Free Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For by L. J. Sellers Page B

little stupid and a little charged at the same time. “Do you know Keesha Williams?”
     
    Another eye rolling from Amy. “No. And I don’t know if she’s into chicks. You’ll have to ask her.”
     
    Jackson would have called Keesha that instant if he’d had her number handy.
     
    “Where does the women’s group meet?”
     
    “Over on Agate, in the community building.”
     
    “Have you ever noticed a guy hanging around there? Across the street, watching maybe?”
     
    “No.”
     
    “Did your attacker say anything, I mean, about your being a lesbian?” Jackson didn’t know if the term was offensive or not. This was new and unpaved territory.
     
    “He called me a dyke bitch. He said I needed to know what a cock felt like.”
     
    “Did you tell any of this to Detective Quince?”
     
    “No.”
     
    “Why not?”
     
    “He didn’t ask.” Amy shook her head. “And I was traumatized and didn’t want to talk about it.”
     
    Jackson asked her a few more questions, extracted her cell phone number in case he needed to talk to her again, and excused himself. In the car, he called Quince.
     
    “Jackson here. Funny question for you. Is Keesha Williams a lesbian?”
     
    Silence. Then from Quince, “I don’t know. I didn’t ask her.”
     
    “What about Amy Hastings? Did you know that she was a lesbian?” Jackson started the cruiser, plugged his ear-bud into his cell phone, and pulled out into the street.
     
    Quince cleared his throat. “I suspected so, but I didn’t specifically ask her.”
     
    “Why not?”
     
    More silence.
     
    Then Jackson said, “It’s not a criticism. I just want to know what your thought process was.”
     
    “It didn’t really come up. The one girl in the house looked kinda butch, so I wondered. Then the butch girl seemed a little protective of Amy. But nothing Amy said implied her sexual orientation, and I didn’t ask. It seemed, uh”—Quince struggled for the right expression—”politically incorrect.”
     
    “Give me Keesha’s phone number and address. Politically correct or not, I need to know. I think these might be hate crimes.” Jackson turned left on 18th and headed west, remembering that Keesha lived near Bailey Hill somewhere.
     
    “I never thought about that. Jesus.” Quince’s distress was palpable. “She lives in those apartments on Wilshire. Let me find her exact information and I’ll call you back.”
     
    Jackson waited in Keesha’s driveway for fifty minutes. He’d spoken to her briefly at work and she agreed to meet him at her apartment on a break. The huge complex of condos had been built recently, and the creamy yellow paint still looked new, even in the shade of the giant fir and oak trees. Give it a few years, Jackson thought. They’ll be fighting the mold and moss like everyone else on the south hills.
     
    A RAV4 pulled in beside him and a young woman wearing lavender scrubs climbed out. Jackson could see why Quince had said the victims were not chosen for a physical type. Unlike Amy, Keesha was sturdy and had long black hair pulled back into a ponytail. As Jackson followed her into the condo, he wondered how a young dental assistant could afford the place. Keesha perched on the edge of her brown velour couch and clenched her hands tightly together. “Let’s get this over with,” she said.
     
    No introductions, no small talk. Okay. Jackson smiled at her. “Are you a lesbian?”
     
    She recoiled for a second, then straightened her shoulders. “Yes. Why does it matter?”
     
    “The second woman who was attacked is also a lesbian. Now that we have that information, it might help us track and apprehend the rapist.”
     
    “He’s attacking gay women?” She didn’t want to believe it.
     
    “It’s a new working theory. Can you help me with it?” Jackson kept his voice soft. “Do you attend any lesbian meetings?”
     
    “What meetings?” Keesha’s sharp head shake and annoyed expression told him she couldn’t