Trail of Echoes by Rachel Howzell Hall Page B

with—”
    â€œThanks, Ontrel,” I interrupted, then pointed at his slippers. “Them Jordans?”
    Ontrel said, “Ha,” without humor.
    â€œWhat shoes do you normally wear?” I asked.
    â€œJordans. Black and red ones.”
    â€œWhen you come to the station,” I said, “please bring three pairs of your favorite sneaks.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œCuz I ain’t got nothin’ to do all day except explain shit to you.”
    Ontrel leaned back on the windshield with his arms crossed. “I ain’t had nothing to do with Nita disappearing. Put that in your police report. I’m innocent.”
    Three teenage girls wearing puffy nylon jackets poured out the gates of the apartment complex next door. Their tropical-fruit-color-streaked hair matched their tropical-fruit-color tight jeans. Mango, guava, and kiwi . See me! Pick me! Someone had picked a girl their age who had come from this very place. Chanita Lords had probably been the brightest thing in the monster’s life.
    Ontrel hopped off the Cutlass (not “hopped,” since that verb took energy, and Ontrel had smoked away his energy). No. He melted off the car. “Am I free to go, Detectives, or y’all gon’ send some more cops to talk to me? Make me confess to some shit I ain’t do? Or you gon’ take me now?” He held out his tattooed wrists.
    Colin’s phone rang from his jacket pocket, and he wandered to his car to answer the call.
    I nodded up at the helicopter. “We’re here all the time. If I want you for something, I’ll come back. Right now, though, we’re just chatting. Shootin’ the shit, neighborly like.”
    The three girls closed the distance between the apartment building and Ontrel and me. Teeth snapping gum. Thighs rubbing against each other. Acrylic fingernails scratching scalps. Smelling like sour apple Jolly Ranchers, Pink hair lotion, and cigarette smoke.
    Of all the ghettos in the world, Chanita Lords had to come from this one.
    â€œOntrel, who you talking to?” the girl with the natural scowl asked.
    â€œNone of ya biz-ness,” Ontrel said. “What y’all want?”
    â€œDrive us to the liquor store,” Braids ordered. “We need something to drank. ”
    â€œShe look too old for you, Trel.” The chubby one who had been smoking a Parliament tossed the still-lit butt toward my loafer.
    I jerked my shoe away. “What the—?”
    The girls laughed.
    Scowler said, “You see that bitch jump?”
    â€œThat bitch a police detective,” Ontrel growled.
    Their heads dropped.
    â€œWho’s the bitch now?” I asked.
    Colin returned to stand beside me.
    â€œYou her partner?” Chubby One asked him.
    â€œYeah,” he said.
    â€œYou cute for a white boy,” she said.
    â€œThanks, I guess.” To me, he said, “Got the paper.”
    Warrants. Yay.
    â€œWhy ain’t y’all in school?” I asked the girls.
    â€œTeacher in-service,” Scowler said. Then, she gazed at Ontrel with fluttery eyes—somebody had a crush.
    â€œYou can ask my mom if you don’t believe us,” Chubby One said.
    â€œI’ll let y’all’s PO’s handle your attendance records,” I said.
    Scowler sucked her teeth. “Why we gotta have probation officers?”
    I lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t?”
    Silence.
    I pointed at Ontrel. “See you soon, yes?”
    He gave a curt nod.
    I strode to the entry gates.
    Impervious to Kevlar, the hard glares from those three girls burned my back.
    Of all the ghettos …

 
    12
    With warrants to search Chanita’s bedroom and cell phone now in our possession, Colin and I marched through the courtyard toward the girl’s apartment. In my binder, I also possessed a picture of Chanita on Brooks’s table, and its sadness eked through the binder’s leather and seeped into my tired