Trail of Echoes (40 page)

“She said something about a little room in the ground,” Liz said, shaking her head. “Dirt floor, bugs … She told me that he forgot to lock the door, and she climbed out and just ran.”

“I'd like to tape our conversation,” I said. “Do we have your permission?”

Liz Porter eyed Colin. “But she can't know that
he's
there. Right now, she's scared of men. And, to be honest, so am I.”

I turned to Colin.
Deal or no deal?

He nodded.
Deal.

The room's heavy salmon-colored curtains had been pulled, and the only light came from the fluorescent tube above the girl's bed. A small vase of white roses sat on the roll-away table, and a single “Get Well” Mylar balloon bobbed near the television set.

Colin slipped behind a rolling screen as I approached the girl's bedside.

Trina Porter's face was bruised and swollen. Her left foot and arm had been wrapped in casts, and tubes snaked from the IV stand to her free arm.

She's alive. Why is she alive?

My hands shook as I tapped
RECORD
on my iPhone.

Liz Porter, on the other side of the bed, touched Trina's hand. “Sweetie, Mommy's here.”

The girl's eyes fluttered like the broken wings of a dying butterfly.

“Hi, my love,” Liz whispered.

“Mommy,” the girl croaked, “I wanna go home. I want Bunny. I miss her.”

“Not yet, baby. And Bunny misses you, too. She can't wait for you to walk her when you're better.”

Watching this simple interaction between mother and daughter almost made my knees buckle.
Could I talk to this brave girl?
In my line of work, I never talked to brave girls who had fought
and
survived.

“Sweetie,” Liz said, “Detective Norton is here. She wants to ask you a few questions, okay? She's a very nice lady, and she's gonna catch whoever did this to you.”

Trina's eyes lolled in my direction. The monitor that recorded her heart rate showed bumps in her pulse. She licked her split bottom lip but had no spit. “I don't wanna go back.”

“I'm here to help, Trina,” I said, my eyes on those squiggly lines. “You have nothing to fear.” I waited as her pulse slowed. “Your doctor says that you haven't had water in a long time.”

She winced, then whispered, “No.”

“Did the person who took you away give you anything to drink?”

She swallowed. “He gave me, like tea. One time … and … I wasn't me so I didn't … drink anymore.” She licked her lips again.

“Can you describe him?” I asked. “What does he look like?”

She peered at the ceiling.

“Was he a black man?”

“No.”

“Was he white?”

“I … don't…”

“Hispanic?”

“He's … something … not black.”

“Is he fat?”

“No.”

“Tall?”

“Tall. Not skinny. He's … medium.”

“Where did he pick you up?”

“On the corner.”

“Near…?”

She stared in the distance. “Phillips.”

“The barbecue place?”

“Yeah.”

She got in the car. Chanita got in the car. Allayna got in the car. Who would be trustworthy enough for a girl to willingly…?

“When you first got in the car with him,” I said, “did you ride for a long time?”

“Not that long.”

“Do you remember what you saw as you drove?”

“Hills,” the girl said. “When I ran … near the park, I could see … red lights. And … it … forest. Hills.” The lines on the monitor were also becoming hills.

My own heart pounded hard—I didn't have much longer before the drugs took her. “Did you know him before he took you?”

“Uh huh.”

“You trusted him?”

“Uh huh.”

“Was he your teacher?”

“No.”

“Is he a counselor?”

“No.”

“Someone you—?”

“I don't wanna be here,” she said, voice cracking, pulse spiking.

“This place will help you get better,” I said. “These people—”

“He told me … He'll kill me if I say anything.”

I shook my head. “There are a million police officers at this hospital, Trina, and they are all here to protect you. Someone who doesn't belong here will not be getting near you.”

“But he belongs here.” A plump tear rolled down her bruised cheek.

My heart lurched—I knew. “What do you mean, Trina? How does he belong here?”

Trina was trembling, and the hills on the monitor peaked, one after the other.

Any minute now, a doctor or a nurse would come in and shut me down.

