Trail of Echoes

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  I gawked at the approaching second line, then muttered again: “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

  Colin ran back to me, gaping at the procession. “What the hell is that?”

  “Funeral for Congresswoman Fortier.”

  “With a band and shit?”

  “I told you it was a jazz funeral.”

  “I thought that just meant there was Dizzy Gillespie music instead of hymns.”

  The strut-pose woman was now strutting and posing yards away from where we stood. And the horse-drawn hearse slowly rolled not far behind her.

  “Boulard could be hiding in the crowd,” Colin said. “So we’re looking for him and the guy in the Saints hat? Who may be the same guy?”

  I nodded as my heart sank. Every other man wore a Saints baseball cap in honor of their hometown and New Orleans home girl Congresswoman Fortier. “Let’s go, then.” I took a deep breath, then dove into the moving mass.

  There! No—too fat.

  There! No—too young.

  The horses’ hooves clip-clopped.

  And the band played on: “Just a closer walk with thee, grant it, Jesus, is my plea.”

  There … No, there … No … Damn.

  After five minutes of weaving in and out for nearly three blocks, and with Angeles Funeral Home now in sight, I worked my way to the sidewalk. Almost every face was partially hidden by hats, umbrellas, and handkerchiefs. People crowding the street. Brass band playing. Mourners singing and shouting. Brass bells tinkling from push-cart ice-cream vendors.

  I backtracked to the church, eyes still scanning the dwindling crowd.

  “Who are you looking for?” Mike Summit stood before me, pen and pad ready. “What’s the big secret? Or shall I say, cover-up?”

  I gave him a glare equivalent to thirty beheadings and a caning.

  Mike shrank some but didn’t retreat. “You know I can go around you.” He pulled a steno pad and pen from his back pocket. “I can call my contacts and find out the latest.”

  I snorted. “Who do you think you are? A Times reporter?”

  “I am a Times reporter.”

  I cocked my head. “You work for the community section. And your job is to attend Chanita’s funeral, then write about who came, who spoke, how many people showed up and threw themselves on top of the coffin, and what the deaconesses served for lunch. You’re not Bob Woodward, Mike Summit, even though you think you are. Sure, you do investigative work. Investigating the best barbecue joint south of Pico. By the way, I disagree with your last breaking news story: Woody’s is not better than Phillips, and sure as hell not better than Texas Barbecue King.”

  “You know,” he said, “one article and blog post from me can destroy you. One tweet that an abusive cop is leading this investigation, that this abusive cop has a grudge against me for exposing her—”

  “Not true.”

  He sneered. “One tweet stirs up shit. Don’t forget: the pen is mightier than the sword.”

  My stomach cramped from tamping down the urge to laugh at this pitiful little man. He had power for the moment—the power of a five-year-old wielding a spork. I’d let him wave it around until naptime.

  Mike grinned. “Do I have your attention now? Don’t think I can’t go around you.”

  I chuckled and shook my head. “Honey, I’m the lead detective. When it comes to this case, I am the way, the truth, and the light. There is no other way except through me.”

  Then, radio to my mouth, I called Pepe back at the station and demanded that he contact Jimmy Boulard immediately.

  “Is that Chanita’s funeral?” Pepe asked.

  “Nope,” I said, stepping away from Mike Summit. “The congresswoman’s.”

  Someone tapped my shoulder.

  I scowled and whirled around. “What?”

  Gwen Zapata didn’t startle. “I know you got something goin’ on right now, but you need to know—”

  “What?”

  “Another girl is missing.”

  The hair on my arms stood straight. “No.”

  “Marisol Gutierrez, nine years old. Reported missing this morning. But I’m not sure if she’s related to this.” She nodded at Chanita Lords’s mourners now exiting the sanctuary.

  Gwen walked back with me to the parking garage, where the motorcycle escort was handing out fluorescent orange stickers with FUNERAL printed in thick black letters. Payton Bishop stood in the courtyard with his arm wrapped around Liz Porter’s shoulder. He was whispering in the woman’s ear.

