“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.”
Chapter 83
Special 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 f
or 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.”
Chapter 84
Following 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.
She placed her groceries on the conveyor belt then moved over to the keypad in front of the clerk, swiped her ATM card, and held her breath. After a few long seconds, it cleared and she relaxed.
The clerk looked her up and down. She was a middle-aged bleached blond with cold, green eyes.
Special noticed that the woman had not greeted her with a cheery hello the way she had other customers. She must have recognized her.
Do not be afraid or dismayed, Special repeated to herself, for the Lord God, my God, is with you.
The clerk slapped her receipt on the counter without saying a word. Special waited for the woman to bag her groceries. There was no one else in line behind her. The woman put her hands on her hips and just stood there.
Special knew she should just pack up her stuff and get the hell out of the store, but her stubborn streak wouldn’t let her. “Are you gonna bag up my groceries?”
The woman grunted, then pulled out a white plastic bag and hurled Special’s frozen pizza inside.
“I have a twenty-year-old son,” the woman said snidely. She slammed the oranges into the bag. “Last year, somebody bashed his head in just because he’s gay. It scares me to think that there’s some homicidal, homophobic maniac running around killing people because of their sexual orientation.”
Special sucked in a breath. Do not be afraid or dismayed, for the Lord, my God, is with you.
Still taking her sweet time, the woman picked up the Doritos bag and shoved it inside. Special heard a pop when the Doritos bag punctured. “I don’t know why they let you out on bail. After you’re convicted, I hope they put you under the jail.”
Special tried to call on God for strength. She wanted to turn the other cheek, but the devil was tugging at her soul.
“I didn’t kill anybody,” she said through tightly clamped teeth. “And I’m not homophobic.” She yanked the bag from the woman’s hand and grabbed the fruit punch bottle.
“I’m sorry somebody hurt your son. I just hope he wasn’t out there deceiving women by professing to be straight,” she hissed at the woman. “When something bad happens to gay men who do that, I just figure they got what they deserved.”
The woman gasped and her face paled in horror.
Special tore out of the store. She was in tears by the time she reached her car. She started up the engine and tried to collect herself before pulling out of the parking spot.
She drove back to her apartment coughing and sniveling all the way. When she turned the corner onto Buckingham Drive, she saw four police cars parked near her apartment building. In seconds, she broke out in a sweat. The park across the street was crawling with cops. Were they here to arrest her again? It wasn’t until she was just a few yards from the entrance of her building’s underground garage that she noticed a police car blocking the entrance.
She pulled her car into an open space on the street. As soon as she opened her car door, the same cop who had arrested her the first time ran up with his gun drawn. Two other cops also had their guns pointed directly at her.
“Put your hands up!” Crew Cut yelled.
Special was so terrified she couldn’t will her hands or any other part of her body to move. She was frozen solid with fear.
He repeated the order. “I said put your hands up!”
Sobbing and trembling, she finally raised her hands high above her head.
“Where have you been?”
“I went grocery shopping,” Special cried.
“Where?”
“At Ralph’s.”
“Which one?”
“Off the 90 freeway . . . on Lincoln. In the Marina. Why do you care?”
Crew Cut holstered his gun and charged forward. He whirled Special around, slammed her against the car and slapped handcuffs on her wrists. “You’re under arrest.”
“For what?” Special cried. “This is police brutality! I’m out on bail.”
“Not anymore. You just admitted violating the judge’s bail order.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You were supposed to stay within a three-mile radius of your apartment. That store is more than three miles away. I’m taking you in.”
“You can’t do this to me!” She was crying now and struggling with the officer as he tugged her toward a patrol car.
She noticed Martinez, dressed in a dark suit, standing off to the side, quietly watching. He was trying to send her to prison for the rest of her life. Their eyes met. Special’s registered fear and resentment. His communicated nothing.
The street was growing crowded with people. She could see the elderly man in apartment 104 peeking through his curtains. A white TV news van pulled up and a cameraman jumped out.
Crew Cut was about to toss her into the backseat of his patrol car, but waited for the cameraman to shoot some footage.
“This is a setup!” Special screamed. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“I predict you’re going to be looking at another murder charge pretty soon,” Crew Cut said, smiling at her. He stuffed her inside the patrol car and climbed into the front seat.
“What the hell are you talking about?” she whimpered through her tears.
“What I’m talking about is Gerald Dunn,” he said, his voice filled with glee. “The guy you whacked this morning.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about! Why are you doing this to me?”
“Dunn is the man we just found shot to death in the men’s room over there.” He pointed across the street to the park. “The sixth man you murdered.”
Chapter 85
I thought you said Martinez was a straight shooter!” Vernetta yelled into her cell phone.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sam replied. “And why are you screaming at me?”
“They just arrested Special! Martinez should’ve called us.” She was near tears. “The police ambushed her on the str
eet with their guns drawn.”
“Ambushed her? What happened? Did they revoke her bail?”
“There’s been another murder and they’re trying to pin that one on her, too. She just called me from jail. I’m on my way down there now. Can you meet me?”
“I’m on my way.”
Vernetta and Sam arrived at the jail only minutes apart. They tried to get in to see Special, but were told it would be a while. Vernetta contacted J.C. to see what she might know, then asked Nichelle to meet them at a nearby sandwich shop. Vernetta, followed by Sam, had just stepped out of an elevator car when Martinez exited an adjacent one.
Vernetta hurried over to him. “Do you have a minute?” She had apparently invaded his personal space because he took a step backward.
“Sure,” he said.
There was never a trace of emotion, of any kind, on the man’s face.
Martinez hit the elevator button. “We can use one of the offices upstairs.”
The elevator ride was long and tense. Vernetta’s heart was filled with worry for her best friend. Her primary concern was getting Special out of jail as soon as possible.
Martinez escorted them to a room barely big enough for three people. He sat on the edge of a small table, facing them. “Have a seat.”
“I’m fine standing up,” Vernetta replied. “What’s going on? Why didn’t you give us a heads up that the police were planning to arrest Special?”
“We needed to get your client off the streets as soon as possible. She was already a prime suspect in five murders. Then another man is found dead just a few yards from where she lives. We don’t give heads up under those circumstances.”
“You can’t possibly believe Special had anything to do with killing that man.” There was too much anxiety in her voice, but she couldn’t restrain herself. “Her arrest has to be some kind of media ploy to appease the public because the police are too incompetent to figure out who really killed those men.”
“Ms. Henderson—” He paused. “May I call you Vernetta?”
Murder on the Down Low Page 29
