by Alan Russell
Lisbet shook her head. “I would have expected a better five-syllable word from you.”
“Give me an op-por-tun-i-ty,” I said.
“I think I’ve created a monster.”
“You mean like the a-bom-in-a-ble snowman?”
“You have a talent for this game,” she admitted, “but I wish you’d use your i-mag-in-a-tion for something else.”
I raised my wineglass to her, but then the five-headed monster showed itself again: “Con-gra-tu-la-tions!”
Lisbet rolled her eyes, which was certainly the appropriate response. Try as I might to come up with some other five-syllable words, the well seemed to have run dry.
“Hungry?” Lisbet asked.
I had to think about it. When I’m on the hunt, I usually don’t think about food. Up until now I’d attributed the ache in my stomach to disappointment, but realized that in part it was from not having eaten.
“I am.”
“I’ll serve up the meal.”
“And I’ll feed Sirius.”
Her hand reached out and stopped me from getting up. “I already have his dinner set aside. You stay put.”
Sirius must have known what we were talking about, because he followed Lisbet into the kitchen. I put my feet up on an ottoman, stretched back into the sofa, and did my sipping.
Comfort food was on the night’s menu. Lisbet filled the table with fried chicken, baked potatoes, and broccoli. I joined her there, and we both started eating. The food helped to fill some of the void I was feeling.
Lisbet refilled my wineglass. It’s rare for her to have more than one glass. She knows her limits and knows what is good for her. I believe in a sliding scale, which I hope won’t lead to a slippery slope. The wine loosened my tongue, even if I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. I had planned to spare Lisbet the details of my day, but found myself talking about it anyway.
I told her about climbing Skyline Trail and wondering if I was crazy for thinking that someone might have ambushed Langston Walker and then tried to make it look as if he had slipped and hit his head.
“Everyone believes it was an accident,” I said. “I seem to be the only one with doubts.”
“Why would anyone want to kill a retired cop?”
“There’s only one reason I can think of.” I told her about Walker’s ghost remark and his looking into a closed case.
“And you think this individual was so threatened by the possibility of Detective Walker’s reopening the case that he murdered him?”
“If you’ve already murdered someone, is it such a stretch to think you might be capable of committing a second murder?”
Lisbet shook her head. “It’s hard for me to envision that.”
For her sake, I was glad that was so. I wished that it wasn’t so easy for me.
“Everyone knew Langston would be hiking the trail on that day. If I was to choose a spot to ambush him, I would have picked the area where he died.”
“That might just be a coincidence.”
“I know.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to attend his funeral service tomorrow. And I’m going to try to arrange a time to talk to his wife. Maybe she’ll have some insights, or maybe she’ll let me look through his paperwork to see if I can find her husband’s ghost.”
“Now you’re the one who’s haunted.”
“I am frustrated,” I admitted, “but not so much about Walker. I can’t be sure if I’m making something out of nothing. What I am sure about is that I want to study his death further. It’s not his case that has me in a funk, though. It’s Heather Moreland.”
“How can you even be sure that she’s been abducted? Isn’t that still in question?”
I shook my head. “Angie made me sure. Heather Moreland is a stand-up woman. She never would have abandoned her beloved dog.”
I let out some air and made a small confession. “I dreamed about Heather Moreland and Langston Walker last night.”
“You had a fire dream?”
I nodded. Lisbet knows I don’t like to talk about my dreams and the visions that come with them, but on a handful of occasions, she’s been sleeping next to me when they occurred. She’s never pried. The only thing she’s tried to do is catch me during one of my difficult landings. Once or twice I have talked about the moment after. Confession might be good for the soul, but I find it distinctly uncomfortable. Talking about my dreams is tantamount to admitting to PTSD, and that’s something I don’t like doing. I don’t even like to admit it to myself.
“I suspect the dream had something to do with the fake building in West L.A. where I found Angie’s tracking device. I was disappointed it didn’t lead us to Heather, but it also provided me with a ray of hope that she’s alive.”
