Trail of Echoes (35 page)

 

47

Colin and I had barely stepped into the squad room when an ashen-faced Pepe came to stand at my desk. “Lou, L.T. wants to see you.”

“Okay.” I ignored his stricken look, especially since Pepe and Luke had been fighting all week and since I was finally in a good mood and a great place for solving this case. I sat at my desk, logged onto my e-mail account to search for Hayley Bishop's phone number.

Pepe cleared his throat. “He wants to see you
now
.”

My buoyant heart fell to my feet. Mind whirling—
What happened? Who died?—
I hurried to my boss's office.

Even though the air conditioner worked, the air in Lieutenant Rodriguez's office felt thick and charged. Arms crossed, the big man stood at windows that offered a view of a palm-tree trunk and bricks from the bail-bonds joint across the street. The twenty-six-inch television on the credenza glowed—a news story had been paused, and the red chyron at the bottom of the screen said “
BREAKING NEWS
.” The close-up shot of blond reporter Olivia McAllen kept viewers at home from seeing where she was now reporting.

I cleared my throat. “Pepe said you wanted to—”

“Read that.” He pointed to a sheet of paper left on the guest chair.

DNA Analysis … Raul Moriaga … DNA profile from #R12-3 (Lords) is not consistent with the DNA from #M39-7 (Moriaga) …

I dared to smile. “So I was right: Raul Moriaga
didn't
do it.”

His glower deepened. “Read the newspaper on my desk.”

I only spotted
OurTimes,
which, I guessed, qualified as the newspaper.

“The article beneath the fold,” Lieutenant Rodriguez added.

The article had included the glamour shot of Chanita and a recital picture of Allayna.

Potential Suspect Named in Kidnapping-Murders

By Mike Summit

Raul Moriaga has been identified as a potential suspect in the kidnappings and murders of Chanita Lords, 13, and Allayna Mitchell, 14, crimes that have shocked the small suburb of Los Angeles known as Baldwin Village.

Lead Los Angeles Police Department homicide detective Elouise Norton would not offer comments about the two cases, but believes that the two girls' murders are connected. Law officials were recently seen leaving Moriaga's apartment with several bags of evidence. An unnamed source not authorized to speak about the case said that Moriaga's shoes may match the shoe print left at the crime scene, and that he has been spotted multiple times with minor girls in the neighborhood. In a strange coincidence, the suspect lives in the same apartment complex as one of the young victims.

A search through public records shows Moriaga's multiple arrests and convictions for child-related sex crimes including rape and oral copulation. Moriaga, a native of Chihuahua, Mexico, has legally resided in the United States since 1975.

According to the Legislative Analyst's Office, in 2013, Latinos comprised almost 41 percent of California's jail population, a group that makes up more than half of the State. Statistics from the Bureau of Justice report that sex offenders are about four times more likely than non–sex offenders to be arrested for another sex crime after their discharge from prison—5.3 percent of sex offenders versus 1.3 percent of non–sex offenders. Of released sex offenders who allegedly commit another sex crime, 40 percent perpetrated the new offense within a year or less from their prison discharge.

OurTimes
writer Syeeda McKay contributed to this report.

“No. No, no, no.” My face had numbed, and my heart pounded as though a giant tried to burst through its back door—not only from seeing my name in an article that I had specifically said “no comment” to but also from reading my off-the-record mention to Syeeda about Moriaga living in Chanita's apartment complex and from reading that someone (Mike Summit?) had watched Colin and me leave Moriaga's apartment with bags of his shoes, and
especially
from reading inflammatory remarks and insinuations about Latinos and sex crimes. And who the hell was this unnamed source who'd seen Moriaga with girls?

This has to be a dream. Any minute now, Lena will say to me, “Wake up, Lou. You fell and hit your head. You're okay now.”

Lieutenant Rodriguez snatched the newspaper from my hands. “What the
fuck
? Raul Moriaga isn't a
suspect
. Or have you already forgotten that you stood right where you're standing now and busted Taggert's ass about it? You all but cleared Moriaga an hour ago!”

