Murder on Bamboo Lane (7 page)

“What? You’re going to catch me? I’ll flatten you,” she says, but she leaps off and smacks into me, causing me to fall on my butt. “I told you,” she says, helping me up. Arm in arm, we run through campus, laughing.

“Ohmygod, Ellie, that was so much fun,” Nay says when we finally reach my locked bike. “Maybe I should be a cop, too.”

I look at Nay’s clothes. Her gray knit dress, Ugg knockoff boots, fuchsia scarf. “Actually, Nay, you have good instincts, but you’d
hate
the wardrobe.”

Nay ponders it for a moment. I know that she’s imagining herself in my uniform. “Yeah, you’re right. Too bad you can’t look good while solving crimes—except on TV.”

• • •

As I ride my bicycle home, it starts to drizzle. It’s already getting dark, and it’s hard to see. I can’t wait to get home and change into some sweats. I plan to put on the heater and make myself some Earl Grey while I go through the photos of Jenny’s notebook.

But when I get closer to my house, I see someone waiting for me on my porch.

The shoulders are too broad to be Benjamin’s. And even though it’s cold out for LA, this guy’s only wearing a wife beater. Benjamin wouldn’t be caught dead in anything sleeveless.

My hand naturally goes to my Glock.

“You Ellie Rush?” the guy asks. He’s Asian, though his speech is pure urban LA.

“Yeah,” I say.

“I’m Tuan Le.”

Huh. “How did you find out where I live?”

“A guy at Alpine. He dropped your boyfriend off here after some basketball games a couple of times.”

I don’t bother to correct Tuan about my and Benjamin’s current relationship status. It’s better if he thinks Benjamin may appear at my place any minute.

I hear Shippo scratching at the door, and I know he can smell and hear me.

“What do you want?” I ask. Yes, I want to speak to Tuan, but he’s caught me off guard by coming to my house.

“I just want to know who killed Jenny.”

I take a few steps to my left, activating my motion detector. The light goes on, revealing the side of Tuan’s face. He has high cheekbones and a strong jawline. His arms are all covered in tattoos.

“Some would say you did,” I say. The fingers of my right hand are now wrapped around my gun. My left hand is still steadying my bike.

“I know. I could tell from the questions the detectives asked me. But I’m being set up. Maybe even
by
the cops.”

I bristle at that. “So why are you bothering to talk to me?”

“Susana says that I can trust you. She said she told you stuff and you didn’t give her up.”

For the first time, I feel relief that I kept Susana’s identity a secret from Aunt Cheryl. “Wait here. I have to let my dog out, okay? And then we can take a walk.”

I take my bicycle inside and attach a leash to Shippo’s collar. I kneel down and look into his round eyes. “If he tries anything, sic ’im, okay?”

Shippo drools in response.

I leave my fanny pack on and feel the Glock for reassurance. This might be a mistake, but at least I’m in my element. I’m close to my neighbors. I know every alley and dead end. If he tries anything, I’ll be one step ahead of him.

When Shippo and I come out, I see that Tuan is now wearing a hoodie over his sleeveless T. I lead us on a route along the busiest streets.

“I was supposed to meet Jenny that Thursday night,” he tells me. “In Chinatown at the Goldfinger Gallery, where I was setting up my exhibition. She never showed.”

I’m familiar with the gallery. It’s only a couple of streets away from Bamboo Lane.

“Were you with anyone?”

Tuan shakes his head. “I mean, there were the regular tourists and old neighborhood people making the rounds around dinnertime. The exhibition fabricator was there until seven, but after that I was pretty much by myself until midnight.”

“When’s the last time you saw Jenny alive?”

I guess by the way he stares at me, I’m sounding a lot like a cop now.

“It was a couple of weeks ago. But we’d talked on the phone.”

Shippo smells a dead leaf and promptly pees on it.

“She was scared,” Tuan says. “She told me that she thought someone was following her.”

“What? In her car?”

Tuan shook his head. “On foot. When she was working on census stuff.”

“Do you have a gun?”

Another glare. “It’s registered. I got it when these protesters were threatening me.”

“What is it?”