  “You see that?” Gwen asked.

  “Something’s loosey-goosey with him,” I said.

  Colin joined us. “I can’t find him, Lou. He could be in Rhode Island by now.”

  Gwen’s cell phone rang, and she turned away to answer it.

  “So, are we goin’ to the cemetery?” Colin asked as we reached the Crown Vic.

  A postcard had been placed beneath the car’s windshield-wiper blade.

  “Don’t know.” I plucked away the card. “Depends on Pepe finding Boulard.”

  Gwen shoved her phone into her coat pocket. “That missing girl I told you about? They found her. She’d gone to the mall with her aunt. So it’s all good.”

  “Wish they all ended like that,” I said, glancing at the postcard.

  This card was of another oil painting—A Landscape with Four Nymphs Dancing, by Giovanni Battista Cipriani—but these four women were playing “Ring Around the Rosie.”

  “Somebody selling CDs?” Gwen asked.

  I turned the postcard over, and my stomach dropped.

  No postage stamp. Addressed to me. Same block letters written in the same green ink as the previous “wild rumpus” postcard.

  “Like the other one I got,” I whispered.

  Colin looked over my shoulder at the card. “Is that … English?”

  R szev gzpvm zmlgsvi. Glnliild hsv droo yv hrc uvvg fmwvi—fmovhh blf hzev svi urihg. R droo xlmgzxg blf. Wlm’g ylgsvi ollprmt uli nv. R zn drgs gsv trioh.

  This was no marketing piece.

  Who had left this card on my car?

  And what game was I now playing?

  33

  The second line for Congresswoman Fortier passed, and this section of Crenshaw Boulevard returned to its regular din of automobiles, buses, and pedestrians. It was ten after one, and the church service for Chanita Lords had ended. Mourners, now piling into their cars for the fifteen-minute drive to Inglewood Cemetery, stared at us detectives camped out in the church parking lot. Payton Bishop, especially, looked flummoxed as he climbed into his Prius. He cast one last glance in our direction, then sped off to bury his student.

  I thought I’d also be driving to the burial site, watching every male available lug that pink coffin to its final destination. I thought I’d be embracing Regina and Alberta and assuring them that I would find the monster who had murdered their sweet girl. In reality, I was crouched near the low concrete planter, barely breathing, sweating through my suit, notepad and pen in hand, eyes darting from the letters on my steno pad to the picture of the postcard I’d taken with my cell phone, swapping v for e, s for h.

  Colin stood over me, holding the evidence bag that contained the original. “Just saw Luke’s car pull into the lot. And Zucca just called. He’s on another case, so it’ll be a while before he gets here. But he can send Krishna now since this card may not be … a thing.”

  “Fine.” My eyes darted from I to I as my hand made each of them W.

  Gwen had drawn the “Mike Summit” card.

  “I’m not going,” the reporter told her.

  “If you like your nose straight, don’t fuck with me,” she warned, her small hands on her thick hips.

  Mike Summit huffed, then took two steps back.

  “More,” Gwen growled.

  He threw up his hands. “How am I—?”

  “More, goddammit!”

  He hopped back at least a hundred feet.

  “I’m done,” I shouted.

  Colin c
rouched beside me.

  My hands shook as I read the translated message on the notepad:

  I have taken another. Tomorrow she will be six feet under—unless you save her first. I will contact you. Don’t bother looking for me. I am with the girls.

  This was now a thing.

  The monster was here.

  He was watching me.

  Worse: he was personally delivering mail to my car.

  Shit.

  “It’s like the first card,” Colin whispered.

  “What first card?” Gwen asked.

  Colin explained as I stared at the message.

  I am with the girls.

  “He doesn’t say when he’s gonna contact you,” Gwen pointed out.

  We had only been inside the church for an hour. Since leaving to search for Jimmy Boulard, discovering the postcard, and translating this message, though, two hours had passed.

  My radio chirped—an e-mail from Olympus111 now sat in my mailbox.

