Grave on Grand Avenue (19 page)

“I’m interning at the
LA Weekly
this summer,” he calls
out before I’m no longer within earshot. “Anytime you want to be interviewed.”

Yeah, right. Don’t hold your breath on that one.

Once I’m back outside, I give silent props to Nay. She’s really doing it—investigative journalism—with China, of all things, as her topic. I begin to think about Xu again. His cello. Although I never attended any student performances while I was at PPW, I know that our music department is world-class.

I ride down a curved, paved walkway through the middle of north campus. PPW is pretty old, at least for LA, and buildings have been added as time went by. So instead of a consistent look with brick buildings, like USC or UCLA, PPW has a smattering of structures from a bunch of different eras. The most modern one is the Science Building, which has been created out of opaque glass and metal. Most classical is the Arts Building with its steeped roof and Victorian adornments. The basement windows are always open and you can usually hear voices singing opera and musical instruments at practice.

I go into the Arts Building and study the board that lists professors and their office numbers. The classical music professor is Professor Adele Horst, and her office is right here on the first floor, room 137.

I knock in the open doorway of her office, my bike at my side.

Professor Horst is a thin, birdlike woman. She’s wearing bronze bangles on her fragile wrists, and studies me over her reading glasses, whose chunky frames are clear plastic. “You know that my wallet was stolen a month ago,” she says. From her accent, I’m guessing she’s Eastern European, maybe German.

“Oh, I’m not here about that,” I say. “I’m a former PPW student.”

“You didn’t finish?” she says, insinuating that no PPW graduate would then turn around and become a cop. The disdain in her voice is obvious. It’s very familiar, especially in the Rush house.

“Actually, I graduated in three years.”

I get her attention. “And how can I help you, Officer?”

“I wanted to ask you about cellos.”

“That question is quite general.”

I ask whether I can come into her office and she nods yes. I position my bike so it’s still visible from inside the professor’s office; then I pull out my phone and quickly find the photos of Xu’s cello. I place my phone in front of her. “I wanted to ask you specifically about this one. Does it seem particularly valuable?”
Worth five million dollars?

She grimaces. “What a stupid question. I have to see the instrument in person. I can’t come to any conclusions based on a photo taken on an iPhone.”

I was afraid of that, but I had to try. Perhaps seeing my disappointed look (I really need to work on my Toma poker face), she relents a little. “I can’t tell you if it’s valuable, but I don’t think this one is terribly old, however.”

“You don’t?” I think back to Kendra Prescott’s article. Didn’t she say that Xu’s Stradivarius was from the 1700s?

“Instruments of a certain age usually have marks on them. Certain imperfections. Remnants of their past. Where the musician’s body touched the cello. I don’t see those marks in this photo. In terms of the general craftsmanship, you need to check the purfling, the details on the scroll. All of those details have to be examined carefully. The color. The grain.
And even then sometimes it’s quite impossible to tell. The Chinese have even made it more difficult now that they are using European wood.”

My ears perk up. “The Chinese are making cellos?”

“And violins and violas. The works. Their craftsmanship in the past has been deplorable. Using wood that was too young. But they’ve improved immensely. The sounds coming out of those Chinese-made instruments are actually—I hate to admit—quite comparable to much older instruments crafted in Europe. But they are still not exactly the same.”

“And the price?”

“A third or even less. It’s no wonder why they’ve become so popular. There’s even a sales office here in Los Angeles for the best of those factories. I have directed students there, if they are in need of a cheap instrument,” she admits.

I want to get to the subject of Xu, so I ask Professor Horst whether she knows him.

“Oh, him,” she says. “His technique is a mess. So emotional. But his country loves him. And so does ours.”

All righty, then
. Based on her dismissive attitude, I’m assuming the professor skipped out on Xu’s concert last Wednesday.

“The Chinese, they are just musical babies,” she sniffs.

I’m shocked that Professor Horst would say something so derogatory, especially to me. I’m half-Japanese, but I could have just as easily been half-Chinese.

“Because of their country’s Cultural Revolution, they were closed to Western music,” she goes on. “Now the young people are eating it up. It represents freedom to them.”