“Revolver. Smith and Wesson.”

“Old school,” I can’t help to comment. I’m wondering what kind of bullet killed Jenny. “Where do you keep it?”

He grimaces. “The thing is, I gave it to Jenny two weeks ago. She asked me to lend it to her. For protection. She wouldn’t tell me why.”

“Did she know how to use it?”

“Sort of. When we were together, we went to the shooting range. I mean, her hands are small, so it took her a few tries to get the hang of it.”

I stop walking as Shippo literally makes a pit stop. Using some plastic bags that I had stuffed in my jeans pocket, I take care of Shippo’s business.

Tuan, meanwhile, has lit a cigarette.

I didn’t see a gun in Jenny’s trunk. She hadn’t been found with a purse or bag. Could it have been stolen?

“Do you think that was the same gun that killed her?”

Tuan’s hands are shaking, causing the ash from his cigarette to scatter across the half-dead grass. “I don’t know. It could have been. I don’t think it’s turned up.”

Now I understand why Tuan is here. He’s in trouble. He believes his gun could have been used to kill Jenny. And once the police find that gun, Tuan will literally be in deep doo-doo.

“The police have already gone through the gallery. They want to search my place and they will, as soon as they get a warrant.”

“What do you want me to do?” In the back of my mind, I hear Rickie say,
You’re just a bicycle cop
.

“I need someone in the LAPD to believe me. I didn’t kill her. She was my girl.”

I thought she left you
, I think, but it’s probably not the best thing to bring up, especially when alone with a suspect on a dark street in Highland Park.

“You think that someone is setting you up.”

“Yeah, I’m telling you; it’s your outfit, the LAPD.”

“But why?” It didn’t make any sense.

“Politics. I gots people after me. People protesting my exhibition.”

“You mean the anticommunists?”

Tuan seems surprised that I know about this. “Yah yah, for sure, them. They have connections in high places.”

“But why would anyone want to kill Jenny, then?” I change tactics. “Why was she living in a car?” I ask Tuan.

“I had no idea. If I had, I would have helped her. That’s what is so messed up. I don’t know what she was up to these past few months. Why she broke up with me.” Tuan’s voice starts to crack, and he tries to curse away his tears. “I wished that I could have seen her body. To say good-bye.”

No, you probably wouldn’t have wanted to do that
, I think.

He tells me that her relatives in Vietnam have made arrangements for her body to be cremated and sent over to a small village not far from Ho Chi Minh City.

“Ashes,” he says. “That’s all that’ll be left of her.”

• • •

Tuan’s visit unnerves me, and I’m glad when he finally leaves. Why come to my place to talk to me? Was he trying to threaten me? Or reach out because I’d known Jenny and he might be able to get some info from me? Whatever the reason, Shippo just seems elated to now get dinner and a snuggling session with me on the couch.

I’ve downloaded the photos from my phone onto my computer so I can make printouts. I was hoping to get into Jenny Nguyen’s innermost mind, but this notebook is almost entirely about work. It’s all meticulously dated, with records of where she visited each day. Addresses and names of buildings, all pretty much in the 90007 zip code, which includes a big chunk of the Figueroa Corridor and West Adams, where PPW is located and where I mostly patrol. There are doodles all over the place, drawings of vegetables with faces and animals on spaceships or fire trucks. It’s nonsense. Crazy. There seems to be nothing here. I go to the last pages, which are dated the last two months of the year. Now it seems that Jenny isn’t moving from place to place. She goes to the same address on Adams on three separate occasions—first in November and then in December. The entries then stop. Nothing in January. I write this down in my own notebook.

The address is familiar, very familiar. I start to input it on Google maps. It’s the Adams Corridor Project, the housing project where Benjamin works.

SECOND STREET

This is not personal; this is work, I tell myself. Keep on my uniform.

I actually go to Osaka’s early. I’ve discovered that if I have to go somewhere where I don’t want to be, it’s always better to make an appearance early and cut out. I’m hoping that Benjamin either doesn’t show at all or maybe comes late.

I see the Mohawk before I see the man. I actually stand up to greet him.

