Trail of Echoes (30 page)

“It's
Mrs
.,” she spat. “I'm no babymomma. My husband, he died of a heart attack.” She crossed herself.

“My apologies, then.” To Justin: “So Treasure's friends broke you apart?”

“That wasn't the only reason. Allayna…” He dropped his head, and his wide shoulders slumped. “She had some … issues.” He looked up at me, and now tears rolled down his cheeks.

“What kind of issues?” I asked.

“She was vexing him,” Oria Abraham said. “All da time. She—”

“Mrs. Abraham,” I said in my
CAPS LOCK
voice.

“She had mental issues,” Justin said. “Always depressed. Always wanting me to run away with her. I felt bad for her cuz she mostly lived by herself. Her mom worked late and…” He dried his face with his jersey. “So I stayed around mostly cuz I was scared she was gonna hurt herself again or run away for real this time.”

“Justin tall for his age,” Oria Abraham said, “but he still just a fella. He shouldna worry 'bout t'ings like dat.”

“A personal question, Justin,” I said, leaning forward. “Were you and Laynie sexually active? There may be … DNA on her, and we'll need to know whose DNA it is, understand?”

Oria Abraham's simmering anger heated the room.

But Justin didn't flinch. “We weren't, Detective Norton. I have my basketball career to think of first—I don't want a baby messin' that up.”
And my mom would kill me,
his wide eyes said.

“Did you know Chanita Lords?” I asked.

His eyebrows furrowed. “Who?”

“What about Trina Porter?”

He tapped his mother's elbow. “That's the missing girl. I see her mom on the news all the time. She came to speak at Mass. Remember, Ma?”

Oria Abraham didn't nod, nor did she shake her head.

“When did you see Allayna last?” I asked the kid.

“On Monday, after I got home from practice. She showed me her solo out there in the courtyard and…” He smiled, then bit his lower lip. “She's … incredible. She's so happy when she's dancing.”

“And where were you on Thursday afternoon, say, around three thirty?”

“I was playing ball. A game against Brentwood.”

“Did you help search for Allayna yesterday or today?” I asked.

He dropped his head. “Nuh uh.”

“Why not?”

Oria Abraham lifted her chin, then placed her hands on Justin's shoulders. “I wouldn'a let him. He too young for all dat. School and basketball, dat's what he should worry 'bout.”

“One last thing,” I said. “I'd like a DNA sample to compare—”

“No.” The woman shook her head. “Nuh uh.”

Justin twisted to look up at his mother. “Ma—”

“Boy,” she said, “don't be screwin' up your face—”

“I don't mind, Ma. I didn't do—”

“I want a court order,” she told me.

“Ma,” Justin shouted, “I—”

“Mrs. Abraham,” I said, “I'd only need—”

“
Court. Order
.”

Justin opened his mouth and leaned toward me, ready to offer as much spit as possible.

Oria puckered her lips but said nothing.

I closed my binder and stood from the couch. “Your mother has that right, Justin.” To Oria, I said, “I'll get a court order—for Justin
and
Treasure. Just to make sure your daughter wasn't recording again when Allayna took her final breath.”

 

41

After leaving Oria and Justin Abraham, after listening to the angry cries and heartbroken wails coming from Vaughn Hutchens's apartment, I needed joy, positivity … I needed Sam.

But he wasn't answering his office phone or his cell phone. So I texted him:
You around? Need to talk. Long hard day.

Heavy-hearted, I trudged back to the Crown Vic and threw a glance at the sky—no helicopter. Just a bright white moon and a star. When had been the last time I'd glimpsed a star?

With one hand clutching the steering wheel and the other clutching my phone in anticipation of Sam's response, I drove east to the dance school.

Allayna had walked Marlton and Santa Rosalia to get home. Two worlds coexisted here—the ordered one at the Baldwin Hills Mall, protected by thick black gates and security guards, and the wild one, Santa Barbara Plaza, abandoned, overrun, and run-down with weeds, trash, and crumbled concrete. A graveyard.

