Beware Beware (23 page)

*   *   *

Tuesday morning I googled Joe Tilley and a picture of him and Jamie popped up in the first result. It was the same picture that was shown on TMZ, the two of them strolling on a sunlit sidewalk. Next to the picture was a headline:
POLICE MAKE ARREST IN MURDER OF JOE TILLEY.

I called Chaz, fumbling for my phone without looking away from my laptop.

“Did you hear?” I asked.

“Good morning to you, too,” he said. “Hear what?”

“They arrested Jamie.”

“Oh good grief. When?”

“I don't have any inside info. I just found out a second ago.” I skimmed through the first article, the first of many, from the looks of it. “This morning, I guess. Suspect arrested at his home in West Hollywood.”

“You found out on the Internet?”

“Yup,” I said, biting down on my building anxiety. “No one thought to call me.”

“At this point he probably needs a lawyer more than he needs you.”

I shook my head. “I guess I'm going to try and call Detective Sanchez.”

“Yeah, because she's not busy right now.”

“She'll want to talk to me,” I said. “She thinks I'm holding out on her.”

“Well you are, aren't you?”

“Oh yeah, big-time. And you haven't even heard the latest.”

“Please, regale me.”

I regaled him.

“Holy shit,” he said. “He was a bastard.”

“Yep, that he was.”

“You're going to tell that to Veronica?”

“I'm not planning to,” I said. “But anyway, she probably knows already.”

“Do you think Jamie knew about the rape?”

“I'm trying to crunch that,” I said. “Been trying since yesterday. I was going to call him today, but I guess that's not happening.”

“I wonder if that's why they have him.”

“Could be,” I said. “It gives him motive.”

“Not just him.”

I closed my eyes and held my head with my free hand. “By the way, did you find out anything else about Winfred?”

“I talked to Lori's uncle on the phone,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“He was dodgy, I can tell you that.”

“What did he say?”

“He wouldn't talk to me. He acted like he didn't even speak English.”

“He actually pretended?”

“He actually pretended.”

“That's amazing. I mean I've heard him, and his English is as good as mine. Though, oh,” I said. “Did you say who you were?”

He snorted. “Yes.”

“Did you forget you're one of the two people who witnessed his sister shoot a guy in the neck?”

“Ah,” he said. “Right.”

“Maybe he just got flustered.”

Luckily for us, we'd both declined to testify against Yujin. She was Lori's mom, and we found we didn't have much that was nice to say.

“I was thinking about stopping by the shop, but maybe it would be better if you came with me.” He chuckled. “Maybe it'll help you take your mind off things, too.”

“Jesus,” I said. “Is this my life? All rocks and hard places?”

“It's your call, Song. I can handle him myself if you want.”

“When were you going to go?”

“Sometime today.”

“I want to call Detective Sanchez, and then I'll meet you at the office.”

“Sure,” he said. “Break a leg.”

*   *   *

“Juniper Song,” she said by way of greeting. “I was hoping you'd call.”

“You have my number in your phone? I'm flattered.”

“Well I'm a murder detective, and you seem to be involved in every murder in L.A.”

“You mean Winfred Park?”

“Joe Tilley and Winfred Park. A movie star and a K-Town thug. I wouldn't think they were connected, except both of their lines seem to run through you. Why?”

“Have you considered it might be coincidence?”

“Coincidence is for lazy detectives,” she said. “Not for me, and I'd hope not for you.”

“Well I don't know what to tell you. I'm not calling about Winfred. Couldn't care less about him.”

“So, what are you calling about?”

“You made an arrest. Congratulations.”

“Right, that. Thank you,” she said. “And we did it without your help.”

“How's he doing, by the way? Wasn't he attacked with a baseball bat, like, five minutes ago?” I asked sharply. “Real nice timing.”

“He's fine. Some bruising. Last thing on his mind, I'm sure.”

“What happened? You found his DNA at the crime scene?” I asked. “Did you also find the DNA of a hundred other people?”

