Murder on Bamboo Lane (3 page)

But Jenny is different. As of at least last week, her future was like mine—wide open.

Guiding my bike beside me, I follow Cortez back to the crime scene. Mac’s not happy to see me. “I thought I told you to patrol North Broadway.”

“This officer is here to help in the investigation. She might know the victim,” explains Cortez, leading me around Mac and to the body.

I don’t gloat. There’s no reason to. Each step closer to the body makes me feel sick to my stomach. The smell—it’s not quite like rotten eggs but close to it—doesn’t help.

It’s more awful than I could have ever imagined. It’s not like television or movies, where the victim looks almost angelic, as if they are sleeping. We are now standing above the body, trash and cardboard boxes moved away to the side and numbered by investigators.

Her mouth, those sweet lips that once shone with gloss, is agape and distorted as if she took her last breath mid-scream. Her large eyes are still open. On her forehead is a black hole from the bullet wound, a wash of dried brown blood all over her forehead. I am just thankful that it had been relatively cold in LA this week. I don’t know how long Jenny has been dead, but at least the maggots and flies haven’t gotten to her yet.

“Is that her?”

I can’t say anything, so I just nod.

• • •

Captain Randle eventually tells me that I can go home for the day. I’ve tried to be as composed as possible, but I guess it’s obvious I’m shaken. I can’t stop wondering about Jenny and if they will be able to locate her family for an official identification. No names can be released right now, it is explained to me, and I agree not to say anything to anybody. I do provide Rickie’s digits to Cortez, warning him that his voice mailbox is often full. “E-mail is better,” I say.

“What’s the best way to reach you?” he asks, and at first I’m confused. He knows that I work at Central Division and that Randle is my captain. But I willingly give up my personal cell phone number.

Once I’m home, Shippo’s doggy sense tells him to treat me more gently than usual. I take him on his walk, then turn on the television and we watch Animal Planet on the couch together. He cuddles up next to me in the curve of my stomach.

I eventually fall asleep until my phone beeps and vibrates on my coffee table. The room is dark, but I can still read my cell phone display.

UR ON NEWS NOW!!!!
Nay texts.

What channel?

4

But by the time I switch to Channel 4, the anchors have moved on to a story on changing the city council districts’ boundaries.

I turn on my laptop and wait to connect to the Internet. My phone rings and I answer, expecting to hear Nay. Instead, I hear Assistant Chief Cheryl Toma’s voice.

“Ellie, it’s Aunt Cheryl. Let’s have lunch on Monday.”

GRAND AVENUE

Downtown Los Angeles, according to my dad, is about 5.84 square miles, four times smaller than New York’s Manhattan. But under the City of Los Angeles, we have all these neighborhoods and districts shaped like narrow New England states, though the borders tend to blur together. Believe it or not, Downtown LA has a produce market, where semis fill their containers with unripened tomatoes, husks of corn and crates of green peppers. Ironically, it’s right next to Skid Row, which is squeezed tighter and tighter so that the homeless are practically standing on top of each other; the Fashion District, which recently got some play on a few reality TV shows; the Flower District; and Toy Town.

All of these districts and “towns” are the heart of the city. My ex-boyfriend Benjamin Choi, who’s Korean but grew up in Brazil, pooh-poohs LA, saying it’s not a real city, like his native São Paulo. He talks about the pulse of a real city, about skyscrapers next to shantytowns, music spilling out into the streets, smells of outdoor vendors grilling meats. Brazil is a true melting pot, he says, where you have Chinese with Afros and men named Carlos or Jose wearing yarmulkes.

LA has architecture, I argue. The mosaic sun on the pyramid top of Central Library can be seen if you stand on the right corner next to some modern office buildings. The Walt Disney Concert Hall, across the street from the jury parking lot, will make any tourist take a second look. And although it may be hard to tell from the outside storefronts, such as the Spanish-speaking bridal and quinceañera dress boutique, the Bradbury Building on Third Street is our holy sanctum. Its cage elevators and filigree iron staircase, especially when illuminated by natural light from above, look straight from the movies, which they are—including
Blade Runner
and
(500) Days of Summer
.

This downtown is not the same downtown that my parents remember. It’s
definitely
not the downtown that my grandmothers remember. Former druggie hangouts and strip joints are now home to a movie theatre, gourmet Vietnamese noodle restaurants and organic coffeehouses. And pet stores are everywhere.

After chilling out all Sunday at home, I’m meeting my aunt today in what is probably my least favorite part of the city, however. Bunker Hill, a mecca of wealth, is home to multistory law firms, banks, advertising agencies and Assistant Chief Cheryl Toma. You see men dressed impeccably in Brooks Brothers suits and women in pumps. We are meeting at the Metro Club, a private establishment that “regular people” like me often don’t even know exists.

I park my bike at one of the lone stands in a brick plaza. Pulling at the lock, I make sure it’s secure—force of habit, although in this neighborhood, no one would be interested in my banged-up LAPD-issue bike.

