A Quiet Neighbor (14 page)

Chapter
Eleven:

Flashback
to:

Wednesday,
April 7, 1993

9:45
A.M.

Young Kylie Kang:

Spring Break meant little to the people living
in Rowland Heights. Mostly, the kids would hang out with friends at the mall,
go to the movies, lounge around at home in front of their televisions, or, in
the case of the less fortunate, help out their parents at work. But to those
living in Walnut—north of the railroad tracks and set among the quiet,
tree-lined streets—Spring Break meant traveling to tropical resorts, laying out
on white sandy beaches while drinking fruity drinks with colorful paper
umbrellas, and treating themselves to lavish spas.

I was in the back room of my parent’s Korean
BBQ restaurant, busily working on my boring
Kumon
math packet. Middle-aged
women and men—dark-skinned, haggard from countless hours of working in the
kitchen, and who didn’t speak a lick of English—rushed past me, the
seven-year-old girl with black pigtails and pouty lips. The harsh smell of
bleach burned my nose while the clanking of pans and dishes rattled in my ears.
I didn’t mind the clamor, I grew up in it. The restaurant was my home; it was
what I knew.

My parents had opened their first restaurant in
the Koreatown district of Los Angeles shortly before I was born. My dad, Jay,
was the only son, and got ownership of his parent’s restaurant when they moved
back to Korea to be with his sister and her family. My dad (
Appa
) was
more of the avid gambler than witty businessman. His parents spoiled him and he
grew up with a golden spoon in his mouth. Responsibility was a foreign concept that
he took lightly. It wasn’t a surprise that they lost the restaurant within a
year of acquiring it. When things didn’t work out my parents sold everything
and we relocated to Rowland Heights to try again and to escape
Appa’s
demons, away from the congested city.

Near the broom closet my mom (
Umma
) was
squatting, hands gloved and bright red, making a new batch of
kimchi
in
a low plastic tub. Sweat prickled her ragged face as her hands quickly prepped
the mound of Napa cabbages to be basted in a mixture of salt, red chili pepper,
garlic, and salted shrimp. This concoction, once fermented, would eventually be
served as a side dish with every meal ordered at the restaurant.
Umma
worked fast, with a skilled determination. Hard work was ingrained in her
leathery hands and crooked back. A Korean drama was playing on the small
television set, which was propped on some old phone books atop a metal filing
cabinet (the broom closet was also a makeshift office). Three video tapes were
stacked on top of the television, ready to be watched and returned.

Soon
Appa
would be stomping into the
kitchen with buckets of raw meat that would need to be cleaned and marinated in
their special sauce (Asian pear was the secret ingredient). Chaos would ensue
within the next few hours, as the crew shifted from hurried cleaning to
frenzied prep work before the first wave of customers could clamor inside and
take a seat.

After I finished my
Kumon
lesson, I
would have to restock the to-go supplies—rubber banding soy sauce packets,
chopsticks, plastic forks, and napkins together. I wasn’t looking forward to my
week away from school.

The phone rang in the front room.
Umma
yelled
in Korean for me to move my
eongdeong-i
and pick up the phone.
Begrudgingly, I rose and sulked to the phone. The coiled receiver cord was
wound tight and I had to lean close to the base in order to answer.

“Kang’s Korean BBQ. How may I help you?”

“Ky? Is that you?”

“Leila?” I immediately changed the frown upside
down. “Hi. Where are you calling me from?” I hoped I was receiving a call from
some place exotic like Hawaii, Cancun, or Fiji. It made me feel important.

“At home. My family decided to wait until
summer break to go somewhere. Except for Brett. He’s tagging along with Scott
and his family. He’s going to learn how to surf without me. So unfair.”

“Yeah. That sounds like fun.” I was
disappointed. Leila was having as much fun as I was—well, probably more. Her
mom didn’t make her do math packets and work.

“Anyways, my mom said I can invite you over.
You can even spend the night here if you want. We can have a sleepover in the
tree house. My mom said it’s warm enough so we should be okay out there.”

“Really? Wow. Um, let me ask my mom.”

“Okay. If you want, my mom can talk to your
mom. My mom’s really good at convincing people.”

“Errr…let me try first.”

I uncoiled the receiver so I could lay it on
the counter, and walked hesitantly toward
Umma
. Something funny just
happened in the drama because she was laughing. That was a good sign.

Umma
titled her head toward me and
narrowed her eyes into slits. “Who was on the phone?”

“That was Leila. Her mom wants to know if I can
come over and spend the night. Can I, please?”

“Did you finish your
Kumon
?”

“Almost. I have one page left.”

