Grave on Grand Avenue (27 page)

I hadn’t heard this story before. Or if I had, I hadn’t been paying attention. My face feels hot. That’s what Eduardo Fuentes had said to me. Not Barbara, but Barabbas.

“The pastor was saying that there are times when we need to step forward in place of a Barabbas. A very interesting interpretation. Has given me much—”

“Thank you, Father,” I interrupt him. I rise from my seat. “You’ve really helped me.”

“I’m glad, Ellie, but how?”

SIXTEEN

I’m off the next day, but it doesn’t mean that I’m not working, at least in trying to connect some dots. I have RJ’s work number from the day I first met him. I call, and when I tell the woman who answers that I need to talk to RJ in person about something important, she dutifully gives me the address in Alhambra where he’s working. It’s amazing what people will tell a complete stranger over the phone. No wonder those telecom shysters are able to wrestle away the life fortunes of vulnerable seniors with cold calls.

Alhambra is not far from Highland Park. Only thing, there’s no direct way to get there via freeway, so I take the back streets, mostly treelined and idyllic. I drive east through San Marino, which is even more moneyed than South Pas. There seem to be no apartments in that town, only expensive houses, and few people walking the streets. San Marino’s shopping area is divided along two parallel boulevards, with
few opportunities for people to run into their neighbors and friends.

Alhambra, on the other hand, has plenty of apartments and condominiums, and its Main Street is an actual main street with movie theaters, Chinese and American eateries, a beautiful library and City Hall. Where I’m going is only a few blocks north of that artery.

It’s not difficult to find RJ, between the sound of the lawn mower and the white truck with
LANDSCAPING AND GARDENING
painted on the driver’s-side door.

The house itself is ranch-style and neat. Nothing awe-inspiring, but still probably worth a million dollars.

RJ, wearing a straw hat, notices me get out of the Skylark. He looks disturbed, as if I’ve crossed over a line of privacy. Sweat is dripping down onto his long-sleeved cotton shirt. I don’t know how gardeners in LA can work with so much clothing on, but I guess it protects them from the UV rays. He has two other helpers—one is cutting the hedges and another is pulling weeds out of a flower bed. He stops the lawn mower. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard I could find you here.”

He doesn’t look that hospitable, so I get right to the point. “What were you going to do after you stole it?”

“Don’t know what you saying,” RJ stonewalls.

“The cello. It’s not like you could take it to a pawnshop. You must have had a connection.”

“You need to leave. This private property.”

I’m careful to stand on the sidewalk. “Not where I am. What, you gonna call the police and report a public disturbance?” I hate to play the cop card, but I need RJ to open up. “Your uncle knew about your plans. He was trying to stop
you by stealing it himself.” The words have truth in them. I know because tears come to RJ’s eyes.

“Uncle Eduardo didn’t understand. I wasn’t going to steal and sell. How could I be stealing for the owner?”

I am stunned for a few moments; then I slowly recover. “Are you saying Xu asked you to take the cello?”

“The old man. The father. I was supposed to take it after the concert. The translator was with him. They told me that no one would get hurt.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police after your uncle got hurt?”

“I was going to. Believe me, I was. But those men—that translator told me if I spoke up, I’d get into trouble. That Mr. Xu’s son was famous, a star, so who would believe me? And everything was on the TV, and my
prima
, Marta, was so upset. How could I tell her that I was behind what had happened to her father?”

“Wait a minute. I still don’t understand. The man who pushed your uncle down the stairs asked you to steal the cello? After Xu had performed?”

RJ nods. His chin drops to his chest and he presses down on his hat so I can’t see his face. He rubs the edge of his shirtsleeve over his eyes and finally looks up.

“And then what? Where would you keep it?”

“I was supposed to take it home and then burn it.”

What? This was absurd. Crazy.
I say pretty much that in Spanish. RJ stays silent. He bites his lip and looks away.

“They offered you money.” Because what else could there be?

RJ nods his head. He is ashamed that he would pimp himself out in this way. I’m ashamed for him, too. “Tío Eduardo told me to have nothing to do with it. To go to the police.
But I need to grow my business. My wife and me, we are having a baby. I don’t want my kid to do what I have to do every day.”

