A Quiet Neighbor (25 page)

Maravilla Station impresses me with its
whimsical, parachute-like awnings. The station looks so fresh and new; a bud of
new urban life nestled in the shadows of giant mega-freeways crisscrossing
overhead, casting roaring shadows on the residential area to the south. There are
a few small shops, a few women walking toward the metro platform laden with
bags of groceries, nothing much else. I jump back on the next railcar and move
on.

The last stop I make—the second to last stop
before the end of the Gold Line—is the East L.A. Civic Center. The first thing
I notice is a neon pink taco truck parked at the curb. The smell makes me
drool, even though I stuffed myself silly with KBBQ just a few hours earlier.
The second thing I notice is the line: it stretches clear around the block! I
figure I’ll have to give it a try.

Waiting in line I have a chance to blend in
with the locals. The thought keeps crossing my mind:
what would Tess think
if she knew I was here?
Would she care? Would she worry? Sometimes I feel like
Tess assumes I am a responsible adult that doesn’t need guidance or insights.
It’s not like I need her to hold my hand or grant me permission, but I’d like
it if she’d invest some interest in my thoughts, ideas, and future. It would be
so cool if we could play hooky together and go somewhere new for the day, get
out of San Diego and go on an adventure. But no, she’s too invested in her
interests and her troubles to notice anyone else’s.

The tacos are worth the wait, and in the
forty-five minutes I wait in line I get to know a few of the people around me.
Nina is a twenty-year-old single mom with a four-year-old son named Teddy. Nina
keeps wrangling Teddy as we speak. He wedges through her legs trying to get a
closer look at a passing beetle. Then she catches him by the arm without
looking and picks him up. He squeals and she sets him down again with a
fatigued huff. An automated dance, performed tirelessly by the tired-out. Teddy
reminds me of Bella when she was four and I start to miss home a bit.

Behind me in line are a couple of skater kids,
or so I think. When I turn around I notice they are dressed like teenagers, hold
skateboards like teenagers, but wear scrawled tattoos, thick gold chains and
grim, bearded faces while chain-smoking cigarettes. They are probably closer to
thirty-five than eighteen. It is the only uneasy feeling I’ve gotten so far.
Gang bangers? I’m not sure.

There is an elderly man in front of Nina who is
also interesting. He is very short—about five-three—with a pudgy midsection, slicked
gray hair, and a pencil-thin mustache, and he waves his arms exuberantly when
he speaks. He knows all about this particular taco truck, as well as all the
taco trucks in the area. He apparently follows all of them on Twitter, and
since he retired, his main adventure has been hunting for delicious
fare-on-wheels.

“Follow the food,” he says many times with a
wag of the finger as he indoctrinates those around him with the basics of
food-truckdom. “Follow the food.”

I have seen these types of gourmet food trucks
on television, but seeing this man beam as he spouts factoid after factoid
about 21
^st
Century mobile cuisine and the social networking
revolution, I find that television can never quite capture the loyalty of the
clientele.

I also find that television cannot capture how
delicious the food is. And cheap! I buy one taco and a can of soda for three
dollars, walk over to Belvedere Park Lake, and lounge in the grass near the
water’s edge as I eat.

If nothing else, I have to move here for the
food.

I start to make my way back to Union Station.
Breathing in the heavily congested city with all my senses, seeing the colorful
artwork tagging the walls and trashcans, feeling the old blending with the new
as lights twinkle on in the dusty hue of evening, and walking the streets which
so many walked before me in search of fame, fortune, or new beginnings makes me
giggle in anticipation. This is it. This is the place. The place in which I’ll
start over, start fresh. Here, I’ll make a name for myself, and be happy. The
change of venue will provide a clean break. I will be hidden in plain sight
within a bustling, diverse crowd. There are lots of low-brow jobs in this part
of town that I can pick up with no prior experience, and there are tons of
cheap places to live. Maybe I will even get lucky enough to work at a place
that also provides sleeping accommodations.

At a quarter to midnight I creep into my dark
house and slip upstairs, unseen. The girls are at a slumber party so the room is
quiet. The room Tess and Brett share is dark and the door is closed. No one
seems to be waiting up for me. A part of me wishes someone was.

