Murder on Bamboo Lane (15 page)

“So you and my sister say.”

“No, he has an alibi. Someone planted that gun in the gallery.”

“So he says.” Why does Benjamin have it out for Tuan? I don’t get it.

“We’re investigating other possibilities.”

“Like?”

“Jenny’s work here.”

“I told you, people didn’t like her asking so many questions.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Mrs. Kind tells me that Jenny was filled with anger.”

Benjamin flinches, like I’m waving an open flame in front of him. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know. I thought I’d ask you. I also wanted to know if you’ve seen Ramon around.”

Benjamin shakes his head. “After that last truancy citation you issued, it seems like he’s disappeared. He might’ve gone to Mexico with his aunt.”

“Benjamin,” Miss Boots nags from the doorway. “Come inside, we have a lot of kids today.”

I narrow my eyes. If there’s anything Benjamin can’t stand, it’s nagging.

But to my surprise, his feet move toward the tutoring center. “I gotta go,” he says.

Okay, I think. I get it. My ex-boyfriend is definitely whipped by his new woman.

SECOND STREET

“That’s just bullshit,” I hear Nay say as I walk into Osaka’s, craving a butter salt ramen, the greasier the better.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Nay is standing in front of Benjamin and Rickie, her eyes flashing. “Benjamin’s new girlfriend is barring him from hanging out with us anymore,” she snorts. “She’s breaking up the Fearsome Foursome.” I hadn’t heard that silly nickname for our little group since freshman year.

Benjamin’s hands are stuffed in his jacket. He looks sheepishly down at the table.

“Why?” I ask. I notice Nay exchanging glances with Rickie. “Is it because of me?”

“Well, you have to admit that you are an intimidating force,” Rickie says. “Most of the time, you’re walking around with a gun and a club.”

Nay jabs Rickie in the stomach to make him shut up.

“That’s just silly,” I say. “What’s she so afraid of?”

“You make her feel uncomfortable. Or maybe I should say our relationship makes her feel uncomfortable.”

“What are you saying? That we can’t talk to each other anymore?”

Benjamin keeps his mouth open, as if he is just realizing what this all means.

Nay waves her hands in the air. “It’s just stupid. Doesn’t she realize that she has nothing to worry about? Ellie has a new hunk in her life, a very yummy gummy bear.”

“What?” Rickie asks, his interest piqued. “Who?”

Benjamin looks at me, shocked.

“It’s nothing,” I say.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Then I wouldn’t feel so bad,” Benjamin says.

Something in his response feels suspicious. “Why would you feel bad, Benjamin? What did you do?”

“Don’t do that, Ellie, try to twist my words against me.”

“No, no, I’m just wondering. Because Rickie says that
you
were the one who was leading the search for Jenny. Not him. Not Susana. Not Tuan. I find that very interesting. Like why? You never mentioned her before. And now you’re playing Superman? That’s not you, Benjamin.”

Customers lift their faces from steaming ramen bowls. No one seems annoyed by our heated exchange, though, just curious, like we are staging an impromptu play to entertain them.

Benjamin glares at Rickie. “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing, man. I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

I glare at Rickie, then turn back to Benjamin. “You know what? You can tell your girlfriend that she shouldn’t worry about you coming to Osaka’s anymore because I absolutely won’t be here. Take care,” I tell him, “because I won’t be seeing you anymore.”

Nay chases after me as I storm out of the ramen shop. “Too over-the-top?” I ask, feeling a little foolish.

“A little,” she replies. “Osaka’s has the best ramen around. Now where are you going to go?”

I tell Nay not to worry and to return to the group at Osaka’s; I won’t view her as a traitor. On the other hand, I’m still craving that butter salt ramen, so I end up at Nanda Ramen, around the corner. It’s a discount place that attracts Japanese foreign students who thumb through dog-eared and grease-splattered manga books while they slurp their noodles. I am thigh-sandwiched at a counter between two Japanese men who show no interest in me, which is good. Sometimes the best place to be alone is in a crowd.

As I dunk a square of butter into my ramen broth with my chopsticks, I think back to the e-mails that Rickie received. One of them was from Missy Kim, an activist who runs her own independent consulting firm. She had spoken about electoral politics in my Asian American studies class, but I’d had little interest in ballot measures or political candidates. No matter who wins an election, it always seems like more of the same, especially in my line of work.

As far as political animals go, though, Missy Kim is one of the better ones. She doesn’t take herself too seriously and sometimes cracks jokes at press conferences—she’s a breath of fresh air.