I take off my helmet and try to fluff out my hair, but it’s a lost cause. My hair is long and thick and has no real shape to it. I usually have it tied back in a ponytail, but today I try for sophistication—two quick spits in my palms and a rub to slick down the flyaways.

I walk into the lobby and forgo checking in with the security guard, instead heading straight to the elevator that goes to the top floor.

I exit the elevator onto plush carpet that feels nice, even with my work shoes on. The entrance to the club is directly in front of me, and as I reach the counter I see another Asian woman, maybe ten years older than me, wearing heels and holding her shiny smart phone in one manicured hand. Next to her, I feel like a total idiot in my shorts and spit-styled hair, my helmet underneath my right arm. Luckily, the woman doesn’t even see me; she walks straight down a hallway.

The hostess, dressed in a business suit, gives me a blank look. It’s not that she’s judging me—I just don’t belong in her world. She sees me as a cop, not a customer, and looks both ways down the long hallway. “Did something happen?”

“No, I’m here for lunch,” I explain, though she still looks confused.

Aunt Cheryl saves me. “She’s with me,” I hear her voice behind me. She places her membership card on the counter. “Cheryl Toma for two at noon.”

Aunt Cheryl is decked out in a cream-colored suit and the kind of silk blouse that ties in the front. She shops in department stores that have their own tailors and personal shoppers. I get my wardrobe from a mix of Target, garage sales and outdoor swap meets.

“Sorry,” I say, regarding my uniform.

“You’re working. I’m glad that your sergeant gave you some time off.”

Now, that’s a joke, since she was the one who called him to request that I take a longer lunch.

We follow the hostess through a hallway that features color photographs of various distinguished members, including my aunt. In one of the framed prints, she stands with the police chief, the mayor and a line of other people with whom I’m not familiar, but who I’m sure all have impressive titles of their own.

A door marked
WOMEN
in the hallway then opens, revealing the same thirtysomething Asian woman I’d seen earlier. Her eyes widen at the sight of my aunt. “Chief Toma,” she says. “Good to see you.”

Aunt Cheryl acknowledges the woman, but keeps walking. “Teena, this is my niece, Ellie Rush.”

Teena almost trips over her heels as she looks at me for, perhaps, the first time. I’m surprised, too. My captain knows, but as a general rule, Aunt Cheryl and I usually keep our relationship on the q.t.

Teena ducks into a room marked
LIBRARY
. When I pass the entrance, I recognize some businessmen and city council members inside, seated in plush chairs and couches. A few of them nod toward my aunt, and she smiles back.

Almost as an afterthought, she doubles back and takes me into the library, which is lined with books that have probably never been opened. A fireplace, heated by gas flames below fake logs, gives an artificial cheer to the room.

I’m totally out of my element. I recognize the two council members, Wade Beachum, who represents the downtown area, and the one from San Fernando Valley. A businessman from the Fashion District is with them; I’ve seen him before, but I don’t retain his name.

“This is my niece,” she introduces me again to everyone in the room. “She works in the LAPD’s Central Division.”

There’s a general murmur of a greeting and polite smiles. Fortunately the men and women are only too happy to return to their conversations so we can rejoin the hostess in the hallway. After she seats us, a waiter takes over and hands Aunt Cheryl a white napkin, to match her outfit, and me a black one.

“Order anything,” Aunt Cheryl says. “It’s on me.” That’s another joke, of course, because even if I could have afforded it, the club doesn’t accept any cash, only a membership number.

I finally settle on a petite Caesar salad. Aunt Cheryl orders a salad, too, and then clasps her hands together over the table. “So tell me how everything’s going.”

“Okay,” I say. We spend the next several minutes doing an obligatory catch-up. I know enough not to mention my mother.

“I’ve been taking your advice about helping the veteran detectives with their police reports,” I tell her. That had been her idea, a way to suck up to my superiors.

“Great. You were always good with reports.”

It’s true. I’ve been reading police reports since the eighth grade. It was mother-daughter work day at the LAPD, and since Aunt Cheryl never had kids, she asked me if I wanted to join her for the day. My mother, at first, refused to allow me to miss a whole day of school, but when my principal found out about it, I was practically ordered to go. Mom was convinced that her big sister was behind my principal’s “encouragement.” At the time, Dad thought Mom was being paranoid, but now I think her suspicion was probably correct. What Aunt Cheryl wants, she usually gets.

Anyway, I started reading the police reports stacked on her desk, and Aunt Cheryl asked me whether I understood the sequence of events being described. Most of the time, I was confused.
You see, Ellie
, she’d told me.
Our job isn’t only about the arrest, it’s about the conviction. And these reports are important.

