Murder on Bamboo Lane (22 page)

“You scared the hell out of her.”

“We could have done way worse, you know. We could have made arrangements for her to be deported.”

Air gets caught in my throat. I’m shocked. Some say that all people are basically good, but I respectfully disagree. Teena Dang can be Exhibit A for my argument against.

She senses my judgment. “Do you know what Councilman Beachum’s done for LA? For PPW students? Downtown? Little Tokyo? He’s fought for money for schools in our district. Transportation in downtown. Redevelopment funds in areas so blighted that even the homeless were scared to be there.

“Do you think it all happened instantaneously? That the business community easily said, ‘Yes, yes, take our money to create business improvement districts?’ No, it took years of lunches, talking, negotiating. Convincing leaders that we knew what we were doing. That we had a vision for our city.

“No other council member could have done it. I know what these know-nothing activists are saying. That Wade is a has-been. An old-timer. Maybe a politician with fresh blood comes in, but it will take that person years to build up the goodwill that Wade has.”

Save your stump speech for someone who cares
, I think.

“Jenny Nguyen knew nothing about her mother. The councilman wasn’t the only one to—well, let’s say ‘have relations’—with Cam Hanh. Wade saw someone else with her that evening. A Vietnamese man.”

“So did the councilman tell the Ho Chi Minh police? Did he even try to aid the investigation?”

“It had nothing to do with him.”

“So, he kept his mouth shut so that nothing would end up in the media. And what about the ‘big deal’ that Cam Hanh was so excited about?”

“I have no idea.”

Teena has already unknowingly copped to Susana’s attack, and now I attempt to go for the gold. “How do you sleep at night, knowing you killed Jenny?”

Teena’s head jerks up. “Wait a minute. What are you trying to get me to say?”

She swivels around, examining spots and holes in the walls.

I realize that I’ve been made, and say, “Coffee cup,” the code words we’d decided upon earlier.

Teena looks at me funny, then Cortez bursts through the door, his hands wrapped around his Glock. “Police!” he yells.

Teena is dazed. Cortez instructs her to lie facedown on my hardwood floor.

“You’re under arrest,” I tell her, and then begin reciting her Miranda rights.

With her face smashed against the floor, I can barely make out her question: “What are you charging me with?”

“Assault with a deadly weapon,” Cortez says. “In the attack on Susana Perez.”

WEST FIRST STREET

Cortez starts reading portions from Jenny’s notebook out loud. I can’t see the pages from where the digital camera is positioned in the interrogation room, but the words are crystal clear. The audio man, Kiyo, and I watch a monitor together from an adjoining room.

Across the table from Cortez sits Teena. Her makeup has faded, making her look younger, more delicate and less corporate. Her hair, however, is now limp, without its usual shininess and luster.

The excerpt Cortez is reading is all about Teena. How Jenny had discovered that she’d had appointments with Vietnamese authorities shortly after her mother’s death. Why was Teena even in Vietnam? She was not even part of the original delegation roster.

Cortez puts the notebook down on the table. He folds his hands and looks into Teena’s face.

“That proves nothing,” Teena retorts. “So I was in Vietnam. I have family there.”

“Why were you meeting with all these authorities? Jenny was building quite a case against Mr. Beachum in her mother’s murder.”

“They didn’t even classify it as murder,” Teena slams back. “He had nothing to do with it.”

“You’ve worked with him since college. Trusted aide. Right-hand woman. You’ve worked so hard, banked your future on him. And now he was going to throw it away on a fling? I bet you were frustrated. Angry even.”

Teena crosses her arms. She’s not going to fall for Cortez’s setup, no matter how good it is.

“And then the daughter, Jenny Nguyen. She’s here in LA, causing trouble for you and the councilman. If only she’d just give up. If only you could shut her up.”

“I didn’t kill her. It was Tuan Le.”

“Why are you so sure?”

Teena opens her mouth, revealing her tiny, pearl-white teeth, and then shuts it. Finally, what we expect to hear: “I want my attorney.”

Kiyo and I exchange glances. That didn’t take long, but perhaps a tiny bit longer than expected.

Cortez leaves the interrogation room and then enters ours.

“She lawyered up.”

I nod. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. She obviously roughed up Susana—I mean, we have her admission on the surveillance tape—but in terms of Jenny’s murder, I don’t think she did it.”

I’m starting to think Cortez is right. All that echoes in my head is her assertion: “It was Tuan Le.” What does she know that we don’t?

• • •

I get my bicycle, which is locked on the ground floor. I need to return to the station, but Teena’s comment about Tuan continues to haunt me. The Artist’s Loft area is a minor detour; what can it hurt?

When I arrive, it’s exactly what I fear. A small moving truck is parked in front of the loft. A quick survey of the truck’s contents: some of the full-scale canvases I remember seeing in the unit Tuan is staying in.

“Is the guy who’s moving out still around?” I ask one of the movers in a light blue jumpsuit.

He takes in my uniform and decides to answer. “Up there.” He raises a thumb toward the unit on the fourth floor.

