Trail of Echoes

by Rachel Howzell Hall

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  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  For my mother, Jacqueline, who kept us from being lost

  Acknowledgments

  So many people had a hand in bringing this book to life. First, there’s you—your dedication to this series and offering advice, well-wishes, chances to read, chances to sign are so meaningful to me. For that thing you did? Thanks so very much. David, Maya, Mom, Dad, Terry, Gretchen, Jason, Jill, and Kristin. I want to thank you by name because your extraordinary support of my silly dream to be a world-famous author should be documented in the Library of Congress … and googleable.

  To say good-bye is to die a little.

  —RAYMOND CHANDLER, The Long Good-bye

  Wednesday, March 19

  1

  At twelve thirty on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, I was breaking one of my cardinal rules as a homicide detective: Never eat lunch with civilians. But on that Wednesday in March, I sat at a Formica-topped table in Johnny’s Pastrami with no ordinary citizen.

  Assistant District Attorney Sam Seward had eyes the color of mint leaves, hands that could palm Jupiter, and a mind agile enough to grasp the story arc of Game of Thrones.

  I had a crush on Sam.

  He liked me, too, even though I associated “bracelets” with “handcuffs” and smelled of gun oil more than lavender. And so when he had asked if I wanted to grab a pastrami with him, I had immediately chirped, “Sure. Why not?” I wanted to have Normal People Lunch with ketchup that squirted from bottles and conversations about March Madness instead of murders, bodies, and blood. More than that, I wanted to have Normal People Lunch with Sam.

  And now he smiled at me like the secret goof he was. And I futzed with the belt of my cowl-necked sweater like the nervous virgin I hadn’t been in twenty years.

  Outside, clouds the color of Tahitian black pearls and drizzle softened the crimson glare of car brake lights. Inside, the diner smelled of meat and onions, and George Harrison crooned from hidden speakers about the way she moves.

  “Elouise Norton,” Sam said, shaking his head. “I cannot believe it.”

  I nibbled a sliver of pastrami. “Why not? I do violence all day.”

  “Which is why I can’t believe you’d watch a show on your downtime that’s all decapitations and grit for an hour and three minutes.”

  I gasped. “You made me watch it.”

  He smoothed his slate-blue tie. “Couldn’t talk to you about the Darson case forever.”

  Sam was prosecuting Max Crase, the man who had murdered high school cheerleader Monique Darson, her sister Macie, and my sister Victoria. Now recovering from a brain tumor, Max Crase had pled insanity. And well … “insane” was just one word I’d use to describe him.

  “Nor do I want to talk about the Darson case now.” I smiled at Sam, then pointed at his face. “You have mustard…”

  He squinted at me. “Get it off, then.”

  My heart pounded—I loved challenges.

  I waited a moment … then leaned forward.

  He moved aside sandwich baskets and almost-full glasses of Diet Coke, then leaned forward but only a little. “Closer,” he demanded.

  I waited … then obeyed.

  His butterscotch-colored cheeks flushed.

  With his face an inch away from mine, I parted my lips.

  And the bell tower tolled: the ringtone for Lieutenant Zak Rodriguez.

  Sam crooked his neck, going for the kiss.

  But the bell tower tolled again—louder and crankier this time.

  “Sounds official,” Sam whispered.

  Going cold, I sank into my seat. “It’s my boss.” I reached for Sam’s hand as my other hand grabbed the phone from my purse.

  “Where you at?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked.

  “Having pastrami and soda pop.”

  “With Taggert?”

  Sam kissed my hand before he let go.

  “Nope.”

  “Pepe and Luke?”

  I pushed my bangs off my flushed forehead. “Nuh uh.”

  Lieutenant Rodriguez sighed. “Please say you’re not with your ex.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not.”

  “Hate to break it up, but you’re on deck. Some joggers found a body up in Bonner Park.”

  My ankle holster, stuffed now with my lunch gun, pinched my skin—death had a way of yanking you from Wonderland. “Really? This early in the day?”

  “And whoever left it there is one cold son of a bitch.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  “He put it in one of those large duffel bags, the kind soldiers carry. And he left it there on the trail. In this weather.”

  Outside our window, the wind had picked up, making palm fronds frantic and street signs swing. Back in the calm mustiness of Johnny’s, someone had dropped a quarter into the tabletop jukebox and had pressed E6: Olivia Newton-John asking if I’ve ever been mellow.

  “Yeah,” Lieutenant Rodriguez was saying, “and where he left it? Up on that trail? It ain’t the typical boneyard. Anyway, I’ll call Taggert and we’ll meet you over there. Maybe you shoulda had one of your salads today. Edamame and shit instead of all that meat.”

  Martha Bonner Park. Hills, trees, valleys—a beautiful jewel in the city’s crown. I jogged, hiked, and fed ducks there whenever I wasn’t watching divers pull guns and bodies out of its murky-green fake lake.

  “Gotta go?” Sam asked, eyes on his iPhone.

  “Yep.”

  “Same here. I’m helping to plan Congresswoman Fortier’s jazz funeral.”

  “Saturday, right?”

