Murder on Bamboo Lane (17 page)

“Mr. Lee, this is Caroline Rush. Yes, Noah’s mother.” She then glares at Noah as if to say
, I can’t believe that you’re my son
. “Yes, I’m fine. I know that this is last minute, but my husband and I would like to come over to discuss something with you and your wife. Yes, right now. It’s very important.”

Ending the call, she turns to all three of us. “C’mon, let’s go.”

I take a few steps back. I have nothing to do with this.

Mom immediately knows what I’m up to. “Oh no, Officer Rush.” She grabs my wrist. “You’re coming with us for backup.”

• • •

Mom tells me to wear my
POLICE
Windbreaker that’s in my trunk.

“I really don’t think I should go with you,” I argue.

“You are going with us,” Mom insists. “You could have told us, the parents, of what was going on with your brother. You withheld information about his
illegal
activities. You bear some responsibility for this.”

I want to deny it, but seeing my father’s anxious eyes, I agree to tag along, for his sake.

The Lees live in an expansive estate in southeastern Pasadena. It’s immaculately manicured, with leafy trees and square bushes. Next to the front door is one of those black lawn jockeys, a remnant of a different century.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Lee greet us at the door. Mrs. Lee is thin and birdlike with a hairstyle that resembles her younger son’s. Mr. Lee also has a slight build, but his jawline is well defined and angular.

We follow them inside. In contrast to its lush exterior, the house inside is strangely bare. There’s no artwork on the walls and little furniture even. The hallway is lined with a stack of moving boxes.

“Did you move in recently?” my father asks. I was thinking the same thing.

“No, six years ago.”

“Oh.”

We sit in these overstuffed fake leather couches around a low coffee table. After some small talk, my mother dives in. She places the bag of weed on the coffee table.

“I found this in my son’s room, and he claims that he got it from Simon.” And, in case there was any confusion, she declares, “It’s marijuana.”

The Lees lurch back on their couch.

“I didn’t say that. Ellie’s the narc,” Noah says.

The Lees exchange glances and seem intimidated by my
POLICE
Windbreaker.

“Apparently, your sons are growing marijuana in your house,” Mom says.

“That’s quite an accusation,” Mr. Lee says. “You are greatly mistaken.”

“Siiiimon!” Mrs. Lee calls out. Her voice is shrill, like a boiling teakettle’s whistle.

“Simon!” The father then calls out, more baritone.

Simon finally shows himself at the top of a staircase, his signature earbuds still in place.

He slowly makes his way down and sits next to Noah.

The father points out the weed on the table. “Do you know anything about this?”

Simon, as usual, says nothing.

Mr. Lee yanks out his son’s earbuds and the MP3 player connected to it. He repeats his question.

No response. The Lees then both speak in Chinese among themselves and to Simon.

Finally Simon responds: “Yes.” “No.” “No.”

We have no idea what’s being said, and Mom’s getting impatient.

“Do you have a greenhouse here?” she asks.

“It was installed by the previous owner,” Mrs. Lee says. “My older son does some school projects there.”

“May we see it?” Mom asks.

The Lees exchange glances again.

“Of course,” Mr. Lee finally agrees.

We walk through their kitchen, which, in contrast to the empty living room, is fully stocked and crowded with items from big-box stores. We go out the back door to a large yard, the greenhouse looming on one side. It’s dark, and Mr. Lee uses a flashlight to lead us to the greenhouse door. Then he snaps the light on.

The greenhouse is completely empty.

“So where are these plants you speak of?” Mrs. Lee asks.

Both Lees look victorious; my parents, foolish.

“I don’t think that your son should be associating with my son anymore,” Mrs. Lee says.

“You got it,” Mom agrees.

On the drive home, Mom keeps going on and on. “Can you believe them? Taking no responsibility for their son. Unbelievable. I don’t believe he really scored that high on his PSATs, either.”

“I kind of feel sorry for him,” I say.

“What?”

“I do, too,” Dad says. “He seems neglected. The whole house, in fact, seems half-lived-in. It’s obvious that the Lees don’t really want to know what’s going on with their sons. They knew that there were plants back there. They just didn’t want to believe it.”

Noah stays silent, but once Dad parks the car, he runs out and into the house. A few minutes later, he emerges from his bedroom holding a toothbrush and fistful of underwear.

“I’m not staying here,” he announces to my parents in the downstairs hallway.

Well, you’re not staying at my house
, I think.

“Noah, you are a minor. You can’t decide where you are going to live,” my mother says.

“I will run away. I swear I will.” There’s such defiance and anger on his face. I actually think he will.

“Okay, maybe everyone’s gotten a little hot under the collar. Let’s just sit down, maybe have something to eat, and talk it out,” Dad proposes.

Noah, on the other hand, has his own proposal. “I want to stay at Lita’s.”

