Trail of Echoes (38 page)

My phone rang.

“I'm looking at the app,” Brandi Washington said, “and the little dot is moving.”

“To where?” I asked.

“Like … on La Cienega.”

Colin turned left onto King Boulevard.

Soon, we sped past the Baldwin Hills mall.

“She's still on La Cienega,” Brandi said.

“Think they're going to the park?” Colin whispered.

I nodded, then called Lieutenant Rodriguez to arrange backup to join us.

“They're in the park,” Brandi shouted. “The dot ain't moving no more.”

We headed to Bonner Park.

Colin switched off the Ford's headlights and rolled past the park's entry. Pepe and a black Yukon filled with Gino Walston and his Violent Criminal Apprehension Team followed us. Luke and a radio car blocked the entrance with pylons.

No one sat near the lake. No cars were parked in any of the lots. No lights shone in the community center. A pair of raccoons scuttled on the side of the road with leftover sandwiches in their mouths.

“He's gone up farther,” Colin whispered.

We crept up the narrow road, passing parked tractors and pickup trucks.

Colin finally pulled over to the slight curb and parked. Shoulders tense, he slipped his Sig from its holster, then climbed out of the car. Glock in hand, I pushed open the passenger-side door. I tapped my torso—no give, all Kevlar.

Oil rigs, like dinosaurs in the dark, creaked as their heads swung up … down … The stink of sulfur mixed with skunk, both caught in the wet nighttime air. And big men dressed in black LAPD combat gear hoisted big guns—man-made and God-given—ready to rumble.

Gino Walston winked at me. “You cool?” A small camera had been bolted to his helmet.

I curtsied. “I'm cool.”

“
We
cool?”

“Of course. Always.” After
Captain America,
our heavy petting in the back of his Expedition had resulted in … absolutely nothing. He had called me for a second date, but I … didn't see the need.

Pepe, Colin, and I followed the VCAT up the hill. Less than a mile away lay the trail where we'd found Chanita Lords.

Parked beneath a radio tower, the Prius glowed red. No one sat in the cabin.

“It matches,” Colin said, pointing to the car's rear license plate.

I crept west, toward the grassy lawn, where visitors usually flew kites and tossed Frisbees. Gino led a group to the north end of the lawn.

I heard them before I saw them.

“It's safe,” a man said. “We've all been baptized. Trust me: the feeling won't last long.”

A girl giggled.

Nikki,
I mouthed to Colin.

We moved closer to the line of eucalyptus trees.

“You've changed me,” the man claimed. “No, you have. My life is more exciting because of you. I don't choose just
any
girl. I have to see that special
something
in her.”

We passed through the line of trees.

Payton Bishop and Nicole Brewer lay on a serape with a pack of Corona longnecks and a bag of cheese curls between them.

I turned to Gino and pointed to his helmet camera.

He nodded and gave a thumbs-up.

We all lifted our guns.

Bishop leaned over and kissed Nicole.

Strike 1.

And in this game, all you needed was one strike.

Nicole pulled back and giggled.

Right then, I wanted to squeeze the trigger and destroy this effin' pervert-predator.

Bishop moved closer, then eased his hand beneath her pleated skirt.

She pushed his hand away, then giggled again.

He clenched her wrist. “Since when are you bashful?”

“And since when you in a hurry?” Nicole's gaze darted around the landscape—and stopped once she spotted me.

Payton Bishop craned his head to see what had captured her attention.

Shit.

The counselor gasped.

“Police,” I shouted. “Don't move.”

Bishop scrambled off the blanket. He grabbed Nicole's hand and pulled her to her feet.

She fought him with each step. Finally, he pushed her, then darted across the lawn and into the grove of eucalyptus trees.

I ran after him. Legs burning, I didn't stop even as my sneakers skidded across the grass.

Bishop also tried to sprint but failed horribly because of slippery leaves and holes the size of pumpkins. Instead, he ran in spurts.