Lisbet nodded, but I sensed she thought mine was wishful thinking. I explained why I hoped it was not.
“The tracking device was planted at a specific spot. It wasn’t crushed and tossed out in the trash, but instead was purposely situated in West L.A. To my thinking, that’s a good thing. If she was already dead, I don’t think the abductor would have gone to such lengths.”
“Was she—alive—in your dream?”
I didn’t like Lisbet having to tread so carefully and feel the need to be so selective in her choice of words.
“Yes,” I said, “although I never saw her. I could faintly hear her calling for me. But I couldn’t see her. She was obscured by fog.”
“There were no—insights—then?”
I wanted to tell Lisbet to stop walking on goddamn eggshells, but instead took a breath and shook my head.
“At least she was alive in your dream,” said Lisbet.
“There is that.”
I didn’t need to tell Lisbet about the additional pressure I felt with each passing day. She knew. I could feel it in her touch as she stroked my arm.
“This chicken is great,” I said, taking another bite.
She seemed to find that funny. “Save some room for dessert.”
“What did you make?”
“Key lime pie,” she said. “You’ll have to tell me if you want it with whipped cream.”
I remembered how Walker and I had both eschewed whipped cream on the sweet potato pie we’d split.
“There’s a restaurant I want to take you to in the next week or two,” I said. “It’s sort of a fusion soul place.”
“That sounds great.”
Our talk took some of the weight off me. The pressure in my neck eased, making swallowing easier. The food began tasting better, and I didn’t have to fake my enthusiasm. After both of us finished eating, we sat around the dinner table, passing the time in each other’s company. For a few minutes at least, I wasn’t ruminating about the disappearance of Heather Moreland.
I insisted upon doing the dishes, and Lisbet sat in the bar area to keep me company. As hard as she tried to fight off her yawns, several of them surfaced. It was late and she was tired.
When I finished with the dishes, she said, “Coming to bed?”
“In a little while,” I promised.
We hugged, did a little dance, and then she went off to the bedroom. As is our nightly habit, Sirius and I went for a short walk, even though both of us were stiff-legged from our exertions earlier in the day.
When we returned from our outing, I decided it was time for a nightcap and some music. There was still some wine left in the bottle, so I settled into the sofa and donned earphones so as to not disturb Lisbet. I went with a recent release I’d heard: Adam Lambert’s “Ghost Town.” The lyrics struck close to home. The song’s opening, where Lambert talked about dying last night in his dreams, could have been biographical. Every time I had a fire dream, it felt like a little death. There was also the song’s lyric about walking into the flames. Everything that was being sung seemed a little too close for comfort.
Normally there’s a part of me that’s afraid to sleep. It is the “perchance to dream” part. Alm
ost burning to death once was enough. Continuing to do it is sometimes such a scary prospect that I struggle against sleep.
But not tonight.
I joined Lisbet in bed, feeling defiant. Bring on the flames, I thought, and let me burn. I was willing to have my dream if it would reveal some hidden insight that could assist me in finding Heather Moreland.
An-ti-ci-pa-tion, I thought, coming up with one last five-syllable word. It didn’t help, though. I slept through the night.
There was not even a hint of smoke. Nor were there any smoke signals to be divined.
CHAPTER 26
GIVING UP THE GHOST
Langston Walker’s memorial service was being held at the First African Methodist Episcopal Church, called FAME by some and First AME by others. By the time I arrived, both the regular parking lot and the overflow lot were full. I had to settle for street parking in the Jefferson Park neighborhood, an impoverished area in southwest L.A. My car “alarm” was at home; I’d given Sirius the morning off. There were enough elements about my vehicle to suggest it was an off-duty police car, but I wasn’t sure if that would deter would-be thieves or make it a magnet for vandals. As I passed by my car, I fondly tapped it twice and hoped it would be there when I returned.