• • •

“So, our
niño
is in trouble,” Lita says after opening the door of her San Gabriel home. Everyone had agreed it would be best if I drove Noah over to her house alone. I tried to talk to him, but Noah gave me the full-on silent treatment.

“Hi, Lita,” mumbles Noah as he rushes in with his plastic bag of underwear.

“Make yourself at home,” she calls out. “The extra bedroom’s yours.”

Lita then gives me a hug and quick kiss on the cheek.

We sit in her wicker chairs in her living room, which is decorated with Mexican masks and dancing skeletons.

“Well, it’s not armed robbery,” she says, taking another sip of wine. “I can’t tell you how many of my students came to class stoned and high. And your father—”

I quickly shush Lita. The last thing Noah needs is any kind of ammunition that Dad experimented with illicit drugs.

We talk some more, and then I finally tell Lita that I have to go.

“Bye, Noah,” I call out.

No response.

“He’ll come around,” Lita says. “I’ll work some of my magic on him.”

I drive home in a daze. I can’t help but feel a little sorry for Mom. First me joining the force, and now Noah with his stash of pot. We are not turning out the way she wants us to, and now both of us are out of the house.

When I get home, I call Nay to process what has just happened.

“It’s not like he’s a serial killer or anything,” Nay says.

“That’s what Lita says.”

“Your Lita is so cool. I love her. Do you think that she’ll adopt me?”

“She’s not home enough to adopt anyone.” Lita’s gone so much, she can’t even keep cactus alive.

“Well, anyway, we’ve all done it.”

“I haven’t,” I tell her.

“Well, you are a special case. A jock. ‘My body is a temple’ and all that, right?”

“I never said anything like that.”

“But you think it, right? Anyway, isn’t your mom of the seventies, eighties crowd? Weren’t they all
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
or something?”

“Mom wasn’t.”

“Guess it runs in the family. Don’t worry. She’ll get over it. Noah is her little darling. I know how Moms are with their sons.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“You’re lucky. You have a normal family.”

“You think my family’s normal?”

“Pretty darn close. I’ll take your family’s crazy over mine any day.” I hear her take a sip of what I assume is Diet Coke. “By the way, when we meet up tomorrow to go to that store? Don’t wear the same stuff you normally do on the weekends. No jeans and T-shirts. Wear something expensive. Alluring.”

Alluring? I’m not even sure if I know what that looks like anymore.

NORTH ROBERTSON BOULEVARD

My feet are killing me as I wait underneath a pink sign that says
CERISE
. I am wearing a pair of black stilettos, reprising a misguided attempt to be sexy for Benjamin once.

Nay appears in a low-cut wraparound dress that shows off her ample cleavage. Once she makes it to the front of the lingerie store, she circles around me. “Not bad,” she says. “I’ll give you a C plus. No, B minus.”

Thank you, Professor Alluring.

From the outside, Cerise, which I quickly learn means “cherry” in French, is not what I expect. First of all, it’s in a quieter part of Beverly Hills, next to a small, well-watered garden. In fact, it looks like it could be a Paris bistro, at least to people like me who’ve never set foot in France.

Once we walk inside, however, it’s clear that we’re in a sex shop. Wine-flavored condoms, fruit-scented massage oils, see-through lingerie, it’s all there. The only things that set Cerise apart from the sex shops on Hollywood Boulevard are presentation and price: Everything here is tastefully displayed on large polished stones underneath spotlights—and most of the items are priced in the three digits.

Nay squeezes her knockoff Gucci bag as she approaches the saleswoman at the counter.

“We’d like to see your Seven-Day-a-Week panty gift pack.”

“Certainly.” The saleswoman, who is probably in her early thirties, carries herself like Audrey Hepburn. She glides away to a back room in her glamorous high ponytail.

I sidle up to Nay at the counter. “You’ve been here before?”

“Of course. Not to buy, but just window-shop with friends.”

Friends? What friends?

The saleswoman returns with a black box with a satin finish, much like the one we found in Jenny’s car.

I take a close look at the box, while Nay engages the clerk in a conversation.

“I go to PPW, and I’m taking a human sexuality course,” Nay tells her.

“Oh, you’re a college student. Fabulous. We’ve been trying to do some more outreach to your demographic.”

Why would you? I wonder. Most don’t have any money! At least I didn’t when I was in college. Maybe the store wants them all to find wealthy partners to participate in some
Fifty Shades of Grey
fantasy.

“I have some questions about the panty gift pack,” Nay continues.

“Of course.”

“How many do you sell a year?”

“Five thousand, I think. It’s our premiere item, that’s for sure.”

Wow. And no serial number on the box. No way to track down the individual buyer. I notice the
MADE IN USA
label and point to it. “I see that these are made here.”

“Yay, go USA,” Nay chants, trying to show her patriotic colors.

