A Quiet Neighbor (12 page)

Chapter
Seven:

Tuesday,
June 5, 2012

8:45
P.M.

Detective Kylie Kang:

Rolling out the kinks in my neck and shoulders,
I step into my spotless five hundred sixty-four square foot studio apartment. I
hang my keys on the pegboard by the door. Then, slipping out of my Italian
leather boots—the cost of which was measured in paychecks rather than dollars—I
set them neatly in the hall closet. I shrug out of my blush-pink leather jacket—the
only piece with color in my wardrobe—and hang it above my boots. Walking into
my room, I drop my recently cleaned Glock on the vintage dresser and change
into an oversized nightshirt. I refold my day-worn clothes, placing the tank
and jeans in a separate pile on the bottom shelf of my closet—reserved for
worn-but-not-yet-smelly attire.

As far as clothes are concerned, my closet is
stripped to the essentials: long black trench coat, three pairs of jeans, two
black slacks, a black blazer and one black dress, which I wore once to attend
Halmoni’s
cremation.

Clear plastic shoe boxes line one full wall of my
closet, organized by type and color. The very bottom shelf holds my everyday
shoes: two pairs of running shoes, a second pair of designer boots, and
flip-flops. I am Spartan with my clothes, but when it comes to shoes, I’m
obsessed. Each pair I own is well-crafted, purposeful, and I’m willing to pay
top-dollar for quality—even if that means less quantity.

My dresser is just as organized but more practical,
filled with a week’s worth of socks, plain cotton underwear, tank tops and t-shirts,
pajamas, and my police academy sweatshirt. Except for the black dress and wall
of shoes, barely worn, my wardrobe is utilitarian. All cop, all the way.

I have a system. I live by rules and
regulations and I extend those rules to my home and personal life. Like my
closet, everything has a place and purpose. I compartmentalize my life in order
to expect the unexpected, be prepared, and stay in control.

I was raised in a very Confucian manner.
Practice what you preach; preach what you practice. Etcetera. So, I have to
respect the system. I guess being raised by a Sergeant does that to you.

Gramps showed me how to fold my clothes,
organize my closet, and pull the bed sheets so tight you could bounce a quarter.
As a kid, I’d watch him in awe as he ironed his clothes—even his boxers and
socks—and tidied the house. Everything was precise and organized. He always
told me, “Ky, you might not appreciate order yet, but you’ll see.” And I have.
Order promotes purpose, and purpose provides meaning, and without meaning there
is no life. I fell in love with order, as I fell in love with Gramps.

As far as I recall, he came into my life when I
was eleven. I don’t remember
Halmoni
and Gramps helping my parents raise
me in our tiny Rowland Heights apartment, but they changed my life from eleven
years and on. I considered them my parents and I always will.

After getting comfy, I walk toward the glass
wall and close the blinds to shut off the flow of chaos three stories below on
the bustling streets of downtown. Sure enough, the yellow and orange taxi cabs are
out in full force, weaving their way through the congested streets to quickly
drop off one group so they can pick up the next. Women and men are frocked in
their evening best; choosing between slinky or sleazy, sultry or chic, retro or
mod, to meet friends or co-workers for a colorful cocktail or three.

Deciding a bath is secondary to a meal, I head
to the kitchen in hopes of finding a trace of something to numb my mind and
satisfy my grumbling stomach. Unfortunately, my fridge is just as sparkling
clean and empty as my white-tiled countertops and cherry wood floors. No grime,
dust, stain, or well-balanced, pre-cooked meal.

I settle for a leftover wedge of brie and half
a stale baguette with a glass of what remains in the bottle of cabernet. I take
a testing sip of wine before bringing my ready-made dinner to the living room.
The wine isn’t great. There is a bitter residue that lingers from the three-dollar,
week-old bottle, but it’ll have to do.

Due to my busy schedule and lack of a social
life, I tend to avoid white wine and opt for red. Not because I enjoy the taste
better, nor am I much of a wine snob, but because I don’t know when I’d ever be
able to finish an entire bottle myself. White wine goes rancid faster than red,
at least that much I know.

For a few days now, I’ve been meaning to stop
by Whole Foods on the way home from the station, but each evening I end up
feeling too haggard or disgruntled to make the trip.

Joining the Homicide Unit, I no longer have to
don a uniform, but people still zero in on me as a woman in blue. Maybe it is
my manly gait or unwavering gaze, but walking into Whole Foods always seems to
rattle even the innocent shoppers.

