Trail of Echoes (13 page)

Scowler sucked her teeth. “I ain't gon' let somebody steal
me
.”

“Ontrel told us who you are,” Scowler said. “And he said that you used to live here and that you knew Miss Alberta, like, a hundred years ago.”

“And now you get to carry a gun and hang out with white people,” Braids said.

“Yay, me,” I said, smirking.

“You shoot anybody?” Chubby One asked.

“Ladies,” Colin said, “let's—”

“That mean she shot somebody.” Scowler turned to Colin. “We know
you
have.”

Colin's face reddened.

“Aw,” Chubby One said, “be nice. Leave him alone.”

Then, all three girls laughed.

“So what do you think happened to Chanita?” I asked, nonplussed.

Annoyed, Scowler pushed out a breath. “That's a stupid question. Coulda been anybody who killed her.”

“Tell me your name,” Colin demanded. “I'm not diggin' your tone.”

Braids snickered and stage-whispered to Chubby One. “Did he just say ‘
digging
'?”

“You got something to say?” Colin asked.

Colin hadn't interacted much with girls who talked back, swerved their necks, whose stank attitudes wafted off of them like burning toast. He had only met the ones who could no longer talk back or suck their teeth.

“Names, girls,” I said.

Scowler said, “My name's S-h-a capital Q-u-a-n.”

“And you two?” Colin asked, pen on pad.

The two other girls looked to ShaQuan.

ShaQuan nodded.

Braids said, “Treasure.”

Chubby One said, “Imunique.”

My pen froze on the pad. “You're what?”

“Imunique.” And she spelled it for me. “Ontrel and Lamar and them call you Lockjaw. Said you like a pit bull on a baby's head.”

I shrugged. “A pit bull, huh? That's a new one. So, ShaQuan: what do you mean, anybody could've killed her?”

ShaQuan peered at me with small, hard eyes—the eyes of every bully in every neighborhood in every nation in the world. “Anybody. Coulda.
Killed
. Her.”

“Nita didn't hang out with us,” Treasure explained. “Her grandma was always drivin' her to the Valley and stuff for classes so we ain't seen her that much.”

“She was always gettin' in cars with grown-ups like she was important or somethin',” ShaQuan added. “Why ain't nobody asked
them
nothing?”

“Who's ‘them'?” Colin asked. “Who are the adults she hung out with?”

ShaQuan pulled gelled tufts of hair back beneath a barrette and into the pitiful up-top ponytail. “Y'all keep messin' with us cuz we black. And we got in
one stupid fight
with Nita and now everybody wanna blame us.”

“What was the fight about?” I asked.

“She disrespected me,” ShaQuan said. “She called me a loser on Facebook. So I'm, like, say that shit to my face.”

“Everybody brave on the Internet,” Treasure said.

“Did she say it to your face?” I asked, eyebrow cocked.

“She said it,” ShaQuan said.

“And you beat her down, right?” Colin said, nodding.

ShaQuan sucked her teeth. “People think Nita was perfect, but she wasn't.”

“How was she not perfect?” I asked.

Treasure picked at a zit with her fingernail. “Regina used to make her boost shit all the time.
And
Nita always talked about gettin' pregnant by a baller so he had to take care of her and the baby.” She swerved her head. “That ain't somebody who all sweet and innocent.”

“And she tried to trap Ontrel,” ShaQuan spat. “She used to poke holes in his rubbers.”

I smirked. “Really?”

ShaQuan dropped her eyes to the sidewalk. “Uh huh.”

“When did you see her last?” Colin asked.

“Friday,” Treasure said. “She got into an SUV.”

“With who?” I asked.

The girl shrugged. “The windows was tinted.”

“Did you see the license plate?” I asked.

“It started with a number,” Treasure said.

I waited for more.

Treasure rolled her eyes. “Dang, what else you gotta know?”

“Well, for starters,” Colin growled, “try getting the tone outta your voice.”

“What tone?” Treasure asked in that same tone.

“You talk to your mom and dad like that?” he asked.

The girls looked at each other, then laughed.

The color returned to Colin's face, but his lips disappeared. “Would you three laugh if I took you down to the station for questioning?”

