Murder on Bamboo Lane (8 page)

“That doesn’t look good for him.”

“We suspect that she was having another relationship.” Cortez gives me a hard look. “But you heard about that already.”

I meekly nod my head.

“We’re not sure with whom. Any ideas?”

I shake my head.

“I still don’t understand why he reached out to you. Did you know him from before?”

I know what Cortez is insinuating. “No, no,” I tell him emphatically. “I barely knew his name before, and only from those exhibition banners in Chinatown.” I don’t mention his connection to Benjamin.

“Is there anything else that you want to tell me?”

I think about Susana and the Ratmobile. It would be too much for me to mention that now. “No, nothing else.”

We talk a little more about law enforcement, about why I’d joined the force. I give him honest answers, as honest as I can without revealing Aunt Cheryl. His cell phone rings, and he looks down to see who it is. Work?

“Sorry, I have to take this,” he says. “It’s my son.”

As he speaks into the phone, I feel like such a fool. I know nothing about Cortez Williams. Why did I let myself imagine that he might be interested in me beyond work? He’s talking about homework and spelling tests. The kid must be at least old enough to read and write.

Cortez finally gets off while I’m finishing up my chicken mole. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “My son calls me every night to give me an update on his day and school. He lives with his mother in Phoenix.” He reaches for his phone and searches through his digital pages. “Here he is.”

Cortez proudly shows me a photograph of a light-skinned boy with a mop of curly hair. He’s really gorgeous.

“How old is he?”

“Nine.”

Nine? Cortez became a dad when he was only about twenty. “Do you get to see him?” I ask.

“As much as I can. He stays with me for a couple of weeks in the summer. His mother and I never got married. It was one of those things.”

“Yeah,” I say, as if I know what that means.

“So what about you?”

“No kids.”

Cortez laughs. “Boyfriend?”

I shake my head. Somehow that admission throws me off balance. My eyes get watery. What is wrong with me? Maybe meeting Miss Boots bugged me more than I thought.

Cortez immediately notices that something is wrong. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

I take a deep breath, forcing the tears away. “No, no. It’s okay. It’s just that we were together for a couple of years. And I just ran into his new girlfriend.” Why the hell am I spilling my guts out to Cortez Williams, of all people?

Cortez rises. “Let’s get out of here.”

He pays the bill, and we walk past the line of stalls selling cheap Mexican leather goods, piñatas and homemade sugar candy. We continue through the open plaza; a couple of vagrants are sleeping on the benches around a raised gazebo stage. Before I know it, we are standing in front of a small church, La Placita.

“Have you ever been inside?” I ask him.

He shakes his head no.

“It’s the oldest church in LA.” Somehow being there makes me feel bold, and I take his hand and pull it toward the church. “C’mon.”

There’s a basin of holy water at the entryway, but both Cortez and I pass it by to walk through the aisle separating the wooden pews. The altar, as always, is spectacular: ornate golden frames of religious imagery lit by lamps. My favorite painting is one of a robed monk being surprised by a glowing flying object—from the pews it looks like a bird, perhaps a dove, or maybe it’s something more supernatural, like an angelic Tinker Bell.

“This is something else. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time.” Cortez is in a state of wonder.

“I love this chapel,” I say. “I always stop here when I’m in the area.” A couple of visitors enter the church and kneel on the low padded benches to pray.

“Are you religious?” Cortez asks me.

I don’t know how to answer. I don’t go to church, I have sex even though I’m not married and I have occasionally been known to get punch drunk on tequila, especially after a breakup. But there’s a spot inside me that is reserved for God. It descends on me with a hush. Sometimes in a chapel like this. Sometimes when I’m riding my bike at dusk. “Not really,” I whisper, because it’s too hard to describe my feelings. “And you?”

“I do believe something’s out there. I was raised Baptist—it’s not so easy to wash that away.”

As we leave the chapel, Cortez touches my back. “You feel better?”

I nod.

“It’s getting late,” he says. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“Oh, I took the Metro.”

“The train?”

“I do it all the time. My father works for Metro. My younger brother and I grew up riding on buses. Don’t worry, who’s going to jump me looking like this?”

Cortez starts to say something, and then he shakes his head. I wonder how many law enforcement officers he’s dated in the past. “I’ll walk you to the train platform,” he says.

