Trail of Echoes (27 page)

Lieutenant Rodriguez touched my shoulder. “You okay?”

I stared dumbly at him, unable to respond.

“We'll catch him, Lou. Good call on the music box.”

He said something else, but his voice was drowned out by the noise of car tires crunching up the gravel and dirt trails. Over the next hour, the once-quiet park swarmed again with cops, Zucca and his bunny-suited forensic techs, and, finally, Brooks and his small team. Patrol units had strung yellow tape across every bush and shrub. And Brooks's team had erected another large blue tarp over the bench.

Colin found me, notebook crunched in my hands, gazing down at La Brea Avenue. “Didn't find much. More shoe prints, so they're making casts.” He sighed. “Zucca's beat.”

I turned to him. “Aren't we all?”

Colin's sweaty face was covered with leaves and dirt.

I plucked a crumpled leaf from his damp hair.

“Lou!” Brooks was calling me from the tarp.

We joined the ME.

“Ready?” Brooks asked.

I pulled up Allayna's picture on my phone, then ducked beneath the tarp with my team. I stared at the picture, then stared at the teen on the bench.

One of these girls is not like the other.

There's something awesome and terrifying about the soul. It makes your plain brown eyes mischievous. Makes your smirk a smile. And once the soul returns to Whoever gave it, you become a template, an Almost-You, a Madame Tussauds replica, but not for long, because then biology changes you into less than that. And that was this girl on the bench. Almost-Her.

“She's wearing one of those name necklaces,” Brooks said, pointing at the girl's neck.

“What does it say?” I asked.

Brooks straightened the charm of gold cursive letters. “Laynie.”

You'll know her by name.

“Well?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked me.

“We'll need her mother to confirm,” I said.

“But what do
you
say?” Brooks asked me.

“It's Allayna Mitchell.”

“He left her with a music box,” Colin said.

“Just as he left Chanita with a View-Master,” I said.

Camera for the photographer. Music box for the ballerina.

“He wants them to be entertained,” I said. “Entertained as they transition.”

“Transition where?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked.

I closed my eyes. “Into their new lives as Muses, as nymphs. As his.”

 

38

Our search had turned up six men—three over the age of sixty, one with an amputated left arm, one off-duty sheriff's deputy with a solid alibi, and one who barely weighed 120 pounds and stood an inch over five feet. No one saw anyone lugging a green canvas bag.

And now the sun had abandoned Los Angeles and silver fog raced over us like ghosts.

News choppers hovered at the far edges of the park, giving the LAPD helicopter plenty of space to circle and hover. Flashlight beams danced all around the urban forest in search of the man who had slain another girl. What were the reporters up in the sky and down below saying to the public? What were
we
saying to the public? And was Allayna Mitchell's mother watching?

I needed to notify Vaughn Hutchens. My stomach twisted—I dreaded having to tell another woman that we, the LAPD, had failed.
Don't wanna do that. Not at all.
So I filled out more reports, took more pictures, did everything I could to delay having that awful conversation.

But I could no longer busy myself with the details of death.

Syeeda texted me.
Just saw news on TV. Who is she? Should I send someone?

I didn't respond—couldn't. Not now.

“I'll go downtown with Allayna,” Colin said, following Brooks to the coroner's van.

As Lieutenant Rodriguez drove me back to Mount St. John's Church, we talked on automatic about the nonsense that murder police talk about: the evils of men, the Dodgers, the Lakers, the best chili burgers in LA, the evils of men again.

Krishna had finished processing my Crown Vic hours ago, and it still sat in the church parking lot, waiting to head to my next dragon windmill.

“You goin' over to the mom's?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked as I opened the trunk of my car. “It's dinnertime. Fucked up to tell her at dinnertime.”

“Is there ever a good time?” I took off the too-big boots and grabbed the flats I kept handy for times like this.

“Good luck,” he said. “See you back at the station.”

Before I pulled out of the parking lot, my phone rang.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, “can't talk right now, I'm—”

And that's when I spotted it, on the hood of the Crown Vic.

A marble figurine.