ShaQuan smiled. “Which station? Downtown or Seventy-seventh? I been to both.”

The trio laughed some more.

Jaw clenched, Colin looked to me for help.

I winked at him.
Sorry, kid.
“So what kind of SUV did Nita get into?”

“It was like a Yukon or Tahoe or somethin' like that,” Imunique said.

“Anybody around here drive a truck like that?” Colin asked.

“What we look like?” ShaQuan snapped. “The DMV?”

Stepping back, he ran his hand through his hair.

I could feel Colin's blood pressure rise. “Ontrel drive an SUV?” I asked the girls.

“Or do we need to grab him and ask him ourselves?” Colin asked.

“Ontrel drive a Bonneville,” ShaQuan said with no extra flavor.

“Around what time did you see Chanita?” I asked.

“Like after school let out,” Imunique said.

“You speak to her?” I asked.

They considered each other with worried eyes. Finally, ShaQuan offered, “We said hi.”

“And?”

“We asked where she was going.”

“And?”

ShaQuan opened her mouth, but changed her mind and shrugged.

“Was she alone when you talked to her?” I asked.

All three nodded. “And then the truck came,” Imunique said, “and drove her away.”

“Where were you when all this was happening?” I asked.

“King and MLK,” Treasure said.

“By the Krispy Kreme?” Colin asked, writing in his pad.

“At that bus stop,” Imunique added.

“Yup,” the other two agreed.

Just as Gwen Zapata's witness had remembered.

“On Friday,” I said, “did you tell the cops about the SUV?”

“No,” ShaQuan said. “Ain't nobody asked us nothing about no SUV.”

I sighed. “You think Ontrel could've—?”

“No,” Treasure shouted, eyes wide. “He innocent. Cops always messin' with him. Y'all—” Tears filled her eyes, and she turned away from me.

“I think Mess-cans did it,” Imunique said as she pulled her braids into a loose bun. “They be hatin' on us, tryin' to run us out of here, and so they took Nita and showed us that they ain't scared of us.”

“Payback,” Treasure added as she dried tears on her jacket's sleeve.

“Them cholos from Eighteenth Street roll up in here all the time,” ShaQuan complained. “Visitin' they moms and sisters and fifty-million relatives all livin' up in one apartment. Always trying to start shit. They coulda took Nita and drove her to East LA or to Mexico or to hoochie-coochie-la-cucaracha-wherever-they-live.”

“And then they drove her to Bonner Park?” Colin asked.

“Yup,” the girls said together.

“They almost killed my cousin two weeks ago,” Imunique claimed. “They shot him over on Parthenon. He still on life support.”

“Does your cousin bang?” I asked.

“Yeah, he bang,” Imunique said, her gaze hot with offense. “But that don't give them no right to be shootin' at people.”

“That's what she get,” ShaQuan muttered.

“You mean Nita?” I asked, pulse banging in my throat. “Why would you say that?”

“Cuz she wanted to be white,” ShaQuan said, head cocked, hand on hip.

“She talked like you,” Imunique said to me. “Like a white girl.”

“She was all,
I'm better than y'all cuz I'm on the honor roll,
” Treasure added, her voice high to affect snootiness.

“And
that's
why we kicked her ass,” Imunique said.

“Shut up,” ShaQuan spat at her friend. “You talk too damn much.”

Treasure shook her head. “And I don't believe she really dead.”

I blinked at her, but Colin spoke first. “You're fuckin' kidding me.”

Treasure gaped at him. “You don't
know
. Regina is sus.”

“
Sus
?” Colin asked.

“Suspect,” I told him.

“She do all kinds of crooked shit,” Treasure continued. “She may be runnin' an insurance scam or somethin'. That bitch be gettin'
over
.”

Back in the day, Miss Alberta also got over—using food stamps that had somehow been
liberated
from neighbors' mailboxes. Receiving Social Security checks for Dominique, who was stupid but far from special needs. So the reality of Regina learning the fine art of scamming at her mother's knee? Certainly.

Treasure cocked her head. “Have y'all seen Nita's body?”