Each evening, as the sun burns its last throes
of fierce vermilion through the blinds and across my desk, the Precinct comes
alive with traffic accidents, robberies, domestic disputes, and of course,
homicide. Fear of being roped into another case pushes me to rush out of the
station with a pile of catch-up paperwork in hand. If the current case is a
mindbender, I might even bring home the case file to pore over the copious
notes and get a head start on the following day.

Still new to the team, I want to make sure I pull
my own weight. Also, it doesn’t hurt that the extra hours I put in and the
starved-for-work mentality I wear like a badge of honor got me named lead
detective on a recent low-profile case. It’s a start, and I want to keep
building.

After all, the world doesn’t simply pause when
a cop’s shift ends. It continues wagging its unjust finger, dispensing evil at
clueless individuals, and usually choosing odd times of the night to unleash
its horrifying acts.

Releasing the three rubber bands that tightly
secure my thick hair for over twelve hours brings another bout of throbbing
pain. Massaging my scalp, I lean back in my leather chair, letting my hair
tumble free.
Nice.
Taking another sip of stale cab, I close my almond-shaped
eyes, unconsciously rubbing
Halmoni’s
golden lotus pendant that hangs
protectively around my neck, mulling over the hectic day.

The morning started off well enough, with a mug
of hot Kona and a slice of buttered toast which led me straight to an
open-and-shut homicide case out in North Park, a blighted neighborhood of San Diego
(South Park being the flashier and wealthier sibling of the two).

It was a neighborly dispute in the heart of a
sagging apartment complex, peeling and run down by age and hard living. One
neighbor pissed off the second neighbor by filling the second neighbor’s
balcony with secondhand cigarette smoke. Since the era of civil communication
is no more—or perhaps never was—the second neighbor proceeded to inform the
first neighbor of his distaste of the foul habit by leaving a large fly-magnet
turd on his front porch. Dispensed hot and fresh by second neighbor, of course.
The dispute had been resolved internally when the first neighbor walked
stoically up to the front door of the second neighbor and shot him five times
point blank as a thank you for the gift. Another neighbor who witnessed the act
said the man then took out a cigarette and blew smoke in the dead neighbor’s
face for effect. When the shooter calmly walked back into his apartment, the
elderly female witness was so shaken up by the ordeal that it took her a few
minutes to even think to call 911.

By late afternoon, the second neighbor was in
the cooler down at the morgue and the first neighbor was behind bars under the
presumption he was psychotic and would probably get institutionalized by
pleading a case of insanity. But either way he would be locked away, safe from
endangering himself or another neighbor who might get an inclination to crap on
his front porch. As far as I’m concerned the books are closed on the neighbor
who cried smoking turd. And sadly, the books were certainly closed on the
neighbor who
made
smoking turd.

It’s a quarter past nine and I already feel run
ragged. My body is brittle and unmotivated. I don’t understand how people my
age are able to go to work, then go out all glammed up to drink, smoke and
socialize in a span of twenty-four hours without collapsing in a heap of limbs
and hair. Of course women my age generally have social lives, family events,
boyfriends or husbands, maybe even popped out a few kids. I shudder at the thought
of having a little Ky running around with splayed sticky fingers, marring the
surfaces of my immaculate downtown apartment.

As I debate whether to take a hot bath, browse
my DVR, or wash the dishes, the phone rings. Grumbling, I mumble a few choice words
and am about to pick up when I decide to let it go to the answering machine.
Most likely the caller is a telemarketer. No one else calls me on the landline
anymore. If it were the hospital or the station, they’d know to call my cell.

Washing the dirty cheese knife and single wine
glass, I hear the distinct click as the call transfers over to the machine.

“Ky?” A muted pause and then a trailing
silence.

The wine glass slips from my hand and cracks in
the enameled cast iron sink, as the familiar voice echoes hauntingly in the
room. I don’t move. I am frozen in place, paralyzed by the caller’s familiar
voice. Broken pieces of glass wink at me from the bottom of the sink, stained
with red sediment from the wine.

The caller remains on the phone. Shallow
breathing can still be heard. A moment later an exaggerated sigh cuts through
the silence. After all these years, that berating sigh still manages to irk me.

I was five when we became best friends. Naïve.
I was so impressed by the girl’s large house, fancy dresses, pretty shoes, her
bold blue eyes and blond ringlets. I thought she was a princess and the tree
house was her castle. I felt honored to be chosen out of all the other girls in
school to be her best friend. But even though I was honored, I knew I was
replaceable, second best, plain, forgettable. There were always a few girls
waiting in the wings to take my place. I had no idea what it was about me that made
me so lucky to be the chosen one. I look back and wonder who that girl was with
the black pigtails and perfect math grades. I’m definitely not the same girl I
once was. Time and experience change a person.

