Deadly Lullaby (18 page)

“I need to talk to her. Text her and have her call me. Tell her it's urgent.”

He agrees, but his expression is one of pure skepticism. “I'll text her, but good luck on a response. Monique's not one to obey a direct order, especially one from me.”

“All right, give me her cellphone number and I'll let you know where she is, if and when I track her down.”

“You going to ping her number through cell towers?” he says, grabs his cell from the coffee table, opens it, finds Monique's number on his contacts list and shows it to me.

It's not the same number Eleanor gave me earlier. “Yes,” I say, feeling like I finally accomplished something as I tap the number into my phone. “If her phone account is in your name, with your approval we can get it done in under an hour.”

He shakes his head, and sets to composing a text message, I assume to Monique. “No, when she left she got an account of her own. I can't even tell you which company it's through.”

“We'll need a subpoena, then, and I should be able to get one to the service companies in town by the end of the day. Response time varies by company, but they usually email the documents back to us within twelve hours. Then we'll have to see which towers she's hitting the most, and after that it all becomes educated-guess work. I'll talk to you when we get the data to see if the general locations of the towers she's pinged are near any of her usual haunts. Do you have a recent cell number for Sonita?”

He shakes his head. “Hers was disconnected last time I called it. That was about the same time Monique left.”

Damn. “Could I have a picture of Monique?”

He nods. “I'll send you one from my phone. What's your number?”

I tell him my number and he works his thumbs on the screen, as if familiar with the procedure for sending a
JPEG
through his cell. He glances at his cell screen before replacing it on the table and leaning back, thinking some more. “You know, I have a pretty good idea where Monique might be spending some time.”

When he says nothing further, I say, “You want to tell me where?”

“Over at Sonita's uncle's house in Brentwood, some cat named Khang.” He says Khang's name the way he'd say “
no-good motherfucker.”

I don't say anything, just look at him with my pen poised over my notepad as if the fact of Khang's existence is news to me.

“Don't tell me you haven't heard of Khang, Sonita's uncle?”

“Maybe what I've heard is wrong. I need to hear what you know.”

He narrows his eyes and works his jaw. “Sonita moved in with the man some time back, and she and Monique started spending some time over there. They don't like him that much, but he's rich and has a nice house they can disappear in.” He starts to say something else but thinks better of it, turning his head away and gulping wine to wash the words down.

“What else do you know about Khang?”

He becomes sullen, drumming the fingers of his free hand against his thigh. “Excuse me,” he says, “I have to hit the head,” and jumps up and walks down the hall.

I let him go without trying to stop him.

When the coast is clear I snatch his cell from the coffee table and depress the screen-activation button; the screen is locked and PIN protected.

Shit.

My phone vibrates, indicating I just received a text message. I look down to see the message is from Terry Lee, and I open the three pictures of Monique he attached—two head shots, one full-length. To say the girl's pretty would be to insult her; even the words “fucking gorgeous” understate it. Wide and defined movie-star lips like her father's, high cheekbones, and eyes that are a genetic mixture of both parents. Her African features blend beautifully with her Asian ones, making her what's known in some circles as a “Blasian,” her skin the color of a mocha shake and smooth and clear. Her makeup is well done, except maybe her eye shadow's so heavy it detracts from the Asiatic tinge to her eyes. Long, straight, shiny black hair that's streaked gold like Sonita's. Her figure is long and lithe and would be at home on any fashion runway in LA.

Before long, the muffled gurgling sounds of a flushed toilet emanate from the rear of the house. Lefler returns, grabs a beer from the fridge and a bottle of wine from the counter, and walks back to the sofa. His face is stoic and his strides are purposeful, as if his break from me filled him with new resolve.

When he sits I place my empty bottle on the coffee table, take the fresh one from his extended hand and say, “You were talking about Khang.”

He nods. “I only met him once, when he stopped by to pick Sonita up. What I know about him I got third- or maybe even fourth-hand, but word is he's a drug dealer—a distributor of serious fuckin' weight—and maybe a pimp, though I can't find out the extent of that. If all this shit's true, he's real quiet about it. My wife's Vietnamese and knows some Cambodians, and got me in with some of that crowd. Most said Khang was connected, you know, ganged up. Some of them just stared at me when I mentioned his name, like they were terrified of the man.” He takes a drink of wine. “Sonita told me he owns an import business, and I checked it out. It's a big place, man, over on Sixth and Alameda.”

