The Deepest Cut (15 page)

At the rear of the trailer, a large Asian man stood from behind a cluttered desk. He appeared to be in his forties and wore a white polo shirt with a Pai Builders logo on its breast. He was tall, broad, and deeply tanned, looking as if he’d once been an athlete but had since filled out. “Find any more bodies?” he jokingly shouted to them.

Vining approached. “I’m Detective Vining.”

He held out a big palm to shake. “Joey Pai. How can I help you?”

Instead of taking his hand, she gave him her card. “This is Detective Alex Caspers. We’d like to ask you some questions about the murder on your construction site last night.”

“So, Detective …” He glanced at her card. “Vining. Have a seat. How can I help you?”

She sat across from Pai. Caspers remained standing, looking out a small window. She took out Scrappy’s most recent mug shot. “This is the dead man. His name is Abel Espinoza. Nicknamed Scrappy. Do you recognize him?”

Pai took the photograph and studied it. “Can’t say that I do.” He handed it back to her. “That guy’s got gang tattoos. I don’t hire gang-bangers. I wouldn’t let him set foot on my construction site.”

He was either born or raised locally. He had that breezy, almost too-familiar manner of Southern Californians born after the Kennedy administration, as if life was just a dream, dude.

“Excuse me a minute.” He picked up a two-way radio from his desk, keyed it, and spoke into it using adept Spanish.

Vining looked at a calendar from a heavy-equipment supply company on the wall. It had a photograph of a model wearing a bikini and high heels. She had mile-long legs, huge breasts, tiny waist, and hips that would be appropriate for a ten-year-old boy. She was suggestively climbing astride a backhoe.

The photo had already attracted Caspers’s attention.

Vining commented, “She looks like a Barbie doll.”

With complete sincerity, he said, “I like Barbie dolls.”

“Real women don’t look like that.”

He turned up his hand and shook his head, as if nonplussed by her comment.

Pai set down the two-way. He rested his hands on the arms of his desk chair. Like the other office furniture in the room, it was utilitarian and far from top-of-the-line.

“I wish I could be of more help, Detective. That murder was terrible, of course, but did they have to deface the mosaic, too? It had been commissioned by Mr. Hollenbeck years ago and had been on a wall in his office. Now I have to hire a specialist to restore it, if possible, and get the security company that was supposed to be watching the site to pay for it. Mrs. Zhang is displeased, to put it mildly. She’s worried that the murder will put a chill on condo sales once the complex is finished.”

“The dead man had two little kids, a mother, and a couple of siblings. It’s put a chill on their lives, too.”

“For sure. I mean, that goes without saying.” Pai became flustered as he attempted damage control. While citizens condemned gang violence, the flower of their fervor was still reserved for NIMBY— Not In My Back Yard.

“Mr. Pai, do you know of anyone who has a grudge against you or your company?”

He made a dismissive sound. “Where do I begin? Burning the place down or destroying equipment would be more their style. Some in the community see property developers as the enemy. We tear down notable buildings, use up open space. But Pearl Zhang is known for her adaptive reuse of historic buildings. She won’t settle for anything less than top-of-the-line work. That’s why she hires us.”

“How long have you known Mrs. Zhang?”

“About five years. This is my third job with her, and the biggest. She’s becoming a giant in the San Gabriel Valley. She’s tough, but reasonable. She’s a good businesswoman. We work together fine.”

“Who’s backing her financially?”

“I don’t know specifics. She has investors. She’ll bring by men in suits to the site. I get paid on time. That’s all I care about.” Pai had second
thoughts about what he’d said. “She’s totally legit. Everything’s aboveboard. I don’t work that way.”

“Do you know anyone who has a grudge against her?”

“You don’t make friends in this business. The local preservationists get mad, the residents in the area get mad, the businesses nearby get mad, at least while construction is going on. Then they’re happy when people move into the apartments and condos and the street-level retail draws foot traffic. But there are projects in Pasadena that have been tied up in lawsuits for decades.”

“Do you know Pearl Zhang personally, beyond your business relationship?”

“Not really. I’ve been to her office in San Marino. She’s come in here with her son and mother, but I don’t go out drinking with her, if that’s what you’re getting at. It’s all business.”

Vining handed him the recent DMV photo of Marvin Li. “Have you ever seen this man around here?”

