Grave on Grand Avenue (2 page)

I don’t know how I’ll break it to my grandmother Lita (short for
abuelita
; even though she’s not Latina by blood, Lita taught Spanish to high school students for forty years and inspired me to pursue my BA in Spanish). She’s the one who gave me the car in the first place. It used to belong to my grandfather, my father’s father. Mr. Anonymous. When I had to do a family-tree project in elementary school, I had branches going from Los Angeles to Okinawa, Japan, on my mother’s side. On my
father’s side, I had Lita’s Scottish ancestors, but one tree branch abruptly ended with my grandfather John Doe, the name my father told me. I was so naïve back then that I thought that was his actual name.

But Lita, thankfully, is out of town, on one of her exotic getaways. This time she’s in Puerto Rico. I don’t know how she’s going to react. I feel like I’ve let her down. And I’m not too proud of myself, either. I mean, to have your car stolen out of your own driveway while you’re home is pretty embarrassing. Doubly so when you consider that I’m supposedly one of LAPD’s finest. I’m a P2, Police Officer II, no longer on probation after a year of patrol. My goal is to make detective by thirty, though right now my friends joke that as a bicycle cop assigned to downtown LA, I’m barely a glorified security guard. I don’t need to give anyone more fodder. In other words, I won’t be Tweeting my car theft anytime soon, even if I was on Twitter.

Detective Cortez Williams of the Robbery-Homicide Division can’t believe it when I call him to file a report. Again, embarrassing, as I relate how I’d last seen it parked in my driveway just a couple of hours earlier. “You didn’t hear the engine? And your dog didn’t bark?” Cortez asked.

Shippo, the fattest Chihuahua mix in the world, bark at a car thief? I forgot that Cortez never met my dog. Shippo may play watchdog when I’m not around, but once I’m home and he’s snoozing on my stomach while I’m lying on my couch, surfing the web? Not even sirens responding to a five-alarm fire would cause Shippo to bend an ear.

“Well, I’ll tell the Robbery section to keep tabs on it. But I wouldn’t—”

“I know, I know.”
Don’t expect it to ever be found.
“So,
you’ve been busy,” I say. It’s a loaded statement. More like,
Why haven’t you called
? Although I’m pretty sure I know the reason. Cortez and I got close a few months ago, back in February, but professional issues overshadowed our personal attraction. It’s complicated. He’s seven years older than me, and has a kid. And, most important, we both have the same boss—the LAPD—and having a relationship wouldn’t be good for either of our careers.

“Yeah, well, the Old Lady Bandit,” Cortez says.

How clueless could I be? The Old Lady Bandit has been the talk of the station for a week. A woman who looked to be at least seventy years old on security camera footage had hit ten banks around downtown LA, the latest one in Lincoln Heights last Wednesday. Only this time, the robbery left a security guard dead. It was strange to hear of bank robberies these days, especially in Los Angeles. Totally old-school. We used to be the bank robbery capital of the world, but a recent
Los Angeles Times
article said we are getting beat out by San Francisco and even places like Atlanta.

“No leads?” I ask.

“No, not a one,” Cortez says, but I know he’s lying. Why would he tell me, a lowly P2, anything? He knows better from previous experience.

“Well, thanks,” I finally say. “I’ll, uh, see you around.”

“Take care of yourself, Ellie.”

The end of the conversation—
très
awkward. It’s not like I’m begging for a sympathy date, or even to go out again at all. But maybe calling him wasn’t the best idea. We both know that I could have handled this on my own. But didn’t the Green Mile deserve the best? And everyone in the department knows that Cortez is the best at what he does.

When I call my folks with the news, my parents, of course, go ballistic.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say. “I know it was your father’s car and everything—”

Dad doesn’t seem to care at all about the car, or about his bio-dad. “You okay? Maybe you need to move back home.” A bicycle cop who lives at her parents’ house with her teenage brother and eighty-eight-year-old grandmother? No, thank you. That’s all I need to lower even the small amount of cred I’ve got now.