“Have you talked to him since Monique left?”

“I have, and he denies knowing where she and Sonita are. I don't believe him.”

“If I had to take a wild guess,” I say, “it would be that you're afraid Khang's involved your daughter in prostitution.”

His eyes harden as if he's taken my statement as an accusation, but they soften just as quickly as he resigns himself to the facts. “That's just one worry I got about that motherfucker. There's a lot of Asians that play by a different set of rules than we do, man, it's their culture. I know because I married one.” He pauses. “I guess you know my wife's in prison for shooting up a guy, right?” I nod and he continues, shaking his head. “Chau's crazy, but she got it from her mother, who was running a house in Bangkok when we met. I was in the navy then, on liberty in Pattaya Bay, and Chau said she hated what her mother did, you know, luring young girls into prostitution—some of them little girls, man, like twelve and thirteen. I brought Chau to the States to take her away from all that, and she was straight until we ran into money trouble a few years back. She started running her own little stable and showed me the ropes, and I used my technological know-how to expand it to what it is now. If it wasn't for me, Chau would've had sixteen-year-olds working for us, maybe younger, but I wouldn't stand for it.” He pauses to sift through what he'll tell me next, says, “I'm not going to talk to you about my business in any more detail than this: I don't force women to work for me, and I pay 'em top dollar—I mean
top
dollar—and treat every one like a princess. I even have a bonus schedule
and
health insurance available if they want it, and provide doctors to help keep them STD-free.
And
I verify that everybody's twenty-one years old or older, no exceptions.”

I nod as if congratulating him for his nobility. “Do you have any evidence that Khang's lured Monique and Sonita into prostitution?”

“No, he'd be dead if I did, or I'd be dead from trying to kill him.” He bites his thumbnail, then yanks it from his mouth as if irritated that he's relapsed into the habit. “Honestly, I'm more afraid that Monique's started up her own little thing and recruited Sonita to work with her. Monique's headstrong and as wild as her mother, and has the same attitude about her body. And she's independent-minded. Hell, she's already been busted once for solicitation.”

“I know,” I say, “I saw her record,” which reflected that she tried to hustle an undercover guy in a hotel bar, the Sidebar at the Beverly Wilshire. Monique admitted to the undercover guy that she hit the bar after servicing a customer upstairs in his room.

Lefler takes a deep breath to compose himself, looking away for a spell before looking back at me. “Now, I'm not
positive
she's in the business. I googled her cell number and she isn't using her phone on any escort internet sites, and you have to advertise on the net these days unless you walk the streets.” He shakes his head. “And Monique would never walk the streets—never.”

“But that doesn't mean she isn't using another phone for business.”

“Right, which is exactly what she'd do to hide from me; she knows I'd find her if she posted her number somewhere on the net. Could be, too, that she's hooked up with an internet escort service that passes the customers on to her after snaring them. But I seriously doubt she'd work for anyone. Like I said, she's an independent girl.”

“So you think it unlikely she'd go to work in a house, a brothel.”

“No, she'd place an ad on her own and get a hotel room. I've looked at every single escort ad in LA, too—hundreds of them—and her picture's not on a single one.” He shrugs. “Still, she could always post a picture of another girl, which a lot of girls do for privacy.”

“Or to keep from getting tracked down.”

“Right. As long as the chick's got the same features and is as pretty as the pictures they post, the customer never complains when he shows up.”

Lefler goes still, blinks a few times, and looks off into the distance over my shoulder, a stunned expression on his face. “You know,” he finally says, “I can't believe I'm sitting here talking about my little girl this way.” He wipes his mouth, glancing briefly to his left at the hallway that leads to his bedroom—to Monique's old bedroom, too, I guess. “I'm really getting worried about her now. You think she's mixed up in whatever got Sonita killed?”

“I don't have any evidence of that, no, but I can't say she's not.”

“Of course you can't….I'm starting to feel bad, man, real bad.” He massages the back of his neck. “I've ragged on Chau today, probably more than I should, and it's not fair of me. I was raised right, by my mother and two aunts, and I know that if Monique's been up to no good, it's as much my fault as her mother's. I tried my best to hide what her mother and I've been up to, but she caught on, as a smart kid will do. It's hard for children to live straight when their parents set a bad example for them, especially their father. It's a fact of life.”

“Can't argue with that one,” I say.