“I know this is hard, sweetheart,” I whispered, “and I know you've been through so much, and I know that you're scared, but he can't hurt you anymore. We will find him. And with your help, we will put him in jail, and he will never get out. And he will never hurt another girl, okay? But for that to happen, for him to be punished, you have to tell me everything.”

The door opened, and the scent of gardenias rode on the draft.

Liz whispered, “Dr. Akira's here.”

“Trina,” I said, “you have to tell me: who is he?”

“He works here,” she whispered. “He's a doctor.” Then, she closed her eyes, and the peaks lost their sharpness.

*   *   *

Colin waited with Dr. Barbara Akira, the head of pediatrics, outside Trina's room. Dr. Akira, a short, stout Japanese woman with a burgundy shag, wore a diamond ring the size of Uranus. “Anything we can do to help,” she said, now looking up at me, “just ask.”

“How many pediatricians have privileges here?” I asked.

“Forty-two.” She reached into her smock pocket and pulled out a beeping pager and gave it a glance. “Sorry. Yes. Forty-two.”

“How many are men?” I asked.

“Almost half.”

“We can't have male doctors or nurses caring for her,” I said.

“I'll tend to Trina myself,” Dr. Akira offered.

“We'll need to protect her,” I said to Colin. “Around the clock. She's
never
alone.”

Moments later, I sat at Dr. Akira's desk, scrolling through pictures of male pediatricians practicing at Freeman Hospital.

Blond, blue eyes, broken nose.

Persian, balding, fat face.

Graying goatee, thin as a shaft of wheat …

None were the tall, medium-built man described by Trina or the women at Bonner Park.

I scrolled past three more pictures, and then I saw him. Not black, not skinny. Friendly smile, warm eyes. He was the one who'd done this. The one who had done this and was now preparing to return to the place where his Muses awaited. Before this moment, I'd only known him by his first name.

Zach.

 

56

After taking a statement from Liz Porter, after interviewing five male pediatricians in Dr. Akira's office, after tying Pepe and Luke to chairs outside Trina Porter's hospital room, I snatched the keys to the Crown Vic from Colin's hand and raced back to the Jungle.

Teddy bears and candles had been left at Raul Moriaga's front door—memorials for the man killed by ghosts. Some teddy bears had been slashed, and white stuffing now drifted around the courtyard. Most candles had been knocked over—and one upright candle held a small turd instead of a wick.

Regina Drummond hugged me before I could even say, “Hello.” This morning, her eyes glistened with joy instead of sadness. She had ditched the kimono for jeans and a T-shirt. She had recently visited a salon—her hair smelled of flat-ironed oil sheen. She looked fine, on the mend—but so did a wound wearing a fresh scab. One stupid move, and she'd be weeping again.

“That reporter from
OurTimes
called me,” she said, wiggling her nose. “He feels … skeevy, though.”

I laughed. “No comment, but I'd trust your gut.”

“They moved my court date,” she said. “Maybe they'll have some mercy on me. Ain't no punishment worse than…” Her nostrils flared—the scab was threatening to rip off.

Early-morning sunlight filled a living room that testified to an active existence. The apartment smelled of toast and bacon, and a plate of it sat on the couch next to an open
Essence
magazine. The television, broadcasting an episode of
Maury,
showed the titular host and a young black woman named Visa, there now to identify all the men who could've fathered her two-year-old daughter, Pleasuria.

“Where's your mother?” I asked.

“At my auntie's in Lancaster.” Regina sat beside me on the couch. “After what happened yesterday with Raul—”

“He didn't do it.”

She blinked at me, then her eyebrows crumpled. “What you mean?”

“His DNA doesn't match what was found on Chanita.”

Her face hardened.

“Did you know that folks were gonna go after Raul?” I asked.

“Nuh uh.”

Right then, I believed in Santa Claus more than I believed Regina Drummond.

“So the man who killed my daughter…?”

“Is very,
very
close to being caught.”

She sighed, then aimed the remote control at the TV. With one click, Maury and Visa disappeared. “But he ain't been caught yet?” That scar would be off any minute now.

