Trail of Echoes

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  I pulled to the curb and saw nothing remarkable—a homeless man sleeping on a bus stop bench that advertised Sylvester Stallone’s latest Expendables flick, a YMCA and Trina Porter’s school, Holy Grace Christian Academy on the south side of the street. The dance academy sat to the east, and the disintegrating plaza sat behind me.

  I glanced at my phone.

  No word from Sam, so I tried one more number he’d given me.

  His landline at his Echo Park townhouse rang twice before someone said, “Hello?” A woman’s voice.

  I froze.

  “Hello?”

  I cleared my throat. “Hi. Is Sam there?” Maybe I called the wrong number. Maybe—

  “He’s out walking the dog. May I take a message?”

  “Please tell him that Detective Norton called.”

  “Oh, hey, Lou,” she said, “it’s Rishma.”

  My gut twisted. Rishma. Ex-wife. Sri Lankan. Very pretty. Senior VP at some engineering firm in Century City.

  “I’ll tell him you called. Will he need to step in other people’s blood or is this just a nice and clean case update?”

  “It’s…” I had been blinded by her voice and could no longer see the YMCA or the school or anything at all. “Just … He can call when he has a moment.”

  “Okay,” she chirped.

  I disconnected before she could say anything else. I sat there, fighting the cold shakes, trying to breathe but unable to take more than a sip of air.

  Alone. I was alone. Again.

  So be it.

  I busted a U-turn on Marlton, then called Syeeda. “You may see me tonight or not.”

  “You’re exhausted, Lou,” she said. “You’re always indefinite when you’re exhausted.”

  I laughed. “You may be right. Or not.”

  “But what can you tell me before you return to the Bat Cave?” Syeeda asked.

  I chewed my bottom lip, flipping through my mind’s index cards for shareable bits. “Allayna was spotted getting into a dark SUV.”

  “Really? Did the witness get the plate number?”

  “Maybe.”

  “When will ‘maybe’ become ‘hell yeah’?”

  “Soon,” I said. “Don’t want him ditching the car cuz he read about it in the paper. I’m pleased yet a little amazed that I didn’t see Mike at Bonner Park.”

  “He said you all threatened him.”

  “Not enough, in my opinion.”

  “People in the neighborhood are pointing at Raul Moriaga.”

  “I can neither deny nor confirm that,” I said.

  “He’s a registered sex offender,” she pointed out.

  “Indeed.”

  “And?”

  “And we’re comparing DNA as we speak,” I said.

  “You’ll let me know before you let anyone else know?”

  “You’re my first love, Scoop.”

  “Speaking of love,” she said. “Sam?”

  I loosened my grip around the steering wheel. “I can neither deny nor confirm.”

  “Ruh roh?”

  “No idea. None. Nada.” I sighed. “I gotta go.”

  The Starbucks on Crenshaw Boulevard was packed with beautiful black folks—they lounged at tables and divans while drinking upside-down caramel macchiatos and mocha lattes. Rihanna bleated from the speakers, “umbrella-ella-ella” competing with the hiss of steamers, the roar of grinders, and cell-phone chatter. As I waited for my turkey and sun-dried tomato panini and passion-fruit iced tea, I snagged a small table out on the patio. I tried not to think of anything—Chanita, Allayna, Sam, 2BT … Sam.

  A hand touched my shoulder.

  I jerked and grabbed the hand, preparing to break it.

  “Whoa!” a man said.

  I released his hand, then offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

  Zach Fletcher grinned down at me and shook his head. “I need that hand.” He looked the same as he had at Bonner Park back on Wednesday—soft brown eyes and great teeth set against an olive complexion. He wore those blue scrubs he’d worn in his earlier e-mail to me and clean, black Nikes. The strap of his battered leather messenger bag crisscrossed his broad chest. He held a bicycle helmet beneath his arm. “What are you doing here?”

  “Taking a break from the madness,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just finished clinic hours,” he explained. “We’re a block away, in the complex with the cobbler place out front.”