  “I think this may be…” I showed Colin the message. Then, with a numb finger, I tapped the link.

  .oot uoy dnA .doog rof enog si ehs erofeb gnol evah t‘nod uoY .uoy dekcip I ekiL .srehto eht dekcip I ekil reh dekcip I .raelc os prah,lerual htiw denworc sseddog detnahcne ym si ehS .tser eht morf tuo sdnatS .detfig si lrig sihT .sevol tseb eht ekam yeht dna tneitap ton era slrig dlo raey 31 .eutriv a si ecneitaP .enog ma I won tuB .revo kcolb eno tsuJ .hcruhc eht ta erom dehcraes dah uoy fi em thguac evah dluoc uoy .evitceteD, gninrom dooG

  “Another cipher,” I whispered.

  “Can’t this motherfucker write in English?” Colin spat.

  “The Zodiac used to send ciphers,” Gwen pointed out.

  Luke joined our circle. “What’s the haps?”

  Gwen explained as I grabbed the pen and pad again. White noise blared in my head as I searched the message for patterns. I looked for frequently used letters—no luck. Three-letter combinations? “This one … It doesn’t make sense. It’s different from the others.” My eyes buzzed back and forth, from “detfig” to “sseddog.” “Shit, shit, sh—” My gaze fixed on the last word in the message: “dooG.”

  The next-to-last word: “gninrom.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  Mike Summit had inched closer to the yellow tape.

  “He wrote it backwards,” I whispered. “The words are reversed.” I thrust my notepad and pen at my partner. “Write what I’m about say.”

  Good morning, Detective. You could have caught me if you had searched more at the church. Just one block over. But now I am gone. Patience is a virtue. 13 year old girls are not patient and they make the best loves. This girl is gifted. Stands out from the rest. She is my enchanted goddess crowned with laurel, harp so clear. I picked her like I picked the others. Like I picked you. You don’t have long before she is gone for good. And you too.

  “One block over?” Gwen said.

  “He could be lying,” Colin said. “It could be Bishop—he came into the church after us. He could’ve put the card on the windshield, and he could’ve sent this message right now.”

  I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “Gwen, could you pull all missing children reports from the last ten hours? I wanna hit this on all sides.”

  Gwen said, “Got it,” and rushed back to her Crown Vic.

  “Maybe,” I said, “we can find the girl by comparing the missing child reports against school lists since he seems to target girls in this area.”

  Colin gaped at me but said nothing.

  “I wanna get a signal or triangulate or whatever the hell it is,” I told Luke. “And I wanna find out what IP address the message came from.”

  He nodded. “You’ll probably need a court—”

  “Handle it, then.” I punched in a number on my phone.

  Mike Summit was scribbling into his pad.

  Neil aka Bang-Bang picked up on the first ring.

  I told him that I’d just received a message from a possible suspect and that I wanted any information possible—who had sent it, where it came from—as soon as possible.

  Bang-Bang said, “So I have permission to search your in-box?”

  “Yeah. Go. Find stuff.” I paced the walkway, trying to figure out next steps.

  “Detective Norton,” Mike Summit called. “A word, please?”

  “Just talked to L.T.,” Luke said. “He’s driving the warrant request to Judge Keener now.”

  I nodded, barely hearing him. “She is my enchanted goddess crowned with laurel, harp so clear. What does that even mean?”

  “And what did he mean that he picked you?” Colin asked. “And you and the girl being gone for good?”

  My stomach cramped, and I stopped pacing to stare at the steno pad. “He’s threatening me, isn’t he?”

  Colin and Luke nodded.

  “Detective Norton,” Mike Summit called again.

  Red-faced, Colin whirled around and shouted, “Say something else, Summit, and I’m taking you in for interfering with an investigation.”

  Mike Summit gulped and muttered, “Apologies.”

  Colin, eyes still bugged, turned back to me.

  “We’ll have to do this the hard way.” I told him my plan.

  He blinked at me, then said, “Seriously?”

  My phone rang.