I scurried after him. In the darkness, between spruce trees, fallen branches, and thick roots, ankles twisting from stepping on pinecones and rocks.

Bishop's right foot skidded, but he regained control.

A helicopter thundered over the canopy, then circled back. A cone of white light from the bird above shone before us and lit upright trees, fallen trees, and peat moss. Branches and leaves snapped and crunched all around me—no help in the dark.

Were we heading north? Or were we heading east?

Every tree, every stump looked the same.

Shit, shit, shit.

Up ahead, I spotted a clearing between the trees.
Lights! Houses!

We were getting closer to the bluff and to the valley that separated the park from those hillside homes.

The helicopter's light found Bishop's back.

The counselor's arms went up and out, and he sailed through the air for a moment, then landed with an
oomph
on the ground.

In seconds, I closed the distance between us and stopped a few steps away with my Glock out before me and aimed at the space below his left shoulder blade. “Don't fucking move!”

Bishop froze with his face in the dirt.

Yes! Yes!

“Don't shoot,” he shouted.

And then, all of me calmed. I caught my breath, then yanked my radio off my hip. Gun still aimed at his heart, I keyed the mic. “This is Norton. Got him. Over.”

 

53

Y'all got my phone?
The first words out of Nicole Brewer's mouth after rescuing her from that cheese-curls-littered blanket in the park.

After assuring her that her iPhone made it out okay, after swearing that I'd get it back to her after downloading the recording, I hugged the brave girl and left her with her mother.

Colin sat at his computer. “Sounds a little muffled but…” He clicked
PLAY
, and Bishop's voice crackled from the computer's speakers. “Couldn't wait to see you … Got your favorite Smirnoff apple things … Man, you are fine as hell … These aren't from CVS. Got 'em at that erotica shop on Sepulveda…”

“We got him,” I said, high-fiving my partner. “His ass is grass.”

“We gonna mention this?” he asked.

“Nope,” I said, smiling wide. “Let's keep it in our pocket. He may need a nice surprise.”

*   *   *

The temperature in interview room 3 was kept a brisk sixty-one degrees. The room's hard metal chairs made your tailbone ache. The bare white walls closed in on you after ten minutes of sitting and staring at nothing except bare white wall and the one-way mirror. Soon, the Slump took over your spine and shoulders. Soon, your forehead was just three inches from hitting the cold metal table. You shivered. Your teeth chattered. Your ass ached. Interviewees started talking to us just to feel warm and comfy again, even if that meant warm and comfy in a jail cell. Interview room 3 worked.

But it didn't work on Payton Bishop, who, after an hour of being left alone in that room, sat upright in one of those metal chairs. Hands clasped before him, he looked as though he were waiting for the accountant to tell him that he'd be getting a refund after all. Even in his stiffness, he kept glancing at the walls, swiping his sweaty face against the shoulders of his dirty green polo shirt, then rubbing the angry welts on his wrists left by my handcuffs.

Colin and I stood on the other side of that one-way mirror. The part of me that Snoopy-danced had now slumped in a corner. I winced as I rotated my left wrist—injured back on Wednesday, better on Saturday, aching like hell again today.

“You should get that checked out,” Colin said with a chuckle.

I smiled at him. “I'll go on Monday.” I grabbed a manila folder from the tabletop that was filled with pictures of missing children. “Let the wild rumpus begin.”

Colin and I strolled into the frigid room.

I glanced at my watch—going on eleven o'clock.

Colin sat knee to knee with Payton Bishop. “Nice seeing you again, sir. So, first, there's this.” He slipped a form near Bishop's hands that explained his rights. “Of course, we're hoping that you just tell us your side of the story.”

Bishop smiled. “What time is it? And why are you treating me like a criminal?”

Seated across from him, I wanted to vomit and then shove his face in it. “Tell us what we're misunderstanding. Because that's obviously what this is, right? A misunderstanding?”

Payton Bishop stared at his clasped hands.