My folks want me to move to Pasadena, South Pasadena, somewhere outside of the city of LA, even though my parents’ own house in Eagle Rock is still technically within the city limits. My dad may work for the city and constantly sing Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.,” but when it comes to his daughter, he’d like me to get out of town. Even my fellow police officers tell me it’s not a good idea to live where you work—we know too much about local gangs, drug trafficking, prostitution. And I have firsthand experience to show they’re right; I recently had to move (just a few blocks from my old place) because there were unfortunately too many bad guys who knew where I used to live. That’s something my parents don’t need to know about. The thing is, even though I’m making pretty good money for a twenty-three-year-old, I have Shippo. And having a dog means needing at least a little yard. Highland Park is the best I can do, and that’s fine with me.

Mom sighs. “I guess it’s just as well. That car was going to kill you one of these days.”

My brother, Noah, is just concerned about what I might get to replace the Green Mile. He immediately texts me—
no hybrids
. He can’t wait to get away from the hybrids in his life (Dad’s Honda and Mom’s Toyota). One reason that he still doesn’t have his license is his refusal to be seen driving anything remotely environmentally friendly. He’s counting on me to come through for him with something cooler.

After I break the news to my family, I wander aimlessly around my small rental house. The TV is on, but I’m barely watching. I can’t relax. What a waste of a day off. Today is officially Cinco de Mayo, but most of the festivities were this weekend when I was working—my legs are stiff from all that pedaling and standing these past few days in Olvera Street. I look out my kitchen window. It’s May, so there’s still some light even though it’s after six. My driveway is empty, only a sad oil spot left by the Green Mile remaining as proof that it once lived here. I start to feel jittery, violated, angry. What did I learn in psych class? Anger is part of the five stages of grief and I don’t want to be in it alone.

But I know where I can go.

I toss Shippo a chewy treat, replenish his water bowl and grab my jacket. I get on the Gold Line light rail—I may be missing my car but unlike some Angelenos, I know how to use public transportation; my dad is an engineer with the Metro—and get off at Little Tokyo.

Two blocks east from the station is Osaka’s, the best ramen in the neighborhood. Inside, I find my friends—Nay, my ex-boyfriend Benjamin, and the fourth member of our little posse, Rickie, the ultimate Mohawked diva—right were I knew they’d be.

“You won’t believe this,” I announce. “Someone stole the Green Mile!”

The whole table begins to clap. I hate them all.

“Wow, I had no idea you all thought so highly of my car,” I say bitterly, sinking down in an empty chair. How many times had I given them all rides? How often had the Green Mile come to their rescue (especially Nay’s) in the middle of the night?

Nay is sensitive enough to backpedal. “Girl, don’t get us wrong. We’re not dissin’ the GM.”

“I am,” Rickie spouts out, his mouth full of noodles.

Benjamin lowers his eyes. He doesn’t dare say anything negative about me or my beloved car. Things between us have still been pretty awkward since last year, but, well, as good as they can be. We’re polite to each other. But we don’t go out of our way to make one-on-one conversation. I’ve told myself that I have to forgive him. I mean, really forgive. Our breakup was both of our faults (well, maybe his a little more than mine, but who’s keeping score, right?). We’ve been the Fearsome Foursome since freshmen year at PPW, Pan Pacific West, and even though I’ve gone in a different direction (I graduated in three years, while the rest of them are working on their fifth), we still hang out together all the time. I’m not going to let a little thing like a breakup get in the way of that, right?

“Shut up, Rickie,” Nay says, then turns back to me. “Look, Ellie, you have a real job. You’re not a professional Dumpster diver like
some people
.” She gestures toward the Mohawk.

Rickie swallows. “Ah-ah, I prefer
upcyler
. You should have seen what I did to an old lampshade frame. Covered it with my
lola
’s old nightgown. Sold it for twenty bucks on craigslist.”

The rest of us cringe in unison at the image of Rickie’s
grandmother sans nightie. I shake my head free of that picture, as Nay directs her attention back to her food, generously sprinkling Japanese chili powder on top of her ramen. “Look, what I mean is that you can afford a new car. Like, actually new. “

“Yeah, get some decent wheels.” Rickie devours a plate of
gyoza
, which had probably been Benjamin’s order. Rickie describes himself as a free spirit. Unfortunately, we’re the ones who usually end up paying for his freedom. “Last time we all went to that fund-raiser for the Legal Center, everyone was giving the Green Mile dirty looks. I even had to apologize to the valet.”

But you didn’t feel bad enough to give him a tip,
I think.

The four of us continue chatting about nothing of consequence—our specialty—as we finish our meal. Even though I don’t get much love for the Green Mile, I do feel better. But then, I always feel better after hanging out with my friends, especially Nay.

