Trail of Echoes (22 page)

Was it because of the adults in our lives? If so, why did I make it, but Tori didn't?

As I pulled into the driveway, my mind turned to other questions.

Would the monster actually attend Chanita's funeral?

And if he comes, who would I be looking for?

Exhausted, I collapsed on the overstuffed sofa in Syeeda's living room. Raindrops fell, and a wet breeze lifted the silver gauzy curtains that hid the open window. The nerves in my head tightened as though I sat in a crowded Brazilian soccer stadium during the World Cup. I closed my eyes against the light from the lamp on the nightstand—not dark enough—then reached to turn off the lamp. Dark enough now, but the pain only worsened. The healing effect of Sam's kiss had worn off now, and my wrist throbbed as though it was infected with glass and lava.

Call him. Let him kiss the pain away again. And again. And—

I placed a throw pillow over my face and took several deep breaths. Focusing and not focusing, waiting for my banging pulse to slow. In … out … In …
Chanita
 … Out …
Victor Starr
 …
Shit.
“This is not my beautiful home,” I said. “Or my wonderful couch.” I grabbed my iPhone from the coffee table and texted Sam.
U around?

I turned the lamp back on and grabbed the television's remote control.
Click
. Reality show—competitive cake decorating.

My iPhone whistled from the coffee table. A flare shot in my heart.

Sender: [email protected].
Hello? Anyone there? Wondering about you.

The flare quickly died. “Brave soul.” I ignored the message, popped two Aleve from Syeeda's coffee table stash, and rose to shut the window. Took a twenty-minute shower, then pulled on boxers and an LAPD sweatshirt.

When I returned to the couch with a cup of peppermint tea and thirty Lorna Doone cookies, the red team was making a thirty-foot-tall, NASCAR-themed wedding cake. Sam had responded.
At jail. Would rather be doing nothing with you.

I texted back.
I'd rather that too.
Out came the laptop from my bag. I sat it next to Chanita's expanding file folder and Trina Porter's missing person report. Once upon a time, I never worked at home. Since the divorce, though, work had been the only thing I did right.

The front door opened, and Syeeda banged into the foyer with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. “Honey, I'm home.”

I tossed her a smile. “Missed you, kitten.”

She trudged into the living room and dropped into the armchair. She looked wilted in her silk shirt and jeans. Her bun was more honorary than acting, and stray tendrils of hair frizzed about her head like a corona. “True or false: you banged Sam in the kitchen with a candlestick.”

My cheeks flushed. “False. I used a horseshoe.”

Syeeda grabbed a Lorna Doone from the pile on the table. “What happened this time?”

“When Lena was telling you my business, did she tell you that she interrupted?”

Syeeda popped the cookie into her mouth. “She left out that part. But she
did
tell me that she warned him that—”

“Oh no.”

“If he didn't treat you right, she'd have him bumped off by Emil's weapons homeboys.”

“So Sam's gonna stay with me cuz he's scared of being dumped in a vat of concrete?”

Syeeda slumped in the armchair. “That is, if he messes up before
you
mess up.”

I snorted, then reached for my cup of tea. “Me? Mess up?”

“Who's Zach?”

I gaped at her. “Lena's mouth—”

“Who is he?”

I sipped from my cup, then said, “I met him at Bonner Park.”

“Interested?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “He's cute, though. Nice teeth.”

“Nice eyes?”

I nodded. “And he's a doctor.”

“Your mom would love that.”

“He's been e-mailing me.”

“So he's interested,” Syeeda said. “Another great sign.”

“It
would
be foolish to put all my eggs into the Sam basket.”

Syeeda smirked. “Your eggs are getting old.”

“Thanks, kitten.”

She stared at the folder on my lap, then pried off her black riding boots. “Working?”

“Uh huh.” I sat the cup of tea back on the coffee table.

“The girl from our neighborhood?”

“Yep. Guess what? I let my father talk at me today.”

She reached for another cookie. “Oh boy.”

I told her everything: new wife, new life, business owner. I told her that he seemed to know a lot about me, including my divorce from Greg.

