Trail of Echoes (14 page)

He pointed to a moving spot of blue and yellow. “That's a royal angelfish right there. And that's a clown fish, and a harlequin tuskfish, and a betta. That's a royal gramma, a damsel. Stay still, girl. She's a regal tang. Over there's a coral beauty, a pajama cardinal fish, and a yellow-headed jawfish.”

“Impressive,” Colin said.

“Yeah,” he said. “The last time I was in, my cousin took care of 'em for me. Not these right here. A different group. He owned the store I was workin' at. You don't want just anybody lookin' after your babies. Not only cuz they expensive, but they all got they own personalities, and you don't want 'em to die on you.”

“Fish have personalities?” Colin asked.

Moriaga's reflection glimmered in the acrylic. “Hell, yeah, they do. That one right there?” He pointed at the brown spotted fish with a maimed fin now hiding behind a large gray rock. “That's Raquel. She shy. Hides in the rocks and only comes out when it's time to eat. She got a bad fin.”

Having had my fill of fish stories, I headed to the couch. “We never named our fish. We just put 'em in a bowl and fed them fish food once a day.”

“Don't mean to be rude, Detective,” Moriaga said, “but that's kinda jacked up. Fish need they space. This tank ain't the ocean, but at least they can claim some territory. At least they got some space to swim around in.”

My face numbed, and my lips barely moved as I muttered, “At least.”

“I do everything for 'em,” he continued. “I keep it dark in here cuz the sun makes algae that can kill 'em. And then the temperature—you gotta watch the temperature.”

Colin sat in the armchair. “How long were you in?”

“Almost a fuckin' dime,” Moriaga said. “All my fish died, but my cousin, man. He knew I was innocent. Everything was taken from me, so he's like, ‘I'll get you some more fish when you're out.' So, these fish right here? They was like my welcome-home gift. They keep me calm.” He touched the tank's glass before turning to us. “They my babies. They all I have.”

“Let's chat,” Colin said.

“Okay.” Moriaga hustled over to the couch and sat a little too close to me. His eyes sparkled, and he smelled of peppermint. “Like I said, I didn't know the girl over in five. I seen her a few times, but I don't talk to nobody. I'm just tryin' to keep my chin up and my head down, you know? Get back on the straight and narrow.”

I shifted my thigh away from his. “You ever talk to Chanita? You know, just a casual hi, neighbor to neighbor?”

“Like at the mailbox or whatever? I said hi a few times. Neighbor to neighbor.”

“Ever see her in the laundry room?” Colin asked.

“One time, I offered to help her cuz she did a buncha folks' washin' around here to earn some cash and the laundry basket looked heavy.”

“And she let you help?” I asked.

He shook his head. “She ain't wanna cause no problems.”

“For you?”

“For her. She datin' a Blood. He kinda known for kickin' females' asses. So I let her be.”

“You got any connections to Eighteenth Street?” I asked.

“Two cousins—they third cousins, though. I don't bang.”

“So the mailbox and the laundry room,” Colin said. “Those the only times you and Chanita talked?”

Moriaga tented his fingers. “Lemme think…” He closed his eyes, thought some, then opened his eyes. “Oh. There was this other time.”

I squinted at him. “This
other
time?”

He held out his left hand and pointed to a scar on the web between his index finger and thumb. “I was changin' the water in the tank and a rock cut me. I ain't had no first-aid kit or nothing, so I ran over to five cuz I know females buy bandages and peroxide and shit. Nita was there alone. She saw my hand and hooked me up.” His eyes fixed on the scar as he remembered. “That was nice. Somebody takin' care of me.”

I watched him for a moment, then asked, “How long you been out, Raul?”

“Almost six months. I ain't goin' back again. Learned my lesson. No more hangin' out with the wrong crowd. My mom and pops ain't bust they asses for me to be in and out of the pen. And they legal. We ain't no wetbacks, crossin' no rivers and runnin' from
coyotes
. Pops was in the U.S. Navy.”

“Why do people think you're involved in Chanita's death?” Colin asked.