Pai took his time, finally shaking his head. “No. I would have remembered that guy, all inked up and with that long Fu Manchu mustache.”

“Does the name Marvin Li ring a bell?”

“No.”

“How about Aaron’s Aarrows?”

He laughed. “Aaron’s Aarrows? What’s that?”

“Those guys who stand on the street corners with the big arrows advertising apartments or new shops.”

“Right. I’ve seen them, but not around here.”

“Does Pearl Zhang ever talk about her extended family? Aunts, uncles, cousins … ?”

“You think she’s mixed up in this?”

“I’m just asking questions, Mr. Pai.”

“I don’t know anything about her family, other than her mother and son.”

“Are any of your employees Chinese?”

“No.”

“You don’t employ anyone who’s Chinese?”

He became serious. “I’m of Korean descent, Detective.”

Behind him, she saw Caspers quickly face the wall, as if to hide his grin.

“I know. All Asians look alike, don’t they, Detective?” Pai was grim.

Vining felt her cheeks grow hot.

Pai laughed. “I’m just messing with you. People take me for Chinese all the time. Your face …” He laughed some more. “My brother’s a deputy sheriff out of the Altadena station. I love to give him crap. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t mess with you.”

“No problem,” Vining said.

“My parents emigrated from South Korea during the war. I was born and raised in Northeast L.A. I graduated from Wilson High School. There are so many Chinese immigrants in the San Gabriel Valley these days. People come up to me and assume I don’t even speak English. I’m always like, ‘Hey, I’m a native American.’ But to answer your earlier question, my crew is nearly all Latino. That’s the business now.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Pai.” Vining stood.

“You’re welcome. If I find out anything, I’ll call you right away. Hey, did you hear about the Chinese couple that had a blond baby? They named him Sum Ting Wong.”

“Joey, you’re so bad,” the receptionist said to him over her shoulder.

CASPERS SPARED HER UNTIL THEY WERE BACK ON THE STREET. “I’M NOT
Chinese, I’m Korean, he says. You think we all look alike.” He began cackling.

“Shaddup,” she said, provoking more laughter from Caspers.

She unlocked the Crown Vic and he opened the passenger door.

“I’m surprised he works for the Dragon Lady,” Caspers said when he was inside the car. “The Chinese and the Koreans don’t like each other.”

“I think it’s the Japanese and the Koreans.”

“Really? It’s not the Chinese?”

Vining cranked the ignition. “In the immortal words of the great philosopher Rodney King, ‘Can’t we all get along?’ ”

“One word,” Caspers replied. “No.”

AT THE CORNER OF COLORADO BOULEVARD AND LAKE, THEY SAW A GUY
wearing a gorilla costume with a full-head mask doing a choreographed dance with a large arrow that said: Archstone Apartments Now Leasing.

FIFTEEN

T
HEY TOOK THE LOCAL STREETS THE FIVE MILES TO SAN GABRIEL,
heading south through Pasadena and its well-heeled neighbor, San Marino. Driving curvy, tree-lined streets, they passed stately mansions set back on manicured lawns. The small city’s affluent residents tried hard to hang on to old traditions, which came to feel like wrapping one’s arms around a palm tree in a hurricane. The area had experienced a huge demographic shift over the past thirty years as wealthy Chinese immigrants bought large homes there, prompting wags to label the city “Chan” Marino.

After they crossed Huntington Drive, they were still within San Marino’s city limits, but left the mansions behind as the homes and lawns grew more modest. Entering the city of Alhambra, houses and front yards became more modest yet, apartment buildings appeared, and the Chinese influence was more pronounced. The signage on virtually all the commercial buildings was in Chinese and English, and often only in Chinese. Many of the quaint single-story brick-and-masonry buildings along the main thoroughfares had been razed and replaced with multistory minimalls that housed Chinese video stores, specialists in foot massage, and scads of Chinese restaurants.

The San Gabriel Valley is home to the best and most authentic Chinese food outside of Hong Kong. Among the more commonly
available Taiwanese, Shanghaiese, Hunan, Sichuan, and Cantonese cuisines were restaurants specializing in Chiu Chow, Macanese, Shenyang, Hakka, and Yunnan. There was always great controversy among the S.G. Valley Chinese food aficionados over where to find the best Xiao Long Bao— juicy pork dumplings.