Syeeda jammed her lips together, then took a deep breath. “And what did you say?”

“I told him to stay away from Mom and that I'd get a restraining order if he didn't.”

“Damn, Lou.”

“Then, I went back to my desk to work on the case of
another
black girl living in the Jungle, abandoned by her father, then kidnapped and murdered.” I gave her a twisted smile. “Whew. At least Victor Starr made it out, right?”

Syeeda shook her head. “Elouise—”

“I've always envied you,” I said. “We practically had the same life. Lived a block apart. Dads both bus drivers. Moms who didn't allow lazy thinking.”

She came to sit beside me on the couch.

“Remember when you started your period,” I said, “and your mom was out of town for that church retreat?”

“Daddy drove to the grocery store,” Syeeda said, smiling, “and bought me the biggest purple box on the shelf.”

“And then high school prom.”

She laughed. “He sat on the couch with that fake gun when Brian and Tim picked us up.”

“Even when you were in college,” I said, “he still called you his ‘pretty baby' and held your hand when you crossed the street together.” Tears burned my eyes. “And that's … wow.”

Syeeda placed her chin on my shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Victor Starr left us, Sy,” I said. “He left
me
.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know, and I'm sorry.”

“You and Kenny and Eva did okay because Frank died after we left Santa Cruz. Victor Starr left when I was a third grader. Tori was in junior high. He had to leave
then
? And leave us with Miss Alberta and her evil brood?”

“Did you ask him?”

“No.”

“You need to.” Syeeda wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “You don't wanna have any regrets, Lou. Or wonder. Hell, I wish I could talk to my—”

“Your dad didn't leave on his own will.”

“I
know
that,” Syeeda said. “Still: don't pass up the chance you're given. If that means cursing out Victor Starr until only his silver fillings remain, then do it. Your ‘thing' with Sam, or Hot Doc, or with
anyone,
can't blossom until you deal with the past.”

Teardrops slipped down my cheek, and I swiped at them. “What does he think is gonna happen between us? That we'll pick up where we left off when I was a kid? I had to fucking …
MacGyver
my way out of the Jungle, and he thinks a trip to Toys “R” Us and a scoop of ice cream will just…?” I wandered to the window and peered out at the wet, dark yard.

“He was supposed to take me wolf hunting, Sy. He was supposed to show me how to spot them, how to keep them away, how to kill them.” I rested my forehead against the cool windowpane. “If he'd been around, maybe I'd be a lawyer now. Maybe I'd have a better husband, some kids. The cops …
Those
sons of bitches taught me how to hunt.”

“No, Lou,” Syeeda said. “You had survived before the LAPD—”

“And ‘surviving' is what we're striving for now?” I turned to face her. “Tori died because she couldn't spot those wolves—she didn't know how to fight Max Crase or Cyrus Darson. And after she disappeared … well … I made myself into a tiny ball while Mom played possum and pretended we both were dead until the threat passed. I know she did the best she could, but … That may be
surviving,
but it ain't
living
.”

My stomach ached as I sunk back onto the couch. “If Chanita's father had been around, and more positive than negative, would she still be here? She was a bright kid, you know? And she was…” Ice replaced the ache in my gut, and I shivered. “He's looking for a type.”

“He?”

“My suspect. Smart girls. Vulnerable girls. Trina Porter and Chanita Lords were both smart. And both were artists. Trina a poet, Chanita a photographer.”

“Both were poor,” Syeeda added. “Lived with their moms.”

“No so-called protector in the home,” I said.
Like me. Like my sister.

“Did you talk to folks at Madison yet?” Syeeda asked.

I grunted as my face warmed—I didn't want Syeeda to know all that I'd learned, who I'd talked to, especially my conversation with Payton Bishop. He had counseled both girls. But I couldn't mention him—Syeeda would grill him, and then she'd write an article. I didn't want that.
Yet.