That afternoon with Aunt Cheryl had had a profound effect on me. Until then, I’d thought police work was all about running around, crashing into houses with guns like on TV, but she explained that it was really about talking to people and, more importantly, listening to them. It meant working as a team and documenting things in a way that a regular person could easily understand. I could get behind that. Later, in high school, when my mother was badgering me about my future (as if a sixteen-year-old could know what they wanted for a profession), I blurted out, “International affairs.” It sounded important, exotic and, well, global. My secret dream, though, was to become a detective with the LAPD. And when I actually did some summer college internships in dreary state government offices, I knew that I needed to stay true to my intuition and listen to my gut instead of my mother. Listening to my gut was what has brought me here to the Metro Club, in a seat across from my aunt.

It isn’t until around the time we get our dessert that Aunt Cheryl switches from interested relative to police brass.

“By the way,” she says, breaking the thin caramel glaze on her crème brûlée. “What’s going on in the Jennifer Nguyen case?”

I know, of course, that this is what this lunch was all about, but I’m still unclear why. A young, Asian, female college student with no family? Hardly a victim the higher-ups typically pay attention to.

“Did you see me on the news this weekend?” I sidestep. Although I spent Sunday clicking on different television channels, I never saw the footage I was in and was curious what was broadcast.

“Just for a couple of seconds. You were in the alley. With Cortez Williams.”

“Well, since I knew Jenny, and I knew that she was missing—”

“She was missing?”

“Yes. There were missing flyers for her all over the Adams neighborhood. I mean, I didn’t know she was missing until I saw those flyers. We had mutual friends who were closer to her than I was.”

“What’s their assessment?”

Assessment? That was a mighty formal word, especially to be used with the likes of Nay and Rickie. “Uh, they didn’t know too much. They were just helping out.”

“Helping whom?” Aunt Cheryl’s voice takes on a sharp tone, as if I’m being interrogated.

“Uh, nobody in particular.” I don’t know why I lie, but I feel like I need to buy some time before I reveal Rickie’s connection to Jenny’s best friend, Susana. Because this is lunch with my aunt, right? Not official police business.

“Has anyone mentioned a Tuan Le?”

“No,” I say, but the name sounds familiar. I’ve seen it before somewhere.

“They were apparently dating. He’s an artist. I think that he has a show opening in Chinatown.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, feeling dumb. That’s why the name is familiar—there are a ton of banners in Chinatown announcing his exhibition on both Hill Street and Broadway. “I didn’t know they were together.” Obviously, to know so many details already, my aunt is super interested in this case. “Is there something I should I know about?” I finally ask.

“No, no. It’s just that it’s Chinese New Year. The LAPD wants to make sure that we protect the community as best we can.”

It’s a weak explanation, but possible. I’ve also heard stories that we flubbed a case in Koreatown, a shopkeeper, mistakenly thought to be a gang member, who’d been wrongfully arrested in a drive-by shooting incident. I know the department is still hurting from that.

“Well, Detective Williams is assigned to the case,” I tell Aunt Cheryl. “He’s probably the one to talk to. He’ll have a lot more information than me.”

“Maybe, but I want the information from you. If you want to get promoted, Ellie, you need to work the streets, cultivate your own confidential informants. Some officers grew up in gang territory. They are going to have that advantage over you.” Only in law enforcement would it be seen as beneficial to have been raised in the hood versus the suburbs.

“Eagle Rock is still officially LA,” I meekly offer about the area I grew up in.

Aunt Cheryl raises an eyebrow. “I would hardly classify it as a den of inequity. But you have an edge here, Ellie. Your age. Your youth. Your connection to Pan Pacific West. It’s right there in West Adams. And you still have contacts there.”

“Yeah,” I say, not really understanding how having college students as my CIs would help me solve any crimes in the neighborhood.

“You don’t need to tell your commanding officer about this. This is just between you and me. Rush to Toma.”

She then wipes her mouth with her white napkin, while I do the same with my black one. Aunt Cheryl signs the check and we set off down the plushy hallway, back to the elevator.

At the ground floor, I prepare to get off at the lobby, while Aunt Cheryl remains on for the underground parking level. “Stay in touch,” she says, and I merely nod.

Finally outside, I fasten my helmet on my head. I feel a bit numb, maybe even stunned. What the heck was that all about?

• • •

After lunch, I ride down Grand and then east to the school district building, a nondescript tower next to the 110 freeway. The school board is having a special meeting to decide whether to cut back on subsidized lunches, and a protest of parents and teachers is expected. A group of us have been assigned to make sure that the protesters waiting to go inside the school board meeting don’t create gridlock.

I get there around the same time as the other officers, but the crowd is much smaller than expected. We steady our bikes, trying to look menacing, but no one really cares.

Mac brakes a bike beside me. “So, how was your lunch?”

Since when does he have any interest in my dietary choices?

“Where did you go? Water Grill? Jonathan Club?” He lists off the most exclusive eateries in Downtown Los Angeles. I know what he’s getting at.

“I don’t think where I eat is any of your business.”

Doesn’t Mac have anything better to do than spy on me? Before I can say anything more, his radio squawks and he moves over to answer it from a quieter spot.