Trail of Echoes

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “Oh, shut up,” I muttered, closing my eyes.

  I’d call Sam at a decent hour. I’d apologize again for Lena and Colin. I’d offer him a redo. I’d send him cupcakes.

  Truth be told, I wasn’t ready for overnights, spooning, or early-morning fumbling in the dark followed by sunrise head. I wasn’t ready to share my … pie. Truth be told.

  I turned away from the place Sam should’ve lain and pulled the comforter over my head. Thankfully, I was exhausted enough to doze until the eager sun, fresh from that trip to Fiji or Antarctica, pushed aside the clouds and brightened the bedroom with copper-colored light.

  A day without rain. Maybe.

  As I tugged on my blue wool slacks, my cell phone rang.

  Ewoks.

  I answered the call. “Good morning, Gregory. I don’t have a lot of—”

  “Time to talk,” my ex-husband finished, smoky-voiced. “I’ve heard that before. I know the drill. But Arianna What’s-Her-Face, our Realtor? I fired her and hired someone else.”

  “Great,” I said, stuffing the tails of my gray shirt into my pants.

  “I know you’re busy, but this is important. Let’s get together.”

  “Get together with you or with the Realtor?”

  Greg paused, then said, “Well, with me first. To talk about a few things.”

  I gritted my teeth, tired of this back-and-forth with him.

  “So?” Greg said. “When can we talk?”

  I buttoned my pants. “Sunday.”

  He sighed. “You know, Lou, I—”

  “And we’re no longer married and I don’t have to listen to you complain about me anymore. And now, I’m going to hang—”

  “Is it because you’re … busy?”

  “Yes.”

  “You see Avengers yet?”

  I shoved my left foot into the right loafer. “I did.”

  “With Sy and Lena?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m working on this cool game you’re gonna like.”

  I reversed feet, then tried again. “That’s nice.”

  “It’s steam-punk meets—”

  “Uh huh, that’s nice.” I grabbed a suit jacket and a pair of hiking boots from the closet. “Greg, I need to—”

  “Who’d you see Avengers—?”

  “Gotta go. See you Sunday.”

  Outside, puffy white clouds speckled the clean blue sky. Driving south, I glanced in the rearview mirror: sunlight glinted off the Griffith Park Observatory’s golden dome. It was cold—fifty-three degrees—but it was good cold. Face-lift cold.

  As I opened the door to the detectives’ bureau, the peace abruptly ended. The March Madness board had been updated—Texas had defeated Arizona State, and Villanova beat Milwaukee—and that was the only nugget of order. Not even eight o’clock yet, and men in cheap suits shouted into telephones, into radios, and at each other. The copy machine shuttled reams of paper around its drum. Metal desk after metal desk held haphazard stacks of folders, rap sheets, BOLOs, and other detritus found in busy bull pens throughout the galaxy.

  My desk served as a monument to organized chaos: Sam’s flowers, a stack of color-coded folders, bulging accordion files in the credenza, and one sticky note left by Colin slapped onto my computer monitor. With Luke. Krispy Kreme for surveillance video … and donuts!!!

  “Detective Norton?”

  A round-faced, round-bodied black man appeared at my desk as though Scotty had just beamed him down from the starship Enterprise. He looked clean and neat in his JCPenney dress shirt and blue and silver sales-rack necktie—the costume of a bank teller or customer-service rep at the gas company. His earnest brown eyes flicked here and there, out of sorts with the environment but not wholly uncomfortable with it, either.

  “You left a message with my sister yesterday,” the man said now.

  I squinted at him. “I did?”

  He nodded. “About Nita. Or Regina. I’m Maurizio—”

  “Oh. Yes. That’s right. Maurizio Horsley.” I directed him to sit in the empty chair beside my desk. “You and Regina dated.”

  “I guess so.” His legs jittered, and he placed his hands between his knees. “We broke up two months ago.”

  I grabbed a pen and pad. “Mind telling me why?”

  “I caught her forging checks from my bank account.”

  My pen paused, and I cocked my head. “Really?”

  He wiped at the beads of sweat on the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t know she was a thief—we didn’t live together. I still don’t know where she lives. We always met at places.”

