Trail of Echoes (18 page)

I shoved him. “I'm not a slut. He e-mails, and Lena says that it's normal even though it seems a little … stalky.”

Colin laughed. “Oh yeah. You
were
dating back when men wrote love letters with
pens
.”

“You don't anymore?”

Colin smirked. “Texts, e-mails, Facetime, tweets, it's what you do now, Wilma Flintstone. I get about … a hundred texts a day on a
weekday
. When I'm not working?” He whistled. “That's not being a
stalker
. That's bein' handsome and sexy.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, brother.”

“Relax and enjoy the attention. E-mails are normal, got it? Say it with me.”

Together, we said, “E-mails are normal,” twice.

“Speaking of sluts,” he said, “Dakota called me.”

“You're the slut in this story then?”

“Uh huh. Anyway…” He paused, then exhaled. “She met some guy.”

I glanced at him, at his clenched jaw and bobbing Adam's apple. “And you said…?”

He shrugged. “Wished her well. He's an air force captain. I knew him from high school.” He shrugged again. “Shorter than me. No neck. Every other word outta his mouth is ‘Holy Spirit.'”

I laughed, then said, “You know, I'd pick you over Captain Saved.”

He smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yep. If we were in the last days, and you had a gun pointed at my head while carrying a slab of barbecue ribs? Oh hell yeah. It would be me and you, Colin. Me and you.”

Colin laughed. “You're a national treasure, Lou.”

We walked on, the only noise the clomp of our boots on the dirt trail and the furious chirp of birds in a hurry to find food before the next storm hit. My muscles burned as we continued up the muddy path. Took us almost thirty minutes to reach the top when it would've taken only ten minutes on dry days.

For thirty-seven years old, I was in great shape—back in December, after Christmas, I had returned to Krav Maga, stepping up ab crunches and sidekicks. But today, the hike took my breath away. Add a canvas bag with a hundred pounds of dead weight and throw in rain and mud, and I'd never reach this summit in time to disappear without being seen by someone on the trail.

A white CSI van was parked on the gravel service road closest to Chanita's dump site.

“Guess Zucca had the same idea,” Colin said.

Up ahead, yellow tape and the blue tarp stood out against the green. Because the area was still taped off, memorials for Chanita Lords had been left at the trunk of the closest eucalyptus tree. Stuffed animals were drenched from the rain. Battered posters with running, inky messages—
WE LOVE YOU! WE MISS YOU! JUSTICE 4 NITA!!
—had been nailed to the tree's trunk. Candles no longer burned—their flames had been doused by storm water. Three young women wearing nylon jackets stood nearby taking pictures—crime-scene selfies—as fine drizzle now fell from those steel-wool clouds.

The heavy sky pushed down on me as I walked past the tarp to where the thirteen-year-old had been discarded in the mud.

Zucca and a beauty-shop blonde were placing heavy flashlights into hard cases.

“What's the haps, Z?” I asked

“Looking for It,” he said. “Always looking for It.” He nodded to the blonde. “You remember Krishna.”

Krishna of the ridiculous hair, the cold-sore scar on her upper lip, the imperious blue eyes. The same Krishna who had screwed up a few DNA swabs and specimens by not wearing gloves, and so, in the end, a man who had killed his ex-wife and her dog had gone free because of reasonable doubt. Yes, I remembered Krishna.

And Krishna remembered me. She now gave me the stink-eye since she was still shitting out pieces of leather from my Cole Haan pumps.

Colin didn't speak, either, because he, too, remembered Krishna. Didn't matter if she was allegedly pretty or not, the detective from the Springs had been around me long enough to despise Stupid Ass People Who Let Killers Go Free.

And that is why I now said, “Zucca, walk with me.”

He followed me north on the trail.

I stopped at the bluff.

“Lou,” he said, “I know—”

“
Really
?” I glared at him, then pointed toward the tarp. “You bring that simple bitch to my scene? To the most important case we'll—”

He held up his hands. “I know.”

