Trail of Echoes (39 page)

Payton Bishop smirked. “Mock me all you want. My wife and I started dating only after she became eighteen years old.
Legal
in the state of California. As far as my career goes, I am one of the most accomplished educators in this city. Two times awarded—”

I waved my hand. “Yeah, and you were certainly teaching Nicole Brewer at the park tonight. Talk about going above and beyond. Where shall I mail your trophy? And do you spell ‘Payton' J-E-S-U-S?”

He shot me a glare. “You really are a bitch.”

I grinned. “Guess who's gonna be somebody's bitch next week this time?”

“Tell us about Nicole Brewer,” Colin said.

Bishop gave a one-shouldered shrug. “There's nothing to tell.”

“You've fucked her up good,” Colin said. “Poor girl's in therapy. Taking handfuls of antianxiety meds. Kept it all in. But then she accepted Jesus as her personal savior, and she told us everything.”

Bishop rolled his eyes. “What's my bail price?”

“Don't know,” Colin said. “That will take some time to figure out. Hell, you may not even get bail since you're a flight risk.”

“I'm not a flight risk,” he said.

“You was sure ‘flighting' in the park a few hours ago. Which means
more
jail time.” I glanced at his brown suede boots. “You're pretty quick for wearing those things.”

Colin also looked, then cocked an eyebrow. “Could you lift one up so I can see the sole?”

“Do I have to?”

“He's asking nicely,” I said. “He can always confiscate them and give you complimentary, jail-style flip-flops to wear.”

Bishop paused, then lifted the left boot.

Swirls. Whorls. Timberland logo.

Yes!
All I needed now was DNA.

Colin used his camera phone to take pictures of the boot's tread. “Back to Nicole,” he said as he shot. “She could be wrong, you know. You work in these schools. A lot of these girls have no dads, no positive male role models around. So they mistake a man's genuine concern as sexual interest. That's very possible, don't you think?”

Payton Bishop swiped his hand across his sweaty brow. “Yes, that is possible.”

“Do you think that's
probable
in your situation?” Colin asked. “That some of your female students aren't familiar with nonsexual, mentorlike relationships?”

Payton Bishop relaxed some and offered Colin a grateful look. “I think that's what it is. Yes. They don't understand.” Then, he turned to me. “You
must
remember what it was like to not have a father around.”

“I do,” I said. “And, yes, you know, I had to learn that my male teachers weren't interested in me in that way. I get it.” Then I scowled. “But I'm not stupid, either. Fathers don't put their hands up young girls' skirts.”

“I didn't mean…,” the counselor said. “These girls are so bright. I thought they'd know that I … that … They have so much potential. But there's no one else in their lives who are committed to helping them.”

“You're just doing your job, right?” I said, bile burning my throat. “Exposing them to better things. More promising paths in life. ‘Each one, teach one.'”

He clapped twice, then pointed at me.
“Exactly
.
”
He pointed to the picture of Peaches. “I complimented her
once
. Told her that she had pretty eyes, and all of a sudden she's sending me pictures, bringing me cupcakes…”

“So help me understand, then,” I said, crossing my arms. “We searched your car at the park, and I found condoms. You and your wife use rubbers? Also, those pictures I showed you earlier? I found them, along with passwords to child porn sites, in your journal. This is all just my casual looking. What will I find when I poke around in the dark corners? Girls tied up in the basement of your house? That seems to be in vogue right now, tying up females and keeping them captive in guest rooms and basements and whatnot. So help me understand all this.”

Payton Bishop shrugged. “Don't know what to tell you.”

With a trembling finger, I pointed at the picture of Peaches. “You reacted when I slipped her picture in front of you.”

“I didn't react.”

“Tell me about her,” I demanded, my voice tight.

The counselor's knees bounced and he folded his arms.

I leaned forward and growled, “I'm gonna serve a warrant to search your house. And your office. And your phone.”

Payton Bishop's lips quivered, and he closed his eyes.

I sighed. “Nicole says—”

“She came on to
me,
” Bishop said. “Nicole—” He dropped his head and closed his eyes.

