Murder on the Down Low (45 page)

She copied a picture of Reverend Sims from the Internet, then went to Records and found photographs of men with similar physical traits and created a photographic lineup. If the two women picked out Reverend Sims, that would be enough to have him brought in for questioning. She just hoped the lieutenant agreed.

J.C. had just returned to her desk and grabbed her purse when her cell phone signaled that she had a message.

“We may’ve finally caught a big break in the Nelson case,” she heard Detective Jessup say. “We got a call on the tip line. A waiter at the Marie Callender’s Grill in the Howard Hughes Promenade claims Eugene and another man had dinner together the evening before he was killed. I’m stuck in the Valley interviewing a witness in another case. Get over there and talk to the guy. And remember, I’m only letting you in on this because I’m a nice guy. If you come up with something, it’s mine, not yours.”

J.C. hung up. “Prick.”

As she drove to the restaurant, she struggled to keep her emotions in check, which was not something she had to do very often. The information she was about to gather could very well spring Special from jail. Before leaving the station, she had added a picture of Lamont, which she found on his MySpace page, to the photographic lineup that she now planned to also show to the waiter. Despite all the evidence pointing to Reverend Sims, J.C. wasn’t ready to dismiss Lamont and his lover Ken from the list of suspects just yet.

When she arrived at the restaurant, she had to wait twenty minutes until the waiter’s break. They walked outside to a lighted area underneath a street lamp. He pulled out a pack of Newports and lit one up.

Dean Mills had bright blue eyes and short blond hair that was moussed up into a weird geometric scramble. His hands fluttered about as he spoke. J.C. was certain he had never been in the closet.

“Can you give me a physical description of the man Eugene had dinner with?” J.C. didn’t want to lead him in any way. If the man was Reverend Sims, she wanted a completely unbiased ID.

“I won’t have to testify in court or anything, will I?” Mills asked warily.

“I can’t say right now.” She was anxious to get to the facts. If she had to lie to the man, she would.

“There’s obviously a serial killer on the loose,” Mills said. “I know they have some woman behind bars, but if she’s not the real killer, I don’t want to say anything that might cause this nut to come looking for me.”

“Don’t worry.” She gave him a comforting smile. “I don’t think you’re in any danger. The killer seems to be targeting African-American men. So can you describe the guy for me?”

Mills took a long drag on his cigarette. “African-American, bearded, closely cropped hair. About your complexion.”

“What about height and weight?”

“Five-nine, five-ten. One-eighty, maybe a little more. Older guy. At least forty-five or fifty.”

He had just described Reverend Sims to a tee.

J.C. scribbled down the description on her notepad. “Did you think the two men were . . .” J.C. wasn’t sure how to put this “. . . more than friends?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean, were they together together?”

“Yes.”

Mills smiled. “That Nelson fella was a real hottie. They were certainly more than friends, if you know what I mean.”

“What gave you that impression? Were they being intimate?”

He put his free hand on his hip and leaned his body weight to one side. “This isn’t San Francisco or West Hollywood, Detective. They just seemed relaxed and happy. They talked nonstop. Then they ordered dessert to take back to Nelson’s place.”

Mills provided a boatload of additional information. From what they ate, to the fact that the reverend was married, to their racquetball game earlier in the day. He even recalled that Eugene paid with a Platinum American Express Card. J.C. planned to watch her conversation the next time a waiter was lurking nearby. This guy was as good as a tape recorder.

Certain that she had exhausted Mills’ database, J.C. opened a manila folder, revealing the photo lineup.

She held it up for Mills to examine. “Do you see the man who had dinner with Eugene Nelson?”

Mills studied the photos for a long time. So long that J.C. began to get worried. He flicked the stub of his cigarette to the ground and smashed it with the toe of his right foot. “This is the guy right here.” He pointed to Reverend Sims. “He’s the one who had dinner with that cutie Eugene Nelson.”

Thrilled, J.C. was about to close the folder when Mills stopped her. “Hold on,” he said. “I also saw Eugene the following night with this guy.” He tapped his index finger on the photograph of Lamont.

“What?” J.C. looked from the picture to Mills. “Are you sure? Where?”

He pointed south. “In the parking structure. When I was leaving to go home. Just before ten o’clock on Saturday night.”