  “The cobbler lady knows me by name,” I said. “Blackberry. I always—”

  My iPhone played the Star Wars theme, and Sam’s picture lit up the screen.

  With a trembling finger, I tapped IGNORE CALL.

  Zach pointed at the empty chair across from me. “Is someone sitting…?”

  “No,” I said. “Please. Sit.” The barista waved at me, and I stood.

  Zach sat the helmet on the ground next to my bag. “Oh no. You’re leaving?”

  I pointed at the counter. “Just going to fetch my dinner. I’ll be back.”

  A minute later, Zach eyed my sandwich and tea. “You deserve better than that.”

  I plopped into my chair. “I’ll imagine it’s a rib eye and a glass of Merlot.”

  “Last time we saw each other, you were wet and covered in mud.” He canted his head and smiled. “Today, all clean and dry, you’re even more beautiful. A wonderful trick or do you wake up that way?”

  My cheeks warmed, and I gaped at my sandwich as though a centipede wheeled a unicycle across the bread.

  Zach threw back his head and laughed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to embarrass you, but I calls it as I sees it.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “I know for a fact that I look like the last beat-up, dented can of dog food left on the supermarket shelf. I, too, calls it as I sees it.”

  My phone vibrated, then vibrated again.

  Sam was now texting me.

  “I’m on my fifth cup of the day,” Zach said, tapping the top of his reusable mug. “Can’t wake up. Guess it’s the weather.”

  I picked at my sandwich. “We should be hibernating like the other mammals.”

  He smiled—he really did have nice eyes. And nice teeth. Nice … lots of things.

  “You must have something better to do on a Saturday night than hanging out with a cop,” I said, trying to smile.

  “First of all,” he said, “just a cop? Whatever. And second, is that your way of asking if I have a girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend, to answer your inferred question.”

  “Ah.” My phone vibrated again.

  Zach was watching me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Ignoring someone?”

  “Yes.” Then I smiled. “You from LA?”

  “Changing the subject, then. Okay. Yes, I’m from LA. I grew up all over this beautiful, wretched county. And state. And country.” He chuckled to himself, then shrugged. “My dad was in construction, and he dragged us where the work was. We were never there long enough to make good friends. But!” He held up a finger. “I can pack a suitcase in under five minutes.”

  I bit into my sandwich but didn’t taste a thing. “You said ‘us.’”

  “I have an older sister.” He sipped from his mug. “Had an older sister. She died in high school—we were pretty close. With always having to move, we only had each other as friends most of the time. We did everything together until she…” He stared at my sandwich.

  I knew that pause, that averted glance. “I’m sorry.”

  He scratched his jaw. “She got caught up in the wrong crowd. Got in a car with a bunch of guys one night after a kegger. Ended up naked, beaten, and dead on the side of the road, right out of Henderson, Nevada. Payback for her being … her.”

  “They catch the guys who did it?”

  “Only one guy. And, no, they did not. Then it was just Dad and me.”

  “What about your mother?” I asked.

  He considered me with dead eyes. “She ditched us long before that. Ran away with
some trucker the day after my fifth birthday.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We have a lot in common,” I said, futzing with the straw in my tea.

  He grunted. “Your mom ran away with a trucker, too?”

  I said, “Ha,” then, “No. My bus-driver dad ran away to Vegas when I was eight. And my sister was murdered when she was seventeen.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Seems we’ve both lost a lot.”

  I slumped in my chair, body tired from losing parts of me and using spit and gumption to keep the rest from falling apart.

  He tapped my hand. “Let’s not worry about a long time ago. Hell, I’m over my mother, over my sister, over everything. To be honest, I wouldn’t be where I am today if I’d had the mom, the dad, a dog named Bingo, and a little red wagon. What’s the saying? ‘Adversity causes some men to break and others to break records’?” He shrugged and held up his cup. “I’m in a good place. A great place.”

  I placed my chin in my hand. “And what is that good-great place?”

  “I’m a successful physician seated in a coffee shop with a beautiful and intelligent woman who can wrestle a two-hundred-pound man while wearing heels.”

