Trail of Echoes (31 page)

I hoisted my iced tea.

Here, here.

And Sam's picture lit my screen again.

“Moment of disclosure,” he said. “I googled you.”

I frowned.

He held up his hands. “Just to make sure you weren't one of those … crazy cops.”

I grimaced and folded my arms. “Yeah?”

He smiled. “It's a necessity nowadays, running background checks. Dating ain't what it used to be, back when we were kids.” He held out his hand. “We good?” That smile again.

My heart pounded as I shook his hand. “Guess I'm not a crazy cop, then?”

“Nope,” he said, “but you should probably update your LinkedIn profile.”

I laughed.

“So,” Zach said, “since you're sitting here, chillaxin' with me, I'm guessing you've caught whoever killed that girl in the park.”

“Unfortunately, I haven't. I'm just taking a quick break before diving back in. I haven't eaten since breakfast.”

He winced, then waggled his finger and tsked-tsked me.

“I know, I know.”

“How's it going, if I may ask?”

I gave him the “approved for public consumption” update on Chanita Lords. I told him about Chanita's funeral and about her being bullied. I complained about inattentive or overloaded parents who force their kids to grow up alone in a world full of monsters.

Zach bit his lip and stared glumly at the street beyond the window.

“Sorry for being such a downer,” I said, “but you asked.”

“Death doesn't bother me,” he said with a shrug. “Hell, I used to be an EMT back in medical school. I saw death in its most naked state, and you wouldn't believe…” He cocked his head and chuckled. “You're a homicide detective—I guess you'd believe it.”

I said, “Ha, yeah.”

“So are there any suspects?”

“Can't say.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Is that a yes?”

“It's a ‘can't say.'”

“But from what you said earlier, sounds like the two cases are connected.”

“Hunh.” I found interest in my now-cold sandwich.

“When my sister Leanne died,” he said, “people blamed her for her being killed. They said she was ‘too sexy.'” He rolled his eyes. “And I, a young boy, grew up hearing that, and so I also blamed her for dying, even though a little part of me knew … All this murder business. Doesn't it scare you?”

“That's why I drink,” I said, lifting my cup of iced tea. “Usually something much stronger than this. And, yes, it
is
scary sometimes, but I like the challenge. I like righting wrongs. I like … being an avenger. Truth, justice, and the American way.”

“We're all put here to do something.” He looked pointedly at my iPhone. “What do the men in your life think about your mission?”

“My ex-husband … That's not him calling. Anyway, me being an avenger was just one of our problems.”

“And the one blowing up your phone? Is he begging you to put down the gun and take up guitar or glassblowing?”

I dabbed at crumbs with my middle finger. “He and I may have been … premature. He, too, has a new ex, and he may still…” My pulse jumped. Just to admit that Sam could still love … My heart rested whenever we were together. And with my job, my heart was always pounding. So it was lovely to feel it beat at a normal pace. Now, though …

Zach touched my hand. “You're sad.”

“Bad habit of mine.”

My iPhone
caw-cawed
—Colin's picture, no smile, all business, filled the screen. “I have to get this.”

“Brooks just finished up,” my partner announced.

“Let me call you right back,” I told him.

“Gotta go?” Zach asked.

“Yep.”

He led me through the crowd to reach the exit. Out in the parking lot, the growl of traffic bounced off concrete and the thick, dark sky. The scent of frying meat wafted from the Wienerschnitzel—a better option than the coffee-shop panini.

“I needed that,” I said, leaning against the Crown Vic's door. “Thank you.”

“If you ever need to talk and commiserate and just …
be,
then…” He pointed at his chest. “I'm the guy for you.”

I laughed. “I'll keep your application on file. You okay biking in this part of town at this time of night?”

He smiled. “Proud owner of a ghetto pass since 2004. I treat seventy percent of the population here, so I'm good.”

“Well, thanks again.”

Zach stepped back, then said, “I want to see you again, Elouise. But right now you don't have to figure out if
you
want that.”