“Yes, they’re custom-made right here in Los Angeles, in fact. By a swimsuit manufacturer, Blue Flag Swimwear.”

I know Blue Flag. Their factory is on Maple Avenue, just on the outskirts of the Fashion District. It’s in a tall blue building that I’ve circled numerous times on patrol.

“We are actually thinking of playing that up more,” says our Audrey Hepburn clerk. “Buy local. Buy LA.”

“That’s Garrett Mancuso’s company,” Nay whispers to me.

“Who?”

She says that she’ll tell me later.

• • •

“You haven’t heard of Garrett Mancuso?” Nay, knower of all things tawdry and sensational, asks me after we convene back at my house.

I have not. But when I look up his photo on my computer, I immediately recognize him. He’s the man that Captain Randle was having a heated discussion with on that Sunday at the station. I think that I may have also seen him in the Metro Club in the library.

“I’ve seen him around.”

“He’s the bad boy of fashion,” Nay says. “He’s been served with at least three paternity suits. Charged with sexual harassment in the workplace. And even dated some swimsuit models.”

“Ugh,” I say. I print out his head shot. He’s a balding guy in his late fifties with dark curly hair and mottled skin. He’s not handsome, not by a long shot. “I guess he’s just not my type.”

“What is your type? Hunky? Or emo?”

“C’mon, we’re not talking about me, okay?”

“Actually, I know a girl at PPW who’s been in one of the Blue Flag ads.” That doesn’t surprise me. Blue Flag is notorious for its provocative billboards and website banners. As part of its marketing campaign, instead of professional models the company uses everyday people, many of them coeds from local colleges.

“Yeah, she told me that Mancuso was a total lecher, a pervert,” Nay continues.

I cross-check his name with the list of commissions and those on the trade mission. “Well, this pervert is on the redistricting commission. And he was in Vietnam with the mayor, too.”

Nay writes something on the printout of Mancuso’s head shot and then secures it on my bare refrigerator door with a pizza delivery magnet.

I get up to get a closer look. She wrote, “WANTED: Suspect No. 1.”

• • •

On Monday, I actually wake up early to not only wash my hair but properly blow-dry it. I even use an eyelash curler and apply a couple of swipes of mascara. I am meeting Cortez at City Hall.

Before our appointment, I report to the station. Detective Harrington is talking to Captain Randle in our so-called lobby.

“There she is,” Captain Randle says, beaming. I’m like his favorite grandchild these days. I wonder if, like most grandparents, he doesn’t really know what the hell his progeny are up to, and if he did, whether he’d be able to handle the truth.

“Harrington just told me that we got a favorable ruling in a robbery that occurred late last year. His report was instrumental in the prosecution of that case, and he tells me that your editing feedback helped.”

“Oh, wonderful, glad to hear it,” I say. My instinct is to say, “It was nothing,” but I’m trying to learn not to undermine myself that way. It’s taken me a while to accept compliments, but I’m working on it. Harrington grins and nods his good-byes, leaving me alone with Captain Randle.

“Perhaps you can take a look at some other reports?”

I’m flattered, but I also know what this means. More work after hours, probably no OT pay. This request for a favor emboldens me for a moment.

“Captain Randle, I noticed you talking to the Fashion District rep, Garrett Mancuso, the other weekend.”

“You call that talking?” Captain Randle says sarcastically. Sarcasm is not his thing, and he doesn’t wear it well. “A strong difference of opinion is more like it. Mr. Mancuso and I share a long, contentious history. I was a detective assigned to the station when he started his swimsuit company fifteen years ago.”

I link my hands behind me as I listen intently.

“He was accused of assaulting one of his models, and although she eventually dropped the charge, I was the one who originally arrested him. Ever since then, he’s had it out for me. When I was assigned to be captain of the Central Division, he befriended Councilman Beachum to try to get me out. He’s been unsuccessful so far.” Captain Randle stops himself, realizing that he has revealed too much. “Why do you ask?”

I give him a quick rundown of Father Kwame’s conversation with Jenny’s aunt in Vietnam. I’m hoping for an
attagirl
, but Captain Randle’s face turns ashen gray. “You need to dot your i’s and cross your t’s on this one, Ellie. There’s no room for mistakes.”

• • •

City Hall reminds me of the kind of retro building that could be in a Superman comic book. (It actually has, according to Noah.) On the outside, it’s shaped like a rocket; inside, it’s all hushed corridors, arched walkways and stone mosaic floors. And narrow elevators that are always too crowded.

After meeting Cortez in the lobby, we ride up together to the fourth floor. He has to press against me as more and more paper pushers squeeze into the elevator car. I smell his cologne and notice that he has nicked himself underneath his chin shaving. He glances down at me, then we both avert our eyes.