 

Saturday, March 22

 

31

The last funeral I had attended for one of my victims was two months ago, the Tuesday after the King holiday. It had been an exhaustive, four-hour affair with enough singing to fill a hymnbook and hundreds of stories about young Danny Baker, a Dorsey High School running back, a future San Diego Chargers starter with a heart of gold, quick feet, and the looks of a young Jackie Robinson. A good kid, Danny was gunned down fifty feet from his front porch.
What set you from, ese,
they had asked.
I don't bang,
Danny had responded.
I play ball at—BOOM.
Dead. All because he'd gone out to his Altima to retrieve his backpack.

Danny's funeral had sent me down a rabbit hole. Not because the Impala full of Avenues thugs had eluded me—we caught them six hours later at PAWN4CASH with Danny's still-active iPad pinging the Find My iPhone app. The case made me crazy because Miriam and Tony Baker, the boy's parents, had done everything right. Danny didn't hang out. Danny didn't smoke out. School, practice, home, school, practice, home. Still, wolves in Dickies and beaters had found him—at home.

Right after Danny's funeral, I, along with several community servants, had headed to Olive Garden. There, I shared a bottle of Pinot Noir with the handsome, green-eyed assistant district attorney, the one prosecuting the Max Crase case, the one prosecuting the newly jumped-in members of the Avenues and murderers of young Danny Baker.

Despite the drinking and the flirting with Sam Seward that afternoon, my heart ached and my mind lingered on Danny Baker's silver casket, on his weeping mother and his catatonic father. Their dreams, their love, now buried six feet under.

This morning, Colin rode shotgun as I drove down Crenshaw Boulevard to Mount St. John's Cathedral and to the funeral of another child I had not met until God left her for me on a muddy park trail. I would move past the sadness and hopelessness that came with murder and hope that no one noticed my intrusion. At a church as big as Mount St. John's, Colin and I would easily disappear behind the shadows of flowered and feathered hats. We would slip into the back pew, and no one, not even the monster, would know we were there.

*   *   *

The storms had moved on, leaving behind a troop of steel-colored clouds ready to set it off again.

Colin coughed as he knotted his blue necktie. “It can't rain on a child's burial day, right?”

“A kid's dead. Anything can happen.” And then I deleted another text message from Victor Starr. So far this morning, he had texted me three times. Each message had been a plea for compassion and patience.

There were now two Mount St. John's—the original, smaller church where Chanita's funeral would take place and, just a few blocks back, the newer, bigger cathedral, which would host Congresswoman Fortier's jazz funeral. After weaving through side streets because of road closures for the bigger service, I finally pulled into the original church's parking lot. A great choice of spots—not many parked cars. Colored People's Time meant that the funeral would start at 10:45 instead of 10:30. But at 10:20, the lot only hosted two Lexus sedans, a black Ford Explorer, several Toyotas, a minivan covered with
JESUS IS THE ANSWER
bumper stickers, and my Crown Vic. About twenty cars in a parking garage built for a thousand.

Colin coughed into the crook of his elbow, then frowned. “Where
is
everybody? There must've been seven hundred people at Danny's funeral an hour before it started.”

I reached for the drugstore bag on the backseat and handed it to him.

He pulled out the new bottle of DayQuil and smiled. “You're so—” He coughed, and his face turned Pepto pink.

“I
am
sweet,” I said, “and you're welcome. I need your lungs right now. And all that coughing's gonna scare away the monster.” I pulled on my gray wool overcoat as I stared at the near-empty lot.“Maybe the date's wrong on the e-mail.”

Colin took a long pull from the bottle as he read the printout. “Date's right, time's right, everything else is wrong, including the spelling of the church.”

I'd never seen the outside environs of this property look so abandoned—vendors usually camped about the church's perimeter to hawk gospel CDs, sun hats, sticks of incense, and gift baskets to congregants present for Sunday services, prayer meetings, and concerts.

A powder-blue hearse and a matching late-model family limousine were parked on the street in front of the church. A pudgy motorcycle escort and two male drivers, both wearing shiny black suits, laughed on the sidewalk. The escort shouted, “North Carolina trashed 'em.”