Murder on the Down Low

by Pamela Samuels Young

  Vernetta didn’t answer.

  “Talk to me. All this moping around ain’t good.”

  Her cheeks filled with air and she let it slowly seep out. “I don’t feel like talking right now,” she said softly.

  “Even about adoption?”

  Vernetta rose from the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Now that’s a shocker.”

  After finding out that they couldn’t have kids of their own, Jefferson had flat out refused to consider adoption. She clicked on the lamp on the nightstand.

  “So when did this change of heart occur?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I guess I just needed time to adjust to the idea.”

  She leaned down to kiss him. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks. But I need to figure out what’s going on with my career before bringing a kid into this mess of a life I have.”

  Jefferson pulled her closer. “Your life is not a mess. You just need a nice long break from the law. When my project winds down, let’s take some time off. Let’s go to Hawaii for a week. Strike that. Let’s splurge and take two weeks.”

  “Two weeks? Then I’d never make partner for sure. I need to show my total dedication to the firm right now. I’m expected to work until at least ten o’clock every night. Bill more hours than everybody else. Never take a vacation. Basically make the firm my life.”

  “And that’s the way you want to live?” Jefferson asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  She took a long time to answer. “Because that’s what it takes to make partner.”

  “So, basically what you’re telling me is you’re going to stay at a job you hate and work yourself into the ground, even if it gives you a stroke?”

  “I don’t hate my job and I’m not going to have a stroke,” Vernetta said, forcing a laugh. She pulled away to turn off the lamp, then stretched out next to him in bed. “I’m in excellent health.”

  “Physically, maybe. But not emotionally.”

  She didn’t feel like trying to defend her career decision. She went mute and silently thanked her husband for not pushing the issue further. Nestling her face into the crook of Jefferson’s neck, she enjoyed his scent. His body heat. The closeness.

  Vernetta had almost dozed off when Jefferson’s fingers crept underneath her satin nightgown. She felt exhausted. Too exhausted to make love, but she could not fight the rising swell of sexual excitement her husband could so easily arouse in her.

  Jefferson rolled her onto her back, tugged her nightgown up and over her head and bent to kiss her breasts.

  Vernetta moaned, barely loud enough for him to hear, then reached out for him, longing for more of him, all of him. And when he did finally come to her, she gripped him about the neck, arching her body to meet the rhythm of his.

  Jefferson whispered gruff expressions of his own pleasure, while rocking and riding her body in long, penetrating waves. Going deeper and deeper, pulling away, then easing back to her.

  As she came, just seconds before he did, she was grateful for the respite. Happy and satisfied to allow something besides work to totally consume her.

  Chapter 27

  The Ida B. Wells Women’s Center was the kind of place most people drove past without noticing. Sandwiched between a barbershop and a furniture store on L.A.’s southside, it looked like every other weathered storefront that lined Slauson Boulevard.

  Nichelle entered the building and made her way to Wanda Richardson’s office.

  A petite woman in her early fifties with corn-rowed hair, Wanda greeted her with a motherly hug. “I’m glad you came early. Let me show you around before the women get here.”

  Wanda had arranged for Nichelle to talk with members of an HIV support group which met at the center twice a month. As part of her continuing research, Nichelle felt it was important to talk to women who were living with the disease.

  “Here’s where we conduct our classes.” Wanda bubbled with pride as she guided Nichelle around the center. “This month we’re doing interviewing skills and resume writing.” The center also housed a day care center and sponsored after-school programs.

  Wanda had spent years lobbying the city to donate the space, and once she had accomplished that goal, she kept it going through fundraising events and grants. “The group sessions are held in here.” Wanda led Nichelle into a spacious room with soothing midnight blue walls.

  “Wow!” Nichelle said.

  “Pretty nice, huh? The wife of one of our board members is an interior decorator. She really hooked us up.”

  The room had the feel of an expensive day spa. Two eight-foot couches were surrounded by huge, leafy plants in colorful clay pots. Abstract art and lamps that resembled sculptures added a touch of elegance. Nichelle could smell the scent of eucalyptus. Mahogany folding chairs formed a circle in the center of the room.

  Back in Wanda’s office, Nichelle learned a bit about the background of the group members. “We usually have anywhere from ten to fifteen women. About half of them agreed to talk to you.” She explained that Nichelle would be meeting a Macy’s salesperson, a college professor, two women who worked in health care, a software engineer, a rape crisis counselor, and a lawyer. All of the women had contracted HIV through heterosexual sex.

  Just after seven, the women began to trickle in. Nichelle had not expected to meet such attractive, vibrant women who bore no visible signs of their illness. They laughed and mingled until Wanda called the session to order. She introduced everyone, then turned the floor over to Nichelle.

  “The purpose of my visit,” Nichelle began, “is to try to understand HIV from the perspective of women who are living with it.” She checked her notes. “I guess I’ll start with the most difficult question first. How did it happen to you?”

  Darlene, the college professor, seemed eager to respond. “Sheer stupidity,” she said with a gentle laugh. “I simply didn’t think HIV was something that could touch me because I wasn’t a gay man or an I-V drug user. I was in a monogamous relationship with someone who professed to be committed to God and to me. I had absolutely no reason to suspect that he was having sex with men.”

  “How long has it been since you were diagnosed?” Nichelle asked.

  “Six years and I’m doing great.” Darlene smiled big and high-fived the air.

  The other women nodded encouragingly.

  “But by no means is it easy,” Darlene clarified, as if being too happy might backfire on her. “I don’t have the energy level I used to have. I still have to take twelve pills a day and I battle with occasional nausea and dry mouth. And then there’s the stigma of being HIV positive.”

  Lafaye, a dental assistant, concurred. “For the first year after I found out, I told everybody I got the disease from a patient. I was too ashamed to tell anybody. But I don’t hide it anymore. If just one woman knows that it happened to me, she might just realize that it could also happen to her, too, and make the decision to protect herself.”

  “So you didn’t practice safe sex?” Nichelle asked.

  Lafaye, who appeared to be in her early thirties, blushed with embarrassment. “I thought the fact that my boyfriend didn’t want to use a condom meant I was the only one in his life. In my mind, you only used protection with someone you didn’t trust.”

  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 ge
t 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.”

  Chapter 28

  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 s
hrugged. “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.