“I’ll be fine.” We are standing next to the clock tower by an arched wall. Inside the station is a sea of humanity. Worn-out families dragging their crying little ones, shady shysters on the prowl, college students naively looking for fun, teenage skateboarders, people strung out on dope.

But here outside, it’s quiet. And if you look hard enough, you can even make out a couple of stars in the sky.

Cortez bends down to give me a peck on the cheek, but without thinking, I move my face so his lips touch mine. His lips are soft, and I am close enough that I can smell his cologne. Before he can react, I jog toward the station entrance, both embarrassed and impressed at what I’ve done.

SIXTH STREET

The next day, Tuesday, is my day off, and I’m having breakfast with Nay in Atwater Village.

She narrows her eyes as she stares at me. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” I take another sip of my lukewarm coffee.

“You’ve been smiling all morning. You never smile before noon, and you don’t smile that much after that. Don’t hold out on me.”

“Okay. There’s someone.” I can’t help but smile. Dammit. Nay’s right.

“What?” Nay is a bit offended that I haven’t said anything to her until now.

I take out my phone and show her a photo I took of Cortez standing in front of La Placita.

“Ohmygod, that guy is yummy. How old is he?”

“Almost thirty. He has a nine-year-old son from a previous relationship.”

Neither of those things faze Nay. Maybe that’s why I feel safe divulging personal details to her about him.

“How did you meet him?”

“Work. He’s a homicide detective. Actually, he’s investigating Jenny’s murder.”

Nay gets quiet, and I feel bad that I’ve mentioned something so tragic in my story about a guy.

She cuts into her eggs benedict. “I wish that you had mentioned him to me earlier.”

Since when do I have to tell her everything about my love life?

Her phone alerts her of an incoming text, and she glances at it.

“Just be nice,” she says to me, plastering a fake smile on her face.

I have no idea what Nay is up to, but in a few minutes, I find out when we’re greeted by two tall white guys with thick, jet-black hair. They look almost like twins, but one is definitely shorter with a lighter build.

“Hey,” they both say to Nay, and then the shorter one looks down at me.

“Ken, Goggy,” Nay says with the same silly smile. “This is Ellie. We all met recently at the Mixed Student Union social.”

I’m confused on three counts. Number one, why are these two guys here? Number two, why was Nay at an event organized by the Mixed Student Union when she’s 100 percent Cambodian? And last of all: Goggy? Seriously?

“Ah, hi.” I manage a weak wave from my seat.

Nobody says anything for a minute.

“I’ve seen you before,” the shorter one, apparently Goggy, says. “You were on the volleyball team.”

“She also did track freshmen year,” Nay adds. “She’s the ultimate jock.”

“So are you into volleyball?” I definitely don’t recognize Goggy, but I am impressed when any guy seems familiar with the PPW women’s sports teams.

“I manage the men’s team.”

I get halfway interested and mention a few names of players who I’m friends with. He knows them, of course.

Ken, meanwhile, has been talking to Nay and is now taking a sip of her orange juice. Now I get it. She is interested in him.

“So,” Ken announces, “Goggy and I are planning to go to Eaton Canyon this Saturday.”

“Oh, Ellie and I love hiking,” Nay quickly says.

What? Nay hates hiking. She says hiking in the mountains on purpose is like getting your teeth cleaned for fun.

“Wanna join?”

Before I can somehow get out of it, Nay answers for us again. “Definitely. Just not too early, okay?”

The plans are made. Three o’clock at Eaton Canyon in Altadena, and they are gone as mysteriously as they appeared.

“Ah, what just happened?”

Nay takes a sip of her orange juice, now diluted by melted ice cubes. “We’re going hiking. You always tell me that I need to enjoy the great outdoors more.”

“I thought your idea of the great outdoors was going shopping in Caesars Palace.” There, underneath a faux blue painted sky on the ceiling, she can pretend that she’s outside while being cooled by air conditioning.

Nay ignores my dig. “But aren’t they cute? They’re brothers. Armenian and Japanese.”

When I don’t respond, Nay repeats herself, only louder. “Armenian and Japanese. Half Japanese like you.”

“So what, that makes us soul mates?”

“Anyway, the younger one likes you. He knows all about you. That you work for the LAPD. Everything.”

I frown. I’m a nobody at PPW; it feels strange that somebody has been keeping tabs on me.

