Silent Echo (4 page)

“Hello?” I say. Or I think I say. My mind isn’t entirely here.

“Jimmy,” says a vaguely familiar voice. “They found her.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“Who is this?” I ask, slurring my words. “Found who?”

“It’s Eddie. They found Olivia.”

“She’s all right?” I ask, although I already know the answer.

“No. She’s not all right,” he says.

I sit up on the couch, now fully in the moment. My scattered thoughts seem to retract back, like an explosion played in reverse. I’m here in the present, which means my earlier conversation with Eddie hasn’t been a dream after all. These days, reality and dreams are difficult to differentiate.

The vision…

“Where did they find her?” I hear myself ask. I can feel bile rising in my throat.

“Laurel Canyon.”

If he says something else, I don’t hear it. I hear nothing past the words “Laurel Canyon.” I discover I’m now sitting up and sucking in air.

Not related,
I think.
Impossible.

Laurel Canyon holds a special interest for me. What was found in Laurel Canyon would change my life forever. I take in more air. I want to stand and pace but I don’t have the energy for it. So, I breathe and keep breathing until I calm down.

Of course they’re not related,
I think.
How could two crimes that span twenty-two years be related?

Dust motes flit in and out of the streaming early evening sunlight where Olivia had recently stood, at least in my vision. Olivia with her bloody throat. For some reason, I look down and I am surprised at how shrunken my chest looks. I’ve easily lost seventy-five pounds over the past two years.

“Some hikers found her,” says Eddie. His voice sounds distant and hollow.

“When did they find her?” I ask after a few seconds.

“Not too long ago, I guess. Her purse was with her. Detectives were just here at my place.”

“I’m sorry, Eddie.”

“I just spent the past few hours answering their questions. They didn’t say it, but I could tell they think I did it.”

I say nothing. Truth be known, I’m still not convinced I’m not dreaming. This whole conversation seems too surreal, especially when combined with my recent dream.

“How did she die?” I ask tentatively, dreading the details.

“Jimmy,” says Eddie urgently, “someone slit her throat and dumped her body.”

Now something inside me goes ice-cold. My blood maybe. My spine, something. And as I sit there holding my cell, looking at the streaming sunlight, my friend weeps into the phone.

CHAPTER SIX

I’m sitting in a conference room in the North Hollywood Police Station of the LAPD.

I’d never been in the conference room. Normally, when I meet with Detective Dobbs, we do so in his office. This isn’t his office. So I wait. And while I wait, I watch Numi through the open door.

He is sitting on a wooden bench with his head tilted back against the cement wall behind him. His eyes are half-closed, although I know he’s watching me, too. He has positioned himself in such a way that he can keep his eyes on me. Always on me.

What did I do to deserve his friendship? His loyalty? I have no clue. To be honest, I’m an asshole to him. In general, I snap at him. When I’m not snapping at him, I’m grumpy as hell. Dying is a bitch, and I let him know it. Every day Numi experiences the brunt of my self-hatred.

I watch him some more as I wait. He sits there alone on the bench, his long legs stretched before him, his hands folded over his flat stomach. His hands are very dark, his palms, not so much. I can see his pink fingernails from here. His hands are clasped loosely and comfortably and, looking at him, one gets the feeling he could sit like that for hours.

Numi is an artist. And a successful one, too. He primarily sells his paintings in his own gallery on the Sunset Strip, nestled between all the famous nightclubs. How he secured that spot is anyone’s guess, but the location drives a lot of business inside his little gallery, and he moves a lot of paintings. These past few months—and, really, these past two years—he has mostly shut down his creativity to be with me. Sure, the gallery is still open, but he hasn’t painted anything in many months. His attention has been on me. Which makes me feel like shit. His talents are going to waste because I couldn’t control myself. I beg him to work, but he simply shakes his head and says the paintings will always be waiting for him.

And I get his implication: The paintings will always be there. Me, not so much.

I met Numi during one of my investigations years ago. Eight years ago, in fact. The stoic Nigerian had witnessed a fatal car accident. I had been hired by the widow’s attorney to investigate the case. Numi was on my list of
investigatees
. We met in his gallery after one of his exhibit openings. He made me buy a painting before he would talk to me. I did, and it still hangs on the wall in my living room to this day, the conniving bastard. Still, I like his style and his view of the world. Masterful, I would say. Back in the day, when I had been the picture of health, Numi had been less stoic and contemplative. Numi had even been outgoing and passionate about everything, two qualities that were reflected in his compelling art. In fact, once or twice he had even been known to laugh.

We hit it off immediately. I knew he was gay from the beginning, but he didn’t make a big deal about it, and since I was straight and wasn’t planning on becoming gay any time soon, I didn’t make a big deal out of it, either. I guess we were meant to be pals.

And pals we are. We get along like brothers. Hell, even better than brothers. We talk about anything and everything, and joke with each other like old frat buddies. Yes, Numi jokes. I don’t see it very often now, but when I do, well, I don’t soon forget it.

Numi has taught me much. He taught me to let people be. He taught me to relax. To calm down. To not be so aggressive. Silence speaks louder than
words. All of this he taught me by example. I learned much from him, and I still do.

