Murder on Bamboo Lane (24 page)

As I pass the library, I wonder what Jenny hoped to become before she became consumed by her mother’s death. She was a sociology major. Maybe a social worker? Maybe she wanted to be a mom herself one day. I feel sad as I realize that her small nuclear family, the three of them, is all gone now. Where does their past suffering go? Is it just like smoke—does it elevate into the ether and get absorbed by the universe? Are we changed by their brief lives at all? Or is it like they never existed?

I finally return my bike to the police station, the homeless all tucked in their cardboard boxes. Riding the train home, I am so exhausted that I fall asleep and miss my stop. Someone finally wakes me up at the end of the line.

SIXTH STREET

I take out my standard uniform from its plastic wrap. I haven’t worn it since doing regular patrol as a P1, and the pants actually seem loose. Riding a bike almost every day, I’ve lost weight, or at least inches.

I come out of the women’s locker room and hear a low whistle. It’s Boyd. “You’re ready for the big time now, Rush,” he says.

Yeah, right.

I drive the Green Mile a few blocks and enter the parking structure next to the Police Administration Building. As I get out of my car, I see my family climbing out of my parents’ minivan. There’s an extra person with my brother. Simon Lee.

I wait for them all to catch up with me. Both Dad and Grandma compliment me on how good I look. I pull Mom aside and gesture toward Simon, who is wearing a pair of sunglasses. “What’s he doing here?”

“He’s staying with us while his parents are in Taiwan.”

You’ve got to be kidding me
, I think. But since Simon is within earshot, I just widen my eyes in surprise.

“You know, it turns out that it was all his older brother’s doing,” Mom says. “He’s a horticulture major at Cal Poly Pomona. He moved all of his marijuana plants from his parents’ house into his dorm room. The resident assistant found out, and he’s been kicked out of school. He may even face criminal charges.”

“Your aunt has promised to help the Lees,” Dad adds. Aunt Cheryl to the rescue again.

My mother continues her story. “His parents came one night to talk with us. Apparently they were too ashamed to talk with anyone else. Said that we seemed like good parents, so they wanted our advice.” My mom is practically beaming with the news of her victory over the Lees. “My advice was not to leave their son at home unsupervised. Kids need to be supervised.” In other words, welcome to the Rush Looney Tunes.

“Actually, this Simon fellow is a nice kid,” Dad says.

“Do you think that it will be a problem getting him in?” Mom asks. I have no idea.

It turns out the auditorium is barely one-third filled.

“Monday is a bad day for this kind of thing. They should have done it on the weekend, during the day.” Grandma desperately searches for reasons why the event is so sparsely attended.

“Yes, Mother, it’s true,” Mom says, but I can detect a slight smile on her lips.

As we enter the auditorium, we each receive a photocopied color half-sheet program. Aunt Cheryl is pictured on the front, decked out in her police uniform. I hate to admit it, but she looks fierce. Just on image alone, she’s definitely an asset to the LAPD.

The awards ceremony starts on time, with individuals milling in late. I recognize Officer Haines shaking everyone’s hands and directing latecomers to their seats.

The emcee is the APAPOA president, an officer with the West Bureau. She explains the history of the organization, and Mom jabs my arm. “You a member?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I lie. I’ve been meaning to send in my application and dues. What can I say? I’ve been busy.

The emcee then introduces speaker after speaker, each going on and on about my aunt. But the problem is that their words are meaningless. They could be describing any high-profile person in the department. The speeches are tedious, and we are all having problems staying awake.

Because of Simon’s dark glasses, I can’t tell if his eyes are open, but Noah’s are definitely not.

Even Grandma nods off.

“Thank you, Commissioner. Next we have an unexpected guest, but a very welcome one. Councilman Wade Beachum, who represents Downtown Los Angeles.”

What the hell?
I think. When I glance around me to see where he is, I notice Cortez sitting a few rows back. We lock eyes, and he shrugs his shoulders.

Councilman Beachum raises the microphone to accommodate his height. Someone has tamed his frizzy locks. With his new suit and blue tie, he looks almost presidential.

“There are law enforcement officers, and then there is Assistant Chief Cheryl Toma. She is in a category of her own.” He comments on her cool, yet empathetic demeanor. Her problem-solving abilities. Her knowledge of Los Angeles and its diverse communities.

