Trail of Echoes (36 page)

I glanced around the scene.
Red cup, red cup, empty Alizé
bottle.

“Hey, Jeff,” I said.

Jefferson regarded my track pants and sneakers. “Casual Friday on a Sunday?”

“Got blood on my sequins and mink stole this morning.”

“Just that you're always suited and booted.”

“Yeah. Circumstances. May I…?” I nodded to the victim on the wet asphalt.

“Certainly.”

The two other dicks stepped back as Colin lifted the sheet.

Raul Moriaga's thin face was now swollen and pulpy. His bloody wifebeater had been ripped apart. He lay in a mingled puddle of storm water and the crimson stuff that had given him life. He wore a single black Paul Rodriguez Nike.

Colin muttered, “Shit.”

I stared at Moriaga's weasel face—his half-mast eyes saw nothing.

“Guess his cousin will be gettin' those fish again,” Colin said.

“You were looking at him, right?” Jefferson asked.

“Yeah.” Then I told him about Chanita Lords, Moriaga's possible involvement, and his relevant past.

“So folks found out about his connection to Chanita through the news?” Jefferson asked.

I shrugged. “But Chanita's mother has always suspected him. You may wanna talk to her and to Ontrel Shaw, the girl's boyfriend.”

“Shaw's Jungle Bloods, ain't he?” Jefferson asked.

“Yep, so tread carefully,” I said.

“So what happened here?” Colin asked, nodding to the dead man on the asphalt.

Jefferson scratched his eyebrow. “A group of unidentified black males told Moriaga that he needed to confess to killing the girls. He refused, so they beat him. Finally, he said that he did it, probably hoping that they'd stop. But his confession only made it worse. Someone pulled out a knife and stabbed him ten times.” Jefferson clicked on the flashlight and showed us eight slits along Moriaga's back, his left bicep, and left wrist. “He bled out before the ambulance arrived.”

I grunted, uncertain how to feel about a predator permanently booted from society.

“One of the wits who saw nothing,” Jefferson was saying, “told me that he deserved it. She said that the neighborhood had enough problems without somebody stealing and raping and killing children. She said somebody needed to do something since the cops weren't.”

“And the guys who beat him?” Colin asked.

Jefferson smirked. “What guys? No one saw a thing. Moriaga got jumped by ghosts.”

 

49

The coffee grinder chewed whole beans, masking the funk of mildew and traitor in Syeeda's office. My college friend, sweatshirt sleeves rolled to her elbows and hair gathered in a loose bun, hummed as she filled her coffee maker. The weekend news played on the flat-screen television bolted to the north wall. The weekend edition of
OurTimes
sat on her desk. Syeeda tried to smile. “What do you want me to say?” She poured creamer into a mug, then licked her sticky index finger.

“Oh…” I shrugged. “Nothing special. Just, ‘Sorry, Lou for writing a—'”

“I didn't write it.”

“Your reporter
did,
” I snapped. “And you let him put my name in it.” I didn't want to have this conversation—every part of me thrashed on the inside, bucking against the onslaught of words my brain had prepared during the drive over from the Jungle.

Syeeda flicked her hand, then grabbed two sugar packets from a tray. “Your name's been in hundreds of articles. And this isn't the first time Rodriguez has reamed you for no good reason.” She sighed as the second mug filled with hot coffee. “You're right—I was supposed to write it, not Mike. You're right—it was shitty writing, and even after I bled all over it, it was
still
shitty writing. But he called my boss, Lou, and complained, so I had to let him do it. And I had to let some stuff go in, like the stats.” She tore open the sugar packets.

I glared past her and out the dirty window to rundown Crenshaw with its wig shops, smoke shops, and Wienerschnitzel that sometimes included bullets with its chili dogs. “You obviously don't respect what I do. You obviously don't care that a man is dead because—”

“Dude, I'm sorry, all right?” Syeeda handed me one of the mugs. “I'm sorry that I didn't get permission from you to—”

“Don't be passive-aggressive.”