Treasure had claimed to see Allayna climb into the dark SUV near the corner of Marlton and Santa Rosalia.

I pulled to the curb and saw nothing remarkable—a homeless man sleeping on a bus stop bench that advertised Sylvester Stallone's latest
Expendables
flick, a YMCA and Trina Porter's school, Holy Grace Christian Academy on the south side of the street. The dance academy sat to the east, and the disintegrating plaza sat behind me.

I glanced at my phone.

No word from Sam, so I tried one more number he'd given me.

His landline at his Echo Park townhouse rang twice before someone said, “Hello?” A woman's voice.

I froze.

“Hello?”

I cleared my throat. “Hi. Is Sam there?”
Maybe I called the wrong number. Maybe—

“He's out walking the dog. May I take a message?”

“Please tell him that Detective Norton called.”

“Oh, hey, Lou,” she said, “it's Rishma.”

My gut twisted.
Rishma.
Ex-wife. Sri Lankan. Very pretty. Senior VP at some engineering firm in Century City.

“I'll tell him you called. Will he need to step in other people's blood or is this just a nice and clean case update?”

“It's…” I had been blinded by her voice and could no longer see the YMCA or the school or anything at all. “Just … He can call when he has a moment.”

“Okay,” she chirped.

I disconnected before she could say anything else. I sat there, fighting the cold shakes, trying to breathe but unable to take more than a sip of air.

Alone. I was alone. Again.

So be it
.

I busted a U-turn on Marlton, then called Syeeda. “You may see me tonight or not.”

“You're exhausted, Lou,” she said. “You're always indefinite when you're exhausted.”

I laughed. “You may be right. Or not.”

“But what can you tell me before you return to the Bat Cave?” Syeeda asked.

I chewed my bottom lip, flipping through my mind's index cards for shareable bits. “Allayna was spotted getting into a dark SUV.”

“Really? Did the witness get the plate number?”

“Maybe.”

“When will ‘maybe' become ‘hell yeah'?”

“Soon,” I said. “Don't want him ditching the car cuz he read about it in the paper. I'm pleased yet a little amazed that I didn't see Mike at Bonner Park.”

“He said you all threatened him.”

“Not enough, in my opinion.”

“People in the neighborhood are pointing at Raul Moriaga.”

“I can neither deny nor confirm that,” I said.

“He's a registered sex offender,” she pointed out.

“Indeed.”

“And?”

“And we're comparing DNA as we speak,” I said.

“You'll let me know before you let anyone else know?”

“You're my first love, Scoop.”

“Speaking of love,” she said. “Sam?”

I loosened my grip around the steering wheel. “I can neither deny nor confirm.”

“Ruh roh?”

“No idea. None. Nada.” I sighed. “I gotta go.”

The Starbucks on Crenshaw Boulevard was packed with beautiful black folks—they lounged at tables and divans while drinking upside-down caramel macchiatos and mocha lattes. Rihanna bleated from the speakers, “umbrella-ella-ella” competing with the hiss of steamers, the roar of grinders, and cell-phone chatter. As I waited for my turkey and sun-dried tomato panini and passion-fruit iced tea, I snagged a small table out on the patio. I tried not to think of anything—Chanita, Allayna, Sam, 2BT … Sam.

A hand touched my shoulder.

I jerked and grabbed the hand, preparing to break it.

“Whoa!”
a man said.

I released his hand, then offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

Zach Fletcher grinned down at me and shook his head. “I need that hand.” He looked the same as he had at Bonner Park back on Wednesday—soft brown eyes and great teeth set against an olive complexion. He wore those blue scrubs he'd worn in his earlier e-mail to me and clean, black Nikes. The strap of his battered leather messenger bag crisscrossed his broad chest. He held a bicycle helmet beneath his arm. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Taking a break from the madness,” I said. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Just finished clinic hours,” he explained. “We're a block away, in the complex with the cobbler place out front.”

“The cobbler lady knows me by name,” I said. “Blackberry. I always—”

My iPhone played the
Star Wars
theme, and Sam's picture lit up the screen.

