Grave on Grand Avenue (10 page)

Usually Mom’s the enforcer, so I’m a little confused. Dad rarely loses his cool.

Noah’s face, I swear, has turned gray. Right now he could be playing one of the zombies on
The Walking Dead
. It’s one thing for Mom to be mad; we’re all actually kind of used to it. It’s comforting, in a weird sort of way. But seeing Dad mad means that something is definitely not right in the world.

Grandma Toma, who’s a little hard of hearing, nudges Noah for assistance. “Now what’s going on?”

“Mom, why don’t you go watch some TV,” my mother says, a little too abruptly.

Grandma Toma shrugs her shoulders and shuffles off in her house slippers.

“What is going on?” Dad repeats. His anger is aimed toward his mother, whose face is the same ashen color as Noah’s.

“Noah’s right. It’s your father,” she whispers.

“My sperm donor? Because I don’t remember ever seeing a father in the house, although there’ve been plenty of men.”

Uhh. That was a low blow. Not that Lita doesn’t deserve it, but still. Dad never, ever goes there.

“What the hell, Mother? Why was he at your place and talking to my son? Why has he suddenly appeared after all this time? And why does my son know about this before I do?”

“I was out of the country. In Puerto Rico.” Lita scrambles to explain. “I just found out that he was in town just today.”

“He mentioned something about having been in jail,” Noah blurts out.

“Beautiful. Just beautiful,” Dad comments.

Mom, surprisingly, is silent. She looks as shocked as we are—maybe more so—that Dad is having a meltdown. Or maybe it’s this new information discombobulating her, that we, specifically her husband and children, are genetically linked to a felon.

“He got out a while ago, actually,” I can’t help but add. “It was back in the sixties.”

“You, too?” Dad looks betrayed. Yeah, I guess I’m Daddy’s little girl.

“He came to me, Dad. He said that when he heard I was in the LAPD, he wanted to tell me that he thinks he may know who’s behind the Old Lady Bandit bank robberies. Lita thinks it’s this guy he used to run around with way back when.” I don’t mention anything about Fernandes also being responsible for my missing car. There’s obviously only so much my father can take right now.

“I forbid you to talk to him!” Dad shouts, which is a plainly ridiculous thing for him to say. He then addresses Lita. “And I forbid you to talk to my daughter about this behind my back. This is just—just unacceptable.” Dad opens the hall closet and pulls his blue Windbreaker back on.

“Gary—Gary—” Mom calls out. Before following him outside, she turns. “See what you’ve done,” she says to all of us.

Hey, I’m an innocent victim, too,
I think.

Meanwhile, Lita’s looking completely defeated. Her gauzy, loose outfits usually give her a playful air, but right now she just looks deflated and bedraggled.

Grandma Toma reenters the kitchen. “Your chubby Indonesian friend is on TV,” she announces and then shuffles back to her room.

“What?” I don’t have any Indonesian friends. But both Noah and I run after Grandma Toma, while Lita stays in the kitchen alone with the wine bottle. We plop down on the couch in front of the large flat-screen television that overwhelms the room, including my old small twin bed in the corner.

The anchors have moved on to a story about the split of some reality show couple, so we rewind the DVR to watch the story from the beginning.

“Grand Avenue Fatality: Homicide or Accident?” reads the slug at the bottom of the screen. A reporter is on the scene at the Walt Disney Concert Hall. “Family members of a Boyle Heights gardener who passed away today claim that his death was no accident.”

I gasp.
Poor Mr. Fuentes
.

“Did you know the guy?” Noah asks.

I shush Noah as I concentrate on the news segment. “Eduardo Fuentes died this afternoon at Los Angeles General Hospital after sustaining critical wounds from a fall down these stairs.” The reporter then gestures to the stairs behind him. “His family says he was actually pushed by Fang Xu, the father of the highly acclaimed cellist Xu, who performed here at the hall yesterday.”

The report then cuts to recorded footage of a middle-aged woman I recognize as Marta Delgado talking into multiple microphones. “My father was a dedicated worker his whole life. To be killed like this, for who knows what reason, is murder in our eyes. And the Chinese government is just protecting the man because his son is a famous musician.”

