Grave on Grand Avenue (20 page)

The English is a bit awkward, but I get its general gist. Hubei . . . Where have I seen that name before? Phoenix Instruments in Arcadia—wasn’t that where the flak, Kendra Prescott, had recommended that the cello be appraised?

“Are you thinking of learning a string instrument?” My mother is looking over my shoulder at the screen. “I tried to steer you toward the violin, but you said it was for sissies.”

Hey, that was when I was in the sixth grade, and already feeling pressured to get some extracurricular activities under my belt to beef up my future college application.
Excuse me for having had an adolescent mini-rebellion
. “I went to the Xu concert,” I tell her.

“You did? Your father and I were thinking of going, but it was sold out.”

“You actually saw him live?” Noah also gets in the conversation.

What?
I’m surprised Noah even knows who Xu is, let alone that he sounds impressed that I’ve been to his concert.

“He and this Parisian rapper just released a single together.” Noah pushes himself onto my seat and starts to type a new URL on my webpage.

He directs us to a music video on YouTube.

The rapper is a woman. She’s super dark-skinned, almost blue-black, with a shaved head upon which she’s wearing a white feather Mohawk, and she’s dressed in a skintight
leather bodysuit. As she raps in French, the video shows Xu, wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans, responding with a punctuated rhythm on his cello. English subtitles are provided at the bottom of the screen: YOU CLOSE OUR EYES AND SAY IT’S FOR OUR OWN GOOD. THE DRAGON OF DEATH COMES AND WHEN THE SMOKE CLEARS, NO HOPE REMAINS.

“The melody’s cool,” I say, and I mean it. Not sure about the translated lyrics; it sounds better in French, though I do appreciate seeing Xu in a more contemporary musical context.

“That Xu is very photogenic.” His physical charms are not lost on my mother.

“It’s pronounced ‘Chew,’ Mom.” My brother, the sophisticate.

“I know this song,” Dad joins in. He starts to sing it in terrible French, causing Noah to hurriedly click the pause button.

“You get the idea,” Noah says to me.

“Dad, how come you know this song?” I say.

“Bono produced it. It’s against cultural repression. Xu was sending a message to his country, and they’re not happy about it. I heard all about it on public radio.”

Both my father and younger brother seem to know more about Xu than I do.
Oh, Ms. Sherlock,
I tell myself,
you still have a ways to g
o.

TEN

The next day is my day off. That Phoenix Instruments sales office is on my mind. Why would Kendra Prescott recommend a Chinese string instrument manufacturer to appraise the value of a cello that had purportedly been built in the 1700s in Italy?

I leave a voice mail message for her at the music hall. “Please call me,” I say. “I have a question for you.” I know that I am putting my nose where it doesn’t belong, like Tim Cherniss said, but this bugs me. Seriously.

I get caught up with some bills, paying a big chunk of my income toward my student loan. I have to admit it’s a bit painful. Although I got a great education, my mother is right that I didn’t need a bachelor’s degree to be a cop. But if I hadn’t gone to PPW, I wouldn’t have met Nay, Rickie, Benjamin, or any of my other friends from college. I can’t imagine life without them.

I murmur a prayer for Benjamin’s mother and, while I’m at it, for Nay, too. Not having her around reminds me how dependent I am on her. I’m ashamed to admit that, yes, I do sometimes feel slightly superior to my friends: I’m the organized one, the good one, the one who got all As, who turned in her assignments on time, the responsible one with a real job. My face and heart burn to realize how lousy I’ve become inside. I’m pretty good at covering it all up, but I still hope no one else has noticed.

I attempt to clean my house, throwing away most everything from the vegetable drawer in my refrigerator. I feel bad doing that, especially after my outing with Rickie. Maybe I couldn’t have fed a starving family in Africa with everything I’ve wasted, but it would have kept Rickie happy for at least a couple of meals.

Shippo watches me intently from his doggy bed. I’ve already fed him, but he’s always ready for any handouts.
You ain’t gettin’ any
. I stare back into his eyes.
No spoiled pups in this house.
That’s a lie, of course, but I try to stay firm.

