Grave on Grand Avenue (8 page)

“How did you know that it was him? It’s not like you know him or anything.”

“Because Washington called the person Xu, okay? Maybe I don’t speak Chinese but I get that much.”

I change the subject. “What are you doing later today? It’s my day off.”

“Well, Washington and I were talking about hanging out more. He’s pretty interesting.”

“I bet he is.”

“No, really. There’s a lot that I can learn from him.”

Nay’s talking like Washington is some kind of wise monk rather than an ordinary guy with a facility for language and a penchant for bad wardrobe choices.

“Just be careful, okay, Nay?”

“Yes, Officer!”

My phone is running out of juice, so I plug it into the outlet beside my bed. I pull last night’s program from where I left it on my nightstand, and reread both Cece’s and Xu’s bios. There, as a sidebar, is the brief story Kendra Prescott had written about the Stradivarius. “Cello of Secrets” is the headline. She writes that, constructed in the early 1700s in Italy, the instrument was taken over to China by Jesuit missionaries who performed classical music for royalty. One of the Chinese court members and generations of his family kept the cello safe and intact during various political turbulences in China’s history—the family even defied the ban on Western instruments during the Cultural Revolution, hence their desire to keep their identity a secret. Hearing Xu perform as a teenager at a local competition, the family was inspired to present the Stradivarius, now valued at five million dollars, to him anonymously. Since Xu’s uncle was a high-ranking official within the Communist Party, Xu was allowed to keep the instrument. There’s also a quote in there from Xu saying, “I play for China.”

Something about the story sounds off. Even though I just met Xu, I can’t imagine him declaring, “I play for China.” I return the program to the nightstand and get ready to start my day.

Once my bare feet hit the floor, Shippo is all over me.
He’s right—it’s true I’ve been neglecting him, and I figure that he can use a good walk. I slip into an old PPW T-shirt and sweatpants, put on my glasses and grab the dog leash.

It’s warm today and I’m missing the few days of rain that we had back in February. My dad is all concerned about the drought and tells me that I need to take shorter showers to help in the conservation effort. Well, world, here we are—Shippo and I are members of the great unwashed, without one drop of wasted water.

When I turn the corner away from my house, it’s like those Christmastime car commercials when a sedan—a gift from a husband, wife or parent—magically appears outside of someone’s home. Except instead of having a big red bow around a new car, I find the Green Mile with a bunch of dead leaves on the roof. Pulling poor Shippo on his leash, I run up to it.

There are streaks of sap all over the car; those dead leaves aren’t going anywhere without a good power washing. It’s dirty inside, too; there are tons of balled-up wrappers from various fast-food chains all over. The thief’s main dining criterion seems to have been food that can be purchased for less than a buck.

I curse myself for not having my phone with me. Not only that, I’m without my Glock. When it’s so early, I don’t think about carrying my gun around. In my experience, most criminal types are still in bed until way after noon. I try the door and it’s locked; my keys are hanging on my living room wall.

Much to Shippo’s disappointment, I cut our walk short. I need to get my keys, then make a call into the station.

I jog back to the house, only to find an older man looking
through the window screen to my living room. He’s wearing jeans with a khaki shirt that looks like it could use a good wash and ironing. His hair is a mix of black, white and gray—the colors of a raccoon. When he turns, I see that he’s white, or maybe Latino, with a heavy, untrimmed mustache. He could be a handyman, finding himself at the wrong house, or he could be a Peeping Tom.

“Can I help you?” I say, lowering my voice at least an octave. Shippo starts to bark furiously.

“Bacall!” he calls out. A small black poodle, unleashed, comes out of the bushes. She’s a mini-projectile, heading straight for Shippo. As she gets closer, she emits a high-pitched screech. Shippo is not amused and unleashes more barks of his own. The old man scoops Bacall up before she torpedoes my dog.

“What the hell?” I cry out. “Leash your damn dog! And what are you doing on private property? You’re trespassing.”

“Ah, Ellie. Ellie Rush,” he says.

I am so pissed that it takes me a minute to register that the old man knows my name. “I don’t know you,” I say.

“Puddy Fernandes,” he says. “And this is Bacall.”