I think getting my hands on Monique Lefler's cellphone data from her provider might help me track her down, but there are two better reasons for wanting it as urgently as I do. First, finding out what cell towers her phone hit will tell me how close she was to MacArthur Park during the period leading up to Sonita's death, and this is a fact I want resolved before I talk to her. Second, since Monique and Sonita were close friends and apparently ran off together, they should have called each other frequently. The number that appears most prominently on Monique's call records will probably be Sonita's. Sonita's cellphone data—who she talked to before she died, which cell towers her phone hit—could damn well break the case.

I call Abel on the way back downtown on the Long Beach Freeway, summarize what I've learned so far, and discuss in detail what I need. Then he says, “Send me your pictures of Miss Lefler and I'll issue a BOLO, then process the subpoena. If the system moves at warp speed, we might get our hands on the cell data before nightfall. What's your next move?”

“I guess you'd say I'm at a crossroads. There's Sonita's uncle to talk to, this Khang guy, but I wanted to load up for him by finding out what Monique knows first.”

“Yeah, but she could have zilch for us. And for all we know, she's gone missing. You've got some nice momentum going here, Crucci, and waiting for that girl to materialize could stall it. I say go forward with Khang. You can always backtrack if and when we find the girl.”

“I'm on my way to his business now,” I say, relieved that Abel's urging me onward in the field and freeing me from the shit work associated with Monique. Momentum aside, work keeps my mind off my father and everything swirling around him; I want to delay getting caught up in that vortex again as long as possible.

I jump off the 5 onto Soto Street and take Whittier to Sixth, reaching Khang's place of business at Alameda in ten minutes. There's nothing fancy about the property that houses KN Imports, just a boxy, white-brick office building of two stories that has a long warehouse jutting from its side. Plain but clean, well maintained. Fresh white paint on the building, the gutters and trim painted light gray, a smooth asphalt parking lot recently paved, the parking slips all lined with bright-white paint. Business appears to be hopping here, with at least fourteen cars parked in the slips by the office building and semitrailers backed into all but one of the six loading bays on the side of the warehouse. I pull in the lot from Alameda and roll slowly past the office. Right in front of the office door are four parking slips reserved for management. The one that has Khang Nhou, President stenciled on the concrete abutment is vacant.

I check my watch: 1555 hours, not a rare time of day to find a business owner absent from work, and Khang has a good excuse for his absence. His niece is dead, and he's either grieving over his loss or busy covering up his involvement in her murder. I park in the visitor's slip and shoulder through the front door into the reception area, which fits with the outside of the building. Plain, but tidy and functional, a maroon-and-gray-checkered tile floor and clean white walls with gray crown molding. The only thing that stands out about the reception area is the shiny gray door to my right that ostensibly leads to the office area; it's a heavy-steel bastard that looks as though it could withstand a sustained rocket barrage. An identical door is to my left at the other end of the reception area and, experienced sleuth that I am, my hunch is it leads to the warehouse.

The receptionist is an attractive Asian woman in her thirties. She has shoulder-length hair and wears a sleeveless gray business dress with a small but distinct “KN” company logo emblazoned on her right breast in maroon script lettering. I badge her and introduce myself, telling her I need to speak with Mr. Khang Nhou about his niece.

She glances at my badge as if it's a calling card from a vacuum cleaner salesman, wordlessly picks up her iPhone from the desktop, taps out a message, and replaces the phone in its previous position. Clasps her hands in her lap and maintains her erect bearing while casting her eyes up at me, seemingly wanting to engage me in a staring contest.

The room is dead silent, my thought being it's soundproofed, and I imagine that I hear the second hand
tick tick tick
on the woman's gold Rolex. Her cellphone comes to my rescue by going
ding
and audibly vibrating on the desktop.

Her hands still clasped in her lap, the receptionist briefly releases her eyes from mine to read the message. Her voice is melodic and free of any trace of an Asian accent. “Mr. Khang says to tell you he is at The Leopard Spot, his establishment on—”

I show her my palm in a quieting gesture. “Don't strain your vocal cords. I know where it is.”

According to COPLINK, KN, LLC, was issued a liquor license last year, d/b/a The Leopard Spot, a “private club” on North Hill Street in Chinatown. North Hill Street is just outside the heart of Chinatown and the architecture tries to reflect the Chinese culture. Tiled, gabled roofs with sweeping curvature that rises at the corners pagoda-style, many of the ridges decorated with Chinese figurines—dragons, horned fish and birds, tigers with humanoid heads. Even the streetlights are topped off with little pagoda roofs. Most business signs are done in Mandarin script, the English translations printed underneath in smaller letters. Almost all the buildings on North Hill are sided with white- or tan-colored Spanish stucco—this is, after all, LA.