“Whoooooaaaa, didn’t expect you here. And you have your cute biker uniform on,” Rickie says, removing his messenger bag before taking his seat across from me.

“I’m not staying long.” Rickie starts to dig into my gyoza and I don’t say anything. In fact, I ordered it precisely as a bribe. “It’s about Jenny.”

“Oh,” he says. His voice gets softer. Could it be that our Rickie is more sensitive than we give him credit for?

“You haven’t responded to any of the police requests for information you received in response to that flyer.”

“Didn’t get their messages.” He sucks the end of his chopsticks. “What do those pigs want?”

I ignore the fact that I fall in the category of “those pigs.” “They need to know if anyone left any leads about Jenny.”

He finished his mouthful of noodles and wipes his mouth. “I’ll talk to you. But only to you. So tell these detectives to get off my back, okay?”

“I’ll do my best,” I tell him. I can’t make any promises.

Rickie takes out his phone from his back pocket and presses it on. Tapping the screen, he then presents it to me. “Take a look.”

I’m shocked by at least a dozen of the e-mails. The authors probably don’t even know Jenny, but they say awful things about her. The C-word and the B-word. And in some cases, a racial epithet, the G-word, thrown in. It makes me sick.

One seems to issue a warning. “Communist girlfriend of Tuan Le. She deserved what she got. Tuan is next,” one read.

I only find one e-mail that seems to be written by a legitimate person: “Saw her at City Hall redistricting meeting on Thursday.” It is signed by a community organizer who I remember spoke to one of our Asian American studies classes.

“Can you forward those e-mails to me?” I ask Rickie.

Rickie taps his screen a few times. “Done.”

“You know the police will probably want to talk to you in person.”

Rickie flat out ignores me. Nobody is going to make him do what he doesn’t want to do.

“Oh, another thing,” I say.

“Yeeeesss?” Rickie polishes off the gyoza, leaving nothing but a tiny puddle of soy sauce on the long plate.

“Did you ever meet Jenny’s supervisor at the Census?”

“Well, I worked the decennial census, so we were split up into temporary regions. But Jenny went on to work for the permanent office in Van Nuys. She worked out in the field, but I think she went in for meetings. I don’t think that many people are assigned over there, so if you just give them a call, I’m sure that they can help you out.”

A new person joins us. Miss Boots. She is still wearing them now, only with tights and a miniskirt.

“Hi,” she greets Rickie. “Is Benjamin here? He forgot his phone in my car.” She then notices my presence.

“Kari Colbert, Ellie Rush.” Rickie points to me. “She’s part of our group. Decided to come in costume tonight. She’s a stripper by night.”

Miss Boots doesn’t know how to react.

“Come on, Rickie,” I say.

“Oh, wow. So you’re a real cop?”

How perceptive you are, Miss Boots
, I thought. So she hasn’t heard of me. At first, I feel kind of hurt, as if I don’t deserve a mention by Benjamin. But then I feel a sense of relief. They are not close enough yet to talk about past relationships.

Benjamin walks in, his keys dangling on his finger. When he sees me with Kari, his stride slows. Rickie is definitely entertained by all this. Damn him.

Benjamin first goes to Kari.

“You left this in my car,” she says, holding out his phone.

“I figured,” he says, accepting the return of the phone, but his eyes are on me. “Have you two met?”

“I had the honor of doing the formal introductions.” Rickie smiles.
Now do us the honor of wiping that oily grin off your face
, I think.

“Rickie,” I say, pointing to his front teeth. “Green onion.” That does the trick. He lowers his chin and digs a fingernail between his teeth.

“Ah, Benjamin, can I talk to you”—I gesture toward the doorway—“just for a few minutes?”

A frown line appears between Miss Boots’ perfectly shaped eyebrows.

“I’ll be right back,” Benjamin says to Kari.

“Don’t worry about us,” Rickie responds. “I am prepared to entertain.”

Once we are outside, I don’t waste any time.

“First of all, sorry for the other night.”

“For what? When you almost ran us over?” he says, referring to my near miss on Hill Street.

“I didn’t do that on purpose. Really. It’s just that this car behind me was honking.”

