Trail of Echoes (23 page)

Colin and I walked past them and into the courtyard, where a few middle-school-aged girls huddled with their mothers. I remembered one girl who wore large, thick glasses that hid her face—I'd plucked her picture from Chanita's locker door. Alice from Madison's administrative office stood with other office workers. A few grade-school children wearing their Sundays ran around the fountain. The boy skidded and tripped, not practiced in the fine art of horsing around in church shoes.

Organ music—“How Great Thou Art”—drifted from the sanctuary. Fumes of fresh paint and steam-cleaned carpet mingled with the heavy scents of lilies, roses, and other funeral flowers. My spike-heeled boots daggered into lavender pile free of muddy footprints, grape-juice stains, and water spots. An ancient deaconess dressed in white stood at the sanctuary doors. She held programs in her white-gloved hands, and she smelled of peppermint candy and Jergens lotion.

In the sanctuary, sunlight filtered through the red, green, and yellow stained glass and reflected against the stainless-steel crucifix that hung above the altar. A tripod at the altar's base held a large school portrait of Chanita Lords. A closed coffin the color of a seashell's belly sat on the picture's right.

Lots of empty lavender-cushioned pews.

Gwen Zapata sat on one side of the church and talked with a woman with thousands of long braids twisted high into a bun. She saw Colin and me and nodded. Also seated: a round, gray-haired woman dressed in poly blend and pearls. And Mike Summit, the assistant editor in chief at
OurTimes
.

So much for disappearing.

“The woman in braids,” I whispered to Colin. “Trina Porter's mom, right?”

Summit quickly left his seat to join my partner and me at the back of the sanctuary. “Detective Norton, aren't you going to introduce me?”

“No,” I said, sliding into a rear pew.

“Mike Summit,” he said to Colin and offered his hand. “I'm here to bear witness and tell the world that too many of our girls—”

“
Our
girls, Mike?” I asked, eyebrow cocked.

“Just because I'm white doesn't mean that I don't care,” he said.

We squinted at him, at his too-tight houndstooth blazer and at the piece of spinach trapped between his teeth. “Why don't you head back to your seat?”

Mike Summit took a step back. “After the service, Detectives, I'll have questions.”

“Have a seat, sir,” Colin said.

The so-called journalist tromped back to his pew as the woman in braids came to stand before us. A clump of fine moles grew on her left cheek, and her foundation had failed to hide the dark circles beneath her eyes. She held out her thin hand. “I'm Liz Porter.”

I introduced Colin and myself.

She nodded. “Detective Zapata told me you're in charge of Chanita's investigation. Do you think…? Is it…?” Her lips quivered, but she swallowed and shoved sorrow aside. “Is this case related to my daughter's disappearance?”

“We can't say anything for certain, Mrs. Porter.” The lump in my throat had made it hard to speak.

She dropped her head and sighed.

Colin placed his hand on her shoulder. “But we're coordinating with Detective Zapata. We find something out, we'll let her know,
pronto
.”

Liz Porter whispered, “Thank you,” without meeting our eyes. She wobbled to her pew.

Before Colin or I could say, “Poor lady,” Payton Bishop entered the sanctuary and made his way to the pews occupied by Madison Middle School staff.

The organist changed chords. “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.” A somber gospel standard played at most colored funerals and will probably be played at mine.

Up front on the dais, the door to a side room opened, and from it emerged a minister wearing a white and purple robe along with two men in dark suits and a woman in pearls and a flamingo-colored Jackie O–Chanel suit. They sat in the velvet-backed chairs positioned behind the Lucite podium.

“Well?” Colin whispered. “Pick one and let's go.”

I whispered back. “Give me a minute. Not a lot to choose from.”

At thirty minutes past the announced start time, the pastor stepped to the pulpit and nodded to the deaconess stationed at the doors to the sanctuary. A moment later, the family of Chanita Lords trudged down the church's long center aisle. Three deaconesses, each holding a box of tissues, flanked them.