  He nodded. “A second line down Crenshaw. A horse, a brass band, all of it.”

  I dug in my purse for the car keys. “How many permits did you all have to pull for a New Orleans homegoing in the middle of Los Angeles?”

  He rubbed his face. “You have no idea. And I hear all of NOLA is coming to usher her into the great beyond.” He emerged from behind his hands with a smile. “But I’m glad we had a moment to ourselves.”

  I blushed. “Me too.”

  Even though this was our first date, nothing else needed to be said or explained. I gotta go. No apology, no weird hostility. He, too, had to keep LA from exploding.

  Oh, how I liked Sam.

  Hand in hand, we walked to the parking lot, stopping at the light-blue Crown Vic that would stink of mildew until August.

  “So you owe me.” Towering over me, Sam rested his hands on my waist.

  I tensed, aware of my bulky ballistics vest, hoping that he didn’t think that was all … me. “Owe you? For what?”

  “For ending our lunch so soon.”

  I shivered—not because of the forty-degree weather. “Bullshit. We were
basically done.”

  “I wanted pie.”

  I straightened the collar of his black wool overcoat. “Fine. You’ll get your pie.”

  Then, my freakin’ iPhone caw-cawed from my pocket: the ringtone for Colin Taggert, my partner of nine months.

  Sam dropped his hands and backed away from me. “If your case is a dunker, come over tonight and watch something other than a basketball game. You could bring pie.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’ll call me?”

  “Yes.”

  And the eagle caw-cawed again: America was calling.

  I plucked the phone from my pocket. “I’m on my way,” I told Colin, slipping behind the Ford’s steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, I watched Sam climb into his black Bimmer.

  “The body in the—” Colin sneezed, then sneezed again. “The body in the park. Prepare yourself: it’s a girl.”

  Just when you’re trying to be mellow.

  2

  I had only wanted to have Normal People Lunch with a handsome man—the first lunch of its kind since divorcing Greg Norton.

  “But then you’ve always been a bit of a diva,” Lena Meadows said. She and my other sorority sister, Syeeda McKay, had crammed their heads together to fit in the iPad’s shot.

  I had found a parking space close to the park’s fake lake. The millions of raindrops pebbling the Ford’s windows softened the glares of the blue and red lights from patrol cars and fire engines. “Lunch was really … Sam’s so … so effin’…”

  “Say it!” Syeeda shouted. “Hot. He’s so effin’ hot.”

  Lena moved her face closer to the iPad’s camera. “So have we broken our three-month dry spell?”

  I gave them an exaggerated frown. “No, we have not.”

  Lena shouted, “Boo!”

  “Pastrami is supposed to be the gateway meat,” Syeeda screamed.

  I threw my head back and laughed, long and hard.

  “It’s cuz she’s dressed like an Amish settler,” Lena said. “A big-ass sweater, Lou?”

  “It’s raining, Lena,” I said. “I could catch cold.”

  “But the ex is out of the picture, right?” Syeeda asked.

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Sam’s or mine?”

  “Both.”

  “Yes, for me. As for Mr. Seward, he told me that they only talk about the dog. She has custody, not that she even likes the dog. Or Sam.”

  “He’s not ambitious enough?” Syeeda asked.

  “He likes being a DA for now. But Rishma wanted to be the mayor’s wife yesterday.”

  Syeeda smiled. “You’re seeing him tonight, yes?”

  “Maybe. He wants … pie. Hope you don’t mind me missing DVR Wednesday.”

  “Only want to see you laughing in the purple rain,” Syeeda said.

  “Then I’ll come home really, really late,” I said, skin flushed.

  A minute later, I stood near the Japanese bridge in Martha Bonner Park, my heeled boots sinking in mud thick with candy wrappers and cigarette butts, surrounded by cops, firefighters, and paramedics.

  “Where you at?” I growled into my Motorola radio.

  “Don’t move,” Colin said. “The White Knight’s comin’ to get you.”

  I slipped my messenger bag across my chest. “Doesn’t look like a Wednesday, does it?”

  No kids swinging from monkey bars or retirees walking the trails. No personal trainers leading small classes of round housewives on a patch of grass. The ducks on the lake had remained, but no preschoolers threw crumbs of stale bread.

  “Cuz it’s raining,” Colin pointed out. “You Angelenos don’t do rain.”

  A handful of civilians had gathered behind a barrier made of rope, canary-yellow crime-scene tape, and six thousand of LA’s bravest.

  Just three miles from my division, and located in Baldwin Hills, Martha Bonner Park was home to gray foxes, raccoons, skunks, possums, and forty-one species of birds. And they weren’t stupid enough to scamper around in this weather. Just us smarter creatures. The 380 acres of land boasted playgrounds, picnic areas, seven miles of hiking trails, and the man-made fishing lake. The park also sat in the middle of the highest concentration of black wealth in the nation. The homes on the park’s perimeter cost thousands of dollars less than their equivalents in Brentwood and Santa Monica—here, you got more house, more land, and maybe even an orange tree. Ah, segregation.