The way he’s talking about Aunt Cheryl, I know what he’s doing. He’s pushing her to go further. To be the next police chief.

After that, the emcee finally introduces my aunt. He gives a detailed biography: That she’s a local girl, second generation born in Los Angeles. Graduated from LA High, then two years at LA City College before being accepted by the academy in 1980. Most of her early career was spent in the South Bureau, where she rose up in the ranks to become a homicide detective. Awarded a Police Star for helping to diffuse a potentially dangerous situation during the 1992 LA civil disturbance. He goes on and on. Her rise has been meteoric, from Central Bureau captain in 1998 to commander, deputy chief and finally assistant chief. The way the emcee describes her, I can’t believe that I’m related to such a notable person.

Finally, Aunt Cheryl approaches to take her place behind the podium. Like in her photo in the program, she is wearing her uniform.

“It’s truly an honor for me to be here in front of you all in this building,” she says. Her public-speaking voice is an octave lower than her regular voice. She makes sure that she acknowledges everyone she needs to: the APAPOA, the LAPD, police commissioners, the mayor, city council members. And then her family. She mentions her mother, of course, and “others,” which includes the rest of us. I’m grateful that she doesn’t mention me by name. Then she begins talking about a relative I never had an opportunity to meet, my great-grandfather, Grandma Toma’s father.

“My own grandfather was a policeman, too. Not of a city or municipality, but at an internment camp. You see, he couldn’t be an officer in LA because he was Japanese and was ineligible for US citizenship. So, ironically, he was able to live out his dream in a camp in the desert of the Owens Valley.

“His concern was for his people and his community. That there be order and peace under a very disorienting time during war. As a police officer, he cared for his people, his neighbors. He was committed to justice.”

Her finger on her lips, Grandma is riveted. I look down the row of Rushes. Every one of them, including Noah, sits up tall. Even Simon has taken off his sunglasses and replaced them with his regular glasses.

“I’d like to think that I also inherited his drive for the truth. It’s been an honor to serve the city of Los Angeles, and I hope to continue to do so in the years to come.”

Aunt Cheryl then nods her head, signaling that she’s done. There’s a corporate hush and then the auditorium, now half-filled, explodes in applause.

“I didn’t know all that stuff about your dad, Grandma,” I speak loudly in Grandma’s ear as we clap.

“He adored your auntie,” she says. “She was his favorite grandchild.”

• • •

Outside of the auditorium, some tables are set up with cookies and coffee. My mother must have some crazy tracking mechanism inside of her, because she spots Cortez and makes a beeline for him after only meeting him that once.

“I’m so sorry if I seemed rude back at the dim sum restaurant,” I hear her saying to him as I approach. I’m prepared to deflect anything potentially embarrassing.

“Not at all, Mrs. Rush,” Cortez says.

“Please, call me Caroline. I’m not old enough to be your mother.”

Actually, you are, Mom.
I make up an excuse for Mom to stop talking to Cortez. “Ah, I think Dad was looking for you.”

We both watch her as she slips through the crowd with her cup of weak coffee. Councilman Beachum is there, his body bent down to hear what the APAPOA president is saying to him.

“Look at him,” I say to Cortez. “Like nothing ever happened.”

“It’s out of our hands. It’s up to the Vietnamese government, their local police and our feds,” Cortez repeats.

“Did you hear that Blue Flag will be building a factory in Ho Chi Minh City next year?” I’d seen the news in
LA Garment News
that morning while on patrol. “So much for ‘Made in the USA.’”

“It’s not against the law to go against your mission statement.”

No, but it was sure suspicious how this whole deal played out.

“You don’t think that the councilman will ever admit to his relationship with Cam Hanh?”

“No, no, I don’t. But congratulations. You didn’t waste any time. Usually, you need to be in the force for years before you make enemies in such high places. It only took you a couple months as a P-two.”

I glare at Cortez. He smiles, but I don’t think it’s funny. “By the way,” I say, “I guess you didn’t get a chance to brief my aunt about the details of Teena’s arrest.”

Cortez looks confused. “Chief Toma was in on the negotiations with Teena and the DA.”

“You mean she knows all about Jenny’s notebook and the cover-up back in Vietnam?”