“I just have a few quick questions, and I tried calling—”

“Phone got cut off,” she said with a shrug. “Had other things to worry about. Bills? Please. I'm having a hard enough time comin' up with the cash to pay for Nita's headstone.”

I eyed her a moment: was she being truthful or was she up to her grifting ways? “Before I leave, give me the mortuary's number. Me and my partner, we'll handle it, okay?”

A smile brightened her face, and her eyes shone with tears again. Too moved to speak, she simply bobbed her head.

No matter what Regina Drummond did for a living—kiting, grifting, fraud—her comeuppance shouldn't have been the murder of her daughter. And that daughter certainly didn't deserve death and no headstone as payment for her mother's sins.

“What did Chanita do last summer?” Pen poised to write, I waited for Regina to say “camp” or “summer school” or … anything.

Instead, she shrugged. “I was … away most of the summer. I know she hung out at the park a lot, taking pictures. She sent me some. Just like the picture I gave you, the one with them purple flowers. I'm thinking she was with Mr. Bishop or somebody.”

I scribbled in my notepad. “Did Chanita have a regular pediatrician? You know, for physicals, shots…?”

“I take her to a clinic over on Crenshaw,” she said. “Women & Children Medical Group. It's in the shopping area right across the street from the funeral home. The cobbler place is next door. There's a camera store there, too.”

“What's the doctor's name?”

“Umm … Doctor…” She reached beneath the coffee table and grabbed the accordion file there. She thumbed through papers and receipts. “I don't remember his first name, but his last name is Fletcher.”

I wrote the name as though my pen had been dipped in molasses. “Is he an older man? A young guy? Black? White?”

She shook her head. “Not a black guy. White or maybe Latino but not Mexican. Anyway, he's around your age. Cute. Very sweet. He'd give us samples when I couldn't afford the entire prescription. Sometimes, he didn't even charge for the visit cuz he just wanted Nita to be well. He's doing God's work.”

I hustled back to the car.

God's work.

Phone to ear, I made a call.

Vaughn Hutchens's hello sounded ragged and thick.

“Sorry,” I said, “I know it's early.”

“I'm up,” she said. “Talking to Donald about the arrangements for Laynie's service.”

“Donald?”

She paused, then said, “Laynie's father.”

Something inside me twisted and burned. Because
now
he was back?

“I saw the story on that dead Mexican,” she said. “Is it true? Did he do it?”

I told her about Moriaga's innocence … in this case.

She sighed, then asked, “And the new girl who escaped?”

“She gave us some information, which is why I'm now calling you. Did Laynie see a regular doctor?”

“Laynie was at the doctor's office all the time,” Vaughn said. “Sometimes, she'd go on her own since my hours were strange. She went to Mercy Medical Group, down the hill on Santa Rosalia. Across from where those new condos are.”

“Crase Parc and Promenade?”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you remember her doctor's name?”

“Dr. Fletcher.”

I thanked Vaughn, then ended the call. My T-shirt stuck to me—I had sweated enough for three women. And now ice was forming where I had sweated. I shivered as my mind played images of meeting Zach in the park, of his text messages to me, talking in the Starbucks parking lot, my hand in his …

No. Too much.

My mind scratched it all, then twisted those memories into balls of paper. I called Colin. “Both girls went to the same doctor,” I blurted as soon as he answered. Then, I told him about my conversations with Regina and Vaughn. “Both girls saw the same doctor but at different clinics. His name is Zach Fletcher.”

“I'm looking at the list to confirm,” Colin said.

I held my breath as he flipped through the pages.

The page turning stopped. “Yep. He's on the list.”

“I know him.”

Colin didn't speak at first, but then said, “Come again?”

And I told Colin that Zach Fletcher had been courting me or gaming me ever since Wednesday. That on Saturday night, over coffee, he'd told me that he worked at the clinic near the cobbler place. That the message written on the card Zach Fletcher had sent with the flowers yesterday had also referred to
Where the Wild Things Are.