  I gave him dueling gun fingers. “Two-hundred-fifty pound man.”

  He lifted his cup higher. “Here’s to fucked-up long-time-agos and happily-ever-afters.”

  I hoisted my iced tea.

  Here, here.

  And Sam’s picture lit my screen again.

  “Moment of disclosure,” he said. “I googled you.”

  I frowned.

  He held up his hands. “Just to make sure you weren’t one of those … crazy cops.”

  I grimaced and folded my arms. “Yeah?”

  He smiled. “It’s a necessity nowadays, running background checks. Dating ain’t what it used to be, back when we were kids.” He held out his hand. “We good?” That smile again.

  My heart pounded as I shook his hand. “Guess I’m not a crazy cop, then?”

  “Nope,” he said, “but you should probably update your LinkedIn profile.”

  I laughed.

  “So,” Zach said, “since you’re sitting here, chillaxin’ with me, I’m guessing you’ve caught whoever killed that girl in the park.”

  “Unfortunately, I haven’t. I’m just taking a quick break before diving back in. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  He winced, then waggled his finger and tsked-tsked me.

  “I know, I know.”

  “How’s it going, if I may ask?”

  I gave him the “approved for public consumption” update on Chanita Lords. I told him about Chanita’s funeral and about her being bullied. I complained about inattentive or overloaded parents who force their kids to grow up alone in a world full of monsters.

  Zach bit his lip and stared glumly at the street beyond the window.

  “Sorry for being such a downer,” I said, “but you asked.”

  “Death doesn’t bother me,” he said with a shrug. “Hell, I used to be an EMT back in medical school. I saw death in its most naked state, and you wouldn’t believe…” He cocked his head and chuckled. “You’re a homicide detective—I guess you’d believe it.”

  I said, “Ha, yeah.”

  “So are there any suspects?”

  “Can’t say.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Is that a yes?”

  “It’s a ‘can’t say.’”

  “But from what you said earlier, sounds like the two cases are connected.”

  “Hunh.” I found interest in my now-cold sandwich.

  “When my sister Leanne died,” he said, “people blamed her for her being killed. They said she was ‘too sexy.’” He rolled his eyes. “And I, a young boy, grew up hearing that, and so I also blamed her for dying, even though a little part of me knew … All this murder business. Doesn’t it scare you?”

  “That’s why I drink,” I said, lifting my cup of iced tea. “Usually something much stronger than this. And, yes, it is scary sometimes, but I like the challenge. I like righting wrongs. I like … being an avenger. Truth, justice, and the American way.”

  “We’re all put here to do something.” He looked pointedly at my iPhone. “What do the men in your life think about your mission?”

  “My ex-husband … That’s not him calling. Anyway, me being an avenger was just one of our problems.”

  “And the one blowing up your phone? Is he begging you to put down the gun and take up guitar or glassblowing?”

  I dabbed at crumbs with my middle finger. “He and I may have been … premature. He, too, has a new ex, and he may still…” My pulse jumped. Just to admit that Sam could still love … My heart rested whenever we were together. And with my job, my heart was always pounding. So it was lovely to feel it beat at a normal pace. Now, though …

  Zach touched my hand. “You’re sad.”

  “Bad habit of mine.”

  My iPhone caw-cawed—Colin’s picture, no smile, all business, filled the screen. “I have to get this.”

  “Brooks just finished up,” my partner announced.

  “Let me call you right back,” I told him.

  “Gotta go?” Zach asked.

  “Yep.”

  He led me through the crowd to reach the exit. Out in the parking lot, the growl of traffic bounced off concrete and the thick, dark sky. The scent of frying meat wafted from the Wienerschnitzel—a better option than the coffee-shop panini.

  “I needed that,” I said, leaning against the Crown Vic’s door. “Thank you.”

  “If you ever need to talk and commiserate and just … be, then…” He pointed at his chest. “I’m the guy for you.”

  I laughed. “I’ll keep your application on file. You okay biking in this part of town at this time of night?”