Bacall is groomed as well—or should I say as badly—as her master. But then again, Shippo and I are not ones to talk.

“You don’t know who I am,” the man says when I fail to react to his name.

I let the heat of my anger cool down. Is this guy some kind of family friend or something I don’t recognize? I don’t want to say anything that I may possibly regret later.

Then he reports, “I’m your grandfather.”

I hear the words, but they don’t make any sense. “No, you’re not,” I say. I don’t know what I pictured when I thought
about my long-lost grandfather, but it’s certainly not this guy. “Prove it.”

“Your grandmother is Estel. She has the prettiest red hair and a mouth shaped like a heart.”

Most of her former coworkers and friends call Lita by her nickname, Essie. Most people don’t know her real name. But if he really knows her at all, it’s also obviously been a while since this man has actually seen Lita. Lita now has hair the color of orange popsicles, thanks to some box dye that she uses. And she pretty much has to draw her lips on.

“Call your grandmother. Estel will tell you.”

I ignore his directive. “What are you doing here? Are you the one who stole my car?”

“
Your
car? I don’t think so. I bought that car from a Chevrolet dealer in Burbank in 1969. I don’t believe that you were even alive then.”

“It
is
mine. I have the pink slip to prove it. My grandmother gave it to me.”

“Then why do I have this?” He pulls out a chain from his neck. Hanging around it is a rusty key, the same shape as the one I have on my key chain.

I’m starting to feel slightly nauseated. How can this man have an extra key to the Green Mile? Could anything he was saying be true?

“That wasn’t the true color of the Skylark, you know,” Fernandes tells me. “It was yellow like a canary bird. This here is one lousy paint job.”

The Green Mile had been that same ugly green color for as long as I remember, but Fernandes’s comment has a ring of truth to it. My little brother, Noah, scratched the sides with a hanger when he was about three years old, and I’d noticed
the original yellow paint at that time. Lita had quickly covered over the scratch with touch-up paint. I was nine years old and had even helped her with it.

Fernandes keeps trying to offer more evidence that he is connected to our family. “Your grandmama has a birthmark on her thigh. It’s a beaut—shaped like a pelican.”

Ew
. Like I would know that? I use this moment to check out my alleged grandfather more carefully. I hate to admit it, but I do sort of see a resemblance to my dad. They are about the same height, around five nine. Normal build. My dad’s neck seems to bend forward more as he gets older, and Fernandes has the same type of posture. Dad has never had a mustache, but I know that he could easily grow one.

“Cute dog,” Fernandes says.

Shippo growls in response. He doesn’t care for either Fernandes or Bacall. I don’t blame him, especially when the poodle starts her insane yapping.

I hesitate for a moment, unsure what to call my so-called bio-grandfather. Not Grandpa, for sure. Not Mr. Fernandes. Not Puddy (what kind of name is that, anyway?). I settle on not addressing him at all. “So, you’re Latino,” I say.

The man shook his head. “I’m Luzo. Portuguese blood.”

“Portugal.” So I may be not only part Japanese and Scottish, but also part Portuguese.

“Something wrong with Portugal?”

“No, of course not.” My mind starts refashioning my elementary school family tree. Whereas there was once a branch that abruptly ended, now there’s one that may stretch to Portugal.

“I heard that you’re a cop.”

I narrow my eyes. How does he know that?

“Rookie, right?”

It’ll be good for Fernandes to know that I’m part of law enforcement. “Got out of the academy a little more than a year and a half ago.”

“That’s why I’m here. I want to help.”

“Help what?”

“I want to stop the Old Lady Bandit. Before he kills anyone else.”

I bend down and rub Shippo’s head to hide the shock on my face. Old Lady Bandit? What kind of crazy coincidence is this? And why did he confidently refer to her as a
he
?

“Why would you know anything about that?”

“Let’s just say that I’ve made some mistakes in my life when I was around your age. I’ve paid my debt to society; I can tell you that.”

My stomach feels queasy. Whenever people say things like this, it means that they’ve been in jail. Does this mean I’m actually related to a felon?

“I live in San Bernardino now,” Fernandes continues. “Getting my land legs back. Been at sea too long.”