“Also,” I said, “you can
voluntarily
give me the DNA that I asked for days ago. I emphasize ‘voluntarily' cuz now that you've fucked up the deal you made with the DA, guess whose spit I can take without saying, ‘May I?' or ‘Please?'” I pointed at him, then cocked my head. “Giving me spit may not help you with the necking session in the woods, but it
may
eliminate you as the number one suspect in the murders of Chanita Lords and Allayna Mitchell.”

Bishop continued to stare at his hands.

Colin winked at me. “Let him think about it.”

“Okeydokey.” I leaned back in the chair, crossed my legs, and stared at our guest.

White-hot rage crackled just beneath my skin. My left eye twitched, and heat from my nostrils burned my upper lip.

Five minutes passed in silence.

Then Colin started popping his pen against his teeth—a habit that drove me loony but right now came in handy.

Bishop winced and closed his eyes.

We sat in the quiet for another minute.

I swallowed my anger and opened the manila folder. “Margaret Thatcher said, ‘I am extraordinarily patient, provided I get my own way in the end.' Guess who's gonna get her way in the end?”

Payton Bishop smirked. “Nine wise men said that I have the right to remain silent because anything I say can be used against me in a court of law.”

“Yeah, they did. And you were Mirandized back at the park.” I dropped a picture in front of him. “You know this girl?”

The counselor gazed at the photograph. Flat eyes. Tight jaw.

I replaced that picture with another. “What about this girl?”

Payton Bishop looked at the photograph. No reaction.

I presented six more pictures.

Each time, the counselor's expression remained blank.

I considered two more pictures in the folder, then selected the double-exposure picture of Peaches, the girl in his journal. “What about her?”

Payton Bishop sank in his chair and pretended to be bored.

I plucked the picture of naked Peaches in the pink room from the folder. Seeing this photograph again made my hands shake. “She look familiar now?”

He flushed, then tried to find something interesting to look at on the ceiling.

“Detective Norton,” Colin said, “maybe you're going about this the wrong way. You're making certain assumptions.”

“I am, indeed.” I fake smiled at Bishop again. “I apologize. I'm only human.” I sifted through the remaining pictures in the folder and found another. “So…” I slid the shot before the counselor. “You know this
boy
?”

Bishop pushed away from the table. “What the fuck are you suggesting?”

I held up my hands in mock protest. “Stop bein' an old lady about it, all right? I'm just accommodating any preferences you may have.”

Payton Bishop settled back into his chair. “I'm not gay.”

“You're into girls, then,” Colin confirmed.

“This is ridiculous,” Bishop shouted. “I cannot believe … Why have you arrested me?”

I cocked my head. “You know why we arrested you.”

“How long you been dating children?” Colin asked.

“They're not
children,
” Bishop spat.

Colin and I exchanged amused looks.

“Okay,” I said. “
Fine
. How long have you been dating
females
who are under the age of consent, which, in the state of California, is
eighteen
? That better,
Professor
?”

Payton Bishop didn't speak, but the bulging vein banging in the middle of his forehead was calling me every m-f, four-letter,
c
word in the English language.

“Okay, not professor,” I said. “Should I call you Apollo?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Allayna and Chanita,” I said. “What happened there?”

“Nothing happened there.”

“Why did Trina leave Madison?”

He drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

“Counseling went too far and they threaten you?” I asked. “They say they were gonna tell your secret?”

“I have no secrets,” the counselor boasted.

“Your wife know about the sushi dates with your students?” Colin asked. “Or about the donuts and cupcakes they bring you? Cuz if she doesn't know, then that's called a secret.”

I snapped my fingers. “Oh, wait. Wasn't your
wife
your
student,
like, only yesterday?”

Colin gasped and clutched his imaginary pearls. “Get the fuck outta here.” He grinned and pointed at Bishop. “It's like that Van Halen song, ‘Hot for the Teacher,' but reversed.”

“How did she feel about your demotion?” I asked. “Was she all, ‘That husband of mine, up to his old tricks again. And will he pick up his damned socks already?'”