  He smiled. “Proud owner of a ghetto pass since 2004. I treat seventy percent of the population here, so I’m good.”

  “Well, thanks again.”

  Zach stepped back, then said, “I want to see you again, Elouise. But right now you don’t have to figure out if you want that.”

  I said nothing and glanced at the moon, now aglow behind clouds.

  “Don’t worry. When it’s time, we’ll see each other again. Maybe we’ll both be in a good-great place.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  He turned on his heel and strode toward the bike rack outside the coffee shop.

  And I stood there, unsure of what had just happened.

  A dream. This is all a dream.

  And then my phone vibrated.

  A text from Colin.

  Shit, Lou. The monster used bug poison again.

  42

  It was past ten o’clock on a Saturday night, and I didn’t expect to see him hunched over my desk. Sam, dressed in a blue warm-up suit, stood as I weaved past the cuffed and the victimized, the badged and the lawbreakers. He stood, hands on his hips, towering over me. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

  As I waved him out of the way, my heart pounded because it always pounded when he was near. “I don’t have time, Sam, unless you’re here to talk about a case.”

  “Lou—”

  “And how is your wife these days?” I dropped my bag near the wastebasket. “She sounds happy. Guess all is well in the House of Seward?”

  He held up his hands. “Can we talk without the—?”

  “No,” I spat. “I’ve done the ‘she was just answering my phone and I don’t know why she’s here’ bullshit or have you forgotten? I did it before and it diminished me and—”

  “But it’s not what you—” He stopped. “Yes, You’ve heard that before, too. But she’s not my wife anymore, all right? We are divorced. We are not together. It was over between us even before the divorce.”

  I pulled the case file from the bag.

  “She dropped Roscoe at the house,” he explained. “He’s sick and she can’t take care of him and … Nothing’s going on, Lo
u. I swear that’s the truth.”

  I started toward the conference room.

  He grabbed my hand. “Lou, don’t—”

  I glared at him and then at his hand on mine.

  He let go. “Please don’t walk away. Tell me what you want.”

  I squinted at him. “I want someone who doesn’t have to ask me that.”

  He didn’t blink. “I can do that, and whatever else you need.”

  I gaped at him, then said, “I can’t. Not now. Girls are literally dying around me.”

  He dropped back into my chair. “Then I’ll wait.”

  I stared at him a moment more. “Sam. Go. Please. I’ll call—”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll find sixty more things to do, and I’ll look up and it’s Christmas and I’m still waiting to hear from you.”

  I jammed my lips together—he knew me. “I’ll call you. Promise.”

  Flushed, he paused, then said, “Okay.” Because he knew that I’d never break a promise. Not even if keeping that promise destroyed me.

  As I finally took my seat at the conference table, Colin glanced at his wristwatch. “I called you at—”

  “Shut up, Taggert.” I reached for a paper plate, two slices of pizza, and a can of Diet Coke, then sat between Neil and Pepe. I nodded to Gwen, who was shoving ketchup-smothered french fries into her mouth.

  “Can we get started now?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked as he picked cheese from his pizza slice and dropped it on a tired napkin.

  I slumped in the chair and stared at walls covered with a giant area map of 90008, at the pictures of the girls’ homes, trail 5, the park bench, and boot imprints.

  Brooks clicked on the projector, and we were greeted by a picture of Allayna Mitchell on a stainless steel table. “The victim was fourteen. African American, eighty-seven pounds…”

  After twenty seconds of listening to his update, I wanted Brooks to skip the parts I already knew: Allayna’s age, weight, height—all of that. But he didn’t skip those parts. “Methodical” was hardwired into his DNA, and he planned to go through every slide.

  Colin could barely control his giggling at my irritation as Brooks’s monotonous voice droned on and on.

  “Did the same guy kill her or not?” I interrupted.

  Brooks glared at me.

  I glared back. “I know I’m being an asshole, but it’s late, and I’m tired, and you’re tired, and we’ve lost time, and I need to know some shit sooner rather than later, all right?”