Grave on Grand Avenue (3 page)

Unlike a lot of my peers, not having a presence on social media isn’t that big a deal to me. I was never much into Facebook, anyway. The PPW Athletic Department used to post photos from our volleyball games on its page; then a bunch of pervs—old ones, too, who hadn’t been in college for at least twenty years—would try to friend me. It made me kind of paranoid, knowing I was being watched by strangers. I didn’t like that feeling.

So once I got into the Police Academy, I got rid of my
existing social media accounts. I did open a new Twitter account, for Shippo Wan Wan, which literally means, “Tail Bow Wow” in Japanese. I only follow a few people, namely Nay, because sometimes she’ll read a Tweet before a text message.

Being friends with Nay, the Queen of Social Media, also means I’m hardly missing out—she keeps me filled in on anything juicy. Rickie’s totally not into social media, either—he says he’s not going to let the government or Big Business spy on where’s he’s shopping or eating—even though his main activity usually involves a Dumpster, not an exchange of currency. Benjamin does have a Facebook page. He uses a night scene from São Paulo (he’s ethnically Korean, but his family’s originally from Brazil) as his avatar, but he only has posts from other people wishing him a happy birthday. Instagram is more his thing. He’s into taking photographs—never selfies, unless he’s there with other people. Instead, there’s shots of stuff like a cactus in the Mojave desert, the stairs in Silverlake, a man selling paletas from his cart near MacArthur Park, where Rickie lives. Benjamin even has photos of us still in his account. I don’t know why, but recently I’ve started to look up those old Instagram photos. It makes me remember when life seemed way less complicated, maybe even more peaceful. It’s become a bad habit, though, and I have to remember to turn my phone off before I get sucked in too deep.

My phone’s not on right now as I stand on the sidewalk on Grand Avenue. Above me on the wall of the artists’ entrance at the concert hall is a huge banner advertising their current performance, Eastern Overtures, and an oversized image of the star cellist, Xu.

I have no idea whether “Xu” is the guy’s first or last name,
but it really doesn’t matter. You know that when a musician is known only by a single name, he or she is bigger than life. Aside from being really bad at both the piano and the guitar, I know hardly anything about classical music. I do know that Beethoven had killer hair, while Bach had either really bad hair or a really bad wig.

But even I have heard of Xu. I may not actually be sure how he sounds, but I know exactly what he looks like.

Even if I didn’t, it would be hard to miss the seven-foot-tall image of his face on the banner right above me.

Nay would call him hot. Heck,
I
would call him hot, although he’s not exactly my type. He’s got one of those anime character faces, a little emo or femme, some would say. A definite pretty boy. Nice big, sloped brown eyes and a refined chin. A nose that any surgically altered actress would die for.

Johnny comes out and catches me staring at the banner a few moments too long. I quickly avert my eyes and put on my sunglasses. The last thing I need is the squad room hearing that I was ogling a photo of a male cellist. I’m already considered the biggest nerd in the LAPD Bicycle Coordination Unit. Not only am I a college graduate, which not all my fellow officers are (many just went straight into the Police Academy from high school); I actually got my degree in three years. Add to that my connection to the assistant police chief (aka my aunt Cheryl), and I’m definitely prima donna material.

Johnny, thankfully, doesn’t seem to have a problem with me, but Mac Lambert, a slightly more senior officer in our unit, has already pegged me as a police princess. We’ve had words and most of them haven’t been good. Like with Benjamin, I’m
currently in truce status with Mac, but relations can break down at any minute.

Mac’s on the radio now, asking us where we are and telling us to get back to post.

“We better go,” Johnny says.

“I will,” I say. “Eventually. It’s my turn to pee.” Mac’s not my commanding officer; Tim Cherniss is. I’ll get back to the intersection when I’m good and ready.

Johnny’s face colors slightly, and before he can stammer out anything else, I hand off my bike to him and walk past a series of concrete stairs in between a building for the artists’ entrance and the concert hall.

The stairs lead to a small garden that’s wrapped around the oddly shaped building. The gardeners must be adding more plants because I see flats of seedlings and pots of flowers on the stairs. One gardener in maybe his thirties is using a gas-powered blower to brush away dead twigs and dirt from the walkway, and an older guy has his hand around a potted bush with pretty lavender flowers.

