Trail of Echoes (20 page)

Payton Bishop had an Eiffel Tower addiction—there were pictures of the famous monument on every wall. Night at the Tower. Fog at the Tower. Spring at the Tower. Snow globes and wrought-iron sculptures of the Tower sat on every flat surface. Framed postcards and restaurant menus hung on the walls.

The counselor noticed my looking as he moved around to his chair. “Have you been?”

“Not my kind of place,” Colin said, dropping into one of the two visitor chairs.

“I went back in 2001,” I said, taking the other seat. “Rainy but beautiful.”

Bishop smiled at me. “We know each other.”

“Oh?” I scanned his desk: a personal calendar, a hardcover journal, and a framed picture of a familiar-looking blonde wearing a pink ski suit.

“We were in most of the same honors classes here.
Payton Bishop
. That doesn't sound a little familiar?”

I would've immediately remembered the names “Myron Englund” or “Billy Stevens.” Talk about your unrequited love of boys who didn't know you existed. Still, my mind flipped through my ninth-grade yearbook and …
Ah! There he was!
Very skinny. Very short. Eyes as big as a kinkajou's. “You're a Superlative Boy,” I said.

“A what?”

“A superlative. ‘Most' this. ‘Best' that. You were ‘Most Shy.'”

“Yep,” he said. “Remember Dana Laramie? She won ‘Best Figure.' Saw her last week at Target. Weighs close to three hundred pounds, no lie.”

“Stuck up,” I said, remembering, “after she got that tiny part in
Boyz n the Hood
.”

“Yep. I asked her out in high school,” Bishop said, smiling, “and she told me that she didn't date boys who drove their mom's—”

“Driver's Ed cars,” I said, nodding. “She's ‘Ho Number Two' in a movie, and all of a sudden she's Miss Cicely Tyson.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Our honors English teacher, Mrs. Cruz? She died last month. Breast cancer. Remember how—?”

“We should really get to why we're here,” Colin interrupted.

“Wow,” the counselor said, grinning at me. “You're a detective now?”

“Yep. Let's talk about Chanita and Trina. You counseled both of them.”

“Trina for only a year,” he said. “Then, Liz Porter put her in the parochial school over on Santa Rosalia.”

I nodded. “Chanita's mom, Regina, says you two were always together. She told me that Nita also had a crush on you.”

He snorted. “I wouldn't put stock into things Regina says.”

“She
is
the girl's mother. She would know who her daughter—”

“No, she wouldn't,” the counselor interrupted. “Sorry, but Regina was never around to know who Chanita hung out with or who the girl liked.”

He was correct, of course, especially since I personally knew the family terrain. But it just
felt
wrong not to trust a mother in mourning.

“And can I be
totally
honest,” he asked, “since we go back?”

I nodded. “Be as candid as you want.”

Payton leaned forward. “You know Regina: she ain't about shit. Her sisters and brothers ain't about shit. Miss Alberta found Jesus and wants to make it all right, but the Savior's blood can only repair so much.” Payton's eyes didn't leave mine. “Just wanted to remind Detective Norton here of who we're dealing with.”

I nodded as I wrote the first line of the Emancipation Proclamation—my new go-to sentence to make people think what they've said was important enough to be written. Everything Payton Bishop had just spouted was true—but it offered nothing new.

I stopped writing and said, “I've been told that Chanita was seen with an adult on the day she disappeared.”

He held my gaze. “Who was the adult?”

“Don't know,” I said. “But that adult drove a dark SUV.”

“What do you drive?” Colin asked.

“A gray Prius.”

After a rushed knock on the door, a girl charged into Bishop's office. Rust-colored freckles dusted across her nose and beneath her eyes. She'd be nicknamed “Tiny” or “L'il Tee” in a junior high school clique. She held a cupcake thick with pink frosting, and her smile dimmed seeing Colin and me seated there. She whispered, “Sorry,” then leaned past us to drop the treat on Payton Bishop's desk.