Regina Drummond wore a simple black dress and flats. She wept as the family male helped her walk. Brother, uncle, or cousin wore black pants and a black shirt, and his tongue kept flicking at the corners of his dry lips. The school-aged girls and boy who had been playing in the courtyard now followed Regina and her escort. Bringing up the rear was Alberta Jackson, with her large soft bosom and no-nonsense hairdo, big purse on one arm and bigger Bible on the other. A Saved and Sanctified Saint who had borne cons of every flavor.

A deaconess directed the family to the front pew, arm's length from that pink coffin.

After a prayer from Elder Kimball, a welcome from Elder Smyth, and the reading of a poem by pearls-wearing church clerk Doris Smyth, the minister stepped to the podium. He hooked his eyeglass stems around his ears. “Jesus says, ‘
suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for such is the kingdom of God
.'”

The organ wheezed to life again. “In the Upper Room.”

Colin nudged me and nodded to our right.

The park ranger who had called in about Chanita Lords's being left on that trail high above the city had joined the congregation.

Jimmy Boulard smiled at me and then winked.

My nerves bristled. “
Do not
let him leave this building,” I whispered to Colin.

I'd have the chance to speak with Boulard after all, to ask him myself what he saw … and to hear what he'd claim he didn't do.

“Chanita has gone on to be with our Father,” Pastor Evans said, “and she is happy to know that there are some in this city who have not forgotten her. Some in this city who miss her and mourn her.” He spread his arms. “Would anyone like to say something?”

Payton stood from his pew. “I'm Chanita's school counselor. I helped search for her when she first disappeared, and I was hoping that … praying that … We worked hard trying to find her, you know? And umm…” He scratched his temple, took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I just wish I could've done more for her.” Then he sat and covered his mouth with his hand.

Alice rolled her eyes.

I needed to have tea with Miss Alice and ask,
Why the side eye?

Liz Porter pulled herself to stand. She smoothed out the front of her blue pantsuit, closed her eyes, and clutched the back of the pew before her. “I came cuz my baby Trina was snatched back on March seventh.”

Hot tears welled in my eyes. I held my breath, remembering how Mom had kept it together until she couldn't anymore. And on that day she couldn't …

Colin took my hand and squeezed. “If you need to leave…”

“I'm good.” I whispered.

He gave another squeeze before letting go.

“The police ain't found Trina yet,” Liz said, “and I thank Detective Zapata over there for not giving up.”

Gwen nodded to Liz.

“But I came here today,” Liz Porter continued, “cuz I'm hoping that the Lord will have mercy—” And then, she crumpled back into her seat.

Danielle, the middle-school girl with the thick glasses, spoke about her slain friend and her love of photography, Bruno Mars, and trips to museums.

Alberta Jackson spoke: Jesus, photography, Jesus.

Once Alberta sat, Rev. Evans looked to Colin and me. “Would either of you in the back like to say something?”

Just then, Jimmy Boulard rose and shuffled out of the sanctuary.

My neck warmed—we needed to leave. “No. Thank you.”

Colin said, “No, thanks.”

As Rev. Evans offered a few more words about salvation, redemption, and love, Colin and I darted out of the sanctuary.

No one stood in the vestibule.

“Check the restroom,” I told Colin.

Gwen joined us. “Before you leave,” she said to me, “I need to tell—”

“Can't right now, Gwen.”

I checked the mother's room, the AV chamber, and the kitchen.

No park ranger.

My phone rang, and I glanced at the display: Victor Starr was calling. I hit
IGNORE
and reunited with Colin in the lobby. “See him?”

“Nope.”

The organ wheezed the first bars of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

Mike Summit poked his head from behind the doors of the sanctuary.

Before he could ask any questions, I darted out of the church and into the courtyard.

Fragrant blue smoke wafted from the barbecue joint a block north, and the air smelled of beef brisket and pork ribs. Far-off trumpets and trombones blared. A bass drum boomed.

Music?

Colin rushed past me to start searching the outer perimeter of the church.

“Y'all see a man leave just now?” I shouted to the limo driver and motorcycle escort.

“The white boy?” the motorcycle escort asked.