I spend the next hour writing down the events
in my notebook. The plan is set. I will start my new life this summer. I
haven’t been this excited in a long time. I have finally found a purpose.

Chapter
Nineteen:

Wednesday,
June 20, 2012

12:17
P.M.

Detective Kylie Kang:

Contrary to Dr. Eve Darling’s sentiments
earlier that day, the morgue isn’t what I would consider my home away from
home. It’s more like a medieval dungeon, only cleaner when not in use. And
much, much quieter. Disquietingly quiet. Even seasoned homicide detectives who
have seen the worst the world has to offer shudder at the thought of being alone
down there.

It has something to do with the odors of vinyl
and formalin, the subterranean location, the harsh contrast between the light
table and the dark recesses of drawers, the cutting, jabbing, poking, prying,
resecting and removing of body parts that brings even the macho cops to their
knees in search of the nearest sink or trashcan. But mostly it’s the quiet, the
hum of the fume hoods circulating stale air the dead will never breathe. It’s
like drowning.

Donning the fashionable one-size-fits-all morgue
garb (surgical mask, gown, paper booties, cap, and gloves) I push through the
double doors to the refrigerated chill of the autopsy room. The room, although
well lit, seems to cast an eerie greenish veneer over the clear-coated cement
floors, shiny steel tables, and floor-to-ceiling metal refrigeration lockers.
The fluorescent lights oscillate in a barely perceivable strobe.

Eve stands over the partially uncovered vic,
her gloves covered in blood and chunks of Loral’s internal tissue, her face unmasked
and deeply focused. The Y-incision is already made, major organs removed and
set aside for further examination. Her large brown eyes are trained on Loral’s
neck.

Waiting for Eve to address me, I keep silent
and continue to observe from afar. Loral’s skin is a pale gray. Her once
flushed cheeks and cherry-tinted lips are now a cold blue. A face of marbled
stone, inspired by the beauty of youth, now an exquisite artifact to be
examined and dissected. What did she do to deserve this fate?

There is no evidence at the crime scene
indicating the killer is male. Maybe the killer is a woman who envied Loral.
The idea isn’t farfetched; even I can understand the power of jealousy. Loral
was growing to be a beautiful woman, a beauty that could rival her mother’s. Was
Tess capable of murdering her child? Maybe the mother’s sleepover buddy got
bored with the mother and pursued the daughter, things got heated, turned
south, and he got rid of her? Wouldn’t be the first time.

“You made it.” Eve pushes the tray of implements
soaking in bleach solution away from the table.

“Yeah, the interview with the family wasn’t
really getting anywhere when I received your text so we wrapped things up and
came straight here.”

With a smug expression, Eve casually states, “I
see Pickering couldn’t make it for the show, again.”

Tightening my lips, I brush off the snide
remark. Why my two best friends can’t get along is beyond me; at least they are
somewhat civil. “Pickering’s back at the office checking on the facts we
received so far.”

Changing her gloves, probably for the hundredth
time that day, Eve smiles and nods. Pickering has a weak stomach when it comes
to autopsies. And the Level B-3 morgue gives him the willies—something about
being buried alive. Although the guys at the station sometimes give him flack
for it, at least Eve never does—well, not to his face. She prefers he stay
away. The last time he was in her lair, he didn’t quite make it to the sink in
time and the scene he created was worse than what was splayed out on her table.

Eve offers me some vaporub to mask the stench.

“That’s okay. I already slathered some on
before I entered.”

“Good. I don’t think she’s going to smell as
bad as the last one did but,” she shrugs, “you never know.” Her eyes flicker
into a gleam. “Now for the fun stuff. I had the blanket analyzed and found
trace strands of hair. But before you go running to the moon and back I have to
tell you that, in layman’s terms, it’s pug hair. Not human.”

“Pug hair? You’re saying the UNSUB covered the
vic with a dog blanket?”

Eve shrugs. “You’re the detective. I’m just
supplying you with the facts, however strange they might be. Anyways, she died
before she was dragged and repositioned. The scratch marks under her arms and
ankles corroborate postmortem damage, showing no hemorrhagic tissue. The
notebook found on the body does have two sets of fingerprints: the vic’s and an
unknown.”

“Good. I’ll check that out. What about the
bruising at the back of the neck?”