No matter how much I idolized the girl, there
were still moments when she annoyed me; the girl seemed to have it all. Like
when she’d throw tantrums when her mom didn’t pay attention or when she didn’t
get the doll she wanted. When she would alter her voice like she was a baby,
thinking she was cute. Or when she would never let me pick what game to play or
movie to watch. I was filled with insecurities as I spent my childhood
comparing myself to the shadow of my best friend.

“I guess you’re not there. Um, this is
Leila…Leila Grimwald…Ficks? We used to be best friends…but, I guess that was a
while ago and…well, I don’t expect you to…anyways, your number was listed so I
called.” Another long pause. “The thing is, I want to hire you. I know you’re
not in the private sector or anything, but I thought you might do this for
me…for old times’ sake. Please Ky…call me back. My number is 821-2552.
Please…it’s Brett.”

Click.

Chapter
Eight:

Monday,
April 2, 2012

4:40
P.M.

Neil Wilcox:

The bare trees have started to form leaves.
Sap-filled buds burst into spurts of green, protruding along the spindly
branches, awakening from months of dormancy. Patches of sweet peas, impatiens,
and snapdragons scatter in fresh colorful clumps along the borders of lawns,
walkways, flower beds, pots and windowsills. The brisk air is filled with
chatter and pollen. The sky is clear and clouds hang in distant wisps.

Front lawns and windows bear signs of vacancy,
foreclosure, and rent. Moving trucks occupy parking spaces, idling loudly,
spurting plumes of black exhaust into the air as families, couples, and singles
alike fill and empty their hallowed space of furniture, valuables, and junk.
Spring is the time for new beginnings and growth.

Even a fresh start on a vapid existence feels
good.

Walking helps alleviate the stress and chaos of
the day—clearing the nonessential riffraff that conspires to plug up the mind.
Inhaling the crisp cool air helps, while movement loosens stiff muscles and
sparks life back into the broken treadmill of nerve endings.

Months passed and now coworkers and neighbors
no longer address me with wary eyes and trite smiles. The backup of paperwork
on my desk has been tamed and filed after a few straight weeks of overtime.
Service calls for lawn chairs increased exponentially in the last month, with
people getting a head start on their grandiose visions of summer picnics,
barbeques, and pool parties to come.

One lady called complaining in a loud, hacking
voice that the lawn chairs she bought were “disfunctioned” and she wanted a
refund.

“Please explain the problem Miss, so I can best
assist you.”

“The chair, it’s dis-FUNC-tioned.”

“Yes, I understand. But I need more information
before I can go about giving you a refund or a replacement. Please explain
exactly what is wrong with the chairs. Do you have any pictures? I also need the
serial numbers.”

“Mister. What part of the chairs being
disfunctioned
do you not get? Do you need your ears checked?”

“Miss. Please, I’m just doing my job. I
understand you’re frustration, but I just need an explanation and serial numbers
to better understand the problem.”

There was an exaggerated huffing sound from the
other end. The lady was getting exasperated by the probing questions.

“Fine. I’ll send a picture.”

The picture the lady sent was of four lawn
chairs that weren’t even ones my company manufactures and were each broken at
the seat into hundreds of frayed edges. The lawn chairs didn’t look
“disfunctioned” as the lady put it, but plain worn out from years of abuse from
one overly obese lady.
Someone
in that household was probably over four
hundred pounds. Sometimes I wonder if people really are as stupid as they sound
or if it’s just the stress talking.

Politely I apologized for her troubles and told
her in clear layman’s terms: since the product wasn’t manufactured from our
company there was nothing I could do.

Strangely, the woman was not satisfied with
this clear logic. She actually took the liberty of jotting down my name during
that sordid conversation and made sure to let everyone—all the way up to the
Regional VP—know about how poor “the schmuck’s” service was. No one asked for
my take on the situation; the CEO just called me to his office and told me,
behind closed doors, to “…do better next time or there might not be a next time.”

All in a desperate, boot-licking day’s work.

The moral of this story: people suck; customer
service jobs suck worse.

I don’t care about the trivial bullshit of
work. But, in the privacy of my condo, where the memories of my wife linger, I
weep lonely and excruciating tears. Trust me, the tears aren’t for my fucking
job. It is because Elizabeth is no longer here to complain to and bring me
comfort.