Reaching Main Street, they turned left, heading east.

At the city limits of San Gabriel, Main Street becomes Las Tunas Drive. The shape and color of the street signs change to incorporate a Spanish adobe design as one of the twenty-one California missions is here, dating from 1771. The Mission San Gabriel Arcángel’s greatest legacy was set in motion in 1781 when a party of two padres and several families left it to hike nine miles west to found El Pueblo de Nuestra la Reina de Los Angeles.

As Vining and Caspers continued down Las Tunas, the street narrowed and became dotted with small store-front businesses. They observed another phenomenon in the constantly evolving culture of the region— tucked between camera shops, nail salons, dumpling restaurants, escrow offices, tae kwon do studios, and karaoke bars were dozens of large and tiny bridal shops. The unique mixture of retail businesses extended beyond the San Gabriel city limits into its neighbor, Temple City.

The bridal shops catered to brides of all stripes, but had a Chinese bent; alongside traditional white wedding gowns and colorful bridesmaid’s dresses were floor-length, formfitting silk sheaths with Mandarin collars and deep side slits. The dresses were in vibrant tones of red, gold, or emerald green and were lavishly embroidered or sequined with designs of dragons, phoenixes, lotus flowers, or butterflies.

Caspers looked for Aaron’s Aarrows while Vining drove.

“What’s with all the bridal shops?” he asked.

“They took hold here some years ago. They have good prices, and sell cocktail dresses and evening gowns too. Makes it easy if you have to buy a dress because you can park once and go door-to-door.”

“Sounds like you’ve shopped here before.”

“I have a relative who insists upon a wedding each time she gets married.” Vining was thinking of her mother. “I’ve heard that some of these bridal salons are fronts for Chinese organized crime. Escrow offices
are another common front. No customers ever come in. Then one day, the shop just closes up. Gets emptied out in the middle of the night.”

“Slow down.” Caspers pointed. “That’s the address for Aaron’s Aarrows.”

It was a small bridal shop. A large sign above the front display windows said:
LOVE POTION BRIDAL.

Vining made an illegal U-turn and had no problem finding street parking right in front. It was eleven o’clock on a weekday morning. No shoppers were around, but all the shops had “Open” signs in their windows.

Love Potion’s two front windows were crammed with mannequins dressed in frilly wedding gowns festooned with shimmering sequins, beads, and crystals sewn onto yards of poofy white satin and lace. Some of the gowns had been in the window so long, the fabric had yellowed from the sun. Open parasols were stacked in the corners. Strips of silver-and-gold metallic stars hung from the ceiling.

The mannequins had hourglass figures and bullet breasts and appeared to have been rescued from a mannequin graveyard in downtown L.A.’s garment district. The eyes and lips on their Caucasian faces were heavily painted. They were all brunettes, wearing stiff synthetic wigs that would have been at home in an Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon beach-blanket movie. Their plaster arms and hands were poised as if they were jockeying for position at the front of the window.

The centerpiece, standing alone, was a mannequin in a tasteful white strapless wedding gown. In her hands, posed primly in front of her, she held a bouquet of red silk roses. The upward tilt of her head was dignified and distant, her face solemn. Her red lips were parted slightly, the lower one pouting. Her dark, painted eyes were cast downward and to the side.

Vining and Caspers got out of the car and gaped at the display. She took photos of the shop with her digital camera and returned it to her pocket.

Caspers cracked, “Instead of Love Potion, this looks more like love poison.”

Vining stared at the mannequin in the middle. “That has to be the saddest bride in the world.”

Caspers joined her in examining the bride’s joyless face. “Maybe she just found out that the groom’s banging her maid of honor.”

“Or he’s having an affair with his much younger hair stylist at Su-perCuts.” As soon as the comment was out of her mouth, Vining regretted it. What had possessed her to say such a thing? That was her and her ex-husband Wes’s story, although he’d waited until four years after their modest wedding to break the news of his affair.

It went over Caspers’s head. He chuckled and reached for the door to pull it open.

When it didn’t budge, Vining pointed out a sign above the handle that said: Push. The lower half of the door was covered with a dented steel plate.

When he pushed it open for her, a loud buzzer sounded.