“Blunt force trauma between the C1 and C2
vertebrae. Ultimately it looks like the result of either a small piston-like
weapon or one hell of a martial arts strike. The bruise pattern does not
indicate a cylindrical weapon such as a baseball bat, which would swing in an
arced plane and have a much more oblong striking surface. The victim’s spinal
cord was severed by the blow, which is what killed her. There are no other
relevant injuries made to the body except postmortem scratches made during
transit. Embedded debris is consistent with the garden of poppies where she was
found. Stomach contents normal and no alcohol was traceable in the system.”

“Is this consistent with Pickering’s first
thought, that this could be some kind of martial arts pressure point submission
attempt gone wrong?”

“Seems like it. I haven’t had much study in
acupuncture or oriental medicine so I couldn’t say with much confidence. I’ll
ask around, see if I can find you someone in that field.”

I nod slowly.

Wasn’t there a case years back that dealt with
pressure points?

Chapter
Twenty:

Thursday,
June 28, 2012

9:00
A.M.

Detective Kylie Kang:

For a week now I’ve been working on the UNSUB’s
signature. This morning starts off the same as the previous few, sitting at my
tidy desk sipping some strong coffee while scanning the computer database for
archived cases with similar MO’s. The pressure point death blow is a crucial
clue in the investigation as well as a total mindfuck. The unknown fingerprint
on the notebook turned out to be the boyfriend’s, which isn’t a surprise since
we now know he handled the notebook days before her death.

Normally, I’d be ecstatic to work on such an
interesting case, but why does it have to be this case? Right now I would give
anything to have this be a boring, straight-laced case, neatly contained within
an ordinary square box, giftwrapped with a pretty bow and stored immediately
away in the back of the storage closet, beside the neighbor who cried smoking
turd. But no, the case that involves an old and inauspicious acquaintance has
to have dead ends, perplexing evidence, and a COD that offers no leads, fluids,
residues, fingerprints, or profile of the UNSUB. Either this guy is extremely
skilled and brilliant, or more likely, extremely lucky.

Pressure points aren’t something the feds
encounter on a daily basis and so far it doesn’t seem to be in any cases that I
or the department ever filed. Usually the UNSUB uses a knife, a gun, a hammer,
a dangerous weapon that can be bought from any hardware or sporting goods store
or found in the kitchen. In this case, the UNSUB most likely used the edge of
his hand, once in a quick downward motion, focusing on the vulnerable space a
half inch below the base of the skull. I feel like I am trapped in a Jackie
Chan movie or something.

After spending an hour scanning through case files
with strangulations, blunt force traumas, and drunken fistfights that turned
deadly, Pickering strolls in humming a silly tune and munching on a bag of
greasy doughnut holes. He wears his usual haggard look: scruffy five-day beard,
purple bags flapping beneath his beady eyes, thinning hair sticking up wildly,
capped off by a knock-off suit that is wrinkled and always has some kind of
food stain darkening the lapel. Despite the Pig-Pen cloud of disarray he slogs
along with him, his appearance lightens a bit when he grins. His little song
and dance routine gets me tapping my feet and even picks up my mood a bit.

I eye him amusingly and say, “You sure are
chipper this morning. What did you do, walk into a happy stick?”

“Even better,” he winks his beady eye and plops
a folder on my desk, “you can thank me by working your little ka-boom magic and
cleaning my desk.”

Leaning forward, I glance at a desk hidden by
slumping mounds of manila folders, crumpled sandwich wrappers, extra condiment
packets, binders, newspapers, and who knows what else. Wrinkling my nose I give
him an incredulous look and sigh. He crinkles the translucent doughnut bag and
tosses it free-throw style into his trashcan.

“What? Didn’t think your partner would want a
powdery doughnut?”

Grinning, he licks his fingers. “Didn’t think a
germ freak like you would want to dip your hand into the same bag.”

“Where did you get the idea I was a germ
freak?”

“Hmmm, let me see. One, look at your clean
desk. Two, you have an economy size hand sanitizer on your desk, plus a travel
size bottle in your car and another in your purse. Three, you take Echinacea
every day, and don’t think I haven’t noticed. Then there’s the known fact that
you never touch the sandwich or cookie platters that we get delivered to the break
room during the holidays.”