  “I got something.” It was Bang-Bang. “The e-mail was sent from a cell phone belonging to Regina Drummond’s account.” He then recited Chanita’s phone number.

  “Shit,” I said, “can you—?”

  “Find which tower it used?” Bang-Bang asked. “I’ll call you back.”

  Luke ended his own phone call. “Captain knows this is becoming political, so he made some calls, and some poor joker in the school superintendent’s office is e-mailing over a list of all middle schools in the area with gifted and talented programs.”

  “But how will we get lists of all the girls in the GAT program?” Colin asked. “It’s the weekend. Schools are closed.”

  I gritted my teeth. Another barrier. “Someone in the superintendent’s office needs to come in and pull the lists. Maybe this girl was absent yesterday.”

  “Or maybe he took her this morning,” Luke said.

  Colin made a show of checking his wristwatch. “Ticktock, Lou.”

  I shrugged off my jacket and dropped it on the planter. “We need those lists. If that means the mayor of Los Angeles and every cop in this city has to call every effin’ household in 90008, so be it. I’m finding this girl.”

  34

  She is my enchanted goddess crowned with laurel, harp so clear.

  I studied the picture of the new postcard. What am I missing? I glanced south down Crenshaw and saw swirling red and blue lights and bright head beams on an approaching radio car. Behind the car were tangerine-colored light bars of the CSI van.

  I typed “nymphs” into Google’s search bar: female divinity … animate nature … not immortal … bound to places … classifications … the Muses. Then, I searched “Olympus”: Tallest peak in Greece … home of the mythical Olympians …

  Colin’s radio blipped. “Yeah?”

  “I got Boulard,” Pepe said, “and I’m bringing him over to you guys right now.”

  I returned to the Muses article. “The Muses,” I read aloud, “were the personification of knowledge and the—”

  “Got here as soon as I could.” Krishna sat down her metal toolbox and pulled a spiral binder from her duffel bag.

  I handed her the paper bag containing the new postcard. “He put it on my windshield, beneath the blade.”

  She pulled out a chain-of-custody form, told me where to sign, then took the card.

  Pepe’s silver Impala screeched into the parking lot. A man sat in the backseat.

  “You wait for the names,” I told Colin, “and I’ll talk to this guy.”

  Colin nodded and looked at his watch again. “It’s almost two o’clock.”

  Blood rushed to my head. “I know, partner.”

  Every p
assing second meant less chance of finding the girl … unless the monster was now seated and cuffed in the back of Pepe’s Impala.

  “Take him out,” I told Pepe. “Let him feel freedom. Stand at the perimeter with Luke and Gwen. I’ll cap his ass, though, if he thinks I’m just a girl with a gun.”

  * * *

  Jimmy Boulard and I leaned against the lot’s retaining wall. He had changed out of his suit and now wore his green ranger uniform.

  “Is this necessary?” he asked, eyeing the armed detectives.

  I shrugged. “Depends. I’ve called you several times now. You haven’t called me back.”

  He studied the treads of his dusty hiking boots. “What number did you call?”

  With my eyes also on those boots, I recited the number.

  “My son’s place. I don’t live there anymore.” He reached into the pocket of his chinos.

  Gwen, Pepe, and Luke raised their guns.

  Boulard froze. “Just want a smoke.” He gulped, then asked, “May I?”

  I nodded, then said, “Couldn’t wait to get out of that suit, huh?”

  Grit covered his khaki shirt and the golden hair on his forearms. No dirt, though, could diminish the tattoo of the bald eagle perched upon the USN banner. He shook a cigarette from the pack of Camels and stuck it between his cracked, thin lips. “Had to go back to work. I’m leading a walk with some Girl Scouts up in the park today. So I’d appreciate it if we sped this little discussion along.”

  “Fine,” I said. “How did you know Chanita Lords?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Why’d you come, then?”

  He shook his head, then picked tobacco from his tongue. “I was one of the unlucky folks who found her. Just seemed like the right thing to do.” He sighed. “And my granddaughter mentioned that she knew Chanita.”