There’s nothing like housework to exhaust me. I lie on my bed and reach for Xu’s concert program, which is still on my nightstand. Leafing through it, I stop at his bio and read it over. There it is. Hubei. Xu is from Hubei Province. I think back to his cello case, the abstract nine-headed bird. It’s the same creature I saw on Phoenix Instruments’ logo.

I pick up the phone. No call back from Kendra. I can’t just wait around like this.

I sit up abruptly, causing Shippo to also sit up in his doggy bed. He thinks that we’re going somewhere, and he’s right. I get up and fasten the fanny pack with my Glock in it around my middle. When I go to retrieve Shippo’s leash,
he comes running to the living room. “Ever consider playing the cello, Shippo?”

There’s no good way to get to Arcadia on the freeway from my house, so we take the back streets, but at least with the windows wide-open, both Shippo and I can get some fresh air—well, as fresh as the air in LA can be.

Phoenix Instruments’ sales office is a narrow sliver of a building in between a fancy sandwich lunch spot and a bona fide music store that offers lessons for children. In spite of its small size, it’s easy to find on a major street off Santa Anita Boulevard.

The area is safe, so I tie up Shippo to a metal newsstand next to the office door. Whenever I would leave Shippo outside like this in a public place, Benjamin would get furious at me, saying that he could be vulnerable to dog thieves.
Are fat Chihuahua mixes in large demand?
I’d think. (Never out loud, of course. I would never dis Shippo like that.) Since Benjamin and I are no longer together, I’m reverting back to my old ways.

When I enter, I realize that the Phoenix Instruments space is narrow but deep, shaped like a lane in a bowling alley. Instruments are displayed against one side of the wall.

An Asian man, probably in his forties, welcomes me at the small counter in the front. “Hello, how can I help you?” He wears a navy blue polo shirt with the Phoenix Instruments logo over its left pocket.

“Just looking,” I murmur, keeping my head down.

I walk around the small showroom, going from violin to viola to cello, trying to look like I know what I’m doing. I’m interested only in the cellos, of course, so I take extra time with the three cellos on display. They seem pretty much
identical to me and no different from any other cello I’ve ever seen. I pluck the strings like a guitar just to test out the sound. Yup, it works.

“Would you like to play one?” The salesman brings out a bow.

I shake my head. That would be disastrous.

“How much is the most expensive one?” My question definitely sounds strange out loud, but the salesman doesn’t react. Perhaps he’s gotten that question before.

“About five thousand,” he tells me.

“I’m actually interested in a very specific instrument. This one.” I show the salesman the photo of Xu’s cello in its case, and I swear the man turns two shades paler.

“Ah, well, that’s a fine cello, but it’s not ours.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can just tell. This is my business. My father founded this company.”

“Your father is Chuncheng Wang?”

The son seems disturbed that I know so much about Phoenix Instruments, even though that information’s right on their website.

“Do you know whose cello this is?” I ask.

“No, why would I?” This guy is a terrible liar.

“It’s Xu’s. You might have heard of him.”

“Oh, Xu. Sure. Everyone knows Xu.”

“Especially you. Because your company made this cello for him.”

“Impossible. His cello is from Europe. A Stradivarius. A line dating back to the seventeen hundreds.”

As if.
“Aren’t you tired of covering for him? Don’t you want everyone to know that your cello—a cello made in
your Hubei Province—is the one that’s making such beautiful sounds?”

Noises from the back room. I thought that we were alone, but there’s a third person in the narrow sales office. Mr. Xu makes his appearance from the back.

So this is his hideout. He looks terrible. His hair is greasy and plastered down on his head. He hasn’t shaved. His clothes don’t fit him right; they’re too big and too informal. Must be the salesman’s.

Mr. Xu says something to me in Chinese.

I shake my head.
I don’t understand
.

The salesman says something back to Mr. Xu. Probably,
This girl is an American barbarian. Or worse yet, a Japanese.
I know that older Chinese, like older Koreans, aren’t too fond of Japan and probably rightly so.

Mr. Xu’s face is drawn as he murmurs something to the salesman. He’s no longer speaking in the same excited tone as he did when I first encountered him at the foot of the concert hall stairs.

Wang translates: “He wants to know if you know where his son is.”

I’m surprised by the question. So Xu has honestly disappeared?

I shake my head again.

“He wants you to know that he didn’t lie about the man trying to steal that cello.”