My dad is always on some kind of environmental kick. His latest campaign is drought-resistant plants. He vows that he’s going to transform the front lawn into Joshua Tree. Noah, of course, is hoping to move out before that happens.

“What do you call that?” I ask the older man about the lavender blooms, wondering whether it’s something Dad might be interested in. The blower that the other gardener is using a few feet away is pretty loud, so the man holding the plant doesn’t immediately respond.

I repeat the question louder, and switch to Spanish.

“What you say?” the man asks me—in English—when the younger one gives all of us a break from the blower.

“The lavender plant. What is it?”

The gardener smiles widely. I can tell that he’s really into plants. “Gracias.”

Uh, what? Why is he thanking me?
Maybe his English isn’t that great.

The gardener must have read the puzzled look on my face. “That is the name. Gracias. Gracias sage. Don’t need much water. Grows real strong.”

Oh.
“I like that,” I say. “Well,
gracias
for Gracias.” I smile back at him, then continue to the restaurant. The maître d’ and I are acquainted with each other, and he knows why I’m there. I take off my helmet and head for the ladies’ room. Inside, it’s cool, the perfect temperature. I wonder for a moment what it would be like to have a regular day job. To wear cute outfits and carry a purse or leather bag to work. To be in an air-conditioned room twenty-four/seven. I consider it for a few seconds and then think,
Naaah
. I’d go stir-crazy. As I wash my hands, I look at myself in the mirror. My face is a little flushed from being outside all morning. Hair back in a messy French braid. Yup, I’m not meant for the corporate world, and it’s not losing anything by not having me in it.

When I go through the restaurant, the maître d’ is no longer at the door.

I soon find out why.

It’s mass chaos outside.

A crowd has gathered near where I left Johnny, who is now off of his bike and kneeling next to something on the ground.

But that something is actually someone: the same
gardener who told me about the bush with the lavender flowers. Though he’s not talking now. In fact, he’s not moving. His body is lying at the foot of the stairs, near the Gracias sage, now uprooted from its broken planter, brown soil spilled down the flight of stairs.

*   *   *

Leaping over our sprawled bicycles, I get close to Johnny, who’s kneeling down beside the gardener. “What the hell happened?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Called it in already. The ambulance is on its way.” Johnny puts an ear to the man’s face. “He’s still breathing.”

“Barely.” I take his pulse. Weak. “Mister—” I’m at a loss for what to call the gardener. “Sir, sir, can you hear me?”

“Maybe you should try Spanish.”

“No, he can speak English. We were talking just a few minutes ago.”

The gardener’s eyes flutter open for a second. He mouths something, though I can’t quite make it out.

“Ba-ra-baaaa,” he says.

I hold his hand. It’s rough and callused. Working man’s hands.

Some loud talking in another language breaks through the din of the crowd, mainly from a middle-aged Asian man in a white button-down shirt and blue sports jacket. I can recognize enough to know that it’s probably Mandarin Chinese. The man is clearly upset; sweat drips from his eyebrows even though it’s only about seventy degrees, cool for LA. I notice that he’s clutching a huge, shiny purple instrument case, most likely for a cello, from the shape of it. There’s
some sort of silver design on one side of the case, but I can’t make out what it is.

Directly behind and above the man, I spot a familiar pretty face. Specifically, Pretty Face with the aquiline nose and soft brown eyes. Xu. He’s much taller in person than I expected, closer to six feet than my five foot six.

“Is Eduardo going to be okay?” A thin, middle-aged woman with a spray of freckles on her face approaches us and I get up, knowing that Johnny is keeping an eye on the injured gardener’s vitals. “I’m part of the crew. I was up in the garden when it happened.”

I could probably take notes faster on my phone, but I opt for the old-school method, pen and paper. I remove my notebook from my pocket and ask for her full name. Wendy Tomlinson. “Tell me what you saw.”

“That man.” Wendy gestures toward the older Asian man holding the cello. “He pushed Eduardo down the stairs.”

Before I can even write her accusation in my notebook, another Asian man, this one in a bright neon polo shirt, breaks into our conversation. “I’m the translator for Mr. Xu,” the neon man says. “He would like to make a statement.” He pronounces the name something like “Chew.” I mentally file that away. This whole time I’d thought it was pronounced “Zu.”

