn’t work, I want my money back.”

  “It’ll work. I’ve already pulled up the law firm’s email list. Have a seat.”

  “Where?” Special scanned the room. “You don’t even own a couch.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to fold up my futon,” he said, apologetically. He picked up a stack of magazines sitting atop a stool and set them on the floor. “You can sit on this.”

  Eddie took a seat in front of one of the computers. Special watched as he connected a series of cables from her laptop to his much larger desktop version.

  “With all the computers in here, why’d you need me to bring mine?”

  “’Cause I don’t want any forensic evidence on my computer.”

  Forensic evidence? “Look, Eddie, I need you to drop the CSI lingo and speak English. I thought you said they wouldn’t be able to trace anything back to us.”

  Eddie’s left cheek twitched. “Not us. You. If something goes down, I had nothing to do with this.”

  “But you said—”

  “Just calm down. I have everything under control. I’m just being extra careful. They won’t be able to trace anything back to you or me because I’m using my neighbor’s AP.”

  Special’s forehead creased.

  “AP means access point.” Eddie typed a series of key strokes. “That’s—”

  Special held up her hand. “Don’t even bother explaining. How long is this going to take?”

  “As long as it has to,” Eddie grunted. “So don’t start rushing me.”

  Computer nerds were so temperamental, Special thought. “You got anything to eat?”

  “Yeah, help yourself. I don’t get room service here.”

  Special wanted to thump him in the head, but instead got up and maneuvered the obstacle course that led to the kitchen. It was barely big enough to house Eddie’s toaster, microwave oven and a refrigerator the size of a hotel mini-bar. When she opened the refrigerator, a rotten smell assaulted her nostrils.

  “Did something die in here or what?” she mumbled to herself.

  She spotted two Chinese takeout containers and a dried-up slice of pizza. She closed the door and opened the only cabinet. She found a bag of Fritos and popped a couple into her mouth.

  “Ugh! These are stale!”

  “Shhhhh!” Eddie said. “I’m trying to work.”

  Instead of returning the bag to the cabinet, she tossed it in the trash.

  Special walked up to Eddie and peered over his shoulders. “So what are you doing now?”

  “I’m setting up the programs and systems to test.” Eddie looked up and smiled warmly at her. He obviously got off on this stuff. “I’m basically casing the joint,” he continued, in lecture mode. “Before a bank robber robs a bank, he makes a trip to check everything out. That’s basically what I’m doing. Scanning the law firm’s network. This stuff takes precision, home girl.”

  Home girl? Special sat down on the stool and crossed her arms. “So where’s your TV?” She scanned the room.

  “Don’t have one.” Eddie never took his eyes off the computer monitor. “Ruins the brain cells.”

 
; Special searched for something to read. Everything she picked up was either a computer magazine or a comic book. She took an emery board from her purse and began filing her nails.

  “Now, I’m spoofing your address so they can’t trace anything.” Eddie appeared to be enjoying his own play-by-play. “And once I’m through doing that, I’m going to hack into their email system.”

  After another twenty minutes, Eddie yelped with glee. “We’re in!” He hopped up. “Everything’s set up. All you have to do is type in your message.”

  Special pulled a piece of paper from her purse and sat down in front of the monitor. She had stayed up past midnight working on the precise wording of her message. She had rewritten it at least ten times.

  Eddie turned his back to her.

  “What are you doing that for?”

  “I don’t wanna know what you’re typing,” Eddie said. “I’m the best hacker there is. But if I ever have to take a lie detector test, I’ll be able to say I had no idea what kind of message you were sending.”

  “Whatever.” Special pecked the computer keys. “So this email will go to every employee in the firm at exactly seven tomorrow morning, not just the attorneys, right?”

  “Yep.” Eddie still had his back turned. “Everybody at the firm who has an email address will receive it. Even employees at offices in other states.”

  When she finished typing the message, she scrolled up to the subject line and typed “Important Alert—Read Immediately!” She read through the message three times to make sure everything was spelled correctly.

  “So can I send it?” Special asked excitedly.

  Eddie gave her a thumbs up.

  As Special clicked the send button, a devilish smile lit up her entire face.

  Chapter 14

  Jefferson blinked in confusion as he peered down at his wife, who lay sprawled on the couch watching TV.

  “You’re home before ten. Did your law firm burn down?”

  Even after a long day at the office, Jefferson usually found Vernetta reading a brief or giving her fingers a workout on her BlackBerry. Not decked out in her favorite sweats watching a rerun of The Bernie Mac Show.