“Yeah, right.”

I take a deep breath. “She’s cute,” I say. “I’m happy for you.” At this point, I feel a pang inside, like something has died.

“It’s early. We’re just getting to know each other.”

I don’t know if he says that for my benefit, or if he really believes it himself.

“Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about Jenny.”

Benjamin’s face pales. “Why? I thought that homicide detectives would be the ones to be asking questions.”

“I’m doing my part to help. You want to catch whoever did this to her, don’t you?”

Benjamin shoves his hands in his jeans pockets and nods.

“Well, the police have her census notebook. She mentions going to the projects three times in November and December. Do you remember ever seeing her there?”

“I might have seen her once. She was working with the tenants’ organization, I think.”

“What’s going on in there?”

“The usual. Drugs. Prostitution. Domestic violence. What’s
not
going on in there?”

“Do you think someone from the projects could have been out to get Jenny?”

“You mean kill her? I don’t know. That’s pretty extreme.”

“She wasn’t involved with anyone in the projects, was she?”

“You mean dating? Noooooo, I think not.”

Benjamin isn’t being that helpful. Well, once Cortez and the other investigators see the census notebook, they’ll make their rounds. This is something that I can let go of, right?

I tell Benjamin that I have to leave, and he looks as relieved as I feel. As I walk to the Little Tokyo Gold Line station, I am proud of myself. I’ve survived the first meeting with Benjamin’s new girl.

• • •

I’m not quite sure what I should do with the e-mails Rickie has forwarded to me. Give them to Aunt Cheryl? After mulling it over, I decide to cover my ass. I separately e-mail my sergeant, Captain Randle, Aunt Cheryl, and Cortez while I’m waiting for the train on the outdoor platform.

Cortez wastes no time calling me back.

“Great work,” he says.

“I don’t think he’ll be that open to talking to you right now. He’s a bit difficult.”

“That’s okay. As long as we get the information, it doesn’t matter who he talks to.”

“I can’t believe how rude some of those e-mails were. None of those people probably even knew Jenny.”

“That’s the problem with these calls for public information. You get every hater, every sexual deviant who wants some attention. But there may be at least one or two solid leads.”

“How’s the case going?” I can’t help but ask.

Cortez hesitates. He’s going to be careful in what he reveals. “We have a suspect, but we don’t have enough to make an arrest yet. That’s confidential, of course.”

“Of course,” I say. I’m waiting for him to mention the Ratmobile, but it doesn’t come up. Surely they’ve linked it back to Jenny, right?

“Hey, I was going to catch some dinner right now. Interested?”

I don’t hesitate to say, “Of course.” What’s a meal between work colleagues? He names a place on Olvera Street, and we agree to meet in fifteen minutes.

Unfortunately, I’m still in my uniform, but I at least take my hair out of its ponytail and try my spit-mousse technique again. I could have just walked to Olvera Street from Little Tokyo, but since I’m already at the station, I take the train one stop to Union Station. Olvera Street is just a simple walk across the street.

Most locals consider Olvera Street just a tourist trap where you can be swallowed up in a pit of tchotchkes that look Mexican but are probably made in China. Dig a little deeper, I tell my friends. It’s more than taquitos. There’s an adobe house there that may not look like much, but it’s the oldest standing house in Los Angeles. And then there’s the Siqueiros mural, painted in the 1930s and restored recently for ten million dollars.

The restaurant Cortez has chosen is one of my favorites. It’s cozy, with little lights everywhere and heavy wood chairs. I wouldn’t say it’s the best Mexican restaurant in LA—not by a long shot—but it’s the one that my parents always took Noah and me to when we were in elementary school.

The vendors and visitors give me looks as I wait in front for Cortez. Luckily, he’s pretty prompt himself and appears after five minutes.

“No time to change,” I say to him, waving my hand over my shorts and police-issue shirt.

“You look just fine,” he says. “I like a hard-working woman.”

I don’t know if we should shake hands or hug, but he instead gestures toward the restaurant’s entrance. Awkward moment averted. We both walk in.