We get off at the fourth floor to meet with Teena Dang. Cortez has made an appointment, and I’m surprised that he got us in so quickly. Usually, these aides have breakfast events, press conferences and meetings with high-level constituents. No time for a wandering LAPD detective and a bicycle cop.

As she has been every other time I’ve seen her, Teena Dang is flawlessly groomed. Not a hair out of place, perfectly manicured nails, no drops of spilled coffee or random city ickiness on her light-colored blouse. It amazes me that some people, especially someone close to my age, can pull themselves together so beautifully every single day.

Teena is on the phone and lifts one of her perfectly buffed nails up as a signal for us to wait.

I see how Cortez checks out her entire body, from her polished high heels to her shiny black hair. I feel a pang of jealousy. I’m totally out of her league.

“Sorry about that. You must be Detective Williams,” Teena says, hanging up the phone and extending her hand to Cortez. I notice that he holds it a little too long.

She then looks at me, her eyes vacant.

“We’ve met before, at the Metro Club,” I say to attempt to jog her memory. “I was with Cheryl Toma. I’m Officer Ellie Rush.”

“Of course, of course. Well, sit down. How can I help you?”

Seated, Cortez straightens his tie. “Ellie, go ahead.”

Me? I’m not sure why Cortez is making me speak.

“Well, I—we were referred to you by Missy Kim.”

“Yes, I know Missy.”

“We are investigating the Jenny Nguyen murder. Her body was found in Chinatown on the day of the parade.”

“Of course. It happened here in our district. I trust that the investigation is going well. We heard that you had a potential suspect?”

“We did, but he has an alibi.”

Hearing the word
alibi
, Teena blinks twice, then clears her throat. “Any other suspects?”

“Well, Missy mentioned that Jenny may have spoken to you about someone on the redistricting commission. A man. She could have been asking questions about his personal life.”

Teena runs her fingers through her long hair. “You know, I really don’t recall. That must have been a long time ago.”

She’s clearly not going to “remember” anything on her own. I decide to push. “I’m wondering if she could have been asking about Garrett Mancuso.”

Teena gets up from her chair. “I’m confused. What are you trying to imply? That Mr. Mancuso was somehow involved in Jenny Nguyen’s death? That’s ludicrous. I wouldn’t be spreading rumors about an esteemed business leader in our community.”

Cortez rises, too. His voice is conciliatory; he is a born peacemaker. “Please don’t misunderstand Officer Rush. We’re just following up on some leads. We want to solve this case as much as I know you and Councilman Beachum do. We don’t want anyone to think that Chinatown isn’t a safe place to visit. The community wants this case put to rest.”

“That doesn’t mean creating suspects out of nothing.”

“Of course not. We’re just asking questions.”

I know that Cortez wants to end our meeting on a positive note, but I’m not sure when or if I’ll have another opportunity to interview Beachum’s aide again. “Did you go on the mayor’s trade mission to Vietnam?”

“I wish. But I had to stay back and attend some special events in LA on behalf of the city councilman. You can check, if you’d like.” She fingers a paperweight on her desk. “What does that has to do with the investigation into the girl’s death?”

“Apparently, her mother was killed last October in Ho Chi Minh City, about the same time the Los Angeles delegation was there. It’s still an unsolved murder.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But again, I don’t see the relevance.” Teena then checks her watch and apologizes that she has to go to another meeting.

Before she leaves, Teena slips something into Cortez’s palm. “Here’s my card, Detective. If I can be of any further help at all, please call.” Of course, there’s no offer of a card to me.

“She sure knows the right things to say,” I comment as we head back to the narrow elevator.

“She’s just protecting her constituent.”

We remain silent on the elevator ride back to the ground floor.

“We wouldn’t have to prove that Garrett Mancuso actually killed Cam Hanh, only that Jenny suspected that he did,” I say to Cortez.

“We have
no
proof, Ellie.” Our feet tap down the concrete steps. “I really appreciate all this work that you’ve put into this, but we really don’t have anything that the DA can work with.”

I jump over a dead palm tree frond that has fallen on the sidewalk. “We don’t have Jenny’s cell phone. Her computer. She didn’t really tell anyone about what she was up to.”

“Well, if the roommate cooperated with us . . .” Cortez raises his hands. He’s right. Susana needs to come forward. She may be the only person in Jenny’s life who has some information that could actually help.

“Listen, I need to tell you something,” Cortez says when we reach police headquarters. I brace myself for bad news. “I’ve been assigned another homicide case. There’s only so much time that can be spent on this, and I was informed that this was the last day that we’d be working together. My partner, who’s been in court, will be taking over.”

“Are you saying that this case is closed?”

“Of course not. The department is committed to apprehending and charging the perpetrator.” I give him a look. That’s just a bunch of department BS, and we both know it.

“I’m sorry, Ellie. But this is how it works sometimes.”