T
heir regular booth at T.G.I. Friday’s was taken so Vernetta and Nichelle took one near the front. They kept their eyes focused on the entrance, waiting for J.C. to arrive.

Vernetta had called J.C. an hour earlier and asked her to meet them at the restaurant. Since interviewing Belynda, J.C. had basically avoided them, which led Vernetta to suspect that she had uncovered some information about Special’s case. Vernetta just hoped they could convince her to share it with them. She also prayed that it wasn’t news she didn’t want to hear.

Vernetta had just returned from the restroom when J.C. slid into the booth next to Nichelle.

“What’s so urgent?” J.C. asked.

“We wanted to know if there’s anything you can tell us about your interview with Belynda,” Vernetta said.

J.C. didn’t say anything.

“Well?” Vernetta prodded.

“You guys know that I can’t do that. I shouldn’t even be sitting in this restaurant with you.”

“C’mon, J.C.,” Nichelle begged. “Can’t you tell us anything?”

“No, I can’t. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

“Trouble for what?” Vernetta asked.

J.C. started to speak, then stopped. “For talking to Belynda,” she said hesitantly. “She called the lieutenant and claimed I was harassing her.”

Nichelle rubbed her forehead. “I’m sorry for asking you to go over there. Thank God you ignored my crazy suggestion about switching those cameras.”

J.C. toyed with her napkin.

“Can you at least tell us which minister Belynda thinks was in that picture with Eugene?” Vernetta asked.

“I never said Belynda mentioned any of the ministers. Anyway, you’ll find out soon enough.”

“So one of the ministers at Ever Faithful
is
on the down low!” Nichelle gasped. “Oh, my Lord!”

“Please keep it down.” J.C. looked over her shoulder. “I never said that.”

Nichelle lowered her voice but not her anxiety level. “Is it Bishop Berry? Please tell me it’s not Bishop Berry!”

“I’m not saying another word about the case. So please don’t ask.”

Nichelle started waving her hand back and forth, fanning her face as if she were having hot flashes. “I don’t know if I can handle this.” She flagged down a waitress. “I want the potato skins, the Jack Daniels ribs, a cup—no make that a bowl—of broccoli cheese soup, and the strawberry lemonade slush.”

Vernetta and J.C. exchanged cryptic looks.

“And don’t say a word about my diet,” Nichelle snapped. “My stomach needs some real food.”

“Can you at least tell us whether you expect to arrest another suspect?” Vernetta asked.

J.C. reached for her water glass. “That’s very possible. Now please, let’s change the subject.”

Nichelle wrung her hands. “This is going to be a disgrace to the church.”

Minutes later, the waitress returned with Nichelle’s soup. She kept shaking her head between slurps. “I just can’t believe this.”

“There’s something else I’ve been wanting to talk to you guys about,” J.C. said. “And I guess now is as good a time as any.”

Nichelle took another spoonful of her soup. “By the look on your face, the news isn’t good. I need a real drink.” She called the waitress back and substituted her slush for a strawberry margarita.

“You both have become really good friends, and I just wanted you to know that I—”

“Are you okay?” Nichelle anxiously interrupted. “Please don’t tell us you’re sick or—”

“Nichelle, will you please calm down. I’m fine.”

Vernetta could tell that the topic was something serious. “What’s the matter, J.C?”

“I just wanted you guys to know that . . . that I’m gay.”

Nichelle dropped her spoon, splashing broccoli cheese soup all over the table. “Well . . . that’s … uh . . . that’s nice.”

Vernetta nudged Nichelle underneath the table. Since she didn’t know what to say either, she opted for keeping her mouth shut.

“Well?” J.C. said. “Say something.”

“I know it wasn’t easy for you to tell us this,” Vernetta said finally. “Thanks for confiding in us. And obviously, it doesn’t matter one way or the other. At least not to me.”

The waitress placed Nichelle’s potato skins on the table and she grabbed one in both hands. “Me, neither.”

“I don’t condone what Eugene did,” J.C. said. “But I understand why he couldn’t be who he was. Coming out isn’t easy.”

“Well, I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to tell us,” Vernetta said.

Nobody knew what to say. Vernetta picked up a potato skin and started munching so she wouldn’t have to talk.