He jiggled his legs. “Cuz they racist. Mexicans livin' in the Jungle get blamed for everything, man. We takin' black people's jobs. We takin' black people's apartments. Now, we stealin' they kids. I ain't
never
touched they kids. I ain't even
attracted
to black people.” He paused and his Adam's apple bobbed. “No offense, Detective Norton.”

I shrugged—my ability to be offended had died the moment I stepped into this ice cave.

“So your prison convictions?” Colin asked.

“I think they said Selena was thirteen or fourteen.” Moriaga sat back on the couch, then shook his head. “But that shit got twisted. She smoked meth
and
crack—that shit make you look older than what you are, you know? And she told me she was nineteen. I was, like, whatever man, let's do this. To be honest, she looked like she twenty-three.”

I didn't blink. “Uh huh.”

“And Jazzy?” He shrugged. “I ain't even
touch
that girl, and I sure as hell ain't take her to my uncle's garage. She was at the fish store, and it was raining, and I asked her if she needed a ride, and she said yeah. I sure as hell ain't
kidnap
her. And Bri … I didn't even
know
that girl. And that one really ticks me off cuz it's already bad going to jail for something you did, but when you go for something you
ain't
did?”

Okay. So. Raul Moriaga was the Ex-Con Framed for Everything. To his credit, he had tried to be so normal, so affable—he liked fish and reading Charles Dickens. But, then, how many citizens walked their dogs, did their laundry, then preyed on the most vulnerable once the rest of us had been lulled by the monotony of Everyday? That is, until we were snapped out of our sleep by a rape, an assault, or a murder by
that guy
?
That guy seemed so normal
.

“Convicted offenders can't live near places where children congregate,” I said. “There's a park down the block on Santo Tomas.”

“The law says a quarter mile of any
school,
” Moriaga explained. “I ain't high-risk.”

My heart jumped in my chest.
He
wasn't high-risk? If a man with thousands of convictions wasn't high risk, who the hell
was
?

“And this is LA,” Moriaga said. “Where
ain't
there kids?”

Colin squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Were you around the day Chanita disappeared?”

Moriaga hopped off the couch and bounded over to the aquarium. He opened the canister of fish food that sat on the tank's top and drizzled flakes into the water. “I was in San Diego hangin' out with homies I ain't seen in a while.”

“Where in San Diego?” Colin asked.

“At the sports arena. For this Control Machete reunion concert.”

“And how long were you there?” I asked.

“The weekend.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I came back here.” Moriaga smiled. “I told y'all: I ain't about that life no more.”

“That's wonderful to hear,” I said. “But you're a registered sex offender, and we have your DNA on file. So let's cut the crap, all right, cuz the machine's gonna tell me the truth.”

The ex-con shook his head. “I ain't done nothing like what you saying.”

“Fine,” I said, “but I still want the names of your homies in San Diego as well as the name of your PO.”

Moriaga rattled off names and phone numbers.

I slipped my pen and pad back into my bag. “You working now, Raul?”

Moriaga laughed. “You know how hard it is for a felon to get a job? It's like the system's setting me up to fail.” He smiled, then said, “Is the LAPD hiring? I can type, do shorthand, file. Got my AA when I was in. Went to counseling, too. They put me on some brake fluid.”

“What kind?” I asked.

“Paxil
and
Eulexin. I got me a sexual addiction, and I let it get the better of me. I'm straight now. I ain't no diaper sniper, a'ight? Them girls just looked older than what they was.”

I stood from the couch, now eager to return to fresh air and the outside's darkness. “Just know that if you're lying to us, we'll be back. If you leave this state anytime soon, if you leave this
country,
we're gonna have a problem. You've jumped bail a few times, and the marshals had to hunt you down at the border. If you put me through any bullshit like that, you'll be back in prison, and I'll see to it that you're in general population.” Even in hellholes like Pelican Bay, child molesters were persona non grata.

“I ain't goin' nowhere,” he said. “I ain't got nothing to run from.”

“One more thing,” I said. “Can you bring me all of your shoes?”

Moriaga cocked his head, then headed to his bedroom.

Colin followed him.

Both men returned. Moriaga carried three pairs of sneaks in his arms.