FAME is one of the larger megachurches in Los Angeles and an important hub in L.A.’s African American community. When I worked Metropolitan K-9, I was called to the Jefferson Park area on several occasions, but I’d never had reason to go inside the church. As large as the building was, it appeared that those mourning Langston Walker were going to fill its interior real estate.
I thought of my wife’s memorial service but remembered few specifics. I’m sure I was in shock, and it was all I could do to be there in person. In the days following Jennifer’s death, it was an accomplishment just getting out of bed. My good friends drove me to the service, guided me as to what to do and how to act, and then took me home. Sirius was there waiting for me, and the two of us mourned together.
The number of people in the church said a lot about Langston, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I would have even a tenth as many mourners when I died.
I walked down the aisle, and as I looked for a spare seat, I saw plenty of familiar faces. The 187 Club was well represented, as was LAPD. Art Epstein was there and had his arm around a young man who had to be his son Joel. We nodded to each other, but there was no space in his pew, which was just as well. This wasn’t a day to talk about Ellis Haines.
An African American family of five waved me down to join them. The family closed ranks, allowing room enough for all of us. I nodded my thanks to them. They happened to be standing from tallest to smallest. Right next to me was the mother, a tall, heavy woman who looked to be in her late thirties. Her husband, a few inches shorter and a few years older, stood next to her. The two daughters were next in line. They looked to be fraternal twins, each on the cusp of being a teen. At the end was a boy, who was perhaps ten.
“We’re the Williamses,” said the mother. “I’m Grace, and this is my husband, Dion.”
“Sometimes Grace forgets I can speak for myself,” said Dion. He extended his hand, and we shook.
“I’m Michael Gideon,” I said.
“This is Mr. Gideon,” Grace told her children. “And this is Destiny, Amity, and Justice.”
“Those are great virtue names,” I said, “just like yours.”
“I thought I would continue the tradition of my mother and her mother before her,” said Grace.
“I suggested we name one of the children Silence,” said Dion, “a greatly underrated virtue.”
Even in the somber setting of a memorial service, I couldn’t help but laugh. The twins rolled their eyes, while Justice dismissively said, “Dad.” It was clear they’d heard their father’s observation before.
“How do you know Langston?” Grace asked.
“I work LAPD,” I said, deciding on the shortest explanation.
“You hear that?” said Dion. “You kids act up and I’ll have Mr. Gideon arrest you.”
There was more eye-rolling, and another aggrieved, “Dad.”
“And how do you know him?” I asked.
“Langston and Savannah live just down the street from us. And we go to the same church.”
We were all still speaking in the present tense, I noticed. We were all reluctant to let Langston go.
“Not this church?”
She shook her head. “Our church is too small to accommodate this many people. That’s why the service is being held here. And that’s also why the service won’t be adhering to the usual AME program. Savannah wanted to do it Langston’s way.”
“That’s as it should be,” I said.
“Amen,” said Grace.
Despite our being toward the back of the church, the space still felt intimate, something rare in big buildings. A woman who I assumed was Savannah Walker was sitting in the front row, flanked by her family. Every so often she dabbed her eyes with a tissue, but it was clear she was resolved not to break down during the service. Her children and grandchildren were not as inclined to rein in their grief; there was a lot of quiet sobbing going on.
Before the service began, I tried picking out which mourners were members of the 187 Club. I was pretty sure on most of my selections, identifying them by their thousand-yard stare. They were thinking about another memorial service, just as I had been. I suspected many were reliving that awful time surrounding the murder of their loved ones. There was no getting over that; there was just learning how to cope in its aftermath.
The sound of a musical introduction signaled that the service was about to begin. “They have three or four choirs at First AME,” whispered Grace, “and I think Savannah was able to talk all of them into singing.”
I was used to memorial services being somber events, but from the first this seemed more like a celebration than a solemn remembrance. The service started with the song “Stand.” It was new to me, but not to most who were there. The song’s lyrics commanded that everyone get to their feet. Stand we did. Clap we did, fast and loud. Hope we did.