The counselor said, “Thank you, Destiny,” as she backed out of the office. To us, he said, “As I was saying—”

“So where were you on Friday?” Colin asked.

“Sitting right here.” Bishop gave me a quizzical,
What's going on here?
look.

“When did you find out Chanita was missing?” Colin asked.

“Friday evening. Miss Alberta called me. And that night I helped look for her.”

“When did you find out that she was dead?” I asked.

Bishop's Adam's apple bobbed. “Yesterday morning. The principal told us.”

I glanced at his loafers. Definitely not worn for hiking. But a man with an Eiffel Tower addiction and a blond wife probably owned more than one pair of shoes.

“Wednesday morning,” Colin said, “between ten thirty and one thirty, where were you?”

Bishop rubbed his index finger beneath his nose. “Running some errands.”

“What type of errands?”

He cleared his throat, then sat back in his chair. “Well … School-related things. Going to Staples. Picking up a few supplies. A few other things.”

“That it?” I asked.

He narrowed his eyes. “Is that a problem?”

“It wasn't in-service back on Wednesday?”

He frowned. “No. That was earlier this month.”

Colin smiled at me. “Shocker: the Meanest One lied to us.”

I smiled as I considered the pink cupcake on Bishop's desk.

But Colin asked the question. “Were Trina and Chanita into you as much as the girls we've seen this morning?”

“
Into
me?” he said. “You're referring to my
students
?”

“You're right,” Colin said. “They
are
your
students.
I forgot. Silly me.” He tapped the picture frame. “So is lucky Mrs. Bishop as into you as…?”

Bishop lifted the corners of his mouth, but that smile didn't reach his eyes. “She is, indeed, lucky. And she is, indeed, ‘into me.' We've been married for almost three years.”

Another knock on the door. Another student—a girl with long blond braids and a box of donuts. She, too, slipped her offering on his desk. “I got an A on my chemistry test,” she said.

Bishop smiled. “Good for you. All things are possible—even an A in chemistry.”

She blushed, then backed out of the office that now smelled of sugar and vanilla lotion.

We sat in silence for a moment.

Finally, Colin said, “You're a popular teacher.”

Payton shrugged and stared at the pink box.

“It's damn sad about Chanita and Trina,” Colin continued. “Two of your students—”

“One is no longer my student—”

“Two of your students have either disappeared or been found dead,” Colin said.

Bishop said nothing, but he'd become blinky as though his contact lenses were scratched.

Colin said, “Tragic coincidences.”

“Yes,” Bishop said.

“You counsel any
boys
?” Colin asked. “No boys have stopped in with bro food like nachos or crullers.”

“Most students in our gifted and talented program are girls,” Bishop shared. To me, he said, “The school environment has changed drastically since we were students. You may not be aware of it, but the boys—”

“You serious?” I asked, laughing. “I'm very much aware of it. I see it every day, all day. Dead and alive and in between. What do you think I do for a living,
Counselor
?”

Bishop nodded. “Yes, of course. So I'm sure you understand my meaning: there aren't enough of our boys in the GAT program.”

“So where were you working before Madison?” Colin asked.

“Lincoln Middle School in Mount Washington.”

“Why did you leave?”

Bishop's hand drifted up to his head. “The administration and I didn't see eye to eye. They wanted me to approach each student's education the same way. But everyone learns differently—some by rote, some by application. Not everyone's cut out for college.”

“And our alma mater is so enlightened here?” I asked, head cocked.

“Enlightened enough.” He sighed. “My problem is this: I'm a truth teller, and so that means I'm always a target.”

“Tell me about Chanita,” I said.

“She was a sweetheart,” he said. “One of my favorites. She had a bright future.”

“I've seen some of her pictures,” I said. “Very talented.”

Bishop slumped in his chair. “I worked hard trying to get her out of here. She had two choices: she could've accepted a full scholarship to Thacher School in Ojai or a partial at Stevenson up in Pebble Beach. I didn't care which she chose; I just wanted her away from these kids and out of Los Angeles.”