Traffic is surprisingly light and there's meter parking available, one slip right across the street from The Leopard Spot. The place looks like a dive from outside, a dingy white stucco building topped with a green roof that resembles a pagoda just enough to deliver the obligatory Chinese image. A tiny structure is attached to the side of the bar like an afterthought; it houses a hair salon, a small one that can't accommodate more than two chairs. A black Lamborghini is parked in the lot by the salon; based on what Eleanor told me of Khang's love for exotic cars, it has to be his.

There's a young Asian woman looking out the big front window of the bar—a server, from the way she's dressed—standing at ease, her hands folded behind the small of her back the way a sentry would do. I cross the street, and the usual anticipation quickens my pulse. Will Khang talk to me? Bad guys as apparently sophisticated as Khang rarely do, taking the Fifth almost immediately upon laying eyes on me. And if that's the way he plays it, I'll either have to leave or muscle him; based on his record, even the kind of muscle I'm capable of delivering wouldn't budge this guy an inch.

Halfway across the street, I see that the front door is ajar and loud recorded music from inside is vibrating the building's facade: the Beatles performing “
I Want to Hold Your Hand.”
Inside, the place is as poorly lit as an opium den and reeks of incense and cigarette smoke; the faintest whiff of
cannabis
tickles my nose, heavy and sweet like top-end hash. The Chinese lanterns dangling from the ceiling glow red orange and provide most of the light, giving the drifting smoke a surreal cast. The bar runs down the right side of the joint, the back of it paneled with smoked mirrors. Two Asian men, one beefy, the other lean, are at the bar with three Asian women perched around them on barstools. The men are positioned as if they were chatting up the women before I walked in, and now they watch my every move. A fat Asian male tends bar.

Khang sits at the middle table of the three four-tops arranged between the bar and the booths, and his eyes meet mine instantly. He's noticeably older than he was in the mug shots on record—a receded hairline, no mustache now, aged skin that's tanning-booth tawny—but he still has the same face, pointed like a bird's with a mouth that protrudes like a beak, and the same hairspray-stiff mullet that hangs over the back of his collar. He wears a maroon silk suit, so shiny it reflects even the low light, and a gray silk shirt buttoned at the top. Sitting next to him is an attorney named Lawrence Haddad, a criminal-defense specialist of some repute—not the best around, but Khang could do much worse. Larry is of Lebanese descent and probably in his mid to late fifties, appears physically fit, and has a swarthy, Omar Sharif charisma about him, complete with mustache.

Except for the loud music, the bar goes dead quiet when I step up to Khang's table, and Khang throws a glance at the bartender. As if obeying his telepathic order, he reaches beneath the bar top and lowers the volume to a tolerable level.

Haddad remains seated as he offers me his hand in greeting, flashing that Omar Sharif smile. “Good afternoon, Detective Crucci—Leo, if I might. Good seeing you again.”

As Haddad introduces me to Khang, grandly claiming that I'm one of LAPD's finest, my mind flashes back to last year when I tangled with him in a jewelry-store robbery case, with me on the hot seat as the star witness in an evidence-suppression hearing. Haddad's goal was to tease enough truthful testimony out of me to convince the judge my search of his client's car was constitutionally infirm, thus excluding from evidence the items I'd seized: ski masks, coveralls, hand weapons, and about a hundred grand worth of merchandise. I was thoroughly prepared for the hearing, and Haddad whiffed every swing he threw at me. The way he smiled at me as I exited the witness stand made me think he knew I'd pulled one over on him—and I had indeed pulled one over on him. My further thought was he couldn't wait to get another shot at me.

“Thanks for the compliment, Larry,” I say, and sit across the table from him and focus on Khang; he's largely unreadable except to say he's wound tight, his dark eyes simmering, his lips pressed firmly together in a thin line. “Mr. Khang,” I say, “I'm sorry for your loss.”

He nods. “Thank you, Detective Crucci.” His voice is high-pitched, that of your average Asian, but with little accent. He taps out a Salem cigarette from the pack on the table, asks, “Do you mind?” and lights up when I respond, “No, not at all,” and smiles when I light one of my own.