But now, our friendship has morphed into something else. I need him in ways that I still can’t admit. We both know I need him. I cannot get through the day without him, or someone like him. And I doubt there are many like him.

And here he is now, waiting calmly for me, his life on hold while my own deteriorates into nothing. If he could hear me thinking such thoughts, he would tell me to be positive, man.
You can beat this, cowboy.

These days, I do not have the strength or energy to even be negative. These days, I just am.

I hear footsteps approaching from outside the hall. Numi glances up casually. A moment later, an old colleague of mine steps through the doorway. Detective Dobbs is a big man who sports a robust cop mustache. He sees me, pauses only slightly, and then sits behind the conference table opposite me. No handshake. I barely even get a nod.

“Booker,” he says, using my last name. “You’re, ah, looking good.”

“For a corpse,” I say.

He sits back, studies me. “Are you, ah, still sick?”

“Even sicker.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He fidgets with a folder he’d brought with him. His mustache, I think, might have fidgeted, too. It’s Olivia’s case folder. I see her name and case number on the tab. My good friend, my lost girl, has been reduced to a case number on a detective’s manila file folder.

Detective Dobbs is about my age. About my height. About my same complexion, too. But the way he’s looking at me now, you would think I am something distasteful and slightly less than human. Or maybe he had some bad sushi for lunch.

He says, “How’s your friend, Noobi?”

I get this question a lot. My friend is gay. It’s easily noticeable for those who look. What people look for, I don’t know, but it seems like people just
know
. They assume I might be gay, too. They also assume that I got the disease from Numi, which is false.

“Numi,” I correct. “And he’s fine.”

“He’s not, you know, sick?”

“Sick with AIDS?”

He shifts his eyes. He knows he’s treading in unfamiliar waters here. “Er, yes.”

“Numi and I are friends only, detective. And the last I checked, it’s nearly impossible to give a friend a sexually transmitted disease unless said friends are having sex, in which Numi and I do not indulge. He’s not my type. He’s too big and scary. Also, I’m not gay.”

Numi, of course, hears this and shakes his head. I see a small grin appear on his face. I grin, too.

Dobbs says nothing. My detective friend and I used to shoot the shit for many minutes before we ever got around to discussing our common cases. As a specialist who finds the missing, I’m often in contact with local police and homicide units, especially when the missing turn up dead.

“Right, sorry,” he says. Dobbs cracks his neck. Cracks his knuckles. It’s been many months since I’ve last seen him. Perhaps longer. Hell, it’s been over a year since I’ve actually worked a case.

I say, “But I’ll let him know you asked about him. I’m sure it will make his day.”

“Just drop it, Booker.” He opens the file in front of him. “What’s your interest in the Olivia Dutch case?”

“Her husband is a friend of mine.”

I don’t say what my additional interests are in this case. First is that Olivia was also my friend. And my additional interest is, of course, my brother. Dobbs had not worked Matt’s case, as it had been nearly twenty-two years ago. Most of the detectives on the case have long since retired, although I kept in touch with most of them. In fact, I keep in touch with all of those connected to my brother’s case. A cold case.

Dobbs studies me and now shakes his head. He looks like he wants to be
anywhere but here. Dobbs and I used to get lunch together. He used to tell me about his time in the military, about all the drinking he did overseas. About the girls.

“Are you working for Eddie Dutch?”

“Yes.”

“In what capacity?”

“He hired me to find his wife.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Well, his wife has been found. Your job is done. Congratulations. Great job.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

Dobbs taps his fingers some more on the file. He takes in a lot of air. I do not know what’s going on in his mind. In the past, he would have been more receptive to my help. In the past, I wouldn’t have called him a dick.

Finally, he says, “So what’s your interest now, Booker?”

“Olivia was a friend of mine, too.” It is an understatement, but at the same time it is the truth. This conversation is taking a lot out of me. Indignation isn’t good for my health.

“I understand that—”

“I can help you find her killer,” I say, which takes the last of my strength. My voice is barely above a whisper.

He makes another face, one that consists of his thin lips being drawn down. He then abruptly stands.

“Booker, I’m sorry this shit happened to you. But you’re in no condition to help me. Go rest. Go hang out with Nubooby, or whatever the hell his name is. Go anywhere but here. We don’t need your help. In fact, I don’t want your help.” He looks at me sadly some more, tries to smile, fails. “Take care, Booker.”

He turns and leaves.

A moment later, I feel Numi’s strong hands under my arms, lifting. “Let’s go, cowboy.”

I find my feet with Numi’s help. I keep from falling over with Numi’s help, too.

“So how did it go in there, cowboy?” he asks as we exit the conference room.

“He’s excited to work with me.”

“He said that?”

“Not in so many words.”

“He told you to back off, didn’t he?”

“Not,” I say, struggling for breath, “in so many words.”

“But you’re not going to back off, are you?”

“No,” I say.

“I was afraid of that.”

As we walk down the hallway towards the exit, Numi, who’s guiding me every step of the way, turns to me and says, “Nubooby?”

I grin. “Hey, he was close.”

“No,” says Numi. “He wasn’t.”