She used to make the day worth it. She made the
job bearable. She’d hold me and tell me I was better than that and complain
with me. Always my cheerleader.

Elizabeth always smelled like peppermint; she
loved the scent. I thought if I bought votive candles and sprays with the scent
and placed them around the house, the peppermint would invigorate my aura and
transform my state of mind when I returned from work. I thought the scents
would stimulate the same comforts she brought me. Instead, I am thrust deeper
into despair. The scent is all wrong. I already forgot which brand of
peppermint body spray she used, which makes me even more depressed; maddened,
almost. I feel a sudden surge of anger, which probably isn’t the most healthy
of all feelings given the circumstances, but no way in hell am I going to pay
someone to talk about it.

The following week I throw them all away.

Walking helps, which I continually have to
remind myself to do. Being outside among the humdrum of life, surrounded by
neighbors who are virtually strangers, I begin to feel content. At least the
burning feeling of anger and hatred lessens.

My cheeks collapse inward, descending to
purplish-yellow depths surrounding my haggard eyes. My appetite is nonexistent.
My sleep is listless and shallow. My mood flails wildly and erratically,
pulling me along through a marinade of stress hormones. Pain radiates
throughout my limbs but I continue to shake it off as emotional not physical.
There are days I’m not able to distinguish between the two. I guess those signs
should cause me worry, but why? What is the point anymore now that Elizabeth is
gone?

Not much has changed since last Halloween,
except EVERYTHING changed.

Every day I walk along the same route—down our
street—I guess, now it’s
my
street—over to Mission Gorge, which crosses
over to Golfcrest, then curves into Tuxedo, past the park, cutting over to
Jackson and back to Bell Bluff—and every time I near the corner white house
with its blue-shingled roof, my extremities tingle and pulse. Like a light that
glows from within, I feel rejuvenated. The completeness I felt when Elizabeth
was beside me returns for a brief moment, drawing me in like a drug. Who knew a
feeling could be so addicting?

With my adrenaline kicking into high gear, a
thin bead of sweat drips from my scruffy chin as I wait between the shadows and
the light of the simmering sun. Worried that even a slight movement could alter
the single ray of hope brought from the heavens above, I keep still and wait anxiously.

Mr. Dimples faithfully follows beside me during
these long afternoon walks—each lasting an hour or two—examining every chunk of
grass, stone, fire hydrant, stump, person, and animal that falls in his line of
sight. He is my side-kick, my ally, the Robin to my Batman. With Mr. Dimples by
my side, I no longer frighten lone women who cross my path. I am no longer a
weirdo, a vagrant, a threat. Now I am just another nondescript man from the
quiet neighborhood out walking his dog.

I have become obsessed with the need to blend
in. For my walks, I choose to wear loose fitting clothes bearing no logo,
emblem, or design and ranging in the colors between white, gray, and navy blue.
I don’t want to be noticed. This is my special time, not a neighborhood picnic.

While Mr. Dimples sniffs out a place to perform
his business in solitude, I stand beneath the rich canopy of an old oak tree
and watch.

To outsiders, I probably look like any other
middle-aged man, catching his breath, or waiting for his dog to finish his
business so he may return to the path back home. No one looks long enough to
see the cords along my neck tighten in anticipation, to watch my fingers fidget
nervously with the frayed leash, to notice my eyes roam a little too long at
the corner white house with its blue-shingled roof. No one regards me at all.

On most days I only catch a simple silhouette, a
mere shadow, brief but enough to tease my senses. Then on those rare and
special days my Betsy appears; she might be going for a run, riding her bike,
or sitting perched on the blue-shingled roof looking dreamily out toward the
pastel horizon, possibly dreaming about me…no, I know she’s dreaming about me.

Today, she is perched on the blue-shingled roof
with a notebook splayed open on her lap, scribbling ferociously. I worry that
she will press her pen through the marked and unmarked pages and hurt her hand
in the process. She keeps her brown hair loose so when she bends over the
pre-lined pages, it falls in front of her face like a curtain wafting in the
wind.

Closing my tired eyes, I inhale deeply, hoping
to catch a lingering scent. Is it only my imagination or is it the soft spice
of peppermint I smell?

“Be careful my love. Be safe,” I whisper as I
pick up Mr. Dimples and sulk down the stretched, shadowy path leading back to
my tiny condo on Bell Bluff. “I’ll be with you soon, my darling Betsy…soon.”