  “And where did you first meet?”

  “At the bank where I work. I met her daughter only once. Unfortunately.”

  “And you say ‘unfortunately’ because…?”

  “Because one time Regina used her to distract me.” He shook his head. “Gee was tearing checks out of my checkbook while Nita was showing me pictures she’d taken on her camera.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “Wow.”

  He nodded, and tears filled his eyes like he’d just learned he’d been conned minutes ago.

  “You press charges?” I asked.

  “She begged me not to. Three strikes.”

  I studied him—clean nails, trim mustache, nerve pinging near his left temple, fists clenching and unclenching. “How much she take?”

  “A little over a grand.”

  “And you just…? You’re a nice guy.”

  “Her people are…” He swallowed. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “And you think Chanita was in on the con?”

  He shrugged.

  “You hate them?” I asked.

  His eyes dropped to his clenching fists. He sighed, then nodded.

  “Do you know that Chanita’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have anything to do with her death?”

  His eyes widened. “Me? Oh Lord, no! Never. No.”

  “Would you be willing to give me a DNA sample?”

  “Sure. Yes. Please.” He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue.

  I chuckled. “Hold on a minute.” I glanced around the room—Pepe was hunched over the copier drum, fixing a paper jam.

  A minute later, Maurizio Horsley and Pepe disappeared into one of the interview rooms.

  Alone again, I turned in my chair. On the whiteboard, Maurizio’s name had been written beneath “POI.” No wonder he kept wetting the bed. I placed a check by his name, then found the Web site for MmmGrace Cupcakes. I ordered a dozen salted caramel, to be delivered to Sam Seward with a note:

  You are Magic.

  24

  Cupcakes ordered. Spit taken. One suspect down, countless more to go.

  Lena texted: Sam! Plz tell me u are basking!! #afternoondelight

  I texted back: Maybe next time.

  She responded. What are you waiting for?? #ColonyonMars??

  I chuckled, then let my fingers dance across the phone’s keyboard. Enough time to bask! #afternoondelight

  Colin banged into the office, cell phone to his ear, green and yellow necktie untied. “I had fun, too … No, you’re…” He laughed. “Well, I have work to do, darlin’…” He dropped his bag to the floor. “Yep … Yep. I’ll let you know.” He tossed the phone on the desk, then plopped into his chair. “Morning, sunshine. You look happy.”

  “But you’re here,” I said, smiling. “Alas, my joy is short-lived.”

  “Ha,” he said, knotting his tie.

  “You look nearly recovered.”

  He swiveled in his chair. “All thanks to my little hottie.” He found a picture on his phone and showed me Carly, all done up as a naughty nurse.

  I snorted. “She doesn’t look a day over sixty.”

  “She works that pole, though.”

  “Well, she’s been workin’ it since the Prohibition.”

  He flipped me the bird. “So, after gettin’ some tender lovin’ care from her, I’m now the picture of health. Never under
estimate the power of a woman.”

  “One more cliché.”

  “I’m strong as an ox.” He stopped swiveling and pointed at me. “You know? I like Sam. You two are a good match. Like peas and carrots.”

  I blinked at him. “I hate peas and carrots.”

  “You’d eat ’em if you used more butter,” he said. “And you and Sam? You two got lots of butter.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So the Krispy Kreme security footage?”

  He gave me guns fingers. “Every three days, the manager tapes over shit. So Friday’s tape is long gone.”

  The muscles in my body felt weighted down—this case was pulling me under, threatening to drown me.

  “And Luke has the donuts,” he said.

  “And where’s Luke?”

  “Stopped at Bang Bang’s. Dealing with Chanita’s phone and e-mail and all that.”

  “You left Luke alone with a box of donuts?”

  Colin logged on to his computer. “Fat jokes, Elouise?”

  “No,” I said, “Pepe told me that Luke now has whatever germs you had. And Luke never, ever covers his mouth when he sneezes.”

  Colin winced. “So what’s on today’s agenda?”