“Folks read a story that told them nothing new,” she argued, sticking the stirrer into her mouth. “Everybody knew that Moriaga was a sex offender—”

“And yet he somehow, miraculously, continued to
breathe
until you printed a story—”

“Oh, Elouise.” She rolled her eyes. “I got a tip, okay? An unnamed source who told me that he'd been watching Moriaga, that he'd seen him more than once scoping out Chanita and other kids in the neighborhood. He actually sent me a picture of Moriaga talking to a twelve-year-old girl at the park two days ago. And so I made the call.”

“Who's this source?” I asked.

“You know I can't name my source.”

“
Who
?” I demanded.

She shook her head.

“I don't believe you.”

“What did you want me to do?
Not
report it? I have a picture of this guy being a goddamned predator, and yet I decided
not
to print the picture, even though my boss was saying that I should. Yes, you're doing your job. But I'm doing my job, too. Calling attention to this
sick shit
and to a neighborhood predator that you all wouldn't take off the street. He's dead? You're welcome. Now he'll never rape another kid forever and ever.”

A knock on the door.

Syeeda shouted, “Yeah?”

Mike Summit popped his head in. “Should I be on this conversation since I wrote—?”

“No!” boomed from both Syeeda's and my mouth.

Mike Summit blushed and closed the door with a quiet
click
.

Syeeda hugged her elbows. “Lou—”

“No.” I stood and sat the coffee mug on her desk.

She sucked her teeth. “Don't be like this.”

I grabbed my bag from the floor. “Be like what?”

“Stay. Chat.” She pulled off her sweatshirt—beneath it, she wore a
FRANKIE SAYS RELAX
T-shirt. “So what's up with you and Sam?”

I cocked my head. “You do realize that I'm working, right? You do realize that my ass is grass in about six hours and that I'm here to ask you to refrain from printing any more bullshit and racist, unsubstantiated conjecture. I'm looking for a
monster,
Syeeda. One who chews up little girls, spits them out, and leaves them in the park for me to find. And guess what? No matter who he was, Moriaga didn't kill those girls. It's not his DNA on Chanita. He's dead and
you
helped make that possible.”

“We wrote a story based on the information we had at the time,” she said.

“But you didn't have all of the information—”

“Cuz you didn't give me enough,” she shouted. “And you're not the only person in the world who knows shit. The people who live there—”

“If you'd just given me more time—”

“In this business, we don't get a lot of that. And Moriaga was setting up another girl—”

I shook my head. “But he didn't kill Chanita. He didn't kill Allayna. And now my colleagues will be hunting black boys who thought they were avenging something.”

“I'm sorry, okay? I understand what you're saying and that wasn't our intent.” She leaned against the credenza and continued to chew on that straw. “So Mike said there was some excitement at Chanita's funeral yesterday before Allayna Mitchell—”

“No comment,” I growled.

“Off the record, then.”

I shook my head.

She gaped at me.

I gave another head shake, then ante-upped with a frown. “Who sent you the picture of Moriaga and the girl?”

She called my frown with a frown of her own. “Hell no.”

“You and I need to take a break, then.”

“Seriously?” she asked, tossing the stirrer into the waste can.

“I give you information. You give me nothing back.” My stomach twisted into hot knots. “Is that all I am to you? Another
source
?”

“You're accusing me of
using
you? Now you're questioning our
friendship
?”

Am I?
I nodded.

Tears glistened in her eyes. “I've
always
been there for you, even when it has nothing to do with my job.” She threw up her hands. “Fine, I admit it: I give zero fucks about Moriaga being dead.”

“Wow,” I whispered.

“I'm wearing white, too, Elouise,” she said. “I want justice for all, too, and if
you're
not gonna protect—”

I pointed at her. “You shall
not
compare my job to yours, cuz I'm looking at you right now, at your cute little torso all freed up and shit, wearing quirky T-shirts that say ‘relax.' Wanna guess what I'm wearing under my—?”