“Do you have anything to report? Because otherwise you're wasting my time, Juniper Song.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, lowering my voice. “I'm just pretty upset about this.”

“Listen,” she said, softening her tone, too. “I don't mean to be a bitch here, but this is
my
case. If you want to help me, then go ahead, but I don't have time to sit here and listen to you question my judgment.”

“What if he is innocent? Isn't that something you would want to know?”

“Sure,” she said. “What do you know that I don't?”

I ran through the notes in my head and found them all in a jumble. Daphne's rape sat there, partially processed, impossible to clear away. I was haunted by sorrow, but I was also frustrated with her, by her continued insistence on hiding things from me when I was doing my best to help her and Jamie. And then there was the obvious question: What did it mean that Joe Tilley had raped his prime murder suspect's girlfriend and gotten away with it? I'd been committed to Jamie's innocence, and I had a gut feeling that the wrong person was in jail. But even I had to admit that this latest discovery tightened the case against him. Then again, it introduced new possibilities. Detective Sanchez was already interested in Lanya Waters, a person I now knew had motive. Daphne had lied to me so easily and so often that it was satisfying to know I could get her in deep shit if I chose. But I wasn't about to bring her name into the fray, and even if I did, it would only hurt Jamie's case. If I was sick with anger on hearing about the rape, I could only imagine how Jamie might have felt.

I'd been silent a long time when I heard Detective Sanchez tut-tut on the other end of the line.

“Don't be fooled by a pretty face,” she said.

For an alarming instant, I thought she was talking about Daphne, until I remembered which face had been under discussion. My annoyance brought me back into the moment.

“Please, Veronica. Don't patronize me.”

But as I hung up, Jamie's woeful eyes flashed darkly across my mind. They protested his innocence, but I knew well enough that they had no proof.

*   *   *

I picked Chaz up from the office at ten thirty after a binge of cigarettes and coffee. My conversation with Detective Sanchez had not gone well, and it left a terrible taste I couldn't expunge. Chaz read my mood as he got in the car and kept his questions brief.

Our office was only a half-mile from T & J Collision Center, across a representative chunk of Koreatown, crammed tall with redolent restaurants and low-rent office space. Signposts advertised in tacky block letters, many of them Korean, another large chunk of them in Spanish. When angry white Americans worried about losing control of their country, Koreatown was the wrecked city of their nightmares. Ancient Koreans lived in sallow, stucco apartments, within short bus rides of their Korean markets, doctors, and video stores. My own grandparents had spent their last years in a one-bedroom on New Hampshire, dying without five words of English between them. The Mexicans working in Koreatown didn't bother with English either, but they could rattle off Korean with the soft round tones of native speakers.

T & J was on Eighth Street, on the south side of Koreatown. We parked on the street and made our way up the slope of the driveway. A dozen cars crowded the concrete, some opened up, some whole and shining, in various stages of surgery. It felt strange to be here. It was my first visit, but Chaz had been once before, tracking the stolen car of his murdered brother-in-law. I surveyed the anonymous cars and wondered what stories they told.

The office was set deep behind the driveway, a hideous white building with molded pillars that must have been left over from another phase of the body shop's life. Maybe it had been a statue garden, selling peeing cherub fountains. We knocked and entered without waiting for a response. A bell rang, two-toned and sonorous.

A Korean boy in his early twenties sat up straight and greeted us in English when we walked in. He had a sweet, bland face about the size of a stop sign.

“Is your boss in?” asked Chaz.

“He'll be back in a few minutes. He just went to get food,” said the boy. He indicated a lumpy-looking couch and a coffee table covered in Korean magazines. “You can wait here if you want. Do you want water or anything?”

I felt bad imposing on his hospitality when we weren't paying customers, but Chaz said, “Sure” and made himself comfortable. The boy walked to a water cooler and tapped cold water into two small paper cups. While his back was turned, Chaz and I exchanged a look. He pointed at my chest then changed his hand into a thumbs-up.

When the boy handed me my water, I thanked him and asked, “What's your name?”

“Simon,” he said. “Yours?”