I frown.

“Do you need to me to go on?”

Grumbling, I shake my head, “You could have
brought me one in a separate bag, that’s all.”

“I’ll remember that next time. Powdered
doughnuts your thing?”

“Or chocolate…or glazed…or maple.” Slurping
back the drool, I turn my attention back to the mysterious folder. My eyebrows
lift and then crease, confused. “What am I looking at?”

He slaps a sticky, wet finger on the line that
says “owns black pug.”

Grimacing, I take a Purell-soaked tissue and
wipe the smudge. “You’re excited because a Jim Kingsbee owns a black p—,” my
eyes widen, “Wait. Back up. Who’s Kingsbee?”

“The mystery man, a.k.a. vic’s mom’s sleepover
buddy, a.k.a. suspect numero dos.”

I turn back to the smudged page. The pieces of
the bizarre puzzle are starting to fit into place. “And Mr. A-K-A man owns a
black pug.”

When Eve had her band of eager squints analyze
the blanket the UNSUB used to cover the body, they found traces of hair that
turned out to be
Canis familiaris
, more specifically, black pug. For all
we know the blanket could have come from a nearby trashcan or garage sale, been
found abandoned in the nearby park, or perhaps a lost black pug just happened
to wander aimlessly onto the school grounds between the time of her death and
six in the morning. All are possible explanations for how the short bristly
hairs got embedded in the blanket, but none helps the case unless the pug
belongs to the UNSUB or an accomplice.

Now with Jim Kingsbee in the picture, we have a
suspect that ties back to the scene of the crime. This might be the lucky break
we’re looking for.

“Yup, it belonged to his ex-wife but he got it
in the custody battle and has had it solely in his possession for a few months
now.” He grins, extremely proud of himself, “So you want to drive, or shall I
do the honors?”

Quickly, I scribble a note to mark my place in the
database search, and also to remind myself to pry Declan’s memory bank.
Grabbing my keys and leather jacket off the back of my chair, I say, “I’ll
drive. You talk.”

“Good, because I need gas in my Crown Vic.” His
grin widens, almost child-like, showing off his pearly whites.

“You always need gas.”

He shrugs and grins sarcastically. “Hey, what
can I say. Sometimes finding the perfect doughnut takes a bit of driving.”

The drive over to IMCON electronics is
decorated with red lights, a malfunctioning trolley gate, and a couch deposited
onto the middle lane of the freeway. Being frustrated, at least, means I am in
the perfect mood to question Jim Kingsbee. Jim is the guy Tess has been
secretly seeing.

“Apparently, Ms. Holmes’ receptionist wasn’t
too happy with the union, seemed a little jealous if you ask me.”

“Oh yeah? How do you figure?”

“At first he was all hostile and guarded when I
told him I was with the SDPD and wanted to speak to Ms. Holmes. I thought he
was one of those guys that hates cops but then I figured he had a thing for Ms.
Holmes and didn’t like the fact that I was probing. I told him that I didn’t
care what or who she did her business with, all I wanted was to speak to her
regarding her daughter’s murder investigation. He just gawked at me,
open-mouthed and all.”

“Uh-huh. And?”

“So apparently she was out. When I asked where
she was he kind of did this weird jerky thing with his face. Anyways,
eventually he spilled his guts out when I told him his pretty-boy looks
wouldn’t sit too well in prison if he didn’t start talking.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Pickering laughs. “I sure did. Thought I’d have
a little fun, considering this case is adding five pounds to my waistline and
giving me a scorcher of a headache. Anyways, he cracked like a Cracker Jack.”

“Like a Cracker Jack?”

Pickering shrugs his beefy shoulders. “I
thought it sounded good.”

“Man, I wish I was there to see that.”

I park in front of the building. IMCON
Electronics is a Fortune 500 company that was founded on innovation, vision,
and drive. The Victorian-style corporate office building blends in nicely with
the surrounding restaurants, hotels, and theatres in the heart of San Diego’s
historic Gaslamp District.