“I know,” Mom was saying. “I just wanted to tell you that Victor hasn't called all day.”

Face numb, I ducked back out of the car and gaped at the statuette.
What the—?

Mom said something, and I said, “Uh huh.” I held the phone out and snapped a picture.

A goddess—she wore a laurel wreath and her harp rested on a pedestal.
Terpsichore.

Who put this here?
The same person who put Melpomene on my car? The same person who had been playing games with me since Wednesday?

I threw an anxious glance around the abandoned parking lot.

“Okay,” Mom said, “I'll let you get back to work. Love you, kiddo.”

Heart pounding, my thoughts staggered from one thought—Allayna Mitchell—to another more menacing thought—Muses. Because those pieces meant something. But what?

At King Boulevard, I turned right and headed west to the Jungle. My police radio chimed, this time with a forwarded e-mail from Dr. Zach.

Haven't heard from you—hoping to have seen you again by now. Here I am, in case you've forgotten me.
In the attached picture, he wore blue scrubs. A stethoscope hung around his neck. He had crossed his muscular arms.

I frowned. “Bad time for this, Zach.”

But what did he know? Women liked men in scrubs. Even
I
liked men in scrubs. But not en route to a death notification.

Allayna and her mother, Vaughn, lived on Nicolet Avenue, two blocks northwest of Chanita and Regina. I parked a block away from her apartment complex, then trudged past alleyways that reeked of urine, trash, and dead animals. Spent bullet casings and used condoms gathered in the muck near the storm drains. A filthy, one-eyed teddy bear sat on an abandoned couch like a patient in a doctor's office.

Rage, fatigue, and sadness pressed down on my shoulders, crushing my vertebrae against each other and slowing my already-ponderous gait.

It was seven minutes to eight o'clock, and black and brown boys in their early teens rolled scooters and skateboards on sidewalks and in the middle of the street. Some lived in the surrounding Necco-wafer-colored apartment complexes, like the gritty yellow building wearing a large orange banner advertising rental prices that started at $449.

I saw all of this just passing through. Didn't wonder what I'd see if I poked around in Poverty's medicine cabinet—because I knew.

My old neighborhood.

Home sweet hell.

While Regina Drummond had a park and a hillside to break up her street's bleakness, Vaughn Hutchens only had other depressed, concrete-slabbed apartments as her view. Her building—a mint-colored, two-level complex named Baldwin Gardens—hid behind black iron security gates that sat open and secured nothing. Rusted grocery carts and torn laundry baskets littered the common area. The scent of fried meat and onions, burnt toast, and laundry dryer sheets wafted in the air.

The Mean Girls sat in patio chairs next to a swimming pool filled with concrete. Each girl clutched a large bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos and a liter bottle of orange Crush soda.

Seeing these sullen, mouthy children again made the hairs on my skin stand.

The cursive print on ShaQuan's tight pink tank top spelled
BITCH
. “What's up, Detective Elouise?”

Treasure and Imunique, also wearing tank tops, turned in my direction.

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.

They held up their hands. “Don't shoot,” ShaQuan said with a twisted smile.

“Ha, not funny,” I said.

“I live here,” Treasure said, fingering one of her thousands of braids. “In apartment six. Is that a problem?”

I ignored the burning in my stomach. “Nope. I came to talk to Allayna Mitchell's mother. Y'all know Allayna, right?”

“Uh huh,” Imunique said. “Where Detective Cutie Pie at?”

I squinted at her. “Who?”

“She crushin' on Captain America,” ShaQuan said, grinning.

Imunique kicked ShaQuan's calf. “You trippin'.”

“Detective Taggert is…”
Standing over Allayna Mitchell's corpse right now.
“Busy with other things.”

“Uni,” Treasure said to her friend, “maybe you can move to Culver City and become a cop and get a cute white-boy partner.”

Imunique lifted her hands and said, “Whoop-whoop.”

“Vaughn just got home,” Treasure said.

Imunique rolled her eyes. “She been out looking for her precious angel.”