Why should I believe you?
I think.
If you didn’t keep up the charade that the cello was worth anything in the first place, no one would have tried to steal it.

Just then, I glance outside through the glass door and suddenly panic: Shippo is gone!

Leaving the two men without explanation, I run out of the store.
No, no, please God, not my dog.
I swear at myself for being so careless. I’m going to be punished for not heeding my ex-boyfriend’s warnings.

“Shippo!” I yell out down the street. Could he somehow have gotten loose? He’s a little crafty sometimes, but he’s no Houdini. I definitely double-knotted the leash.

A few shoppers carrying bags watch me as I frenetically run down the street. “You see a Chihuahua mix? Off-white?”

They say no, sad, empathetic looks on their faces.

Santa Anita Boulevard is busy, with a lot of traffic. If Shippo attempted to cross that street, he would most likely be squashed.

Tears spring to my eyes. I never intended to get a dog, especially not right when I joined the Police Academy. I had just moved into my first rental house, was minding my own business, when I spied a dirt-soaked, flea-bitten mongrel walking on the streets around Thanksgiving. Benjamin and I had washed him down in my backyard and this cute, smiley Chihuahua mutt with a curlicue tail emerged. We were that close to taking him to the local shelter, but opted instead to post signs featuring the homeless dog’s goofy grin. Nobody responded to our posters. My rental had a doggy door, which we both saw as a sign. The dog quickly made himself at home. Grandma Toma was the one who said, “he has a funny
shippo
,” meaning
tail
in Japanese. That clinched it. Shippo, it was.

I scan the intersection. There’s a library across the way with lots of green grass. Shippo is a sucker for grass.

I hurriedly push the walk button and then dash across the street when the light turns green.

“Shippo!” I call out. No sign of any dog.

I see some Asian kids carrying about their weight in books. “You guys see a little white dog?” I ask them.

Their parents and schoolteachers must have repeatedly told them not to speak to strangers because none of them answer me.

I take a deep breath. Shippo is going to be fine. He’s a smart dog. He’ll probably go back to where I left him.

I cross the intersection back to the music store. Before I’ve reached the curb, I see Shippo—in the arms of Washington Jeung.

I immediately take Shippo and bury my face in his fat folds.
You stupid, silly, wonderful dog. Don’t you ever do that to your mama again!

The leash is still firmly around his neck. I don’t understand how he could have gotten loose. And then it hits me.

“You took him!” I say to Washington, feeling the heat of anger rise to my face. I put Shippo down on the sidewalk and hang on to his leash. “What the hell? Why did you do that?”

“I wanted to get you away from Mr. Wang and Mr. Xu. So we can talk more privately.” Washington Jeung is dressed casually in a T-shirt and shorts. I don’t know what he does for fun, but it’s certainly not lying out at the beach. He’s super pale.

“So talk.”

“What’s the latest on the Eduardo Fuentes case?” he asks.

“The police aren’t interested in Mr. Xu anymore. He can go home and nobody will stop him.”

Washington’s chest expands with air and then he lets out a long sigh. Why does he seem so relieved? “He’s not going anywhere until he finds his son. Do you have any idea where he could be?”

“You all have more insight into that than I do. Maybe Cece can tell you.”

“That’s not going to happen,” he murmurs.

“What?” I hug Shippo closer to my chest.

“Nothing. What about your friend? Nay Pram? What has she told you?”

The way Washington is talking, it’s obvious that he hasn’t seen Nay for a while.

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“I know that she tells you everything. You’re like sisters, right?”

I don’t respond. His comment, however, does warm my heart. Maybe Nay hasn’t written me off like I think she has.

“She doesn’t understand the whole story,” he says.

I keep quiet, hoping that he’ll reveal the story to me.

He studies my face for a moment. “You don’t know anything,” he then declares. He’s more discerning than I give him credit for.

He shakes his head and then leans down to pet Shippo good-bye. “She used me, you know,” he says before he leaves down the main street. Shippo, being the gigolo he is, whimpers and pulls his leash to romp after his new friend. I try to resist his efforts. What kind of magic does Washington have over my dog? Giving up, I let Shippo follow Washington’s smell. But as mysteriously as he appeared, Washington Jeung is gone.