I took pictures of the bottoms: whorls, stripes, and chevrons.

On one pair, the Adidas, the tread was thick with red mud.

My heart thudded in my chest. “Mind if I borrow this pair? We'll process them as soon as possible and get them back to you.” I pulled a large evidence baggie from my satchel and handed it to Colin.

Moriaga darkened as he stared at his confiscated kicks, but he said nothing.

A minute later, he walked us to the front door. “I ain't killed
nobody,
Detective Norton. I did my time, even for shit I ain't done.” His eyes glistened with tears. “I just want a new start.”

 

21

No one answered at Chanita's apartment, which meant we couldn't ask her family about the teen's whereabouts during the bloom time of deadly nightshade. And so Colin and I tromped back through the courtyard and past those security gates.

Hillcrest Avenue had been abandoned by fake Girl Scouts. North of us, a troop of fat gray storm clouds had wrapped the black Santa Monica Mountains. Trees rustled in the wind, and a few loose palm fronds fell onto the wet sidewalk.

“I wasn't expectin' that,” Colin said as we approached our cars. “He was very polite, especially compared to the young ladies who greeted us. In total denial about his crimes, though. But, hell, no one in jail admits to ‘doing it.'”

I cocked an eyebrow. “You obviously didn't read his jacket.”

“I skimmed,” Colin said, placing the bag with Moriaga's shoes into the Charger's trunk. “I've been sick, remember? Anyway, the guy's obsessed with his fish. He cares about something. Wonderful, right?”

I went rigid and not because of the cold. “Guessing by your reaction, you did even less than
skim
Moriaga's jacket. His fish. His babies. Pet therapy. Touching, huh?”

“Kinda.” Colin pulled out his cell phone. “Other than the fact that they dictate the amount of light that comes into his apartment, it's not that weird.”

My mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “Colin, Moriaga would drive around LA County, offering young girls a ride home. Some would say no. Some would say yes. The ones who said yes got in his car. But he didn't drive them home. No, he drove them to his uncle's garage in El Monte. That's where he
raped
them. After a few hours, he'd drive them back. Then, he'd buy a fish, name it, and add it to his sixty-gallon saltwater tank.”

Colin paled.

“He has ten of them in that aquarium,” I continued. “Graciella, Jasmine, Janelle, Bianca, Keisha, Leila, Brianna, Esmeralda, and Selena. Those are the names of the girls he
raped,
Colin. And the tenth girl? He closed her hand in a vise and chopped off three of her fingers and most of her palm. Because she was black—that's what he told her. Hence, the fish with the gimpy fin named Raquel. The last kid he took wasn't a girl, and there ain't no fish named after Hector. The boy told his sister about what Moriaga had done to him, and the rest is history.”

Colin opened his mouth to respond, but he was too busy having a stroke.

“Not so touching now, is it?” I chuckled, pleased to see his perceptions bashed against the sharp rocks of reality. I glanced at my watch—almost six thirty. Enough time to stop by Mom's, rush home, shower, and throw pasta into a pot of boiling water. “So, I need to leave.”

“Just like that?” he said, eyes glazed.

“You wanna stand around some more and talk about how sick that poor, polite man is?”

He pushed out a breath, ran a hand through his hair, and plucked his phone from his jacket pocket. “Don't you have a date tonight?”

“I do.”

“I'll take Moriaga's shoes to the lab before I go home.” With a slick smile on his face, he was now texting on his phone. “That girl I met in the aisle at Walgreens? Carly? Wants to be my naughty nurse tonight.”

I pivoted on my heel. “Wonderful. Don't leave your cocktail unattended this time.”

“Who thinks of shit like puttin' Visine in drinks?”

“Ladies who steal money from their date's wallets while he's busy crapping on the toilet cuz she put Visine in his rum and Coke.”

“Happened to me
once,
Judge Judy. Geez. Shouldn't have told you.” He tossed me a salute, then whistled to his car.

By the time I reached my mother's neighborhood, the rain had come. Puddles abounded, and drivers slowly navigated the slick streets as though the pools of water were made of liquid nitrogen and kittens.