I first think he’s talking about Pretty Face Xu. But based on his body language, I quickly adjust and realize he’s talking about the middle-aged man. A relative?

“This is Xu’s father,” the translator confirms.

Father? I look back at the older man. He bears no resemblance to the star cellist, who must have been blessed with his mother’s looks.

“I can take your statement in a few minutes. Let me just finish up—”

“How
could
you?” It’s the younger gardener, the one with the blower. He has large dark eyes, the whites now rimmed in pink. He points a finger toward Mr. Xu. “Why did you try to kill my uncle?”

At the word
kill
, Mr. Xu’s face visibly darkens. I suspect he actually knows more English than he lets on. He nudges the translator, who communicates: “That man was trying to steal this cello. Xu’s cello.” The father is still clutching at the purple case. I can see now that the silver spot I’d noticed earlier is a creepy image of a multiheaded bird.

This is not a good situation. I’m starting to feel that Johnny and I could be in a little over our heads. This isn’t just a routine accident situation, an older gentleman taking a tumble down the stairs. We are suddenly talking about an alleged robbery attempt on one side, and an alleged intent to cause harm on the other. I don’t know how much that cello is worth, but it’s probably a small fortune. Johnny and I need reinforcements. After getting Wendy Tomlinson’s contact information, I call Jay Steinlight, the watch commander on duty, and let him know what’s going on. “We may need a Chinese-speaking officer, too,” I add. “Mandarin, not Cantonese.”

As soon as I end my conversation with Steinlight, I see that Johnny has his hands full. The younger gardener and Mr. Xu are starting to circle each other like angry cats. “Get ’em outta here, Ellie,” mutters Johnny, who hasn’t left the injured gardener’s side.

I quickly separate the men, instructing Mr. Xu and the translator to stand on the south side of the stairs with the
cello, and the younger gardener to stand on the north side. Xu seems to have left, but then I notice him standing in the concert hall’s side building entryway with a leggy redhead, her hair swept back in a ponytail. Someone in a higher pay grade will have to deal with him.

I address the translator. “Sir, you and Mr. Xu will have to wait here until our detectives arrive. And we’ll have to hang on to the cello.”

Again, Mr. Xu’s comprehension of English seems fine as he explodes in a fireball of Chinese. The translator attempts to calm him down.

The tall redhead with the ponytail that I saw earlier with Xu has now come out of the side elevator. At least she had the sense not to take the stairs and disturb a crime scene.

“I’m Kendra Prescott. I represent all of the hall’s visiting guest artists.” She grips her cell phone as she introduces herself. “Is there a problem here?”

Uh, yeah. A man is semiconscious after being allegedly pushed down the stairs by the father of your guest artist.
“I was just informing Mr. Xu that he needs to speak to detectives,” I explain to the PR rep. “Also, the cello needs to be turned in as evidence.”

“Ah—that’s not going to happen. Xu has his concert tonight. Do you know how much this instrument is worth? Five million dollars,” Kendra reports, causing Mr. Xu to shake his head as if that information should not have been revealed.

I try to prevent my mouth from falling open upon hearing the value of the instrument. Johnny is obviously listening, too, and he doesn’t do as well hiding his shock. His eyes bug out and he starts to cough.

“Well, the investigators will be telling you what to do,” I manage to say. “Just don’t go anywhere.”

I then go across to the younger gardener. Up close, I reassess him as probably in his late twenties. The guy doesn’t seem more than five years or so older than me.

“What’s your name and phone number?”

“Raul. Raul Jesus Santiago. Most people call me RJ.” He then gives me two phone numbers—cell and landline, the latter also serving as his primary work number.

I ask for his uncle’s name. Eduardo Fuentes. His mother’s older brother. They’re obviously close, because RJ is really agitated. Even though he has a tough exterior, I sense that he could start crying at any minute.

“Why did he do that? Why?” RJ keeps repeating.

Sirens announce the arrival of the ambulance. I turn and see that Cortez has also arrived on the scene, along with another guy I assume is probably his partner. I’ve never met the partner before. He’s pretty short with some ugly-ass growth on his face that’s neither a goatee nor a beard. He has some gray hair mixed in with some black, and I have no idea what ethnicity he could possibly be.