Well, judging from the audience at Xu’s concert, American concertgoers could use an injection of youth,
I think.
Instead, I ask Professor Horst whether she’s familiar with a violist named Cece Lin.

Professor Horst’s bracelets jangle as she lifts her arms in enthusiasm. “Cece Lin! Now,
she
was something. She could have been a master soloist. But instead she decides to stop touring and stay in LA. Why? Why would such a talent do that with her gift?”

“She’s still with the Philharmonic,” I say.

“She’s just whiling away her time. She’s not venturing out, challenging herself. She’s among dozens of other musicians, blending in.”

“So you know her?”

“Of course. Everyone in the music scene knows of Cece Lin ever since she joined the conservancy in Philadelphia. She must have been only nineteen years old.” The professor folds her arms. “It was her and Xu—the stars from Asia.”

I stay quiet as the professor warms to her topic.

“Then, out of the blue, Cece announces that she won’t pursue a career as a soloist, and she chains herself to the Philharmonic! I’m sure that she broke her parents’ hearts.”

Professor Horst then looks me in the eye. Hers are the bluest blue, and I can easily picture those same eyes in the face of a much younger person. “I tell my female students this—always have your eyes on the prize.”

I don’t ask her what the prize may be. Fame and money?

My radio squawks. It’s Mac, wondering where I am. He says I need to go back to Central Division. That’s a little unusual. I reply back to him and wonder what’s going on.
Is it an emergency, or is it something I’ve done?

I thank Professor Horst for her time and pedal back to
the station as fast as I can. It’s warm today, and my hair becomes damp with sweat from my helmet.

I’m guiding my bike inside when I hear, “Where have you been?” Tim Cherniss’s smooth chin juts out. My CO is obviously not happy.

“Patrolling PPW,” I tell him. Like I was assigned to do. Kind of.

“Got an e-mail message from Rampart,” he tells me. “The Chinese Consulate contacted them. Seems like a student reporter was harassing their security guard this morning and they want more bike units patrolling that neighborhood.”

I’m preparing myself to ride out west. Then Cherniss drops the bomb. “She identified herself as being with PPW. Steinlight mentioned that one of your friends, a Nay Pram, has been pretty insistent about receiving information about the Xu case.”

I try to keep my heartbeat steady. I can’t let my CO see how nervous I am. “And?”

“Do you know anything about this?”

“No,” I say emphatically. Because I really don’t.

“Rush, you have a history of sticking your nose into areas where it shouldn’t be.”

“Sergeant, I don’t know anything. Anyway, did they get a name? Photograph?” God, I hope that they don’t have security footage.

Cherniss doesn’t respond.

“Then why do you think it was Nay? It is the Chinese government, you know.”

Cherniss’s face softens. He’s probably the type to think that Chinese spies are lurking at every corner, and I feel a little bit guilty exploiting that. “Sorry, Rush. Had to do due diligence.”

After he walks away, my body feels limp. I take a deep
breath. I immediately go into the ladies’ room and start texting Nay in one of the stalls.
Were you at the Chinese Consulate today?

No response. What else is new?

As I leave the restroom, my phone begins ringing. It’s not Nay, however. It’s a call from my parents’ house.

I answer. They usually don’t call during the workday unless it’s an emergency.

“You have to come home,” Noah says.

“What’s going on?”

“Dad’s lost it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He wants to quit his job, pack us up and travel in an RV.”

“What?” I can’t believe what Noah’s saying.

“Ellie, he wants to homeschool me in the RV my junior year!”

No wonder my brother sounds so desperate. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Luckily, I have the Green Mile today, so I go straight to my parents’ house after work.

Noah answers the door before I even get a chance to knock. “Took you long enough,” he says.

Dad is lying on the couch surrounded by color brochures all featuring RVs. He’s practically blanketed by issues of various magazines.
MotorHome. RV Life. Trailer Life. Gypsy Journal. Highways
. I had no idea. It’s almost like RVing is some kind of religion.

“What’s all this?” I ask.

“Ellie!” Dad sits up, almost sliding off the couch in his sea of glossy paper. “Did you hear? We’re going to go RVing for a year.”

Mom enters the room, wearing her usual tracksuit. “Hello, Ellie,” she greets me, sounding subdued.