A knock on the door, and Pepe stuck his head in the room. “A moment, please?”

I squinted at him.
Now?

Pepe nodded.
Uh huh.

We met him in the hallway. “They found another girl,” he said, then quickly added, “She's alive. She's at Freeman Hospital in the Marina. She's in pretty bad shape. Conscious and then not conscious.”

“Who is she?” I asked, my heart pounding wildly in my chest.

“Right now, she's Jane Doe. African American. Thirteen or fourteen years old. She may or may not be connected. Broken bones, cuts, bruises … It's a miracle she survived.”

“Who found her?” Colin asked.

“A woman in a minivan saw her wandering La Brea, right below Bonner Park.”

“When?” I asked.

Pepe swallowed. “Tonight, while we were there.”

“She may not be related,” Colin offered. “She may be just … some…”

“We really need her to come out of it, don't we?” Pepe said.

This case was like sculpting water.

Colin and I returned to the box, trembling with a mix of fear and anticipation.
Who is she? Is she a Muse? Is she—?

Colin noticed my averted eyes, then kick-started the interview with Payton Bishop. “We should be transferring you to Men's Central soon since we have enough to hold you.”

Bishop paled. “Men's Central? Hold me? For what?”

“Statutory rape,” I said, barely containing my glee. “Soliciting a minor. Possession of child pornography. Resisting arrest. Being a fucking asshole. Quick question. You into botany?”

“What?” the counselor said as tears now slipped down his cheeks.

“Botany. You know,
plants
?”

He blinked at me, not understanding the question's relevance.

“We found a few berries in the trunk of your car.” A lie but a good lie. “Purple, shiny. Glossy, green leaves. You visit any places with lots of leaves and berries?”

Payton Bishop wiped his face with the heels of his hands. “I sometimes drove Chanita to Bonner Park.”

“I see.”

My inner-Snoopy was dancing again.

“Just to take pictures,” he explained. “Nothing else.”

“Uh huh.”

“You own a house up there?” Colin asked.

That made Payton Bishop laugh. “On my salary?”

“Do you
rent
a house up there?” I asked.

The counselor swallowed, then said, “Yes.”

Yahtzee!

“You like puzzles?” Colin asked.

Bishop's brow furrowed. “What do you mean? Like crosswords and…?”

“Yeah,” Colin said. “Puzzles.”

Payton Bishop blinked again, uncertain of the right answer. “No, I don't like puzzles.”

I rolled my eyes, not believing him.

Two uniforms entered the room.

“Wait!” Payton Bishop stood from his chair. “Nothing …
illicit
happened between Chanita and me. She was too …
fractured
. I didn't kill her. Don't send me to Men's Central.”

“And Allayna?” I asked.

Payton Bishop's mouth opened and closed. “I … I'm done talking. I want my lawyer.”

And that was fine with me—for the moment. I would have a man who had preyed on the most vulnerable girls behind bars. And he fit the profile of the monster—a self-appointed protector of smart, young women, a god who lived (rented, owned, who cared?) on a hill high above the park. His Olympus.

A Jane Doe survivor and Nicole Brewer's recording: two Christmas miracles three months late or nine months early. I'd take it.

After booking the counselor, I dashed out of the building, heart racing, lips moving in silent prayer, pleading with God to let Jane Doe awaken long enough to name Payton Bishop as the monster.

 

Monday, March 24

 

54

Minutes after midnight, I rode shotgun as Colin hurled us west on the 90 freeway. The high-rise apartments of Marina del Rey twinkled in the dark, and the residents of those million-dollar spaces slept, screwed, or watched late-night sailors slip into the harbor. Their double-paned windows muffled the wails of ambulance sirens at the nearby hospital where Jane Doe recovered after being found barely alive near Bonner Park.

An e-mail from Olympus456 made the Motorola radio in my lap chime.

Dearest Melpomene, you denied her my great gift. The rumpus will end soon. There are many worlds left. Many worlds with good things to eat.

