Trail of Echoes by Rachel Howzell Hall Page A

“Talk to friends” as another action item, then stared at Chanita’s profile. Which of these things had attracted the monster? “Let’s look at our suspects so far.” Then, I made a list.
    1. Ontrel
    2. the Mexican Dude in Apt 1
    3. Mr. Bishop at school
    4. Regina Drummond’s boyfriends
    5. 18 th Street
    â€œKnowing that she died from atropine poisoning,” I said, “I’m close to crossing off the gang-bangers. But I won’t. Not yet. And I’ll run the pedos in the area, see who’s good for this.”
    Colin would continue to handle the murder book and join me in interviewing the entire city of Los Angeles.
    â€œI’ll work with the Gang Unit on those hijos de putas, ” Luke said. “Somebody caught up in that sweep last week probably wanna make a deal by now.”
    â€œAnd handle Nita’s phone, too.” I turned to Pepe. “I don’t know if we need to worry much about family finances, so comb through any tips that come in and talk to her friends.” And to Lieutenant Rodriguez: “Maybe we can get press coverage on this. I’ll ask—”
    â€œDon’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said, eyes narrowed.
    I bristled. “She’ll be fine.”
    â€œLou…”
    â€œSy’s fine,” I said, “and we need the community involved.”
    Syeeda had also grown up in the Jungle—her dad worked with my dad, both driving city buses. And, like me, she and her brother and sister, Kenny and Eva, had made it out. She was now editor in chief of OurTimes, a Times supplement that addressed issues facing blacks living in the “urban” areas left ragged by the Rodney King–verdict riots and the Rampart-LAPD scandal. Published twice a week and having a circulation of 55,000, OurTimes usually provided nothing hard-hitting or controversial. Only articles on church renovations, police station open houses, and high school sports, all drowned in a pond of ads for fish markets and grocery stores. Sometimes, an article that fulfilled the paper’s original mission found its way in, but not often. Because OurTimes didn’t do investigative reporting, and it sure as hell didn’t win any Pulitzers.
    And Syeeda hated that.
    This article about Chanita Lords, though, would serve a purpose for us both.
    After the meeting ended, Lieutenant Rodriguez came to stand with me at the whiteboard. “Solving this will be a feather in my cap. And your promotion to Detective Sergeant .”
    I crossed my arms as something pinged behind my eyes.
    He chuckled and shook his head. “I know—I’ve said that too many times.”
    I placed the marker in the tray without comment. Black women and LAPD promotions went together like chips and vomit.
    â€œI’ll give you whatever you need,” he said. “I’ll call in every favor I got.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, then nodded at the board. “When you crack this, when you stop this son of the devil … They’ll have to pay attention. You’ll solve it and get another stripe.”
    I stared at the “monster” list, at all the men in Chanita’s life.
    â€œWhat are you thinking?” my boss asked.
    A new headache crackled on one side of my face. “Even though I know there’s no such thing as total closure, I just want them to have it. For her people not to know … I don’t want that for them.”
    My family and friends had scattered Tori’s ashes months ago, yet I still expected to see her alive. Is that her head in the grocery store? Is that her perfume? My eyes never rested as I scanned faces in the crowds. That face, of course, was never hers. And then, I’d remember: she can’t be Tori.
    Tori’s gone.
    And I’d move on … Until the next time. At a farmers’ market, at the movie theater or the grocery store. Still scanning faces. Still expecting