“Why didn't she take the money and run?” Colin asked.

“She was scared what would happen if she left her mother. Without Nita around, Regina would get into more trouble.”

“Chanita confided in you a lot,” I said.

Steel returned to the counselor's spine, and he sat back up in his seat. “No, not really—”

“But you knew about her life with her mother.”

“I only asked why,” he said, shaking his head. “Why, after all the trouble I went through in the application process, why she decided not to attend either school. Chanita and I always talked school and almost always talked photography.”

“When was the last time you were with Nita?” I asked. “
Just
you and her?”

Bishop opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

Colin leaned forward, hand to his ear. “Sorry. Didn't catch that.”

Bishop's nostrils flared. “I took her to Starbucks back on Monday.”

“To take pictures?” I asked.

“No. To talk. That's when she told me about not going away to school.”

I squinted at him. “And that required an off-campus trip?”

Bishop didn't respond—not with a grunt, a head shake, or a blink.

“I'll need your DNA,” I said.

He nodded. “I understand.”

“You'll come down to the station?” I asked.

“Of course. I have nothing to hide.” He exhaled, then folded his hands atop his desk.

“What about the girls who bullied her?” Colin asked. “Treasure…”

“ShaQuan and Imunique?” Bishop shook his head. “I got them suspended after they jumped Chanita.” He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “It's weird how they just focus on some girls. Chanita didn't call attention to herself—she's a photographer. She
observes
.”

“You think the girls had something to do with her murder?” I asked.

Bishop stared at the photo of his wife. As he thought, he twisted the wedding band on his finger. “I don't know who would've wanted to kill Chanita. I only know this: I didn't do it.”

 

28

It was close to noon, and an older, tall, black man dressed in a knee-length overcoat and black Kangol cap stood near the entrance to Southwest Division's parking garage. Wet trash, mud, and dead leaves had banked at the curbs. No matter—the man's Stacy Adams shone as though the day had been all sunshine and dragonflies.

Colin slowed the car as he approached the lot. “That him?”

“Yep.” My gut bubbled—I wanted to vomit again.

Victor Starr grinned as he spotted me in the driver's seat.

“I see where you get your height,” Colin said. “And you have the same smile, and—”

“Shut up, Colin.” I grabbed my bag from the backseat, then threw open the door. “If I'm not up in ten minutes, call Sam and tell him I'll need bail.”

Out of the car now, I glanced at clouds that sat like cast-iron skillets in the sky. The cold wind stung my face, and my heavy bladder pressed against the lining of my ballistics vest.

Victor Starr took a tentative step toward me. “Lu … Elouise.”

My gaze roamed to the taco joint across the street, and I found interest in the painted red letters that spelled
TORTAS AL CARBON
.

“Georgia told me that you … that we … Thank you. I mean that.”

I crossed my arms and glowered at him.
What bullshit are you about to try and feed me?

“Can we go somewhere and talk?” he asked.

I didn't move from my spot. Instead, I looked at my wristwatch—soon as the big hand hit 2, he'd be standing here alone.

The redwood of a man took another step closer to me. He still smelled of cigarettes, peppermint breath mints, and department-store cologne. “Had a heart attack,” he said. “About six months ago now.”

I rolled my eyes—
of course
.

“And I realized that I needed to do some things before my time came.” He chuckled. “Fortunately for me, my doc says that I got about twenty more years on this earth to do 'em.”

I shifted to my other foot as the cords in my neck twanged.
I'm doing this for Mom.

Nervous, he cleared his throat. “So I live in Vegas now. Me, my wife, June, her son, Curtis. He's about your age, a little older.” He waited for my response.

And I
was
responding. My heart boomed in my chest like a cranked-up cannon, and my nostrils flared so much that I could've been caught up by the wind.

“I talk about you all the time,” he continued. “June's proud of you, too, and Curtis wants to meet you. He's out of the service now and thinking about becoming a cop.”