Video cuts to last night’s reception. First Xu on the stage with the USC professor, then Mr. Xu, standing near the translator, Washington Jeung, and Nay. Nay looks a little heavy in the shot; she’s not going to be happy.

“That’s Nay!” Noah exclaims. “I thought that she was Cambodian.”

“She’s from Lakewood,” I answer back, shushing him.

“That’s your friend, right? Likes to talk a lot?” Grandma Toma says.

“Yeah,” I say. I wonder whether Nay has heard about Fuentes’s death.

My phone immediately starts ringing. It’s the private phone number of homicide detective Cortez Williams. The number that he once warned me to lose forever.

“Where’s your friend, Nay Pram?” Cortez demands.

“What’s going on?”

“We can’t locate Xu or his father. We think that they are leaving via private jet for a foreign country. They can’t leave California. Especially now.”

I can finish Cortez’s sentence.
Especially now that Eduardo Fuentes is dead.

“The PR person at the hall says the Xus left last night with a translator, Washington Jeung, and that a reporter from the local college newspaper was with them. Nay Pram. Isn’t that your friend?”

Unfortunately, I can’t fully protect Nay. I’ve already burned too many bridges for that. “Yes, that’s her. But she has nothing to do with Xu. She’s involved with the translator. That’s all.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Actually, I’m not sure.”

“Well, if she’s your friend, you better get in touch with her. If the translator knows where Xu and his father are, she may, too. She needs to tell us ASAP, okay?”

After I agree, Cortez starts to end the conversation.

“Wait,” I call out. “Is there anything new in the Old Lady Bandit case?”

“Why are you asking?”

“I was just wondering.”

“That’s what I was worried about, Ellie. Your wondering is dangerous.”

We say good-bye for real, and I feel like a fool. I don’t know what to do with the information that Fernandes gave me. Actually, on second thought, what information? There’s nothing concrete. No name. I don’t even know how to reach Fernandes—only that he’s out there somewhere driving my car.

I call Nay but I only get her voice mail.
Damn you, Nay,
I think to myself. I leave her a brief message telling her to call me.

I try texting her:
I need to talk to you
.

Nothing.

Then I remember. I use my Shippo Twitter account.

Shippo Wan Wan

@naypramreporter Where are you?

I wait. Then finally, a response.

Nay Pram

@ShippoWanWan WASSUP?

Shippo Wan Wan

@naypramreporter Do you know about Mr. Xu?

Nay Pram

@ShippoWanWan WHAT ABOUT HIM?

Shippo Wan Wan

@naypramreporter Just call me.

No response.

Shippo Wan Wan

@naypramreporter CALL ME!!!!

Shippo Wan Wan

@naypramreporter I’m not kidding!!!

Nay Pram

@ShippoWanWan OK. GIVE ME A SEC.

Shippo Wan Wan

@naypramreporter Now!!!

My phone immediately rings. It is, of course, Nay.

“What’s going on, Ellie?” Nay says. “What’s the big emergency? You know I don’t like being addressed with exclamation marks.” Background noise almost overwhelms Nay’s voice. It’s loud, like an engine, swooshing and then dissipating.

I’m not used to Nay getting mad at me. Usually it’s the other way around, and I’m a little thrown off. “Where are you?”

“Saying bye-bye to the Xus. Well, at least the dad.”

“Are you at LAX?”

“No, these people are swagger; they rent their own plane. Ellie, it’s so cool! I’ll tell you all about it later but my phone is almost dead.”

I cut her off. “NAY. I need you to keep Mr. Xu there, okay? It’s important. I don’t know about Xu, but his father has to stay in this country. Talk to detectives.”

She senses how freaked-out I am. “Chill, okay,” she says. “Mr. Xu is around here, somewhere—” Nay’s voice then cuts off. Her battery’s probably dead and she never has her charger when she needs it.

Okay, Nay,
I say to myself.
Van Nuys Airport, here I come.

FIVE

I never drive into Van Nuys unless I really have to. I mean, what’s in Van Nuys? It’s a burned-out patch of ground, filled with generic mini-malls and curious light-industrial businesses. And, of course, the private airport. I knew of its existence, but have never gone to it until tonight.