She gave a hard nod. “After you finish the
Kumon
and make one hundred chopstick packets, you can go. You remember what bus to
take?”

I nodded, ecstatic, my pigtails flailing around
my round face.

“Good.”

“Thank you,
Umma
.
Saranghae
.” I
wrapped my scrawny arms around
Umma
’s neck and kissed her cheek.

SET HIGH ON THE TRUNK OF A TOWERING
eucalyptus,
the Ficks’ wooden tree house was like a miniaturized version of the main
house—complete with dual-pane French doors, plantation shutters, shiplap
siding, and composite roof shingles. A twisting wooden staircase led up to the
wraparound deck, which was surrounded by a sturdy rail so the kids would be
safe. Inside, there was a Murphy bed folded neatly against the wall, a large
floor lamp set in the corner, a tiny refrigerator that held juice boxes and
water bottles, a cupboard filled with snacks, and a television loaded with all
the entertainment accessories a kid could want (VHS player, Nintendo, and
karaoke machine). It smelled faintly of cedar, citrus and menthol. An oversized
rug was laid out in the center of the room, covering the smooth floor planks. A
large cedar chest held piles of blankets, quilts, and pillows so the girls
would be comfortable throughout the night. The massive trunk of the Eucalyptus,
which took five girls locked hand-in-hand to circumscribe, had been polished
smooth where it plunged through the room like a dramatic, off-center pillar.
Skylights were embedded in the ceiling for natural light by day and stargazing
by night.

The first time I stepped through the doors, I
stood agape. The tree house was nicer than the house I lived in.

A warm batch of chocolate chip cookies—still
gooey from the oven—was piled high on a plate along with mini triangle-shaped
turkey and ham sandwiches on white bread (with the crusts meticulously cut) and
a pitcher of fruit punch. Leila and I were settled cross-legged on the rug, enjoying
the meal Mrs. Ficks prepared.

Leila rose elegantly and walked over to open
the Murphy bed. Inside one of the pillowcases was a tiny wooden box with Leila’s
name neatly etched on the side. She brought the box back to the rug and sat
down. Her eyes flickered with mischievous excitement.

“What’s that?” I pointed to the box.

“You’ll see. First you have to answer a
question.”

I shrugged, impatient. “Okay.”

“Will you be my sister?”

“Uh, I don’t think that’s possible. Don’t we
have to have the same parents to be sisters?”

Leila rolled her eyes. “Not
real
sisters
silly,” her eyes gleamed, “blood sisters.”

I swallowed. “Blood?”

“Yeah, it’s really cool, I saw it on TV. We’re
like bound for life or something. We’d be even closer than real sisters.”

I took a millisecond to think about it. “Cool.”

“Great. Now I just need your finger.” Leila
opened the box and took out a sewing needle. She grabbed my pointer finger and
pricked the tip until blood bloomed and spilled over the ridges. The blood
startled, yet fascinated me, and I examined it in awe.

Then, Leila pricked her own finger and held it
out for me to do the same. “Now we say an oath before we smear the blood
together. Hmm… How about Leila Ficks and Kylie Kang pledge to be blood sisters
forever. Okay now we press our fingers together. Ta-da. Now we’re sisters.”

In an E.T. gesture, we became blood-sisters for
life. The prick stung a little but what surprised me most was the sticky
texture and the coppery taste. Sucking on my finger, an overwhelming sense of
loyalty flooded my veins. I belonged.

“Now that we’re sisters, I can share my
secret.” Leila’s voice lowered.

“I can keep a secret.”

“I know. That’s part of the blood-sister code.
We have to protect each other’s secrets until we die.”

“Oh, okay. So what’s the secret?”

“Tell me yours first.”

“Leila…I don’t have one.”

“Sure you do. Everyone has secrets.”

“Really Leila, I don’t have one. Just tell me
yours. I promise I won’t tell.”

“Well…okay, but you have to tell me yours as
soon as you have one. I have to be the first one you tell. Got it?”

I nodded willingly. I didn’t think I was going
to break my promise.

Satisfied, Leila sat up straight and grinned
mischievously. “I found Brett’s secret stash.”

My face squished together in confusion. “What
are you talking about?”

“His secret stash. Stuff that he doesn’t want
anyone to know about. Bad stuff. Apparently all boys have them. My daddy has
one. I overheard my mom yelling at him about it once. Your dad probably has one
too.”

I thought about
Appa
with his stern face
etched in deep lines. Mostly he grunted and complained in Korean about taxes
and money. He probably had a lot of secrets. “You’re probably right.”