After getting off the elevator, I follow the trail of packing popcorn to unit 401. “Going somewhere?” I ask from the doorway.

Tuan, who is sweating in his sleeveless T-shirt, looks up. Wiping some moisture from his forehead, he smiles. “Hey, how’s it going? My friend got a renter, so I guess I’m out.”

I walk into the half-bare unit. The furniture is still there. I wonder how long the move will take. “Where are you headed?”

“Not sure. Going to be a nomad for a while. Maybe New York City. Maybe Hong Kong or even Tokyo.”

Out of the country. Of course. I want to accuse him, right then and there. A councilman’s aide claims that you killed Jenny. The same aide who knew the truth about secret affairs, relationships. But I can’t tip my hand right now, even though it seems like it won’t make a lick of difference.

“So when’s your last day here?” I ask as casually as I can.

“In a couple of days. Going to have a going-away party here tomorrow night. Come,” he invites me. “I owe you so much.”

• • •

I ride my bike back to the station, still in shock that Tuan is going to leave the country and I can’t stop him. And even worse, I’ve probably been his unwitting accomplice.

Once I arrive home, I start my pity party early. That night, in fact. I collect all the alcohol in my house. A half-filled container of Kahlúa from my housewarming party, a luau-themed barbecue. An old bottle of wine that I use to splash into my spaghetti sauce. Unopened sake that Grandma Toma gave me to use when I cook Japanese food. And, of course, my beloved tequila. I put it all in a blender with ice and then pour the frozen mixture into a jumbo plastic cup. The first sip tastes awful, but I nonetheless continue on and take big gulps.

After about an hour, I feel like I’m underwater, but my troubles are still there, heavy around my shoulders. I lie on the floor, and Shippo licks my face, probably hoping to revive me. I’m the one who caused all this. Allowed a killer his getaway. Found his supposed alibi and his top-notch lawyer, who happens to be my ex’s sister.

I don’t know if I call her or she calls me. Nay is on the phone with me. My cheeks are wet with tears, so I’ve been crying.

“You want me to come over?” she asks.

“No, no. Don’t. Come. Over. I’m okay.”

“You don’t sound okay.”

“I’m not cut out for this, Nay. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m making things worse. Not better.”

Nay then lets out a string of obscenities, so harsh that it makes me sit up. “Eleanor Rush, you are the strongest and smartest woman I know. You never feel sorry for yourself, and I’m not going to let you do it now.”

Her words are slaps to my face. I even get enough energy to stumble up. I don’t know how I do it, but I carry myself up to my bed, the phone tangled in my sheets.

• • •

The next morning I wear my aviator sunglasses to work even though it’s overcast. I don’t know if it’s the magic power of tequila, but I don’t have a hangover. My head still aches, but that familiar pain was there before.

I have a morning appointment with Mrs. Clark, the neighborhood watch president in the Adams neighborhood around Alameda. I quietly take notes of her complaints, incidents when the police came late or failed to show up at all. There have been a string of burglaries during the day, and no one in the LAPD seems to be that concerned.

Finally, Mrs. Clark pauses, trying to see my eyes through the tint of the sunglasses. “Honey, are you okay?” The same question that Nay had asked me last night.

Normally, I would stay on task. Be professional, not personal. But I figure, what kind of future do I have with the department, anyway? “Remember that flyer of the missing girl you showed me last time you saw me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“She was found shot to death in Chinatown. We went to college together.” Although the discovery of Jenny’s body was briefly on the news, her fifteen minutes of notoriety has obviously vanished, to be replaced by another shooting, which itself has been replaced by another.

“Oh, my. I’m so sorry. When was the funeral?”

“There wasn’t one.” I realize now how sad that sounds. “All her family is overseas. Vietnam.”

“I lost my niece to a drive-by,” she says. And then, one by one, she tells me of all the losses suffered by her neighbors. Innocent lives struck down.

After she finishes, I realize that she hasn’t mentioned anything about the killers being caught. I start to ask, but then stop myself. I already know the answer.

During my lunch break, I go to headquarters, where the Community Relations Division is located. My whole family—Grandma Toma, Dad, Mom and even Noah—are now planning to attend the APAPOA awards ceremony.

“Ah, hi,” I say to the uniformed officer at a desk who’s name badge says Haines. “I’m an officer in Central Division. Do you know anything about the APAPOA event?”

“I’m taking sign-ups.”

I give Officer Haines the list of our family’s attendees. “Oh, and me, of course.”

Before I can identify myself, Haines says, “You’re Chief Toma’s niece, right? Ellie Rush.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“She mentioned that you might want to speak at the awards ceremony. I mean, we have some community members who will be speaking, but it would be nice to have someone inside the department. Someone who views her, you know, as a role model.”

The phrase
role model
causes me to almost cringe. Over the past month, my world has turned upside down.

“Thanks for thinking of me,” I tell him, “but I don’t think that I’m the right person for the job.”