I said nothing and glanced at the moon, now aglow behind clouds.

“Don't worry. When it's time, we'll see each other again. Maybe we'll
both
be in a good-great place.”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

He turned on his heel and strode toward the bike rack outside the coffee shop.

And I stood there, unsure of what had just happened.

A dream
.
This is all a dream.

And then my phone vibrated.

A text from Colin.

Shit, Lou. The monster used bug poison again.

 

42

It was past ten o'clock on a Saturday night, and I didn't expect to see him hunched over my desk. Sam, dressed in a blue warm-up suit, stood as I weaved past the cuffed and the victimized, the badged and the lawbreakers. He stood, hands on his hips, towering over me. “It's not what you're thinking.”

As I waved him out of the way, my heart pounded because it always pounded when he was near. “I don't have time, Sam, unless you're here to talk about a case.”

“Lou—”

“And how
is
your wife these days?” I dropped my bag near the wastebasket. “She sounds happy. Guess all is well in the House of Seward?”

He held up his hands. “Can we talk without the—?”

“No,” I spat. “I've done the ‘she was just answering my phone and I don't know why she's here' bullshit or have you forgotten? I did it before and it diminished me and—”

“But it's not what you—” He stopped. “Yes, You've heard
that
before, too. But she's not my wife anymore, all right? We are divorced. We are not together. It was over between us even before the divorce.”

I pulled the case file from the bag.

“She dropped Roscoe at the house,” he explained. “He's sick and she can't take care of him and … Nothing's going on, Lou. I swear that's the truth.”

I started toward the conference room.

He grabbed my hand. “Lou, don't—”

I glared at him and then at his hand on mine.

He let go. “Please don't walk away. Tell me what you want.”

I squinted at him. “I want someone who doesn't have to ask me that.”

He didn't blink. “I can do that, and whatever else you need.”

I gaped at him, then said, “I can't. Not now. Girls are literally dying around me.”

He dropped back into my chair. “Then I'll wait.”

I stared at him a moment more. “Sam. Go. Please. I'll call—”

“No, you won't. You'll find sixty more things to do, and I'll look up and it's Christmas and I'm still waiting to hear from you.”

I jammed my lips together—he knew me. “I'll call you. Promise.”

Flushed, he paused, then said, “Okay.” Because he knew that I'd never break a promise. Not even if keeping that promise destroyed me.

As I finally took my seat at the conference table, Colin glanced at his wristwatch. “I called you at—”

“Shut up, Taggert.” I reached for a paper plate, two slices of pizza, and a can of Diet Coke, then sat between Neil and Pepe. I nodded to Gwen, who was shoving ketchup-smothered french fries into her mouth.

“Can we get started now?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked as he picked cheese from his pizza slice and dropped it on a tired napkin.

I slumped in the chair and stared at walls covered with a giant area map of 90008, at the pictures of the girls' homes, trail 5, the park bench, and boot imprints.

Brooks clicked on the projector, and we were greeted by a picture of Allayna Mitchell on a stainless steel table. “The victim was fourteen. African American, eighty-seven pounds…”

After twenty seconds of listening to his update, I wanted Brooks to skip the parts I already knew: Allayna's age, weight, height—all of that. But he didn't skip those parts. “Methodical” was hardwired into his DNA, and he planned to go through every slide.

Colin could barely control his giggling at my irritation as Brooks's monotonous voice droned on and on.

“Did the same guy kill her or not?” I interrupted.

Brooks glared at me.

I glared back. “I know I'm being an asshole, but it's late, and I'm tired, and
you're
tired, and we've lost time, and I need to know some shit sooner rather than later, all right?”

“No fingerprints left behind,” Brooks said with a sigh. “Allayna Mitchell was also holding a tooth in her hand. The second molar, just like Chanita Lords.”

“Extracted before she died?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I asked her mother about any recently lost teeth,” I shared, “and she told me that Allayna still had her back ones.”

Brooks and Zucca scribbled this into their notepads.