“No, sir. I haven't forgotten. But I didn't—” I swallowed my excuse. The article had my name right there at the beginning of the second paragraph. “I was asked a question and—”

“You shoulda said, ‘No fucking comment, motherfucker, now fuck off,'” he yelled. “Are you that desperate to be a Hollywood Cop? To see your name in lights?”

“No, sir.” Tears burned the back of my throat.

“Your
friend,
” he shouted, pointing at me. “
She
did this. She got
you
to say shit off the record, and
you
fell for it. And I know it's her because you don't say
shit
to anybody else
but
her. She's your fuckin' Achilles' heel, Detective.”

“Lieutenant Rodriguez—” I blinked and blinked and panic made me cold and sweaty. “I'm sorry—that sounds lame, I know that, but in all honesty: I had
nothing
to do with this story. Anyone with an Internet connection could find out Moriaga—”

“Bullshit.”

Then, anger burst in my belly. “I'm not falling on my sword for this. I didn't tell them
any
of this. I
never
mentioned shoe prints. I'm
not
the unnamed source. I didn't leak—”

“Look at this shit.” He grabbed the television's remote control from his desktop. “I paused it just so you know I'm not some church-lady Henny Penny sayin' the sky's fallin'.”

The camera zoomed out—Olivia McAllen stood in front of apartment security gates.

I knew those gates.

It was obvious that Olivia McAllen didn't frequent the Jungle—fear glistened in her wide, blue eyes. Apartment residents and bystanders lingered in the reporter's shot. Mugging for the camera, waving, hopping up and down, seeking any attention from the world—even a news story about two dead black girls was akin to appearing on
American Idol
.

The reporter shouted over the ruckus behind her. “New developments in the brutal kidnappings and murders of two teen girls from Baldwin Village. Police have identified a suspect known to law enforcement as a past sex offender. Raul Moriaga, a twenty-eight-year-old day laborer, has been in and out of prison for several felonies, including”—she glanced at her notepad and shook her head—“rape, assault, molestation … The list goes on and on. Police believe that Moriaga
may
be a person of interest in these two cases that have shocked and saddened this tight-knit community.”

The frame jumped to earlier tape of Raul Moriaga climbing out of his shiny black Camaro. Wifebeater, tattooed arms bared to the world, the wispy porn mustache, that long scar that ran from his nose to his jaw …

Of
course
he did it. Look at him. Look at that blue teardrop tattoo beneath his eye.

Moriaga tried to move past the reporters to enter his apartment. Unsuccessful, he shoved the camera away from his face. “Just leave me alone,” he said. “I ain't done nothing to those girls. Just leave me alone.”

Lieutenant Rodriguez turned off the television but kept his eyes on the dark screen. “Well?” he asked. “You got somethin' else to say?”

I could barely speak—a cabbage-sized lump sat in my throat. “I have nothing to add, sir.”

He glared at me and chuckled without humor. “Be a cop or be a girlfriend. You can't be both. Especially with—” He pointed to the newspaper, then waited for me to nod.

I did not nod.

“Get the hell out of here.” Then he threw the remote control at the television and turned back to the window with no view.

I stomped down the hallway, reaching the detective's bull pen. Pepe, Colin, and Luke gaped at me as my stomp weakened into a stagger. But I didn't stop moving.

The fluorescent bulbs in the women's bathroom were too white-hot, too bright and dazzling to be anything except the sun. I stumbled into the last stall as tiny bursts of pain exploded in my head. My eyes watered with tears thick with glass shards. My knees gave, and I dropped to the tile and gripped the sides of the toilet. I leaned forward until my forehead touched the cool seat. My mouth filled with warm spit, and my belly shimmied—

I vomited.

Bacon, toast, coffee—all of it spewed out of my mouth and formed a brackish island in the middle of toilet water. I shuddered, then heaved again. Then again. And then … nothing.

Done for the moment, I stared at the places my hands should've been, but only saw porcelain. My body hurt—those internal explosions had torn away chunks of flesh.

I'm disappearing
.
That's why my body hurts like this. That's why I can't see me. I'm having an out-of-body experience fully conscious
.