“So are you going to tell Special?” Nichelle asked.

“Yeah,” J.C. said wearily. “But coming out to her won’t be easy.”

J
.C. waited in a small interrogation room at the county jail. All the way over, she had debated whether now was the right time to have this conversation with Special. She finally decided to just get it over with.

She constantly checked the display window of her cell phone, hoping for a message. She was waiting for a call from Detective Jessup. Any minute now, they were expecting to hear whether Lamont’s fingerprints matched the ones found on the wineglass and windowsill at Eugene’s place. Now that they had a witness who could place Lamont
and
Reverend Sims with Eugene within hours of his murder that made them both prime suspects. The fact that Lamont had lied about being with Eugene meant that he had something to hide.
Was it murder
?

J.C. was beginning to suspect that there might be two killers at work. Maybe Eugene was killed by someone he knew, possibly Lamont or even Ken, while the other shootings were the work of a different killer. Reverend Sims’ ties to nearly all of the murdered men couldn’t be ignored. Maybe he was a religious fanatic who befriended gay men, then killed them. As soon as she was done talking to Special, she planned to discuss her theory with the lieutenant. She prayed he didn’t dismiss it.

When the deputy ushered Special into the room, she looked even more frail than she had on J.C.’s last visit.

“How about taking the chains off her wrists?” J.C. said to the deputy.

“Can’t. She’s a high risk inmate and—”

J.C. flashed her badge. “She’s a good friend. Take ’em off.” She smiled. “Pretty please?”

The deputy grunted, then complied, unlocking the chains. “If she makes a break for it, it’s on you, not me.”

Once the deputy left, the two friends embraced and sat down on opposite sides of a small table.

“How are you doing?” J.C. asked.

“I’m okay. Jail isn’t as bad as everybody makes it out to be. I’ve had a lot of time to meditate and read the Bible. The food sucks, but I haven’t had to fight off any dykes.”

J.C. was starting to have second thoughts about coming out to Special. “I have a lot of friends who promised me they’d look out for you.”

“Thanks.” She traced a scratch in the table with her index finger. “Got any good news for me? Did the police find the real killer yet?”

“You’re not supposed to be talking to me about your case. I’m on the other side, remember? But we’re working on it. I just dropped by to check on you.”

“It’s good to get out of my cell. You can keep me here for as long as you want. And next time, if you want to sneak in a Fat Burger, I’ll love you for life.”

They chatted for a while as J.C. gathered the courage to get to the real purpose of her visit. Except for Eugene and other men on the down low, J.C. had never heard Special express any animosity toward gays. Still, she wasn’t certain of her true feelings.

“You know,” Special said, “that counseling session I had with Reverend Sims was really helpful. Can you ask Nichelle to see if he can visit me?”

J.C. twitched and Special noticed. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” J.C. had no plans to pass on Special’s request, which she found quite ironic. Special had been counseled by the man who may be responsible for the murders everyone thought she had committed.

“I have some good news,” Special said.

“What’s that?”

“Clayton called Vernetta last night to see how I was doing.” She smiled for the first time. “I called him collect this morning and we had a good talk. Thanks for getting me the extra phone privileges. He says he’s going to write me.”

“That’s great.” J.C. fingered a long scratch on the table. “I came down here because there’s something I wanted to tell you.”

“What is it? I don’t know if I can handle any more bad news.”

“It’s not bad news. At least I hope you don’t think it is. It’s about me.”

“You’re scaring me, J.C. What’s going on?”

J.C. didn’t know how to begin, so she just blurted it out. “Special, I’m gay.”

Special jerked backwards. “What? Since when?”

“Since forever.”

Special stared at her in disbelief, then her eyes narrowed in alarm. “Uh . . . I hope you’re not telling me this ’cause you wanna get with me. Because I like dudes.”

J.C. laughed. “No, Special, I’m not hitting on you. I’m telling you because you’re my friend and I wanted you to know.”

Special relaxed, but couldn’t stop staring at her. “I’ve heard that a lot of female cops are gay. Did you get turned out by another cop?”

J.C. tried to remember that Special had become one of her closest friends. “Special, I didn’t get turned out. I’ve always been gay.”