ShaQuan sucked her teeth. “We get threatened every day, but ain't no cops tryin' to protect
us
. Y'all just wait 'til somebody pull the trigger and blood gets spilled. Even then, y'all just step over the blood and go to Denny's and shit.”

“Fuck Allayna,” Imunique spat.

Treasure glared at her friend.

“Yeah, I said it,” the chubby girl boasted.

“Treasure,” I said, “what's wrong?”

She shrugged, then swiped her wet eyes. “I just … I feel bad for Vaughn.”

ShaQuan noticed Treasure's tears and sucked her teeth again. “Here we go.”

Imunique kicked Treasure's tennis shoe. “You need to stop actin' like you care. You know you can't stand Ghetto Barbie.”

Treasure muttered, “Yeah,” then picked at a scab on her tattooed wrist.

“Any ideas on this one?” I asked. “Mexican gang-banging child molesters or…?”

Eyes to the concrete, each girl shook her head.

“She probably ran away again,” Treasure said. “Or killed herself for real this time.”

My blood chilled. “Allayna's run away before?
And
she's attempted suicide?”

Treasure nodded.

ShaQuan giggled. “Maybe it worked this time.”

A door opened, and the voice of a
telenovela
actress echoed through the courtyard.

“Really wit' that?” Imunique growled.

ShaQuan twisted in the direction of the sound, and shouted, “Y'all need to turn that Mess-i-can shit down. This ain't no Ti-a-ja-wana.”

“And, no, I don't want no damn Chiclets,” Imunique added.

The door slammed close.

“I'm guessing you don't like Allayna,” I said.

“You guessed right,” ShaQuan said.

“She stuck-up,” Imunique said. “Always kissin' up to the teachers.
Miss Hendricks,
” Imunique trilled in falsetto
,
“
do you need me to make copies? Mr. Bishop, want me to staple?
”

“She always carryin' her dance bag around,” Treasure added. “She never put it in her locker even when she don't need it cuz she want the whole world to know.”

“She think she all that cuz she dance,” ShaQuan said. “Who
can't
dance?”

“Act like she Queen Bey,” Treasure said. “She ain't all that, but everybody treat her like she da bomb.”

“
I
can dance,” Imunique bragged.

“Twerkin' ain't ballet,” Treasure pointed out.

“
Ballet,
” Imunique spat. “That's some stupid white people shit.”

“Black dance companies
do
exist,” I countered. “Alvin Ailey in New York. Debbie Allen's Academy, not far from here—”

“
Who?
” Imunique snarled. “I ain't heard of no Ailey-Allen-who-give-a-fuck.”

“They ain't had to suspend us,” Treasure lamented. “She wasn't even that hurt.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“She a fuckin' mental case,” ShaQuan said, her finger making the “crazy person” circle at her temple. “Who the hell steal pills from the store to kill theyselves? And the cops let her go.”

“If it woulda been
us
,” Imunique said, “we'd be at juvie right now.”

“
Again,
” Treasure said, smiling.

“Ha ha,” Imunique said.

“But Laynie
special,
” ShaQuan said, “cuz she can
dance.
”

“You jumped her, too?” I asked.

No one spoke.

“Allayna's mom press charges?”

ShaQuan groaned. “I don't even care no more. I don't care if she ran away or got kidnapped or ODed on fuckin' Tylenol. I'm sick of always getting suspended.”

I sighed. “Did Vaughn press—?”

“She got restrainin' orders,” Treasure said, matter-of-factly. “Like we wanna be all close to her precious angel.”

“And how we supposed to stay away from her if she live by Treasure?” ShaQuan asked. “We supposed to hang out somewhere else? Why can't
they
move away since
they
so perfect? Since they think they better than us?”

“She tried to hang with us this one time,” Imunique recalled. “She thought she could trick us, but we knew she was only around so she could hook up with Tre's brother.”

“Justin,” Treasure said, nodding. “Justin and his stuck-up girls get on my
nerves
.”

Like synchronized swimmers, the trio emptied their Cheetos bags into their mouths. ShaQuan chugged from her soda bottle, then belched. Treasure and Imunique giggled and offered uncommitted “uhhs.”