Once seated, we are handed the menus for dinner and drinks. I sure could use one or two of their famous margaritas, but dressed in my uniform, I don’t dare.

It’s pretty obvious that I know what I want because it takes me barely a minute to scan the menu.

“You’ve been here before?”

I nod and take a long sip of water, casually admiring his nice blue shirt. I think that he’s ditched his tie. Does that officially make this a date?

When the waitress returns, I can’t help but rattle off my order in Spanish, and Cortez seems surprised.

“Forgive me, but what’s your background? I’ve been meaning to ask you since the first time we met.”

“You mean my ethnic background?” I’m glad that Cortez doesn’t ask about my nationality. That question always floors me.
I’m American, you doofus!

“I’m mixed,” I tell him. “My mother is Japanese American, Sansei. Third generation. My dad is white, maybe a mixture of English and Scottish. But his mother taught Spanish in high school and always spoke it to me for as long as I can remember.”

“Anyway, great genes,” Cortez says, and my cheeks grow hot. “I’ve never seen eyes like yours before.”

I’ve heard the comment about my eyes from other people, mostly men. In a certain light, they look green. Based on my high school genetics class, I know it means that someone in my Japanese family tree must have messed around with a gaijin, literally an outsider, maybe a Russian. You need those recessive genes on
both
sides to have light eyes.

“How about you? What’s your background?”

My question throws Cortez off for a moment. And then he laughs. “My mother’s from Mississippi, grandfather on my father’s side is from Tennessee. We’re pretty mixed, too. Mostly black, but there are some white folks, Native Americans. Originally, I suspect that we came from the Gold Coast.”

“Gold Coast. That’s where Ghana is, right?”

Cortez seems amused. “What do you know about Ghana?”

“I have a friend who’s from there,” I say, thinking of Father Kwame. “I actually majored in Spanish in college,” I tell Cortez.

“You got your degree?”

I nod my head. In fact, I’d not only graduated, I’d done it in three years, but I don’t mention that, because it will sound like I’m bragging or, worse yet, confirm that I’m a super-nerd. I’d had so many Advanced Placement units from high school that I’d started PPW as a sophomore.

“You got me beat,” Cortez says. “I never went to college. I didn’t even make it through high school, in fact. Got my GED and went straight into the academy.”

“When did you enter the academy?”

Cortez gives me a big smile, dazzling white teeth. I bet he never had to get braces. “Are you really asking me how old I am? Turn thirty next month. And you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“I thought that you were a few years older. You carry yourself well.”

I’m flattered. I ask Cortez about his career because I’m genuinely interested. I’m aiming to be a homicide detective by the time I’m his age. Or maybe even earlier.

We start talking about the police academy, and Cortez surprises me by saying that he heard about my report writing skills from our instructor, a captain in the Valley. He says that other detectives have vouched for my editing abilities, too. (Harrington, no doubt.) “I should have you look over my report on the Jenny Nguyen case,” he says.

“Sure.” Grandma Toma always warns us not to get too big for our britches, but right now my head is as big as the Goodyear blimp. I start asking about the ballistics report in Jenny’s case. “Do you know what kind of gun Jenny was killed with?”

Cortez stops mid-bite. He finishes his mouthful of enchilada and then wipes his mouth with his napkin. He has good table manners. I’m not used to that, for sure.

“Why do you ask?”

“Ah”—I had opened this door and now I had to go through it—“if possible, can you keep this on the q.t.?” I am in no position to be asking for favors, but I have to at least try.

Cortez carefully places his napkin on the table. “Okay,” he says.

“Jenny’s ex-boyfriend contacted me.” I leave out the fact that he showed up at my house.

“He what?”

“No, no. He didn’t threaten me or anything. It’s just, in certain circles, people know that I’m a cop. I guess they feel they can come to me.”

Cortez doesn’t seem satisfied with my answer. He has a good BS barometer. I just hope that he can’t accurately measure mine.

“He mentioned that he owned a gun. A Smith and Wesson.”

“Yeah, we’re aware of that. He told us that Jenny borrowed it from him.”

“So I was wondering about ballistics.”

“The bullet was from a thirty-eight caliber firearm shot at close range.”