The cello was a fake; I was pretty sure of that. Mr. Xu wanted its origin to be hidden. But why take such severe measures?

“What you going to do?” RJ asks me. Now that his secret has been uncovered, he seems almost relieved.

“It’s not what I’m going to do,” I tell him, “but what you are.”

*   *   *

I wait downstairs in the parking lot at Disney Hall. Leaning against the Green Mile, I check the reception on my phone. Not good. I don’t know where Mr. Xu is anymore. Or Xu. But I do know where one person who has been linked to them is.

Cece comes out, carrying a viola case. I wonder how much
her
instrument is worth.

Probably not five million dollars.

I take a few steps toward her, causing her to slow her gait. “Hello, I’m Officer Ellie Rush.”

“I know about you,” she says and starts walking faster. “I’m not talking to you. I know my rights.”

I follow her to her BMW. “I spoke to RJ Santiago. He told me about the deal, how Fang Xu was going to pay him to steal Xu’s cello after the performance.”

Cece’s chin hardens and she attempts to get to her driver’s-side door. I keep the door closed with the side of my body. I may not be the biggest person in the world, but I’m strong enough to take on the Philharmonic’s star violist.

Unable to wrench open her door, Cece is utterly frustrated. “I’m going to call—”

“Who? The police?”

“Well, someone who doesn’t ride a bicycle, that’s for sure.”

“RJ is going to be talking to the detectives today. He’s coming clean about the deal he made with Fang Xu.”

Cece doesn’t bat an eyelash. She acts like she couldn’t care less.

“I can tell the detectives to call you in next. Unless you explain to me how you’re involved.”

She takes a deep breath. She has a beautiful face. I wonder what she would look like with her natural hair color.

“You married?” she finally asks me.

I shake my head.

“No, you’re still young,” she says, even though we’re probably about the same age. “But you’ve been in love? You must have been in love at least once.”

I think that I know where this is going.

Cece hugs her viola case to her chest. “Xu and I met in Philadelphia, both teenagers in the conservancy. Xu’s father came with him. To make sure he rehearsed every night. Every day. Only breaks for class and meals. Fang Xu is a man obsessed. Feels like the only way he can make his mark is through his son’s performance.”

Classic tiger father,
I think.

“Mr. Xu always positioned himself to be greater than he really was. That’s why he got a British language tutor for Xu. In his mind, Europe, the home of classical composers, was the best. But Xu didn’t get into the conservancies there. America was his father’s second choice.”

“We fell in love through our music. Even though we didn’t have many opportunities to talk, to be alone, whenever we were playing in the same room, we played for each other.”

I’m not a romantic, not by a long shot, but even I cannot help being a little affected by Cece’s story of their courtship.

“But I’m from Taiwan. Xu, mainland China. It’s not impossible for other couples, but it was impossible for Xu and me. First of all, there was Xu’s father. Practice, practice, practice. No time for girls. And then there was Xu’s uncle, a rising star in the Party.”

She registers my blank look. “You know, the Communist Party.”

Although Benjamin often derides me for my lack of knowledge when it comes to Asian international affairs, I do know enough to be aware that there’s tension between the “two Chinas,” because mainland China doesn’t recognize Taiwan as an independent country. Relations between the two entities seem to go back and forth. Here in LA, mainland Chinese and Taiwanese sit together in the same restaurants, shop in the same grocery stores (sometimes even in Japanese ones!). The things that divide people overseas don’t seem to have the same pull over here in California.

“Then his father was called back to China by his wife for a brief time. That’s when Xu and I were able to spend time together, one-on-one.”

I know what she’s saying with that.

“When Mr. Xu returned, he told his father that we wanted to be together. We wanted to be married. Technically, we were of age. We could have run off. But Xu is a dutiful son. He didn’t want to go against his father. His father exploded. He flew into a rage. He said that by marrying me, Xu would
be a disgrace, not only to his family, but to his country. Xu was miserable, crushed. He didn’t know what to do. He fell in a deep depression.”