There were prayers, of course, and a moving eulogy, but mostly there was up-tempo music. The different choruses would not let us be passive, exhorting us in their refrains to get out of our seats and move our feet and clap our hands. As different as all this was from the services I’d grown up with in the Catholic Church, I didn’t feel out of place. There was no “Ave Maria,” but there were gospel standards with choruses perfect for the mourners, including “I’ll Fly Away,” “I’m Free,” and “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”
The recessional of “Amazing Grace” was familiar to all. John Newton had written the hymn, and I wondered how many people in the church knew that he’d been a slave-ship captain before realizing the error of his ways and becoming an abolitionist. Everyone held hands and sang. I thought about Newton’s journey as we sang the refrain, “I once was lost but now I’m found, was blind, but now I see.”
I felt that blindness. For the sake of my cases, I hoped it would pass. I hoped I’d be able to see.
After I reclaimed my hand from Grace, she asked, “You’ll be going to the repast, won’t you?”
I opened up my mouth to offer up some excuse, but Grace could read my intentions and intervened. “You know Langston wouldn’t want his LAPD friends to leave hungry.”
“He did like good food,” I said, remembering our dinner. “But I really . . .”
Grace was already shaking her head. “And you wouldn’t want to offend Savannah.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know her,” I said.
“That’s all the more reason for you to stay and meet her. I’ll be sure to introduce the two of you.”
Talking with Savannah Walker was on my follow-up list, but I hadn’t planned on talking to her on the day of her husband’s memorial service.
“Welcome to your new family,” Dion said.
The repast was being held in the biggest of the church mee
ting halls. There were several catered carving stations, but there was also an abundance of home-cooked casseroles, greens, salads, and desserts.
I regretted having come empty-handed, and wouldn’t have eaten but for Grace. She brought me a heaping plate and ignored my protests. By this time she’d learned I was a widower (it’s a word she used, but one I’ve never been comfortable with), and had decided I wasn’t really capable of looking after myself. It didn’t surprise me to learn that Grace was a first-grade teacher. At least she didn’t cut the meat on my plate.
Dion and I made small talk. I learned he worked in human resources for UPS, having transitioned from being a driver.
“I used to get a lot more exercise,” he said, patting his stomach, “but after almost twenty years of all that running, I’d had enough.”
“Was that your decision or Grace’s?” I asked.
He laughed and started nodding. “I remember coming home one day and seeing some textbooks on the table. ‘What are these doing here?’ I asked. And that’s when I learned I was going to night school.”
Both of us looked over to Grace. She was in the process of separating Justice from his first course of dessert and insisting he eat “real food.” Dion looked at me and raised his eyebrows. We both hid our grins.
Around us all the tables were rapidly filling up. At the table directly across from us, I recognized a familiar face. It took me a moment to place Ronaldo from the 187 Club without his soccer jersey. He was wearing a black suit. The two of us nodded at each other.
Dion noticed the exchange and asked, “Cop?”
I shook my head. Everyone at Ronaldo’s table, I realized, was a member of the 187 Club. I wasn’t sure if I should explain how I was acquainted with him and the others at the table. As far as I was aware, the 187 Club wasn’t like AA, where you were supposed to respect the privacy of its members, but I couldn’t be sure.
“He’s one of Langston’s friends,” I said.
Seated next to Ronaldo was Catalina Ceballos. And not surprisingly, next to her was James, the man who had comforted her when Catalina became upset while talking about her husband’s status as a “cleared other.” It seemed to me that in the wake of Walker’s death, most of the 187 Club members looked shell-shocked. There didn’t seem to be much talking going on at their table, or at several of the other tables filled by club members. The introspection I’d noticed during the service seemed to have carried over to the repast. Maybe the membership was realizing the additional void in their worlds created by Langston’s death.