Is he speaking metaphorically?
San Bernardino is a couple of hours inland, nowhere close to the water. “What, were you a sailor?”

“In a way. I was a crewman on container ships. Been to Latin America about forty-three times. China, at least twenty. Too old for all that now. Staying with a friend in San Bernardoo. That’s when I saw the TV reports. I know this guy’s MO. He’s got his fingerprints all over these robberies. When I heard about this latest, with this security guard getting shot, I figured I had to do something. Got on the bus and looked up your grandmother.”

I’m confused. Lita was in Puerto Rico until today. “You’ve talked to her already?”

He doesn’t answer and continues to chatter about this guy he knows.

“How do you know him, again? And what’s his name?”

“A guy I used to run around with. I know how he works. I know that he’s the one behind those bank jobs.”

Fernandes can sense my skepticism. I notice that he’s managed to avoid my question about the guy’s name.

“He has a certain style; let me say that. Wouldn’t it make sense that the Old Lady Bandit is successful because he’s done it before?”

He has a good point. “If you’re so sure that it’s him, why don’t you talk to the detective in charge? I can give you his phone number.”

“Ah, well, I don’t feel that comfortable talking to the police.”

What does he think that he’s doing now?

Fernandes quickly clarifies, “I mean, I know that you’re part of the LAPD. You can get me some inside information. So we can catch these guys.”

“What, like vigilantes?” I smell manipulation, and I’m not going for it. “Listen, I really can’t get too involved. There are policies in place.”

Fernandes visibly sneers. “Maybe we’re not really related, then. Because no granddaughter of mine would be worrying about some dang policies and all that when we’re talking about people’s lives.”

That’s a load of BS. “What was the guy’s name again? I’ll give it to the detective in charge.”

“I didn’t say.” He then grins, revealing a brown front tooth.
What do I expect? It’s not like they have teeth whitening in prison.

This guy—my maybe grandfather—is playing me. I don’t want much to do with him right now. “Listen, I need my car back. I don’t know how you found out where I was living or where the car was, but—”

“That’s my car. I never said that Estel could give it away.”

“I’m the legal owner.”

“Then arrest me,” he dares me. He then lifts Bacall onto his shoulder and makes his way down the street and around the corner, where the Green Mile is parked. The yapping continues until I hear the familiar slam of a car door and the rumble of an engine.

Shippo and I exchange looks.
No way,
I tell myself.
No way am I going to stand back and let this happen.

*   *   *

“Oh,
querida
, it’s so wonderful to see you.” Lita gives me one of her famous wraparound hugs. “I just got in a few hours ago.” She’s squishy and soft, but I focus on what I’m here for. Even Shippo understands that we are here on a special mission and sits still on Lita’s welcome mat.

I don’t waste any time. “A man who claims that he’s my grandfather stole the Skylark.”

Her arms flop down to her sides. “I don’t understand. Here, come in.” Glancing outside, she ushers Shippo and me into her Spanish-style house in San Gabriel.

My hair is still damp from the two-minute shower that I took before driving over there in my rental. I did make time to swap my glasses for my contacts. Dealing with this requires clear-eyed vision. “This guy who claims to be Dad’s
bio-dad came and visited me today. He told me that you have a pelican birthmark on your thigh. And then he stole my car. Again.”

Lita practically pushes me down in a chair in her living room and stands over me. “How did this happen?” Shippo, a disappointment of a guard dog, sniffs the edges of Lita’s woven throw rug for who knows what.

“I don’t know. My car was stolen right out of my driveway. No broken glass or anything. He had an extra key.”

“That son of a bitch.” Lita spits out the words as if they burn in her mouth. She then begins pacing around in a wobbly circle. “How did he know where you live?”

“So, is it true?” I challenge her. “He says his name is Puddy Fernandes. Is he really my grandfather?”

More crooked pacing. Shippo joins in, probably hoping this trick will win him a treat.

“Lita, I can’t stand it anymore. Does any of this make sense to you?”

Lita takes a deep breath before speaking again. “I knew that he’d eventually surface. But how the hell did he find out about you? And how did he know that you had his car? And where you live?”

So there it is. This Puddy Fernandes is not a complete liar, at least not about the car.