As I lay ten dollars on the plastic bill tray to pay for my meal, Benjamin unexpectedly grabs my wrist and holds it tight while Nay and Rickie continue to jabber away on the other side of the table.

“We need to talk sometime. Just you and me,” he says softly, so the other two can’t hear.

“Okay,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. He’s wearing his faded red plaid shirt, my favorite. And he’s close enough that I can smell the soap on him. “How about right now?”

“Hey, guys,” he then announces loudly, getting Nay’s attention. “I have to take off. See you around.”

And like that, his backpack on his shoulder, he’s gone.
What just happened?
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. Follow him? He didn’t give me a chance; he disappeared too quickly.

In any case, we’ve paid the bill and are all about to leave, so soon I’m also saying my good-byes to Nay and Rickie, who are off to the PPW library to do some studying. The streets of Little Tokyo are relatively empty for a Sunday night. There are a few groups of people our age mixed in with single Japanese men in T-shirts and flip-flops. Before I walk to the Little Tokyo station, I text Benjamin:

When do you want to talk?

But he doesn’t call or text back, and I start wondering whether I, again, am reading too much into nothing.

*   *   *

The next day at work, Johnny Mayhew and I are assigned to patrol Grand Avenue, just past the courthouse around Walt Disney Concert Hall. Apparently, a bunch of jurors have been jaywalking across First Street from jury parking to the courthouses, and yesterday a DASH bus sideswiped one of them. Luckily, the bus was pulling into one of its stops, so it wasn’t traveling too fast. The pedestrian got away with her life intact but her leg broken. And now we’re here to try to keep the other pedestrians in line.

I remember a teaser I saw for the six o’clock news last night—something about a bus running over a pedestrian, as if the woman had been innocently strolling on the sidewalk or within the crosswalk lines when the bus mowed her down. No mention that she’d actually been running through a red light and across four lanes of traffic during rush hour.
Plus, we found out this morning that she was actually high on painkillers at the time. That juicy detail is not going to make it on tonight’s news.

Because of all the hype, Johnny and I are essentially crossing guards on bikes today. Even Grandma Toma could do what I’m doing today, and she’s eighty-eight with hammer toes on both feet.

“This is so lame,” says Johnny. He has a slight stammering problem, but it doesn’t seem to come out around me. Which I can either take as a compliment: he’s comfortable around me; or as an insult: he doesn’t view me as intimidating. I choose to take it as a compliment, because why not? It’s going to be a mighty long morning regardless.

We’re on the side of the concert hall. Thanks to my father, Mr. “Rah-Rah” Los Angeles, my brother, mother and I were all in the building the day it opened. There was a free concert to show off the hall’s acoustics, which are definitely state of the art. The stage is made of cedar from Alaska, and the whole thing is built so that it sounds awesome from every seat in the house.

Johnny, who’s more into extreme sports than the arts, has never stepped inside the concert hall. “Looks like a crushed beer can,” he says about Frank Gehry’s masterpiece.

I don’t bother to tell him that the “beer can” cost close to one hundred fifty million dollars.

Both of us need to use the restroom, so after the jurors are all safely inside the courthouse, we ride down Grand Avenue toward the artists’ entrance. There’s a fancy restaurant connected to the hall, and we’ve used its bathroom in the past. Johnny goes first while I watch his bike on the corner.

Businessmen and -women go in and out of the restaurant, their eyes fixated on their smartphones. People of my parents’ generation complain about millennials being addicted to social media and high tech, but I’m not the one posting food porn on Facebook after every three-figure meal. In fact, the academy advised us not to have much of a presence on the Internet. Not only could it affect our professional career advancement, but it could be plain dangerous, especially if a pissed-off perp started following our activities.

That’s not to say that law enforcement isn’t all over social media. LAPD has an official Facebook and Twitter account, and we have investigators checking social media all the time. While community relations people are sending out Tweets and photos of smiling police officers volunteering at toy drives, detectives are combing through public Facebook photos and posts from criminal suspects and persons of interest, monitoring who’s hanging out with whom and where. It amazes me how stupid people can be—flipping gang signs with known underworld figures on Instagram while claiming to be as innocent as newborn babies. Those images aren’t going away, not even when the subjects attempt to delete them.