I said, “Yes. Of course we have.”

Unblinking, Treasure said, “Y'all check for a pulse?”

Colin clapped. “Okay. This is ridiculous. We need your
guardians'
phone numbers.”

“Why?” Treasure asked.

He explained to them about witness statements.

The girls rambled off their numbers.

I held up my hand. “Quick question—”

“We gotta go.” ShaQuan set off east.

“We're not done,” Colin said.

“We under arrest?” she asked.

“Of course not,” I said.

“So, like I said, we gotta go.”

I waved. “Where you headed, if I may ask?”

ShaQuan grinned at me. “Girl Scouts.”

 

20

The game was on.

Through windows and patio doors, shadowy figures camped around glowing television screens. I didn't know if Texas or Arizona State was winning, but the sounds of crowds roaring, high-top sneakers squeaking, and sports announcers pontificating echoed throughout the apartment complex.

Colin strode beside me through the courtyard. His face still twitched with anger, and his lips had not returned to their original spot.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Who the fuck are raising them little twerps? Where I'm from, you talk to adults like that, you get popped in the mouth.”

“Where
you're
from,” I said, “people burn crosses to scare
my
people, all in the name of Jesus. Not all you people.” I paused, then added, “Just sayin'.”

The pungent aromas of marijuana and trash traveled on the wet night air. The lights in the courtyard had died, and now tiny orange lights flickered ahead like fireflies. The shadows had been smoking all kinds of shit, but now joints were being hastily rubbed out between fingers. Soon, someone would burn microwave popcorn to mask the smell.

“Interviewing child molesters makes my stomach hurt,” Colin complained. “Hell, the
idea
of Raul Moriaga scrambles my logic more than murder does. In a weird kinda way, murder makes sense. You hurt me—”

“I kill you,” I said.

“You scare me.”

“I kill you.”

“You have something I want.”

“I kill you.”

We reached Raul Moriaga's apartment. A small handwritten sign had been taped next to the doorbell.

NO SMOKING! NO FUMAR!

Colin banged on the door.

The peephole darkened.

We both held up our badges.

The door opened, and a weasel manifested as a man poked his head from the darkness. He wore a wispy brown porn mustache and a scar that ran from his nose to his jaw. His slicked-back hair connected his head to his torso without benefit of a neck. A blue teardrop had been tattooed beneath his right eye. He opened the door wider, and the smell of french fries drifted toward us. “Yes?”

“I'm Homicide Detective Lou Norton, and this is my partner—”

“I don't know nothing 'bout that girl.” Moriaga nodded toward the rear apartments.

“We just wanna talk, Raul,” Colin said.

“I ain't had nothing to do with that girl.”

“Heard you the first time, amigo
,
” Colin said. “Can we come in?”

Moriaga narrowed his weasel eyes, opened the door wider, and motioned us into the dark. “It's kinda cold in here.”

“Cold is just a state of mind.” I placed my hands on my hips so he could see that I was carrying—no one liked that kind of surprise.

His gaze dipped and he flinched.
Surprise!

A large aquarium filled with fish dominated the eastern wall of the dark living room. The tank's blue and white fluorescent lights made shadows reach across the carpets. There was no television or stereo. Just the aquarium, a dark-colored sofa, a plaid armchair, and crumpled fast-food bags on the carpet and counters.

“Can we get some more light on, Raul?” I asked.

“Umm … it's…” He sighed, then said, “Okay.” He clicked on a floor lamp by the door, and then hustled across the living room to flick on the kitchen light-switch.

A magazine had been shoved hastily beneath the armchair's cushion—didn't want to know what he'd been reading. A beer can sat on the coffee table alongside paperback editions of
Into Thin Air
and
Great Expectations.

Colin wandered to the aquarium. Orange, blue, scarlet, yellow—no one fish looked like the other. Some hid in the coral while others dashed over rocks.

“How big is this tank?” Colin asked.

“Sixty gallons, salt water.” Moriaga stood beside Colin, and together they gazed at vibrant-colored fish dashing through castles and anemones. “I love lookin' at the different colors, you know? Before I was arrested, I used to work at a fish store.”