“I know, all right?” she shouted.

I strode toward the door.

“You're leaving?”

“Looks like it.”

“Is Rodriguez making you choose between the boys in blue and your girls in pink and green? Girls who've cried with you and been there for you since childhood?” The heat of her anger rolled toward me like solar flares.

But her hotness had only made me icy. I opened the door and squinted at her. “You chose between me and your job when your boss told you to give the story to that fucker out there.”

“So you
are
choosing, then. You don't care—”

“About who? You? Black people? Now I'm not
down
enough cuz
you
fucked me over?”

Syeeda crossed her arms and canted her head.

I squinted at her. “And when was the last time
you
visited the Jungle?”

She opened her mouth to respond. No words. She reached for the coffee mug and brought it to her lips. But she didn't drink.

I nodded, then said, “Thanks, pal.”

 

50

It was fifteen past three, and Lena and I sat at an outside patio table beneath one of Airport Radisson's heating lamps. Every five minutes, jets just a few feet aboveground roared over us, rattling our drink glasses and the tray of chips and spinach dip. Lena's orange Birkin bag and my battered messenger bag sat in the chair Syeeda would have occupied. At the bar inside, men of many colors all glowed TV-mosaic purples, whites, and reds. Every face was glued to flat-screen televisions and to college kids hustling up and down a basketball court.

Lena pushed her phone in my direction.

“I'm not calling,” I said. “I have nothing to say to her right now. She basically called me a sellout.”

Lena gave me a raspberry.

I had three hours to myself before meeting Colin back at the station. And I had chosen to use that time to close circles and trim dead-ends in my personal life. Call it a psychological “control burn” of overgrown trees and brush that kept me stooped and weak.

Lena shivered. “Oh my
lord,
it's so effin' cold.” She wore silver short-shorts and an artfully ripped Hello Kitty sweatshirt.

“Maybe you should wear clothes in the winter,” I said, eyebrow arched.

“Maybe I should cut out my gallbladder with a rusty melon baller first. And it's spring now, so—” She gave me another raspberry. Then she picked up the phone and waggled it.

I sipped my tonic water. “Stop it or I'm gonna throw your new phone into the pool.”

“Ugh. I hate when you two put me in the middle. And I'm glad I don't have to worry about ‘keepin' it real.' I was always surrounded by Oreos.”

“You're the Oreo queen.”

“Didn't even know a Crip until I dated what's his face. The hot one with the tats and the cornrows. That summer was like, education abroad or … ecotourism.”

I glanced at my watch.

“Almost time?” she asked.

I nibbled on the lime wedge. “Uh huh.”

“So have you and Sam … canoodled yet?” she asked. “Or is he now in the discard pile like his predecessors?”

“We had an argument last night. His ex-wife answered his phone. He claims that nothing's happening. I don't feel like believing him right now. We're … too soon anyway.”

She plucked a green olive from her dirty martini. “You never get past two weeks cuz everything's too soon. Is that Dr. Zach guy the next sucker on the sampler platter?”

My face flushed. “No.”

“You went out with him.”

“Not true.” I reached for another tortilla chip. “We happened to be at the same place at the same time. I may be a blue-collared cop, but iced tea and a soggy panini will never count as a date in my eyes.”

“And the flowers he sent?”

I shrugged, then ate the tortilla chip.

“Why are you having such a difficult time with this?” She leaned forward and whispered, “Is it because he's not black?”

My head fell back and I stared at the sky. “Oh my—”

“You have to get over that,” Lena said. “Open your mind. And then … open your legs.”

I looked at her. “His color,
whatever
the hell he is, does not bother me. And I'm not ready to open my legs for anyone right now.” I paused, then added, “I don't think.”

Lena was staring at me. “Sam and his ex—”

“Worries me. I don't think she's over him, which … When she answered his phone … I just … They were married fifteen years, so I get it. I won't come first in his life, so why try?”

“You don't know that,” Lena argued.