“Caroline, look at this one.” Dad pulls out a brochure for a crazy black RV that looks like one of those rock-band tour buses. Inside of the RV I see photos of granite-topped sinks and leather couches. Heck, it looks nicer than the rooms of my apartment. Way nicer.

“Top of the line. I figure we can go to all the national parks. Presidential libraries. This will be a great education for Noah. Instead of reading about it, he can experience it!”

Noah grimaces.

“Mom, you think this is a good idea?” I ask.

Mom says nothing.

Grandma Toma walks in the room, her hair in rollers and covered in a clear cap decorated with faint flowers. “Well, I’m not going to live in a house on wheels,” she announces.

“Dorothy, look. This is not a camper. It’s spacious. It has beds.”

“Listen, I lived through the camps, living cramped together in the same room as my parents, my brothers and sisters. I did it once. I’m not going to do it again.”

We all remain quiet. For Grandma Toma to play the internment camp card means serious business.

“Well, if you don’t want to come with us, I guess you’ll have to stay at a retirement home, then,” Dad says.

“Fine by me. At least I know Cheryl and Ellie will come visit me,” Grandma Toma retorts.

At the mention of Aunt Cheryl, Mom gets visibly agitated. She never wants to be outdone by her older sister. She lets out a mock cry. “Gary, I’m not going to abandon my mother in a retirement home. Maybe just picking up and leaving isn’t
the best thing. Noah is doing so well in school now, and he may do the Academic Decathlon next year.”

“I’m not—” Noah begins, and Mom shoots him a dirty look. She’s been nagging him to join his private school’s Academic Decathlon team, which he has been adamantly refusing. Now she’s got him in a full nelson.
You join the Academic Decathlon team, and I’ll make sure that we won’t be spending Christmas in Kansas looking at one of the world’s largest balls of twine.

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Noah quickly rebounds. “I have been thinking of doing the Academic Decathlon. It’ll be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” Damn, when he puts his mind to it, Noah can lay it on thick.

“What do you think, Ellie? Do you think that this is a bad idea?” Dad asks.

What I really think, Dad, is that you are freaking out about Puddy Fernandes.
I’m not going to say anything about that, though, because I’m freaking out inside, too. I’m just keeping it bottled up, deep, deep inside. Instead, I say, “How about you start off small? Take an RV trip this summer. You could go to see Mount Rushmore.”

It’s almost as if the whole household lets out a collective sigh of relief.

“I can stay home for that one,” Grandma Toma says. “I don’t need to see the faces of a bunch of old
hakujin
men on a side of a mountain.”

“Maybe Ellie can come with us, too,” says Noah. I turn to give him a look. Why does he want to punish me? I’m trying to do him a favor.

“I’ll stay with Grandma Toma while you guys are all gone,” I suggest sweetly.

“Perfect! It’s settled. An RV trip to Mount Rushmore this summer,” Dad says.

Mom and Noah still don’t look that pleased, but they know the alternative could have been a hundred times worse.

*   *   *

While I’m at my parents’ house, I use their laptop and Wi-Fi. I can’t help myself—I start to Google “China” and “violin/cello manufacturers.”

A bunch of websites come up, some in Chinese characters. I scroll down the pages until I see something in English. “Phoenix Instruments,” the link reads, with a location in Arcadia. That sounds familiar.

I click on the link. It’s an elegant website, full of photos of beautiful string instruments, their hourglass shapes both refined and, yeah, a little sexy. There’s a slight variation in the colors of the wood. Some of the violins, violas and cellos are a rich maple syrup color; others, more on the reddish side like cherrywood. The website images are supereffective. They make me feel like taking up the cello, even though I’m fully aware from my karaoke outings and brief lessons in both piano and guitar that I’m completely tone-deaf.

The logo on the website banner catches my eye. It’s a bird with multiple heads. I’ve seen that image before. I click on a button about the company’s purpose and mission:

Phoenix Instruments prides itself on providing the very best in violins, violas, and cellos for the beginner to the most advanced musician. Using the best aged wood from Europe, PI guarantees quality in sound. Founded by Chuncheng Wang, PI has as its logo a predecessor of the Chinese phoenix, which is a symbol of Wang’s home province, Hubei. Besides a factory in Hubei, PI has a sales office in the U.S.