“Second molar,” Brooks said. “One of the last teeth a child loses…”

I tapped my pen on the notepad. “He's making a statement—maybe he's prematurely pushing them from childhood to womanhood. The tooth—and I may be reaching here—may be their fare to the next world. The world of nymphs.”

“The coin the dead pay the ferryman to cross the river Styx,” Neil said. “A do-good action, picking up the tab, so to speak, but with a tooth instead.”

“Was this guy a Greek major in college?” Colin asked. “He's really into this shit.”

I nodded, adding that to my profile of the monster.

Brooks continued. “When we found her, she'd only been dead for about twenty-four hours. Her small intestine was empty—she'd eaten her last meal about eight hours before she died.” He clicked to a slide that showed dark patches of skin all around Allayna's body. “Differing lividity,” he explained, using a laser pointer to show us the dark patches on her back and sides. “Again, just like Chanita Lords.”

“Where is he killing them?” Pepe asked.

“In or around the same place,” Zucca said. “The same kind of leaves and berries. Deadly nightshade.”

“And again,” Brooks said, “not much bug activity.”

“Why does he do that?” Gwen asked. “The insect repellant?”

“Maybe he wants to be seen as doing something good,” Lieutenant Rodriguez offered.

Colin nodded. “Girls hate bugs.”

“Or,” I said, “maybe he just wanted to hide the smell of decomp, which the bug spray would help to do. Which makes it hard to determine time of death. But there wouldn't be extreme decomp since her mother only reported her missing early this morning.”

“So how did she die?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked Brooks.

“High levels of atropine from the plant.” Brooks clicked to a picture of Allayna's face. “Sunken eyes and pupils dilated so much her eyes look black.” Another picture. “Pale liver with lots of petechiae.” Another slide. “Mushy, soft brain, which tore easily. Petechiae in the corpus callosum.” Last picture. “Petechiae on the anterior of the heart.” He rubbed his eyes. “High amounts of acid and bile in her stomach. She had an ulcer the size of a walnut.”

“An ulcer at
fourteen
?” Colin asked.

Brooks nodded. “She was also so thin she had stopped menstruating.”

The pictures, and the pizza's greasy cheese and pepperoni, had made me nauseated, and I dabbed at my clammy skin with a napkin.

“Other elements similar to Chanita's case,” Brooks said, “are the broken left foot and puncture marks on her thighs. Unlike Chanita, though, Allayna was losing her hair. Throw in the ulcer, and I'm thinking she was under a lot of stress.”

“Vaughn insisted that Allayna was healthy,” I said. “Nothing to see here folks; move along. Her daughter planning to kill herself certainly wasn't something to freak out about, either.”

“She was
suicidal
?” Gwen asked, wide-eyed. “Detective Dean didn't mention that.”

I pulled Allayna's note from the file, then read it aloud.

Gwen whispered, “Wow. Poor kid.”

“Gomez,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said, “any update on the 2BT license plate?”

“DMV computers are back up, so I got this.” Luke held up a long printout speckled with yellow ink. “Going through it now and highlighting every plate that starts with 2BT. About seven so far. I'll send out a few radio cars when I get a complete list.”

“What about Chanita's phone?” I asked.

Luke shook his head. “The only calls made and received…” He scanned a page of the printout. “Are to and from her mother and grandmother. She didn't have a text or data package. No recent e-mails.”

“You talk to her friends?” Colin asked.

“Yep,” Pepe said. “Nothing there—she took pictures, she was on the newspaper, she talked about Ontrel. That's it.” He slid over a thin manila folder. “The friends' witness statements.”

“This deadly nightshade,” I said, turning to Zucca. “Which parts are poisonous?”

“All parts,” he said, “but the roots and berries are the most toxic. And roots, of course, grow year-round.”

“Surgeons use atropine,” Brooks added, “to regulate the patient's heartbeat. And believe it or not, when mixed with other agents in small amounts, it's pretty useful. It's used to treat Parkinson's, whooping cough, arthritis, hemorrhoids…”