After leaving Nanda Ramen, I search her Facebook events page and see that Missy will be participating on a panel discussion on redistricting at the Japanese American Cultural and Community Center on San Pedro and Second streets tomorrow morning.

Cortez has told me that he has interviewed her already, but I’d like to get a shot, too. After all my missteps, I figure I should keep him in the loop, so I text him.

Do you mind if I talk to Missy Kim?

be my guest

His reply seems snarky, but I realize that everything from him seems to have an edge of snark right now.

• • •

I’m off this week on Thursday, and instead of sleeping in, I’m at the redistricting meeting on the basement level of the Japanese American community center, overlooking a beautiful Japanese garden. I didn’t have enough time to properly dry my hair or eat, but at least I’m wearing a clean pair of pants and I’ve brushed my teeth. Thankfully, there’s coffee, and I nurse a cup, checking out the small crowd.

It’s still early, so people are slowly making their way in. Missy Kim is dressed like all the other panelists, in a blazer and black slacks. After she finishes her conversation with the moderator, I make my move.

“Ms. Kim, I’m Ellie Rush. You spoke to my Asian American studies class at PPW last year.”

“Nice to meet you.” Missy extends her hand and gives mine a firm shake. “Are you still at PPW?”

“I graduated. I’m actually working at the LAPD now.”

“Doing . . . ?”

“Well, I’m an officer with their Bicycle Coordination Unit.”

“You’re a bicycle cop? That’s pretty wild. How are you liking it?”

“No complaints,” I lie. “Anyway, I’m working on the Jenny Nguyen murder case. I know that you spoke to Detective Williams already.”

“Yes, I’m afraid that I couldn’t offer much information. So sad. I didn’t know her that well. Just saw her at meetings. She was at one of our panels that Thursday, the same day the police believe that she was killed.”

“Did anything out of the ordinary happen at that gathering?”

“No, not really. I mean, hey, we’re talking redistricting, not the Maury Povich show. These are pretty tame sessions.”

“Her boyfriend claims that Jenny wasn’t really political.”

“Really? That’s interesting, because she’d been at all of our meetings.” Missy takes a sip of her coffee, leaving a bright lipstick mark on the lip of her paper cup. “You know, come to think of it, I got into a weird conversation with her a couple of months ago.”

“Weird how?”

“She asked me some strange questions about a couple of the redistricting commissioners. Like who did I think was a stand-up guy. Who was happily married? Who was known to have affairs.”

“Really?” Was Jenny targeting someone for something?

“I mean, politicians do have their groupies, but these are commissioners. They were appointed by their city council representatives. They are mostly businesspeople, you know? Successful in their fields and definitely influencers, but not what I would call power brokers.”

Missy places her cup on the table and then gestures, as if that helps her recall her conversation with Jenny. “There was something definitely strange about her . . . let’s say
interests
. Do you know Teena Dang of Councilman Beachum’s office? Jenny seemed to be asking her a lot of questions, too.”

Seeing that the panel is beginning to start, I thank Missy and then go out into the garden to make a call to Cortez.

• • •

As I walk onto a round stone platform, I tell Cortez about Missy’s conversation with Jenny.

“That is strange,” he says. “But remember that expensive underwear among her belongings? Maybe she had a benefactor.”

I know what Cortez is implying. That Jenny was a gold digger. Yet, if she was such a gold digger, what was she doing living out of a borrowed 1994 Honda Accord?

“The Jenny Nguyen that her Census boss described is completely different than the person everyone else is telling us. It’s as if she were two completely different people.”

“Some people are just that way,” Cortez says, and I realize he means me.

Before he can say good-bye, I hang up the phone.

• • •

I’m not quite sure where I should drive to next.

I don’t feel like going to my parents and letting them know that I’m no longer with Cortez. I can’t speak to Benjamin. I don’t want to be around Rickie, and I even need a break from Nay after sharing a living space with her for the last few days.

I go next door to the Artist’s Loft and get a green tea latte from the organic café. I take a careful sip as I study a bulletin board full of flyers advertising Bikram yoga classes and poetry workshops. Hanging on with tape is the old promotion for Tuan Le’s panel at the Goldfinger Gallery.

I look for his business card, which I’ve stapled to my notebook. Handwritten in pencil is an address on Vignes Street, a block away.

At least three realty lockboxes are connected to the metal grating by the door to Tuan Le’s loft.

I press Tuan’s button on the intercom.

“Hello?” a static-laden voice responds. It must be Tuan.

“Hey,” I wave to the camera. “It’s me.”

“Who?”

“Ellie Rush.”