“No, you
don't,
cuz if you
did,
you'd know that I will effin' go off on her
and
you—”

“I promised you that wouldn't happen ever again.” His skin was pale and moist with flop sweat. “Today, I watched everything she did, and I'll keep supervising her closely.”

“No.”

“She has to work on
something,
” he said. “I swear: she won't mess up your evidence.”

I glared at him for good measure, then stomped back to the scene.

Colin and Krishna were warily eyeing each other.

“So. Anything interesting?” I asked Zucca, the angry quiver still in my voice.

Zucca nodded. “The pupae Brooks collected from the victim during the autopsy were blowflies. Some from here, some not from here. And there were dead spiders in that bag. Again, not all from this park.

“And the grass in the bag she was in,” he continued, “didn't come from here. And the dirt contained fertilizer and plant life not from here. And the leaves in the bag don't match the flora in this area, either.”

“So we were right,” I said. “Another crime scene.”

“Another strange discovery,” Zucca said. “We found a red View-Master in the bag.”

I opened my mouth, then popped it closed.

“You know, the toy?” Zucca said. “There are these 3-D picture discs that you pop in and you look in it to see—”

“I know what a View-Master is,” I said. “I'm just confused why she'd have it.”

“Did you look and see what the pictures were on the disc?” Colin asked.

“Greece,” Krishna said with a shrug. “Mount Olympus, the Colosseum, Parthenon…”

My blood ran cold as I took notes with a shaky hand.

“Why did he move her so many times?” Colin wondered.

“Probably to confuse us,” Zucca suggested.

“Cover his tracks by making tracks everywhere,” I said. “Anything else interesting?”

“Deadly nightshade,” Zucca said, retrieving his tools. “Definitely not found in this park.”

“So if we find the origin of the deadly nightshade…?” Colin said.

“You'll probably find where she was murdered,” Krishna finished.

I turned to my partner. “Up for more walking in the woods?”

 

25

Ten minutes later, Zucca and Krishna clanked down the service road with their boxes and kits. Colin and I, heading in the opposite direction, stopped at the lone park bench on the bluff.

“Like home up here,” Colin said. “Peaceful. Beautiful. My dad thinks it's all freeways and smog and…” He pulled the digital camera from his pocket and began taking shots. “A shame someone would screw all of this up.”

“Yeah.” I gazed down the steep hillside. “He took her from the bus stop on Friday and left her in another area long enough to inherit its bugs, dirt, and leaves. When did he dump her?”

“Early Sunday morning?” Colin wondered. “Higher, farther back off the trail. Maybe he came back on Wednesday to check to see if she'd been found yet.”

“But why come back at all and take a chance getting caught? Maybe … he's not the monster and was just some random dude who was on the trail like everyone else.”

I sighed. “Stop making sense. It does me no good.” I clicked my teeth as I thought. “And
when
did he do it? The guy in the hat. The guy with the bat. The guy eating green eggs and ham, whoever the fuck he is. The park opens at sunrise, a little after six
A.M
., and closes at sunset, a little after five thirty
P.M
.”

“A gate blocks the entrance,” Colin added. “But someone could easily hop over that.”

“An occasional visitor wouldn't know that this bluff exists,” I said. “Ten trails, and not all end in wonderfully scenic spots like this.”

I pointed to a smaller trail that wound past bottlebrush trees, cactus patches, and very young California poppies and then across the green valley and up to those million-dollar homes. “What if he came that way instead of the bigger trail?”

Colin stared at the smaller trail for a moment, then bowed. “After you.”

Together, we half-slid, half-stumbled down the crumbling hillside. Red mud and wet grass rimmed the hems of our slacks.

“You almost forget you're in the middle of the city,” I said once we reached flat land. “It must get dark as hell out here.”

He pointed to our left, at the huge radio towers equipped with glowing red bulbs. “Just those lights.”

We scrambled up a hill and then tottered down into a quiet neighborhood cul-de-sac. A yellow ranch-style house sat on one side of the street. Next to it was a brown ranch with palm trees and a manicured lawn. On the side of the hill we'd just climbed sat a white split-level home with ivy ground cover and, next to that, another split-level house painted salmon. New potholes were forming on Weatherford Drive because of all the rain and because part of the slope Colin and I had just climbed flowed onto the sidewalks.