“Chaz,” said Chaz, extending a thick hand and a big cheese of a smile. “And this here's Juniper. Watch out for her.”

“I know your boss, actually,” I told Simon.

“Yeah? Mr. Chung?”

“Yeah, I live with his niece.”

“Lori?”

“You know her?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “How could I not?”

There was nothing slimy about his tone, but I gave him a wry side eye just in case. His face went red as a steamed crab.

“She visits a lot, I mean,” he said, recovering.

“When was she last here?”

“Actually she hasn't been in for a while. Maybe two or three weeks?” He thought about it, chanting
um, um, um
. “Oh I remember. She ran into Winfred.”

I knew from the way he said the name that he didn't know he was talking about a dead man. There was a lilt and an eye roll in his tone that suggested annoyance but no taint of danger. That worked well enough for us. I could almost hear the same wheels turning in Chaz's head, right next to me.

“Is that the guy who's been stalking her?” I asked, more colloquially than truth demanded.

“Has he been? I had a feeling he might try and bother her.”

“What's his deal? Should I be worried?”

“I don't know him that well.”

“He doesn't work here?”

“No. I know he has some kind of thing with Mr. Chung, but I don't really know what it's about.”

“Does he come here a lot?”

“Maybe a couple times a week?”

“Since when?”

He looked at the ceiling and mouthed while he thought. “Two or three months? I don't know. A while.”

“And he only ran into Lori two weeks ago?”

“Honestly, I think Mr. Chung must have been trying to keep them separated.”

“Because Winfred is…” I prompted him.

“Kind of a tough guy asshole?” He wrinkled his face and shrugged.

“Have you interacted with him much?”

“No. I doubt he even knows my name. But I can hear him talking to Mr. Chung. He's loud when he's mad, and he seems mad all the time.”

“About anything in particular?”

“Geez, Song, what's with the interrogation, huh?” Chaz interjected with a corny laugh.

He must have thought I was being unsubtle. I knew he was trying to help, but I glared at him. “I'm just curious about this guy because he won't leave my roommate alone. Fair enough?”

He raised his hands, innocent and smug.

“I don't mind,” said Simon. “The guy gives me the creeps.”

“So, what's he yelling at Taejin for?”

He shrugged. “I'm not supposed to be listening or anything.”

“But that's his office right there, isn't it? And you work in here?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“So, anything worth eavesdropping?”

“Well I know Mr. Chung owes him something, because he says that all the time. My Korean isn't amazing or anything, but I know that phrase pretty well by now. He calls himself Mr. Chung's personal savior, and he calls him a little mouse.”

“He yells at him in Korean?”

“Both. You know how that goes, I'm sure.”

I thought about my rare conversations with my mother, so evenly bilingual I never noticed when I was switching.

“But you don't know what Winfred's role is here?”

“I asked Mr. Chung when Winfred first started coming around, but I could tell it made him uncomfortable. He gave me some vague answer about business, and I didn't ask again.” He hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Part of me wonders if it's something illegal. He's a scary guy, and he's all tatted up, too.”

“I noticed as much,” I said. “Anything concrete?”

He shook his head and smiled. “I just have a paranoid streak.”

Chaz shifted his weight and tapped his knee against mine.
If he only knew
, said the knee.

The doorbell sang, and Taejin Chung walked in carrying an open cardboard box loaded with napkins and foam containers. The pungent smell of kimchi cut across the room and I was suddenly aware of my boss as a white man. Taejin looked up, and when he saw me and Chaz, he bowed as deeply as he could with his lunch held in front of him. I bowed back, a short one, and greeted him in Korean.

Taejin was a small man, about five foot four and slight all around—there wasn't much mass in the Chung/Lim family gene pool. He was in his early forties, with a full head of silver hair that clashed pleasantly with his youthful, tanned face. He looked a lot like both Lori and her mother, with fine features that would be called beautiful on any woman. His hairless, bony arms poked out of a rolled-up button-down, open across the front to reveal a ribbed wife beater, already sullied with a splash of peppery orange soup.