Cece starts to blink faster. “Then came word about the Stradivarius. The long-lost cello, brought over to China by Italian monks and protected during the Cultural Revolution. This was to be presented to Xu by his uncle. A precious gift from this country. That instrument saved him but would ruin us because how could he turn his back on such a gift? So I made it easy for him. I broke it off. I knew that he would have chosen me, sacrificed his music career, his family, his country, even his instrument for me. But I couldn’t let him do that.”

She moistens her lips. “So we separated, but it was eating my soul. It didn’t make my feelings go away. Then the following year, the concert season for this year was announced. Xu was coming to Los Angeles to play with us.”

“And he wanted to see you.”

Cece nodded. “And I, more than anything, wanted to see him. During the rehearsals, we were again speaking through our music. Our love was still there. We knew that we needed to be together. But how could we speak freely, with Xu’s father constantly at his side? Then the accident happened with the gardener. That changed everything. Fang Xu has been distracted, constantly on the phone with China. Through that tragedy our love could once again bloom.”

Good for you,
I think.
Not so good for Fuentes’s family
. “I saw you. The night of Xu’s concert. Here in the parking lot. Here, in fact. You were arguing with someone.”

Raising one of her perfectly manicured eyebrows, Cece practically dares me to identify the person.

“You were arguing with Fang Xu. You didn’t want them to leave for China.”

“Xu was
not
going back to China.”

“Then where is he? The police need to speak with him.”

“I have no idea where he is.” Cece says the words in a string of staccatos. “I’ve told you everything. Can I leave now?”

I nod. I stand back as she gets in her car, puts it in reverse and speeds out of the artists’ parking level. A part of me wants to charge after her,
Fast and Furious
style. I believe she’s telling most of the truth, but not all of it. I have no doubt that she knows exactly where Xu is, and maybe his father, too.

SEVENTEEN

I come home relatively early from work the next day. I feed Shippo and then change into shorts and a T-shirt to go jogging. As I run on the sidewalks broken by age or buckled by roots of old trees, I can’t help but keep thinking about Eduardo Fuentes. I have no idea whether RJ’s admission is going to clear his uncle’s name in any way. Could Fang Xu be charged with something? And since the LAPD has no clue where he is, does it even matter?

I run faster, running past the Police Museum on York Boulevard, where a 1929 Model A police car is on display behind a gated driveway. I almost trip on some hard round fruit fallen from an overhanging tree beside an income tax business in a barred house. I keep going until I cross the street on the corner of Galco’s Old World Grocery, seller of vintage and specialty glass-bottled sodas and candy like sarsaparillas, cucumber soda and wax lips.

As my breathing quickens, I stop thinking about Cece, Xu or the cello. I don’t think about Cortez, Puddy or Aunt Cheryl. And last of all, Nay, Benjamin and Benjamin’s mother all slip and dissolve away. My running shoes hit the pavement. Air pushes out from my lungs, up my throat, nose and mouth. The rhythm of running is all I feel. I’m just in the now, right this moment, nowhere else.

When I return home and unlock the door of my house, I sink in my chair, stinky and sweaty. Then I do a double take at the sight of Shippo sitting placidly at my feet, his corkscrew tail moving back and forth. Usually he greets me, jumps all over me to beg for either a treat or his next meal.
What’s going on?

Then I spy something at my feet. There are two pieces. Brown and exactly the same size. Damn, is it dog poop? I get down on my knees for a closer look. Shippo wanders toward them and I shoo him away. I get up to retrieve a poop bag and gingerly pick one of them up. It’s hard and cold.
What the hell?

It’s obviously not poop, but some kind of fancy dog treat. I recognize it from the high-end natural dog food store down the street, something gourmet, duck or bison. How did it get in my house? Since they are still cold, the food was scattered recently. Like perhaps minutes ago.

I carefully search my house, the living room first. The windows are all secured closed. This house is ancient, probably from the fifties, and the landlord just adds a fresh coat of paint for each new tenant. So the windows, unfortunately, are pretty much painted shut. The one in the bathroom is the only one that actually goes up and down—it’s closed, but I see a lot of paint chips on the floor by the toilet. My window is small; I could barely fit through it. An adult would have to be quite the contortionist to get their body through there.