“No,” I said. “A light-skinned black guy. Looks like Smokey Robinson.”

Both men shook their heads.

Just like that, the park ranger was gone.

All of me went cold and hard.

Mike Summit stood in the breezeway. “What's happening?”

And I went colder and harder.

 

32

Where had Jimmy Boulard gone that quickly?

I pulled the Motorola radio from my bag and called in a BOLO for the park ranger.

“Detective Norton,” Mike Summit said.

Ignoring the reporter, I turned my gaze northward, to the sound of those trombones and bass drums. That's when I saw the worst possible thing that could happen at that moment. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” I muttered.

Two motorcycle escorts slowly rolled down Crenshaw with their orange hazard lights blinking. Behind them, a brass band played “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” nice and slow. Six men in tails and top hats flanked the sides of a horse-drawn carriage carrying a copper-colored casket. Behind them, a butter-colored young woman wearing a gold dress and holding a ruffled umbrella strutted, then posed … strutted … posed. Behind her, a man hoisted a large picture of a fair-skinned black woman—longtime congresswoman Barbara Fortier. Her family, friends, and constituents walked, most holding green, purple, or gold umbrellas, and many of them the same café-au-lait hue as Jimmy Boulard. Cameramen from three television news stations aimed their lenses at the spectacle while a helicopter buzzed overhead for aerial shots.

I gawked at the approaching second line, then muttered again: “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Colin ran back to me, gaping at the procession. “What the hell is
that
?”

“Funeral for Congresswoman Fortier.”

“With a band and shit?”

“I told you it was a jazz funeral.”

“I thought that just meant there was Dizzy Gillespie music instead of hymns.”

The strut-pose woman was now strutting and posing yards away from where we stood. And the horse-drawn hearse slowly rolled not far behind her.

“Boulard could be hiding in the crowd,” Colin said. “So we're looking for him
and
the guy in the Saints hat? Who may be the same guy?”

I nodded as my heart sank. Every other man wore a Saints baseball cap in honor of their hometown and New Orleans home girl Congresswoman Fortier. “Let's go, then.” I took a deep breath, then dove into the moving mass.

There!
No—too fat.

There!
No—too young.

The horses' hooves clip-clopped.

And the band played on: “Just a closer walk with thee, grant it, Jesus, is my plea.”

There … No, there … No … Damn.

After five minutes of weaving in and out for nearly three blocks, and with Angeles Funeral Home now in sight, I worked my way to the sidewalk. Almost every face was partially hidden by hats, umbrellas, and handkerchiefs. People crowding the street. Brass band playing. Mourners singing and shouting. Brass bells tinkling from push-cart ice-cream vendors.

I backtracked to the church, eyes still scanning the dwindling crowd.

“Who are you looking for?” Mike Summit stood before me, pen and pad ready. “What's the big secret? Or shall I say, cover-up?”

I gave him a glare equivalent to thirty beheadings and a caning.

Mike shrank some but didn't retreat. “You know I can go around you.” He pulled a steno pad and pen from his back pocket. “I can call my contacts and find out the latest.”

I snorted. “Who do you think you are? A
Times
reporter?”

“I
am
a
Times
reporter.”

I cocked my head. “You work for the
community
section. And your job is to attend Chanita's funeral, then write about who came, who spoke, how many people showed up and threw themselves on top of the coffin, and what the deaconesses served for lunch. You're not Bob Woodward, Mike Summit, even though you think you are. Sure, you do investigative work. Investigating the best barbecue joint south of Pico. By the way, I disagree with your last breaking news story: Woody's
is not
better than Phillips, and sure as hell not better than Texas Barbecue King.”

“You know,” he said, “one article and blog post from me can destroy you. One tweet that an abusive cop is leading this investigation, that this abusive cop has a grudge against me for exposing her—”

“Not true.”

He sneered. “One tweet stirs up shit. Don't forget: the pen is mightier than the sword.”

My stomach cramped from tamping down the urge to laugh at this pitiful little man. He had power for the moment—the power of a five-year-old wielding a spork. I'd let him wave it around until naptime.