Cortez barely nods his head. And yet she still allowed Councilman Beachum to speak at her awards ceremony? Unbelievable. He probably
is
the leading candidate to become our new mayor. You scratch my back; I’ll scratch yours.

I let out a deep breath and finally notice how handsome Cortez looks. He’s wearing a light lavender shirt and a purple tie. Not many men, not to mention homicide detectives, can pull off those colors.

“Can we start over, somehow?” I say.

“Yeah, yeah, I’d love to start over. Detective Cortez Williams, Robbery-Homicide.” He offers his hand, and I grip it tightly and shake.

“Officer Ellie Rush. Bicycle cop.”

I wish that moment could last the whole evening, but, of course, it can’t. I let go of Cortez’s hand, and he makes his exit.

A uniformed officer with a large mustache, Paul Carrillo, a sergeant at our Metropolitan Detention Center, passes by, and I call out his name.

He stops and squints. “Rush, right?”

I nod my head. “You went over booking procedures while I was at the academy. Um, I’d like to introduce you to some family members, if you don’t mind.”

I call over my brother and Simon, and they both take their sweet time in walking over. Seeing us together has also attracted the attention of my father.

After making the introductions, I say to Sergeant Carrillo, “Maybe you can give my brother and his friend a tour of the jail. I think that they would find it very educational.”

Noah has a fake smile plastered on his lips. He’s inherited that from Mom.

“Wow, that would be great,” my father says. “I’d like to come, too. I’ve been admiring the architecture of that building for some time now.”

I cringe. Only my father would admire the aesthetic construction of a jail. He then starts to talk about how much he likes the public art outside the building, and the sergeant graciously puts a stop to it by saying, “Sure, I’ll take you through there anytime.”

“Cool,” says Simon, oblivious that this is my attempt for them to get “scared straight.” Noah, more savvy, places his hand on his friend’s back and flips me the bird.

The sky has darkened considerably over the past hour, and lights from the street glow through the large windows. Before I leave, I stop by the bathroom. When I come out, I see Councilman Beachum heading toward the exit.

He calls out to me first. “Officer Rush. I don’t think that we’ve officially met.” He extends a hand to me but I decline, giving the excuse that my hands are wet.

“Actually, Councilman, we have met,” I say to him, remembering our first meeting in the library at the Metro Club. Aunt Cheryl hadn’t actually mentioned my name at that time, but had announced that I was her niece.

He awkwardly stuffs his hand in his jacket pocket. “I’m sorry. In my line of work, I meet so many people.”

“You are very memorable,” I say to him. “I would never forget you.” Or your cover-up of your relationship with Cam Hanh.

His face darkens, and I finally feel the force of his animosity behind his politician’s facade.

I turn back toward the reception. Before I’m too far, he says, “By the way, Teena sends her best regards.”

• • •

Returning to the lingering guests, I give my mom a hug.

“What’s that for? It’s your aunt’s special day.”

“Just wanted to tell you, Mom, that you are one of my female role models. Whenever something gets you down, you always get back up.”

Her eyes grow wet, and I know that she’s going to make a big deal about what I have said.

“What’s this?” Aunt Cheryl approaches.

“Ellie just paid me a compliment.”

“Nice speech,” I say to Aunt Cheryl. “Councilman Beachum gave a nice speech, too.” I give her a look, which she ignores.

“I would have preferred you to do it. But I heard that you didn’t think that it was a good idea.”

“Just think I need more experience,” I tell her. “To understand what’s really going on.”

My mother then announces that my family is going out to eat sushi to celebrate Aunt Cheryl’s award. “I’d love to have you join us,” Aunt Cheryl says to me.

“Next time,” I say. “It’s just that I have someplace to go to tonight.”

• • •

The sidewalks are wet; the familiar smell of oil and dirt wafts from the center of the street. It must have rained while we were inside. Instead of going to the parking lot to retrieve the Green Mile, I head the opposite direction on foot. East toward Little Tokyo.

Across the street is City Hall, lit up and empty. It’s after hours now. The visitors have come and left, leaving no evidence of secret pacts and agreements that were forged in offices and council chambers.

The streets of Little Tokyo, on the other hand, are just coming to life. The neon signs are turned on; couples walk together on sidewalks. Outside of Osaka’s, young people my age have already started to convene. The ramen house is crowded tonight. But I’m pretty sure that someone has saved me a seat.