Walking in through the large rotating glass
door to the reception area is like entering the lobby of some exclusive
five-star hotel instead of a business. I have to stop myself from being
impressed and looking like a kid stepping into Santa’s workshop. If it weren’t
for the large metallic sign mounted seamlessly to the front of the gigantic
curved receptionist’s desk, no one would know we just stepped into a
technological firm. With its swirly marble floors, buttery leather couches, a fifty-inch
flat screen airing headlines from the morning news, large vases filled with
fragrant flowers, and glass tables that stand out like works of art, this looks
more like Wall Street than Silicon Valley.

I give Pickering a slight nudge. “What does
this man do, exactly?”

“He has his hands in many cookie jars, that’s
what.”

“What’s with you and food references?”

“Hey, so I like food. Sue me. Or better yet,
feed me.”

“May I help you?” A pencil-thin woman in a very
revealing pantsuit walks over. Her flaming red hair is pulled back into a loose
chignon that frames her oval face and large green eyes. Red lipstick paints the
thin lines of her lips, which pull tight over her sparkling white teeth when
she smiles.

If this is how much a receptionist makes, I’m
in the wrong profession. Suddenly aware of my plain face and childlike ponytail,
I clear my throat. “We’re here to speak to Mr. Jim Kingsbee.”

“Mr. Kingsbee is busy all day with meetings,”
the redhead preens.

“That’s okay, we’ll wait. I feel a break coming
on real soon for him.” Pickering eagerly takes the lead and strolls over to a
buttery leather couch, settling his wide ass comfortably into it. Already
making himself at home, he kicks off his shoes and picks up a random newspaper
from the stack in the corner.

The redhead chews on her bottom lip and turns
to me, eyes pleading. She has no idea how to handle a guy that doesn’t fall on
her every word. “Who may I ask is waiting to speak to Mr. Kingsbee?”

I flash my best smile. “You can tell him SDPD
Homicide is waiting to speak to him. My name is Detective Kylie Kang and that
is my partner, Detective Sean Pickering.”

The redhead eyes me suspiciously, but when she
sees the badge and Glock I casually reveal under my jacket she nods like a
bobblehead and rushes to the intercom to page her boss.

I stroll over to Pickering. “Is it just me or
does it seem like everyone is sleeping with their boss?”

Pickering eyes me and says, “Speak for
yourself. I’m a happily married man. And my boss just so happens to be a
happily married man, too.”

“You mean your boss’s boss. The Lieutenant
isn’t married. Last I heard he was single.”

He shrugs. “I can’t consider that kid to be my
boss quite yet.”

“Declan is thirty-four.”

“Oh, now we’re on a first-name basis?”

“Shut up.”

Choosing the leather sofa opposite Pickering, I
pick up
Time
magazine from the glass table and flip through it. Sure
enough the main article is about Kingsbee and IMCON’s newest tablet PC to be
unveiled in time to hit the consumer market this holiday season; marketing at
its best.

Not quite five minutes passes before the now
chirpy redhead calls us over. “Mr. Kingsbee will see you now.”

“How accommodating of him,” I say.

We follow the redhead down a long, brightly lit
corridor lined with photos of Kingsbee glad-handing alongside the honchos of
the world, including the President. I can’t help but smirk. This man is so full
of shit, it is high time someone pokes a few holes into him. Finally, the case is
starting to get a little fun.

Opening a heavy vault-like door with the touch
of her finger, the redhead steps in, briskly introduces us and closes the door
smoothly behind her as she exits.

Kingsbee sits in an oversized orthopedic chair
behind an enormous mahogany desk, fiddling with the keys of his IMCON computer
keyboard and talking animatedly. A Bluetooth headset glows smugly from his
right ear. He lifts a finger to let us know it will only be a minute, which in
the corporate world means five, besides also meaning
I-am-just-jerking-you-around-to-show-you-how-important-I-am.

We take this time to survey the room, keeping
our unimpressed expressions fixed as we make our way to the low, booth-like
seats in front of Kingsbee’s throne. Once seated, we are barely eye level with
the ledge of his desk. Pickering gives me a slight nudge and mouths
what-a-jerk.
Although Pickering’s face remains unreadable, I know he’s uncomfortable in
the hobbit chair. He’ll probably need help getting out of it.

After what seems like fifteen minutes, Kingsbee
clicks off the Bluetooth and grins, his arms opening wide in a grand gesture of
welcome.

“So, how may I be of service?”