Traffic on the 134 is actually not bad—it’s the tail end of rush hour—but once I get on the 170, I’m basically at a standstill. The last time I was here was to go to Tillman Reclamation Plant in Van Nuys, which recycles wastewater; you know, the water in our toilet bowls after we flush. It was for Mother’s Day one year because, believe it or not, it happens that the wastewater recycling plant also has one of the most gorgeous Japanese gardens I’ve ever seen in LA. My father was so jazzed, he kept repeating, “Can you believe this thing of beauty is here, a product of recycled wastewater?” My mother and Grandma Toma, the actual Japanese
and the honored guests, were less impressed. Grandma Toma kept sniffing and saying, “Something stinks.”

Mother’s Day is this weekend, and it’s bound to be awkward. Usually we have a brunch at my parents’ house. To be fair, Mom ends up doing a lot of the work, but then, the day is also for Grandma Toma and Lita. Grandma hates crowds and waiting, so to keep the peace, it’s easier to just do the celebration at home. I do make what I can—usually coffee cake, fruit salad and freshly squeezed orange juice—and Dad makes his famous frittatas. Noah even gets in on the action, and in recent years has broken out our old espresso machine to make custom cappuccinos and lattes with not only coffee but matcha tea.

My phone vibrates with a text from Noah. Although I know that I shouldn’t be on my phone while driving, we’re not moving, so I read it:
dad & mom R home now. won’t talk to Lita. she left.

Fantastic,
I think.
Friggin’ fantastic.

Since traffic’s still stalled and I’m on my phone anyway, I Google the private airport. All sorts of information appears. I pride myself on knowing a lot about LA, but I didn’t know that the modest Van Nuys Airport is one of the world’s busiest general aviation airports despite not having a main terminal. More like fixed-based operators, or individual hangars with private carriers. It’s also apparently about seven hundred and thirty acres in size, which means it’s going to be hard for me to figure out Nay’s exact location.

Once cars start moving, I switch from Google to GPS and let Mildred—that’s the voice of my GPS—guide me to the general vicinity of the airport. I get off at Sherman Way and travel west. This neighborhood is pretty much what
you’d expect in an area where people, especially men, fly in and out. Strip clubs and fast food. What happens in Van Nuys stays in Van Nuys.

It’s dark now and practically everything looks the same. There’s a gate around the perimeter of the landing field with a mishmash of aviation-related businesses around it. I’m not wearing my uniform, but I have a police Windbreaker in my trunk. Correction: in the Green Mile’s trunk. The car that I don’t have.
Crap.

I’m really in a bad mood right now, and I try to steady my mind.
Don’t think about your grandfather. Think back to your conversation with Nay.
I remember the sound of a helicopter. I pull over and Google “helicopter tours” and “Van Nuys.” Only a couple of places come up. The one with the highest Yelp review rankings says it’s the place to go for night tours.

I drive as quickly as I can but I’m really out of my element; I don’t recognize a thing. I see a company that grows sod. What is that doing here in Van Nuys?

A few single-engine airplanes fly overhead, so I know that I’m close to the runway. And then I see it. A building advertising helicopter rides. The lights are still on inside. Next to it is another nondescript two-story structure, some sort of charter airline company. Could definitely be one that the Xus are using. I find a parking spot; the lot is pretty much empty aside from a handful of cars. The closest one is a white Chevrolet. I shine my pocket flashlight through the window into the vehicle. On the floor of the back section is a folder and papers. I recognize the logo. It’s the press packet from the Eastern Overtures concert.

Even though I haven’t seen Nay, I suspect that she’s in
the area. It’s enough. I call Cortez and leave my location on his voice mail.

There’s a heavy gate in between the two buildings with a sign warning against any unauthorized persons entering the landing strip. Even against the night sky I can see the curved outlines of old-fashioned airplane hangars. I don’t feel like I’m in modern-day Los Angeles right now. It’s like I stepped back in time. Or I’m in the Midwest—or at least how I picture the Midwest, with tons of open space.

I pull open the heavy glass door and see a ticket counter, just like any airline. And beyond that is a simple waiting area, where Nay is seated by herself on a plastic chair.