  “Lou! Up this way.” Colin Taggert strode toward me. His blond hair lay flat on his head, and his Nikes and the hems of his nylon track pants were caked in red mud. His tanned skin looked pea-green, as though he had been bobbing on a dinghy for three hours.

  He pointed at my trench coat, sweater, and heeled combat boots (if Doc Marten and Salvatore Ferragamo had a baby…). “You almost got those right,” he said, pointing to the boots.

  “I’m in a good mood,” I said. “Wanna take a chance?”

  He blew his nose into a bouquet of tissue. “I was supposed to go boardin’ up in Mammoth tomorrow.”

  “A warm cabin sounds really good right now.”

  “I invited you,” he said. “We could’ve grilled some steaks. Snuggled in front of the fireplace. Guzzled cases of beer.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Why? So you could give me your cold?”

  “Oh, I’d give you something—” He sneezed, then shoved his nose into the tissue.

  I grinned. “If this is you seducing me…”

  He started back to the trail still wiping his nose.

  “Ooh, baby,” I said, following him. “The way you sneeze, and all that snot. Ooh, Colin, you give me fever. I’m getting hot from just being around you.”

  Without looking back, he threw me the bird.

  We traveled a well-developed gravel road lined with parked earthmovers and green park services pickup trucks. We veered right and onto a red-dirt trail that ran between large overgrowths of coastal sage, eucalyptus, and cypress trees.

  I stopped at the large trail marker. “Where we going?”

  Colin pointed to trail 5, northwest of the red “You Are Here” dot. “A mile and a half up.”

  Dread knotted in my stomach. “Who’d dump a body that far from the parking lot?”

  A police helicopter roared across a sky now the color of tarnished silverware. The rain had stopped, but fog rolled in from the Pacific Ocean four miles away. Up ahead, through the brush, forensic lights burned like supernovas. Clumps of patrol cops dotted the trail, and a few uniforms gave Colin and me a “what’s up” and a “good luck.”

  “Before I drove over,” Colin said, glancing back at me, “a man stopped by lookin’ for you. Tall, black, older. Didn’t leave his name.”

  That visitor had been Victor Starr, the man who had contributed sperm toward my existence and then abandoned the results eight years later. Back in December, he had spent the night wrestling with angels or some crap like that because, after being MIA for almost thirty years, he had showed up on my front porch, expecting hugs, tears, and a heartfelt chat over cups of International Foods coffee.

  Yeah. That didn’t happen. I had better shit to do that day, and the next day and the next day and today and tomorrow.

  “Second time this week he’s dropped in,” Colin said. “Some dude you meet outside AARP headquarters?”

  “Ha,” I said.

  “So who is he?”

  A nerve near my left eye twitched. “Victor Starr.”

  Colin looked back at me again, eyebrows high this time.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Really.”

  He chuckled. “He’s just like you: he doesn’t know when to give up. You’re Little Lockjaw and he’s Daddy Lockjaw. So sweet—I think I’m gonna cry.”

  “And I think I’m gonna vomit,” I said. “Anyway: you said ‘girl.’ Do you mean that in its colloquial, sexist usage? Or do you mean ‘girl’ as in ‘girl’?”

  “As in ‘girl.’ Teenager, if you really wanna get technical. Could be the one who went missing last week.”

&n
bsp; “Yeah, that narrows it down.” Not.

  Just last week, over in Inglewood, a teen girl had been abducted from her driveway; and in Gardena, another teen had been kidnapped by her stepfather. And then there was Trina Porter, the fourteen-year-old stolen earlier this month from a bookstore near my old neighborhood. We had no clue where Trina was or if she was even alive. So again: which girl?

  Guess I’d find out soon.

  3

  We came to a clearing of low grass and mud where twelve civilians stood around as two patrol cops interviewed each person one at a time. Detective Luke Gomez, plump and short-legged, was snapping pictures of the group.

  “Think the monster’s still hanging around?” Colin asked.

  “Now that we’re here with our questions and suspicions and nosiness?” I shook my head.

  Detective Peter “Pepe” Kim, Luke’s partner, was talking to a light-skinned, middle-aged black man dressed in a khaki-shorts park ranger’s uniform. The ranger resembled Smokey Robinson with his café au lait complexion, short curly hair more gray than brown, and fine nose butched-up with a mustache. He was muscular for an older guy, and, like me, he wasn’t dressed for this weather.

  Colin sneezed.

  I frowned. “Thought you were going home.”

  “L.T. caught me at the door. How was lunch with Seward?”

  “Fine.”

  “I was picturing you going out with some muscle-head. The opposite of your ex.”

  “I did—Lena fixed me up with the Dodger, remember?”

  He laughed, then nodded. “Oh yeah. Angry Pitcher.”

  I sighed. “Dude needed a Zoloft and a bubble—” My step faltered, and I covered my nose with my hand. “Oh shit.”

  Colin reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a little tub of Noxzema. “Since I can’t smell a thing.” He offered me the jar.

  The pastrami in my gut soured as I swiped cream beneath my nostrils.

  Colin made a sad face. “And you’re wearing such a nice sweater, too.”

  We reached the tarp and the victim now hidden beneath a yellow plastic sheet—and guarded by one big man in a wet trench coat.