I then check if Cortez is around and end up leaving a voice mail for him. “You were right,” I say. “You were right about Tuan Le from the very beginning. He’s going to be leaving LA in a couple of days. Maybe we can recheck his alibi. Talk to Phuong again.”

A little later, my phone begins to vibrate.

Cortez, I assume, but the screen displays another number. I hesitate before answering.

“Don’t hang up,” Benjamin says when I answer.

I wait with the phone at my ear.

“I need you to come to the projects. Right now. I’ve found you a witness.”

I get on my bike and ride south. It’s cool out, only around fifty degrees, but I’m still dripping with sweat by the time I reach the projects. Two male figures are waiting outside the tutoring center. And a dog.

A white cone has been fastened around Romeo’s collar.

I first go to the dog. “Poor thing.” The pit bull’s eyes are milky and runny. He’s obviously lost weight, because his ribs are visible alongside a row of stitches on the left side of his body.

“He’s getting better,” Ramon says. The teenager also looks gaunt. There are dark circles underneath his eyes.

Romeo can smell Shippo on me and begins wagging his tail.

“This couple from Pasadena was taking care of him for me. Even let me stay overnight there.”

“She’s not here about your dog,” Benjamin says. “Tell her what you told me.”

We go into the tutoring center and sit down at some desks arranged in the shape of a square.

“This is about Jenny Nguyen. The girl that worked for the Census,” I say, and Ramon nods. I take out my notebook and pen and listen as the high school student talks. Benjamin leaves the room for a moment.

“Tell the truth, I didn’t like her,” Ramon says. “She got into a fight with my aunt, threatened to report her. If my aunt got in trouble, I don’t know where I’d be. And I don’t know where Romeo would be.”

Benjamin returns with three bottles of water and hands them out.

“He’s the first dog that I’ve ever had,” Ramon continues, petting Romeo’s large head. “My very own dog. Foster care would probably make me give him up.”

I listen carefully, a little afraid of what I may hear.
Please don’t tell me you killed Jenny, Ramon.

“Anyway, you know my friend, Smiley Parker?”

I catch my breath. Has Ramon heard about his demise?

“He’s got a mean scar on his cheek.”

“Oh yeah. I’ve seen him,” I try to make my voice sound as normal as possible. “He was lying on a couch outside.”

Ramon takes a sip of his water. “Um-huh. That’s where he usually hangs out. Anyway, this fancy Chinese lady approaches him one day outside of the projects. Is willing to pay for him to get any info on the girl, Jenny.”

“When was this?” I ask.

“Couple days before Thanksgiving. So Smiley follows Jenny, phones in information to this lady everyday.”

“Do you know this woman’s name?”

Ramon shakes his head. Later, I decide, I’ll show him a picture of Teena.

“One night, a couple of weeks ago, Smiley needs to hang out with his crew, so he asks me to step in. I guess I’m what you call, what, a subcontractor? I’m supposed to jack her computer that she carries. Easy job. I mean, she’s not that big, right? She’s on the train. I follow her from Union Station to Bamboo Lane.”

I almost can’t breathe, and Ramon also seems unable to go on.

“Go ahead. Tell her,” Benjamin encourages him.

“She’s on the phone. In a fight, or sumptin’. So I tie Romeo to a parking meter and come up behind her real fast. Grab the computer bag and I’m on the other side of the alley before I know it. And then, bang! Sounds like a firecracker, it’s Chinese New Year and all, but I know that sound. Look behind me, and there’s a man with a gun. The girl’s on the ground. A Chinese guy, tats all up his arm. I run around the block to get Romeo, but what the hell, he’s not there. The noise musta scared him and he broke loose. Then on Hill Street, I see a bunch of people around a car that’s stopped right there. Romeo’s been hit. By a car with those people from Pasadena.”

“Did you go back to Bamboo Lane?”

“Are you kidding me? The guy had a gun. And Romeo was hurt. The couple was really nice. They drove us to the pet hospital. They thought that they had done something wrong, but Romeo musta went off because he heard the gunshot.”

Benjamin is watching me taking notes, and I’m starting to feel self-conscious.

“I forgot the bag in the Pasadena people’s car. I couldn’t tell Smiley what really happened. He hates my dog. He’s always tellin’ me to get rid of Romeo.”

“So what did you tell him instead?”

“I told him that I saw the girl get gunned down. He thought it was funny. He had a feeling that he knew who it was.”

All three of us get quiet at the same time. We can even hear the fan of a computer humming at the next desk.

“That fancy lady still kept coming over. Smiley was paid good. Real good. Enough to get a new motorcycle. And the money kept coming. Even with that girl dead, she had more jobs for him to do. One night, Smiley bragged that he scared some girl in South Gate. Tied her up and everything.”

“Do you know where Smiley is now?” I have to ask.

“Haven’t heard from him since I’ve been in Pasadena. Been just makin’ sure Romeo’s okay.”

“And what about the computer?” I ask.

Benjamin gets up again and retrieves something from his desk in the corner. A black computer bag.

I close my notebook. “Well, you’ll have to tell this story again. To a detective with the LAPD.”

“I thought you were with the LAPD.”