“You take one side,” I said, “and I'll take the other.”

Colin ambled toward the yellow house across the street.

I trudged to the nearby split-level and climbed the stairs to the front door.

The white house needed two new coats of paint, modern windows, and a gardener. Despite its shagginess, though, the house enjoyed a great northern view of the basin and an awesome southern view of Bonner Park.

A tanned, honey-blond woman wearing blue surgical scrubs answered the door. She took in my nice blue suit and damp gray shirt, then frowned at my muddy hems and hiking boots.“Yes?”

I badged her, then told her that I was working “a case” and that the person of interest may have passed through the neighborhood. “You seen anyone out of place lately?”

She shook her head. “It's very peaceful here. No drama.”

“You live alone?” I tried to see past her but only glimpsed the walls of the foyer.

“Actually, I don't live here. This is my boyfriend's house, and he's not home.”

“When does he usually get home?”

“Eight, nine o'clock.” A pager beeped from her hip.

“You're a doctor?”

“Yes.” She pointed to the little black box on her hip. “May I?”

I nodded, then turned to see Colin strolling from the yellow house to the brown house.

“I need to get out of here,” she said with a regretful smile.

“What type of medicine do you practice?”

She grabbed her purse from a table I couldn't see. “I'm a surgical resident at Children's.” She stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind her. “Should I be concerned? Is this about the dead girl in the park?”

Together, we walked down the stairs. “Yes, it is.” I pulled a business card from my coat pocket and offered it to her. “If you hear any neighborhood gossip, give me a call? And could you ask your boyfriend to call me as well? Since he lives in the area, I want to keep him informed.”

She took the card and read it. “Certainly, Detective Norton, although, like I said, I don't live here. Only visit a few times a week. And he's always working and rarely home. But if I hear anything, I'll let you know. And I'll make sure he calls.”

A moment later, Colin and I headed back down into the valley and toward the chaos of the dark woods. The wind gusted stronger than before, making the radio towers creak and the low grass bend. No one had been at the houses Colin visited, and so he'd left business cards in the front doors.

A hawk's cry drew our gaze skyward. The large bird circled not that high above us.

“Why did he choose this park?” Colin asked.

Eyes on the raptor, I said, “Because he knows it.”

The hawk dive-bombed behind the hilltop, then swooped back into the sky. A small creature was now trapped in its talons.

“Why leave her on the trail?” he asked.

Something inside of me tightened into a tiny ball as I watched the raptor with its prize. “Because he wanted us to find her.”

 

26

Once again, the weather matched our moods—damp, dark, and uncertain. As Colin and I trudged back to the car, neither of us talked. Gusts of wind whirled around us, bearing the smell of dead things. Colin stopped every now and then to take pictures of tree trunks and puddles.

“This sucks,” I finally muttered.

Colin said, “Yeah.”

“My feet hurt,” I said.

“My ovaries hurt,” he said.

“My prostate—” My police radio chimed from my hip.

Unknown Caller.

I let the call go to voice mail. A moment later, nerves twitching, I listened to the message.

“Elouise, it's Daddy.” Victor Starr's voice—dark like chicory coffee with a hint of arrogant Louisiana. “I know you're still upset with me, but I'm not goin' away. Not until we talk. Say whatever you gotta say to me, just as long as you say
something
.
Anything
.”

Back in December, I had said plenty.

That afternoon, he had stood on my front stoop, and I had just ended my marriage with Greg after a Hail Mary in the bathroom. Still wearing a towel and nothing else, I had opened the front door, thinking it was my husband who'd plead for one last chance. But a tall man with my eyes and Tori's nose darkened my porch, and before he could open his mouth, the realization that this man was my father had crushed me like burning bricks. He had looked the same as he had when he'd abandoned me on that morning so long ago. Just grayer. Wealthier. Rounder—a middle-aged gut from Porterhouse steaks and creamed spinach.