“He wants to be an FBI agent. I think that he wants to pick your brain.”

“Goggy? What’s up with that name?”

“His real name is Kai or something like that. Their last name is Gogoshian, so maybe it’s some play off of that?”

But Kai is a perfectly nice name, I think. “Anyway, you could’ve given me a heads-up.”

“If I did, what would you have done?”

I think about it. Said no. Nay knows me too well.

She taps my phone, where the photo of Cortez is stored. “And now I understand where your head is at.”

“I don’t know what he is. Just a friend right now.”

“Ah-ha.”

I know what she’s insinuating. A friend with benefits. But I’m not like that, and she should know it.

“Listen, there’s nothing wrong with exploring other options. You were a monogamist for so long, you don’t know how to date.”

Nay is right on that count. I didn’t know how to casually date.

“Well, maybe doing something different might be good for me,” I have to admit. “I’ve been so into Jenny’s case.”

“So, what’s new with that?”

I’m hesitant about mentioning Tuan Le’s visit. Seeing Cortez’s reaction last night about him even contacting me, I realize how out of line it was for Tuan to come to my house.

“Well, I got a chance to look more closely at those photographs from her notebook. It’s all about her census work. Where and when she visited. It was mostly around Downtown LA. She actually went to the projects where Benjamin works a number of times.” I chew on my orange slice. “When I saw Benjamin at Osaka’s, I asked him about it.”

“And?”

“He got kind of weird. Like he knows more than he’s letting on.”

“Are you sure that it’s not because Kari was at Osaka’s, too? Maybe he was preparing himself for a clash of the titanettes.”

I ignore the “titanettes” comment, but Nay is probably right. I tap my phone and gaze down at the photo of Cortez. Both Benjamin and I are moving on. That’s a good thing, right?

• • •

The next morning, I am assigned to patrol the Federal Building with the only other woman in our unit, Armine. Originally from Armenia, Armine was an insurance underwriter before she decided to make a career of law enforcement. Maybe it’s because she’s a little bit older than the rest of us rookies, but she’s easy to work with. She brushes aside off-color comments from the men in our unit; she has a couple of kids at home. She doesn’t have enough energy to care about what people think of her.

“How old are your kids again?” I ask Armine as we watch the line of people wait to go through the metal detector.

“Six and nine.”

Nine. The age of Cortez’s son. I stare at the thick foundation on Armine’s face, the fine lines by her eyes. My world seems so different. What would it feel like to be plopped down in hers?

Nothing eventful happens at the Federal Building, and we make our way back to the station before lunch. Armine quickly makes a personal call to talk to her daughter’s teacher, while I start to head inside to park my bike.

“You Ellie?”

A man steps in front of me. He’s in his mid-twenties and wears a work shirt that reads
ALFIE’S TOWING
. I’m pretty sure that I’ve never seen him before.

“Yeah.” I place my hand on my club.

“Thought that you should know: Susana got jacked in our place last week. The same night she met with you.”

Shit. This must be Susana’s boyfriend. “What happened?”

“I told her not to talk to you. That it could lead to trouble. But no, she felt that she had to. For the sake of her friend.”

“What happened?” I ask again, my heart racing.

“They were probably following her from the coffee shop. When she was going into the apartment, they put a gun to her back. They wrapped her wrists in duct tape, covered her eyes with a blindfold. She couldn’t see a thing, including who was holding her.”

“Jesus,” I whisper. Home invasions are the worst.

“They wanted to get information from her. About Jenny. About where she kept her things. They even ransacked our apartment.”

“Why do you think that meeting me had anything to do with it?”

“Because they said your name. They warned her not to talk to the police, and especially not to Ellie Rush.” My body goes numb.
What?
“The police found Susana’s brother’s Honda. The one that Jenny was living in. Now the police are coming over, asking Susana questions. She’s not saying anything to them, including what happened to her that night.”

I glance at my watch. I need to go back into the station, but I fully intend to follow up with Susana to convince her to file a report. “Thanks. Thanks for letting me know.”

“I didn’t come here for your sake. I did it for Susana. You need to stay the hell away from her.”

• • •

As soon as I walk into the station, Sergeant Tim Cherniss is waiting for me. “What was that all about?”

I’m at a loss as to how to respond. If I say too much, I’m going to get into trouble. And if I say too little, same thing.