“Of course I am. Anyways, I was worried that
I’d get caught so I only took one thing out of the box. It’s a videotape. I
think it’s a movie.”

“A secret movie?”

HOSPITAL
ROOM (III):

Tuesday,
June 26, 2012

2:53
P.M.

THE ROOM SMELLED LIKE ANTISEPTIC
and
harsh chemicals. The sun streamed in through the blinds and a slow gust of wind
rattled the plastic and fluttered the hairs draping listlessly against his
pasty arm. Joe jerked awake, tugging against the intravenous needle and tubes
that irritated his skin and wrenched his stomach. In a state of panic Joe started
screeching in loud yelps from the pain. The young nurse—by now Joe referred to
her as Nurse Freckles—scurried to his side, breathless from receiving the panic
call, and without a moment’s hesitation she hurriedly punched in the morphine.
By now, the cancer had spread and all she could do was ease his pain. Quickly
the medication took effect and in low soothing tones she eased him back under
the covers and into a state of oblivion.

Noticing the cold breeze, she realized the
cause of his erratic episode and quickly crossed the room to close the window.
An eerie silence fell upon the room. Sgt. Whimplestein continued to lie still,
seemingly unaffected, his heart monitors working away as the ventilators continued
to pump oxygen into his lungs. Wistfully she leaned over and adjusted his
blanket and pillow, tucking in his hands to warm them. She moved back toward
Joe’s bed. His heart rate seemed to have decreased out of the danger zone.

As she gazed upon this dying man, Nurse
Freckles sighed in sadness and pity for his loneliness. Having stopped
chemotherapy treatments a month ago, he now spent his time alone, in
discomfort, and without any visitors. How much time did he have left to endure
this pain? She couldn’t say, but she hoped for Joe’s sake it wouldn’t be much
longer.

It wasn’t until she stepped out of the room,
and quietly closed the door behind her, that Joe spoke.

His voice grated against his swollen throat.
Gritting his teeth between every few words that passed his lips, he managed to
whisper:

Hey Sarge. Whimpy…you awake? Nurse Freckles is
gone. Ugh, it still stinks in here. Wasn’t me I tell you. How you holding up?
The breeze gett’n you? It sure got me. Left my skin all puckered and bruised.
Sure hate when that happens. Such is life though…

The morphine continued to numb the pain,
relaxing his throat, and plugging the tears that dribbled down his scruffy
cheeks in awkward trails. Behind the closed door, he could hear another
disgruntled patient shouting about getting ripped off and something about the
ad on the radio promising a huge room with plenty of lounge space for overnight
visitors. Joe snorted a laugh.

Hear that guy? What a dimwit, sonofagun. You
know I heard the ad he’s referring to just the other day. Marketing people
think they’re so damn clever. Probably they are. Sheez. Making people think
they’re speaking plain English when they’re speaking in code, subliminal-message
marketing language. There’s no substance in ads these days…maybe never was. The
government should get rid of marketing departments altogether. They don’t do
anything except confuse us common folk. While they’re at it, they should get
rid of politics, too. Let people think for themselves and be held accountable
for their actions instead of getting brainwashed and seeking a scapegoat. Bah.
What a strange world we live in. Such is life.

By three, Joe was in a fit of wet coughs, the
kind where mucus spewed out in greenish clumps and the vile metallic taste hung
menacingly in the back of his throat. Usually once the sticky substance was
expunged from his system the coughing stopped and all was well again, but this
time dots of red were mixed in with the green, lighting up his mouth and chin
like Christmas. As the tears pooled in the folds below his eyes, he gripped his
hands together to ease the violent shakes. He could feel his brittle bones
scrape together under the thin film of flesh and he reeled from the pain. And
all he could think was,
this is how I leave the
world…alone
.

Detective Kylie Kang:

3:00
P.M.

The nurses scramble toward Room 301 just as I step
into the corridor. I just about have a heart attack. Thinking the distress call
is meant for Gramps instead of his roommate, my brain switches to action-mode.
Without thinking, I push past a kid in a wheelchair and almost knock a woman
off her crutches to get to the room. Gasping for air I stand, wide-eyed, steeping
in fear as I watch two nurses and a resident in green scrubs hunch over the
patient’s body. The patient’s foot twitches and relaxes. Cold sweat plasters
the hair on my face as guilt racks my conscience. I am glad the patient in pain
isn’t Gramps but his roommate, and I feel guilty for my relief.

The blood returns to my extremities. Silently I
step outside and wait for the commotion to recede. Out of the corner of my eye
I notice the kid in the wheelchair shaking his head with sour disgust. I close
my eyes, squeezing them shut. Taking this moment to regain composure I pinch
the bridge of my nose and murmur to myself.