  “Back to Bonner Park since there’s a break in the weather.” I forwarded my desk phone to my cell phone in case Zucca or Brooks called. “Let’s get goin’ before the rain starts again.”

  Usually on sunny weekends at Bonner Park, fifteen-year-old Hispanic girls wearing wedding gowns the color of Jolly Rancher candy posed by the Japanese bridge and waterfall. Her sixteen attendants, each wearing more Jolly Rancher candy–colored gowns, and boys wearing zoot suits, all waited to say “cheese” for the professional photographer.

  But this rainy weekend, there would be no quinceaneras here.

  The only people at the lake now were the old codgers. Each man wore a baseball cap—Steelers, Lakers, Raiders, Best Grandpa Ever. No New Orleans Saints. I relied on that hat—nothing else in Vanessa’s picture had been as clear and obvious as that hat.

  Colin parked in the community center’s empty lot. “Wasn’t the sun out when we left? Like, ten minutes ago?”

  I glanced at the sky—rain clouds the color of S.O.S. pads had hijacked the friendly clouds and the sun.

  “Think the park ranger’s in today?” Colin asked.

  No other car was parked in the lot, and the community center looked dark. The lower portion of Bonner Park was no longer cordoned off by yellow police tape. Wind whistled through the oaks and eucalyptus trees, and the creak of oil dickeys just over the hill carried on the wind.

  Colin’s teeth chattered as he shoved his hands deep into his jacket’s pockets. “Feels like Colorado today. Thought I left that weather behind.”

  I opened the trunk and grabbed the hiking boots. Colin yanked at the center’s door—locked. He peered through the iron grate covering the windows, then knocked on the door. “Maybe he’s out stopping bears from stealing pic-a-nic baskets.”

  I stomped my feet—the boots were warm and dry—then glanced up at the trail that led to the dump site. “Ready?”

  “Can’t we drive some of the way?”

  “We need to see everything—can’t do that in a car.” I smiled and elbowed him in the abdomen. “Show me your stuff, Mountain High.”

  Ten minutes into our hike, my cell phone vibrated.

  An e-mail from Dr. Zach. Detective Elouise Norton, I have so much to ask you. What kind of coffee do you like? Books or movies? Rom-com or adventure? Boxers or briefs? I’d like to find all these things out. But when? I’m in clinic all day but call or email me anytime.

  My face flushed. “This guy.”

  “Sam?” Colin asked.

  I slipped my phone back into my pocket. “No. Just this guy I met.”

  Colin shook his head. “You’re a little slut now that you’re divorced.”

  I shoved him. “I’m not a slut. He e-mails, and Lena says that it’s normal even though it seems a little … stalky.”

  Colin laughed. “Oh yeah. You were dating back when men wrote love letters with pens.”

  “You don’t anymore?”

  Colin smirked. “Texts, e-mails, Facetime, tweets, it’s what you do now, Wilma Flintstone. I get about … a hundred texts a day on a weekday. When I’m not working?” He whistled. “That’s not being a stalker. That’s bein’ handsome and sexy.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, brother.”

  “Relax and enjoy the attention. E-mails are normal, got it? Say it with me.”

  Together, we said, “E-mails are normal,” twice.

  “Speaking of sluts,” he said, “Dakota called me.”

  “You’re the slut in this story then?”

  “Uh huh. Anyway…” He paused, then exhaled. “She met some guy.”

  I glanced at him, at his clenched jaw and bobbing Adam’s apple. “And you said…?”

  He shrugged. “Wished her well. He’s an air force captain. I knew him from high school.” He shrugged again. “Shorter than me. No neck. Every other word outta his mouth is ‘Holy Spirit.’”

  I laughed, then said, “You know, I’d pick you over Captain Saved.”

  He smiled. “Yeah?”

  “Yep. If we were in the last days, and you had a gun pointed at my head while carrying a slab of barbecue ribs? Oh hell yeah. It would be me and you, Colin. Me and you.”

  Colin laughed. “You’re a national treasure, Lou.”

  We walked on, the only noise the clomp of our boots on the dirt trail and the furious chirp of birds in a hurry to find food before the next storm hit. My muscles burned as we continued up the muddy path. Took us almost thirty minutes to reach the top when it would’ve taken only ten minutes on dry days.