“Ellie, oh yeah.”

The buzzer sounds and I walk up to the third floor.

Tuan has already opened his door. He’s wearing a wife beater and, in the light of day, I notice that Rickie was right: Tuan is ripped.

“So the cameras aren’t working?” I say.

“Nope. This development took a hit during the recession, but it’s coming back up.”

He gestures for me to come in. Facing the floor-to-ceiling windows are abstract oil paintings hung on an expansive white wall. I see the edge of a futon up in the loft upstairs.

“Wow, this is nice,” I say.

“I don’t actually own this place. It’s my friend’s. But I’ve been able to crash here rent-free while he’s been living in Tokyo for the past nine months. That ride will be ending now that the unit is officially up for lease.”

I sit down on a black leather couch. The leather is so soft that it feels like it’s melting around my body. I stroke its arms a couple of times before I realize what I am doing.

“Hey, I was meaning to call you,” Tuan says. “Thanks for the introduction to Sally Choi. Man, the girl worked gangbusters for me. Saved me from going to the joint, that’s for sure. I heard you did your share for me, too.”

“Well, you didn’t kill Jenny,” I say too loudly and definitively. Who am I trying to convince? “Actually, I’m here because I wanted to get Jenny’s contact information back in Vietnam. Her boss at the Census wanted to send her family a card.”

“Oh yeah.” Tuan rifles through some papers on a drafting table. Tearing off a piece of butcher paper, he consults his phone and then writes a name and address with a felt tip marker.

I look over his shoulder and see that there’s also a phone number listed. “Can I get the phone number, too?”

“Why? Can you speak Vietnamese?” he asks me.

I shake my head.

“You won’t be able to communicate with them, then.”

“Well, let me have it anyway. In case her boss needs it to send a care package or something.”

Tuan seems a little annoyed with my request but still goes along with it. He folds the butcher paper and hands it to me. “Hey, a friend gave me some great soju. You want some? It’s cooling in the frig.”

That’s the last thing I need. Strong yam wine with an available bachelor who happens to be ripped? I say my good-byes and a quick prayer, asking God to keep me away from any more temptation.

Once I’m outside, my phone rings. “Where are you? You wanna meet?” Nay asks.

I say nothing for a moment. I wonder,
What time is it in Vietnam?

• • •

I arrive at the church first. The light in the parish office is on, which means Father Kwame is probably in.

As always, he seems happy to see me. I warn him a friend of mine is on her way, too. Within fifteen minutes, Nay comes knocking on the door.

“Nay Pram,” I introduce her.

“Pleased to meet a friend of Ellie,” Father Kwame says. He can tell by looking at her that she’s Cambodian. “Do you speak Khmer?”

“I only know the bad words,” Nay explains, making the priest laugh before he excuses himself to get us cups of tea.

We sit in his study.

“He’s kind of cute,” she hisses to me.

“Nay, he’s a priest. Like, he’s celibate.”

“Oh.”

Father Kwame then reenters the cozy office, carrying a tray with two cups and saucers, a bowl of sugar and a mini-pitcher of milk.

“Actually, Father, I need your help in a case that I’m working on,” I begin.

“Oh, yes?” The priest’s eyes are shiny with interest.

I tell him about how I had to identify Jenny’s body and all the events that followed. The discovery of the Ratmobile and the contents in the trunk.

“That was through one of my contacts,” Nay interjects, and when I mention how I spoke with Jenny’s ex-roommate, Susana, she adds, “That was my contact, too.”

I glare at Nay, and tell Father Kwame about interviewing Jenny’s Census boss.

“Rickie helped her with that,” Nay says.

And, finally, about clearing Tuan of murder, and visiting the projects, and talking to Missy Kim.

“She did all that on her own.”

Thank you very much, Nay!

I put down my cup and saucer on a side table. “Anyway, from what I hear, Jenny literally has no relatives here. But I just got the phone number of her aunt in Ho Chi Minh City.”

Father Kwame raises his eyebrows. I know that he served in a Vietnamese parish in the 1970s.

“I believe they are fifteen hours ahead there.”

He nods his head.

I unfold the butcher paper and reveal Jenny’s aunt’s name. “Father, can you help me?”

He nods again.

Before dialing the number, I explain what information I’ll need. Nay helps me make the international call on my cell phone: I know that it’s going to cost me an arm and a leg, but it’s worth it.

The call connects, and I hand the phone to Father Kwame, who seems transformed as he speaks into the phone and occasionally writes some things down on the back of an envelope. I just hope that it’s actually Jenny’s aunt we’ve reached.