“I, uh, met your sister early this morning, and informed her of Sonita's death.” He nods and I say, “How's she doing?”

He checks his watch, a gold Movado, its tank ringed with diamonds. “As of one hour ago, she was resting peacefully. Thank you for attending to her last night. I understand she was very distressed.”

“Yes, that's the worst part of my job, having to break that kind of news to family.” I remove my iPhone from my breast pocket and place it on the table. “The next worst part of my job is questioning family about how the murder of their loved ones may have come about. I'm sure your attorney has explained how crucial my questions are to the process.”

Haddad slides a stapled sheath of papers across the table to me. “Khang understands, yes. He is also, like his sister, deeply grieved over his loss. Despite his grief, he called me early this morning and asked my advice in helping with the impending police investigation. To make sure he didn't leave anything out and to speed things along for you guys, I advised him that we should prepare this detailed statement. We worked on it more or less all day, mostly by phone, and it contains everything Khang can think of that might help you.”

“Can't I just ask him questions? You know, the way a cop would do?”

Haddad leans back and says in a firm voice. “Read the statement then ask any question you feel the need to ask.”

“And Khang will answer them.”

Haddad inspects the nail on his right index finger as he flicks at it with his thumbnail. “Of course,” he says, looking up now, “as long as it's relevant to the murder of his niece.”

“And who'll be the judge of relevancy?”

“We're on the same side, Detective. Let's get on with this.”

I'm less than encouraged by what I expect to learn from the written statement, but there's no choice but to read the damn thing. With the Fifth Amendment tucked safely up their sleeves, the men across the table can trump me anytime they want. With Haddad here, the thought of applying muscle is now unthinkable.

The four-page document is titled “Sworn Statement” and is broken down into numbered, well-written paragraphs. Though the last page contains Khang's notarized signature, it's apparent that Haddad prepared the document. I'm a fast reader and scan the document quickly, noting only a few facts I don't already know or couldn't have guessed; there are no obvious holes in it, and I reread it more slowly to make sure I didn't miss something the first time through. What twists my stomach almost immediately is Sonita's cell number, which is her old one that's been disconnected. A list of Khang's phone numbers are on here, too—home, work, cell—along with a statement that any official contact with him is to be initiated through his attorney. The other facts that catch my eye begin with Khang saying he became Sonita's guardian because her mother—his sister—could no longer control her. Sonita rarely came home to her mother, and she was often high on drugs and verbally abusive when she did return. Khang felt Sonita was much more capable than her school performance indicated, and his intention was to groom her for a career at KN Imports, hopefully for one in management.

This plan began to fall apart almost from the beginning. Sonita skipped school, rarely reported to her intern position at KN, and continued to abuse drugs and alcohol. Her constant companion for the last year or so was Monique Lefler, who the document describes in detail—a picture attached as Exhibit Two (Sonita's picture being Exhibit One), her correct address, her cell number (the one Terry Lee gave me), her father's phone number and everything Khang claims to know about him, including his criminal history, and the same information for Monique's mother. In Khang's opinion, as expressed via Haddad in his statement, Monique was a bad influence on Sonita and led her astray—to what extent he claims would be pure conjecture on his part, but he's practically certain Monique supplied her with drugs. Khang punished Sonita for her poor behavior—a curfew and a big cut in her allowance being the main ones—but the discipline made her rebel even more. Two weeks ago Sonita left his home, and he's had no contact with her since, either in person or by phone. She had pulled this stunt in the past for three, maybe four days at a time, usually staying, she claimed, at Monique's house. He was just becoming concerned enough to consider contacting the police when he learned of her death early this morning from the nurses attending his sister. The next to last paragraph details Khang's movements yesterday from the moment he left home for work until he went to bed, and lists several witnesses to corroborate the story, all KN employees and household staff. The final paragraph of the statement claims that other than their drug and alcohol consumption, Khang has no knowledge, direct or indirect, that Sonita or Monique ever engaged in any form of criminal activity, and similarly has no knowledge that they associated with criminals of any stripe. Khang read the short article in the newspaper this morning that reported we have a suspect in custody, but he otherwise has no idea who might have killed her. In the statement's final two sentences, Khang says that about a month ago he overheard Sonita and Monique giggling about the characters they ran into in McArthur Park. He chastised them for hanging around there and prohibited Sonia from ever going there again.