  For thirty-seven years old, I was in great shape—back in December, after Christmas, I had returned to Krav Maga, stepping up ab crunches and sidekicks. But today, the hike took my breath away. Add a canvas bag with a hundred pounds of dead weight and throw in rain and mud, and I’d never reach this summit in time to disappear without being seen by someone on the trail.

  A white CSI van was parked on the gravel service road closest to Chanita’s dump site.

  “Guess Zucca had the same idea,” Colin said.

  Up ahead, yellow tape and the blue tarp stood out against the green. Because the area was still taped off, memorials for Chanita Lords had been left at the trunk of the closest eucalyptus tree. Stuffed animals were drenched from the rain. Battered posters with running, inky messages—WE LOVE YOU! WE MISS YOU! JUSTICE 4 NITA!!—had been nailed to the tree’s trunk. Candles no longer burned—their flames had been doused by storm water. Three young women wearing nylon jackets stood nearby taking pictures—crime-scene selfies—as fine drizzle now fell from those steel-wool clouds.

  The heavy sky pushed down on me as I walked past the tarp to where the thirteen-year-old had been discarded in the mud.

  Zucca and a beauty-shop blonde were placing heavy flashlights into hard cases.

  “What’s the haps, Z?” I asked

  “Looking for It,” he said. “Always looking for It.” He nodded to the blonde. “You remember Krishna.”

  Krishna of the ridiculous hair, the cold-sore scar on her upper lip, the imperious blue eyes. The same Krishna who had screwed up a few DNA swabs and specimens by not wearing gloves, and so, in the end, a man who had killed his ex-wife and her dog had gone free because of reasonable doubt. Yes, I remembered Krishna.

  And Krishna remembered me. She now gave me the stink-eye since she was still shitting out pieces of leather from my Cole Haan pumps.

  Colin didn’t speak, either, because he, too, remembered Krishna. Didn’t matter if she was allegedly pretty or not, the detective from the Springs had been around me long enough to despise Stupid Ass People Who Let Killers Go Free.

  And that is why I now said, “Zucca, walk with me.”

  He followed me north on the trail.

  I stopped at the bluff.

  “Lou,” he sa
id, “I know—”

  “Really?” I glared at him, then pointed toward the tarp. “You bring that simple bitch to my scene? To the most important case we’ll—”

  He held up his hands. “I know.”

  “No, you don’t, cuz if you did, you’d know that I will effin’ go off on her and you—”

  “I promised you that wouldn’t happen ever again.” His skin was pale and moist with flop sweat. “Today, I watched everything she did, and I’ll keep supervising her closely.”

  “No.”

  “She has to work on something,” he said. “I swear: she won’t mess up your evidence.”

  I glared at him for good measure, then stomped back to the scene.

  Colin and Krishna were warily eyeing each other.

  “So. Anything interesting?” I asked Zucca, the angry quiver still in my voice.

  Zucca nodded. “The pupae Brooks collected from the victim during the autopsy were blowflies. Some from here, some not from here. And there were dead spiders in that bag. Again, not all from this park.

  “And the grass in the bag she was in,” he continued, “didn’t come from here. And the dirt contained fertilizer and plant life not from here. And the leaves in the bag don’t match the flora in this area, either.”

  “So we were right,” I said. “Another crime scene.”

  “Another strange discovery,” Zucca said. “We found a red View-Master in the bag.”

  I opened my mouth, then popped it closed.

  “You know, the toy?” Zucca said. “There are these 3-D picture discs that you pop in and you look in it to see—”

  “I know what a View-Master is,” I said. “I’m just confused why she’d have it.”

  “Did you look and see what the pictures were on the disc?” Colin asked.

  “Greece,” Krishna said with a shrug. “Mount Olympus, the Colosseum, Parthenon…”

  My blood ran cold as I took notes with a shaky hand.

  “Why did he move her so many times?” Colin wondered.

  “Probably to confuse us,” Zucca suggested.

  “Cover his tracks by making tracks everywhere,” I said. “Anything else interesting?”