“Ky, you need to calm down. The case is getting
to you. Get ahold of yourself. Maybe you should stop drinking gallons of coffee
and go back to one cup a day. Yes, that’s it. I’m just jittery because I’m
over-caffeinated. Maybe I should nix caffeine altogether. Try some herbal tea…”

Leaning against the white plaster wall, I place
my hands on my knees and take a few calming breaths.
Who am I kidding? Abstain
from coffee? I’m just being a Nervous Nellie. A person’s got a right to make a
fool out of herself every now and then
. My hair is pulled back tight by
three blue rubber bands and my ponytail flops in front of my makeup-free face
as I bend at the waist. Clasping my fingers around the pendant, I slowly peel
my eyes open to see the boy in the wheelchair, still staring at me, now with a
perplexed gaze.
He must be feeling sorry for me. How pathetic.

By the time my pulse slows, the resident and
nurses brush past. I overhear the nurse with the freckles and light auburn hair
muttering to a nurse with pale skin and a crop of blond hair. “Looks like he
doesn’t have much longer.” The nurse with the blond hair nods in solemn
agreement.

Stepping into the room for the second time that
day, I notice the blue dividing curtain is pulled tight against the rod.
Sadness washes over me as I think about the man behind it. Has anyone visited
him since he’s been admitted? I’m not here enough to know for sure, but I have
a feeling no one has. Is he alone in this world or just alienated from his
family?

I grab a chair and drag it beside Gramps’ bed.
After straightening his pillow and sheets, I take his lax hand, peppered in
bluish dots, and massage it in small clockwise circles. Besides the faint beat
of his pulse, his hand feels weak, doughy, and lifeless.

“Gramps?” I jump, startled by my own voice
echoing within the silent walls. I can’t seem to get used to talking to Gramps
in this grim room. When he was first admitted, I didn’t even know what to say.
I was in denial and didn’t want to believe he was ill. But as the days became
months and then years, I decided I should start talking to him while I had the
chance.

“I don’t know what to do. I know I say that
with every case but this one is different. Everyone thinks Brett is the guy.
The media are having a field day spinning the story as far and complex as it
can go. Even Art can’t do much to save his ass. I know he’s innocent…but…I also
don’t know if he is innocent. I just hope he is. No, he has to be.” I pause,
placing my face in his cold hands. “I have to prove he’s innocent. Don’t I? No,
I have to. I owe him that much. Do you think it’s wrong of me to still have feelings
for him? It’s been so long. It’s just that…when I saw him—”

The ring from my cell jolts my head up. I grab
it from my back pocket, check the Caller ID, and brace myself before answering
briskly, “Kang.”

“Afternoon, Detective. Lieutenant Declan Malone.
I got a Cobb, Michael here who says he’s willing to talk.”

“Got it.” I shove the chair back in the corner
of the room, then bend to kiss Gramps on his clammy cheek. “I’m on my way. Make
sure he doesn’t have second thoughts and bolt.”

“Kang, I know how to do my job, just do yours.
Get in here fast. This kid’s lips are buttoned up tight. Was going to hand him
off to Pickering but says he doesn’t want to talk to no one but you. So, hurry
before the kid rethinks the idea and splits.”

“I’ll be there in twenty. Just give him some
candy or something.”

“Jesus, Ky. The kid ain’t five.”

I breathe in a not-so-refreshing breath of
hospital air before heading out the door. My extremities tingle in excitement.
Wearing dark denim skinny jeans that fit into a pair of soft-as-butter brown
Italian leather ankle boots and my blush-pink leather jacket over a plain white
tank top, I move purposefully through the stark corridor and down three flights
of stairs. Taking long focused strides toward my gleaming Crown Vic—forever on
its last mile—I remove the parking pass from my wallet and start the car.

Driving on autopilot, I cycle through my mental
notes about Michael Cobb. Unfazed by the up-yours signals and nasty glances
tossed my way (driving has never been my strong suit), I zip onto 8 West:

Currently on summer break. Enrolled as a
Freshman at UCLA. Pre-law. Clean. No record. Family resides in modest four
bedroom house across street from vic. Dad clueless. Mom secretive. Michael
obedient. Ex-boyfriend to vic. Last saw vic the night of the murder.

Betting this kid is going to give me something
I can sink my teeth into and not the usual runaround, I double-park in front of
the station, tighten my already taut ponytail, give a quick look in the
rearview to make sure I look composed, and stride quickly inside. Worrying
about a parking ticket is the least of my concerns (besides, Mark in parking
owes me).