“He came into the station and was asking for the girl who was investigating the Jenny Nguyen case. ‘Some girl named Ellie,’” Cherniss says.

“Oh,” I say, feeling sweat form above my upper lip. “I was just asking some of my old college friends about the victim. I went to PPW with her, you know.”

Tim Cherniss gestures for me to step inside one of our holding rooms. There’s crumbling white soundproof panels on one half of the walls. It’s cold in there. I feel both trapped and exposed; no wonder so many criminals have cracked in that room.

“You’re not a detective, Officer Rush. You have no place hotdogging and interfering in an investigation. And I’ve gotten another complaint about you.”

Huh? No one has ever—
ever
—complained about my work. I’m thinking that it has to be Mac. “What kind of complaint? Is it someone in Central Division?”

“No, it’s not within the department. It’s from the outside. I received a call that you have been acting inappropriately while on patrol.”

Inappropriate? “Who’s lodged a complaint?” My mind flips through my contacts—maybe it’s the neighborhood watch president, Mrs. Clark?

“I can’t say. No formal complaint was filed, so I was planning to ignore it. But now this. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to write you up.”

I can’t believe what I am hearing. To get written up just months into my new job with the bike unit would mean doors closing, not only in terms of future promotions but also in my current position.

“Wait,” I say. “My aunt asked me to look into Jenny’s murder.”

Sergeant Cherniss is one of the few people in the station who know that I’m Cheryl Toma’s niece.

“The assistant chief told you to make inquiries into the Jenny Nguyen case?”

I swallow and nod my head. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I am. I am selling out my aunt.

“Listen, Ellie, I like you. I really do. I think that you have a bright future in the department. But I’ll be straight with you, even knowing your connections. I’m taking a risk because I think you’re smart and can think on your own.”

I shift my weight from my right side to my left.

“Chief Toma has a lot of supporters. But she has a lot of enemies, too. You’re going to have to take extra care in where you walk.”

Again with the walking metaphor.

“There are minefields in this department. To survive, you’ll have to make some good decisions. First of all, deciding whom to trust.” Cherniss leans back on the metal interrogation table. “I’m not a major player in the department. And I probably won’t be, which is fine with me. I have two young kids and I want to live to see them grow up. So I just mind my business. My business here, in Central Division BCU.”

I ball up my hands; my fingers are freezing.

“But you’re not like me. I can see that. In ten years, you don’t want to be where I am.”

“Are you saying that I should keep my distance from my aunt?”

“No, not at all. Just that you don’t need to do everything she tells you to do. You should know this better than I do. Sometimes you have to find ways to negotiate your situation.”

How many people are in my situation?
I wonder.

“Look, I give every rookie one chance to screw up. One chance. You used up yours, okay? I’ll cover for you on this. But the next mistake, Ellie, you’ll be on your own.”

• • •

I feel like I can’t breathe. Someone is out to get me, and it may be someone other than Mac. And it’s probably not Mrs. Clark. Who knew that I was meeting with Susana? Hardly anyone. Basically only Nay. But someone could have been following Susana, like her boyfriend said. Or tailing me.

Is someone trying to get to my aunt through me? Hardly anyone other than Cherniss is aware of our connection. Our last names are totally different, and it’s not like I’ve advertised the relationship. No, it’s more likely that the complaint is related to something more serious. Jenny’s murder.

I know that I must be close to uncovering answers to be getting so much heat. What should I do? Retreat? Pretend that I never spoke to Susana or Tuan?

I wish that I could be more honest with Cortez, but I’ve held back. I don’t want him to think that I’ve gone rogue, or worse yet, that I don’t trust him or the other detectives to solve the case.

I go through the motions for the rest of the afternoon. Complete some paperwork and proofread some more of Harrington’s reports. I just want the day to end so that I can get out of the Central Division station. Finally, my shift is over, and I change into my street clothes. Ironically I came to work in a PPW sweatshirt, which now just reminds me how on the outside, at least, there’s only a fine line dividing me from Jenny.

It starts raining, and I’m glad that I drove the Green Mile to work. Instead of turning north on Figueroa, I continue west. West to Thai Town.

Hardly anyone knows where Thai Town starts or stops, much less that it exists at all. I only really know it’s there because my father made me go to a special designation ceremony when I was seven. He worked on the Red Line Metro station in the neighborhood, which sits below a transit village of apartments.