Then, more shuddering. More vomiting. Burning eyes. Finally, my muscles relaxed. Spent, I sat back against the cold metal door. I shut my eyes, counted backwards from 100 … 96 … 92 … My pulse slowed, and the shivering eased …

90
 …
89
 …

Don't remember reaching 85.

 

48

I was still collapsed on the bathroom floor when my jeans vibrated and pulled me from that place cops go when they're tired and frustrated. All around me, metal doors banged opened and locks clicked. Toilets flushed. Water ran in sinks. Rubber soles squeaked on the tile floors. My jeans vibrated again—my phone was ringing.

I stood without swaying. No pain. Clear vision. Normal heart rate. Sweaty, but that had come from sleeping (or whatevering) in a public toilet while wearing a cashmere sweater.

How long have I been down here?

Had the argument between Lieutenant Rodriguez and me been real? Had I dreamed it?

I padded to the sink. Washed my hands. Splashed my face with water and dried off with a paper towel. Then, I plucked my cell phone from my jeans pocket.

Two texts. One from Lieutenant Rodriguez.
Yes, I'm still pissed—you have one more time to fuck up, then I'm giving the case to Glickman and Bose. And then shit will go in your file.

My stomach alley-ooped. Not a dream.

The second text came from Zucca.
The mud on Moriaga's boots does not match dirt from park. But! The boot print from Lords scene matches boot print from A.Mitchel.Size12 Timberland. Rpt later.

I pushed back my shoulders and strode to the locker room. Off went the jeans and sweater. I showered, brushed my teeth, brushed my teeth again. Tugged on black track pants and a soft LAPD T-shirt. I pulled my hair into a ponytail, then brushed my teeth a third time.

As I tromped back into the detectives' bull pen, my colleagues stopped talking. All eyes, even the two cuffed thugs on the bench, landed on me as I retreated east to my desk.

A porcelain vase of lavender roses sat near my computer keyboard.

“Lou?” Colin whispered.

With a shaky hand, I plucked the card from the bouquet and read:

HOPE YOU LAND IN A PLACE WHERE SOMEONE LOVES YOU BEST OF ALL. Z.

“Lou?”

“Time to work.” I shoved the card into my pants pocket.

Colin rolled over to my desk. “You okay, partner?”

It took every facial muscle I had to fake a smile. “Awesome.”

He frowned. “I hate when you fake it.”

“That may change everything, dude.” I pointed to the journal, still in its evidence baggie.

“Except that Chanita, Allayna, and Trina aren't mentioned,” Colin pointed out. “I looked through it again.” He leaned close to me. “What did L.T. say to you? What happened?”

“He yelled. I yelled. The sun rose, and soon the sun will set.” I logged onto Madison Middle School's Web site: smiling kids, a wise-looking teacher instructing from a hi-tech whiteboard. Football players in a huddle. Every one of them were targets—and as the gatekeeper, I was failing to keep them all safe. I clicked on the school's calendar. “So there's a basketball game that starts at six o'clock tonight. Got any plans?”

Colin pointed at the bouquet. “No, but you do. Sam's got that ill-na-na.”

I rolled my eyes. “First, boys can't have ill-na-nas, you dope. Stay off Urban Dictionary. Second…” I stared at the perfect velvety buds. “Those aren't from Sam.”

Before Colin could respond, my desk phone rang.

Fifteen minutes later, my partner and I found ourselves back in the Jungle and standing in front of Chanita Lords's apartment building.

Usually
when slick yellow tape was stretched from one fixed point to another, a crowd of looky-loos pressed against it.
Usually
by the time lighter serum has ringed the darker blood, potential witnesses have filled their hoisted camera phones with fifty pictures capturing the sneaker beneath the death tarp or the leg twisted beneath the body.

But there was none of this today. Not even the ghetto Greek chorus loitered nearby. Four patrol cops and two detectives stared at the dead guy hidden beneath a blue tarp in the middle of the street.

Colin and I ducked beneath the yellow tape.

Thomas Jefferson, tall, black, and skinny, was scribbling in a pad and pointing his flashlight at sections of the asphalt.