With a trembling finger, I tapped
IGNORE CALL
.

Zach pointed at the empty chair across from me. “Is someone sitting…?”

“No,” I said. “Please. Sit.” The barista waved at me, and I stood.

Zach sat the helmet on the ground next to my bag. “Oh no. You're leaving?”

I pointed at the counter. “Just going to fetch my dinner. I'll be back.”

A minute later, Zach eyed my sandwich and tea. “You deserve better than
that
.”

I plopped into my chair. “I'll imagine it's a rib eye and a glass of Merlot.”

“Last time we saw each other, you were wet and covered in mud.” He canted his head and smiled. “Today, all clean and dry, you're even more beautiful. A wonderful trick or do you wake up that way?”

My cheeks warmed, and I gaped at my sandwich as though a centipede wheeled a unicycle across the bread.

Zach threw back his head and laughed. “Sorry. Didn't mean to embarrass you, but I calls it as I sees it.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “I know for a fact that I look like the last beat-up, dented can of dog food left on the supermarket shelf. I, too, calls it as I sees it.”

My phone vibrated, then vibrated again.

Sam was now texting me.

“I'm on my fifth cup of the day,” Zach said, tapping the top of his reusable mug. “Can't wake up. Guess it's the weather.”

I picked at my sandwich. “We should be hibernating like the other mammals.”

He smiled—he really did have nice eyes. And nice teeth. Nice … lots of things.

“You
must
have something better to do on a Saturday night than hanging out with a cop,” I said, trying to smile.

“First of all,” he said, “just a cop? Whatever. And second, is that your way of asking if I have a girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend, to answer your inferred question.”

“Ah.” My phone vibrated again.

Zach was watching me.

“What?” I asked.

“Ignoring someone?”

“Yes.” Then I smiled. “You from LA?”

“Changing the subject, then. Okay. Yes, I'm from LA. I grew up all over this beautiful, wretched county. And state. And country.” He chuckled to himself, then shrugged. “My dad was in construction, and he dragged us where the work was. We were never there long enough to make good friends.
But
!” He held up a finger. “I can pack a suitcase in under five minutes.”

I bit into my sandwich but didn't taste a thing. “You said ‘us.'”

“I have an older sister.” He sipped from his mug. “
Had
an older sister. She died in high school—we were pretty close. With always having to move, we only had each other as friends most of the time. We did everything together until she…” He stared at my sandwich.

I knew that pause, that averted glance. “I'm sorry.”

He scratched his jaw. “She got caught up in the wrong crowd. Got in a car with a bunch of guys one night after a kegger. Ended up naked, beaten, and dead on the side of the road, right out of Henderson, Nevada. Payback for her being … her.”

“They catch the guys who did it?”

“Only one guy. And, no, they did not. Then it was just Dad and me.”

“What about your mother?” I asked.

He considered me with dead eyes. “She ditched us long before that. Ran away with some trucker the day after my fifth birthday.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“We have a lot in common,” I said, futzing with the straw in my tea.

He grunted. “Your mom ran away with a trucker, too?”

I said, “Ha,” then, “No. My bus-driver dad ran away to Vegas when I was eight. And my sister was murdered when she was seventeen.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Seems we've both lost a lot.”

I slumped in my chair, body tired from losing parts of me and using spit and gumption to keep the rest from falling apart.

He tapped my hand. “Let's not worry about a long time ago. Hell, I'm over my mother, over my sister, over everything. To be honest, I wouldn't be where I am today if I'd had the mom, the dad, a dog named Bingo, and a little red wagon. What's the saying? ‘Adversity causes some men to break and others to break records'?” He shrugged and held up his cup. “I'm in a good place. A great place.”

I placed my chin in my hand. “And what is that good-great place?”

“I'm a successful physician seated in a coffee shop with a beautiful and intelligent woman who can wrestle a two-hundred-pound man while wearing heels.”

I gave him dueling gun fingers. “Two-hundred-
fifty
pound man.”

He lifted his cup higher. “Here's to fucked-up long-time-agos and happily-ever-afters.”