“No ciphers,” Colin said. “And he called you—”

“I know.”
Melpomene, the Muse of tragedy.
I read the message as worry churned my gut.

“Sounds like he's disappearing soon,” Colin said.

“This isn't Payton Bishop,” I whispered.

“Maybe it is,” Colin said. “Maybe the e-mail just took a long time…”

Tears burned my eyes, and I took a deep, exhausted breath. “Maybe, but I don't think so.” My mind turned over phrases written in the message.
Wild rumpus … Worlds … Good things to eat.
I tapped my phone's screen.

“What are you looking for now?” Colin asked.

“The text of
Where the Wild Things Are.”
I selected the video of the children's story being read by Christopher Walken.

Colin glanced at me. “Why are you—?”

“Sh!” I closed my eyes as the famous actor recited words that had peppered many of the monster's messages to me. At the 2:15 mark, my eyes popped open.

 … someone loved him best of all.

Every hair on my body stood. “Oh
shit
!”

The Motorola beeped—the dispatcher told me I had a call come over the switchboard.

My pulse banged in my aching wrist as I waited to be connected.

“Is this Detective Norton?” The woman sounded scratchy, as though she had been chain-smoking the cheapest packs of cigarettes between bouts of crying.

“Yes, it is. Who—?”

“This is Liz Porter. We met at—”

Wide eyes on Colin, I said, “You're Trina's mother.” I fumbled for a pen and notepad.

“I know it's early, or late or whatever,” she said, “and I know you have so much to do, but I really need you to talk to my daughter.”

I opened my mouth but couldn't speak.

“That girl they found on La Brea?” Liz said. “That's my baby. Trina's alive.”

 

55

Thick silver fog rolled off the Pacific Ocean and transformed Marina del Rey into a faded memory. The orange tip of Mike Summit's cigarette glowed as he stood near the sliding doors marked
EMERGENCY
. Other news cameras and reporters also hunkered around Freeman Hospital, but Summit was the only one I wanted to strangle. But being this close to the hospital, the doctors would certainly revive him with shocks to the heart and a giant clamp to extract my foot from his throat. Ignoring the stabby anger within, I raced past Mike instead of assaulting him.

Four uniformed cops and Gwen Zapata, a gnome in her oversize gray trench coat, stood outside Trina Porter's hospital room. “Her left foot is broken,” Gwen told us. “Looks like it's been broken for weeks now.”

“Needle puncture marks?” I asked.

“No marks.”

“Tooth?” Colin asked.

“Still there. She's totally dehydrated, though. Like she hasn't had water for days.”

“They do blood tests?” I asked.

“Still out,” Gwen said. “And Pacific sent over a team to scrape her fingernails, do some swabs, rape kit—all of that.”

“She awake?” Colin asked.

Gwen nodded. “Pumped up with meds, though.”

“But she doesn't fit the pattern,” Colin said to me. “She's been missing for almost three weeks now. Why'd he keep her alive?”

Before I could answer, Liz Porter stepped out of the room. Her bloodshot eyes filled with tears even as she smiled at me. “You came.” She pulled me into a hug.

As we stood there, I prayed that this painfully thin woman would have a happier ending than Regina and Vaughn. “Will she talk to me?” I asked.

“She's scared of…” Liz Porter glanced at Colin, and then she blushed. “She just wants me around, but I told her that we have to trust somebody so that we can catch him. She kept beggin' me to take her to the police station or to take her home but—” A sob burst from Liz's chest. She forced herself to breathe, to gain control. Succeeding but still shaky, she continued her story. “She's broken up really bad, inside and out. I told her we had to come to the hospital. Detective Zapata—” She nodded in Gwen's direction. “Detective Zapata told me that she was gonna call you, but we'd been here for over two hours now, and she hadn't called you, so I did.”

Gwen shrugged. “
Technically,
Liz—”

“I know,” the woman interrupted, “Trina isn't dead, thank God, but you all need our help. And, Detective Norton, I couldn't trust that you'd get any information Trina had in time.”

“Did she tell you how she escaped?” Colin asked.