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  PRAISE FOR

  MURDER ON BAMBOO LANE

  Winner of the T. Jefferson Parker Mystery Award

  “A heartfelt new crime novel with a likeable heroine and a unique, street-level view of Los Angeles. In a genre inundated with angst-ridden cops and eccentric geniuses, LAPD bicycle patrol officer Ellie Rush is a refreshing change—one of the warmest, most realistic characters to hit crime fiction in a long time. Hirahara’s affection for Los Angeles, and for the intricate, multicultural mix of people who inhabit it, comes through on every page.”

  —Lee Goldberg, New York Times bestselling coauthor of The Chase

  “Officer Ellie Rush is smart, funny, observant, a good friend, a dutiful relative, and a compelling character whom you want to get to know better. Murder on Bamboo Lane delivers seamless writing, interesting characters, the right touch of romance, social commentary . . . the list goes on.”

  —Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of the County Cork Mysteries

  “[A] fresh, funny, and fascinating mystery. Young bicycle cop Ellie Rush might be the opposite of hardboiled, but she’s courageous, clever, and can wind her way through the backstreets of LA to the best ramen shops. The most original mystery I’ve encountered in many years—kampai to Naomi Hirahara for a terrific new series.”

  —Sujata Massey, author of The Sleeping Dictionary and the Rei Shimura Mysteries

  “A great series opener! Ellie Rush, a Japanese American LAPD rookie, is smart and tough as she investigates a Chinatown murder. Edgar® Award–winning author Naomi Hirahara paints a mesmerizing portrait of the Los Angeles she knows so well, a city where being Asian American evokes a long history of racism and violence. If you liked her Mas Arai series, you will LOVE this!”

  —Henry Chang, author of Death Money

  “A fast-paced, adventurous mystery about the filth of the world and the youthful heartbreak that accompanies its discovery . . . [Ellie’s] journey is as fun as it is tragic, a photorealistic representation of early adulthood, when romantic folly muddies all waters, and all sins—perhaps murder most of all—are immediately personal.”

  —Steph Cha, author of Beware Beware

  “What a debut! Naomi Hirahara’s new series, featuring LAPD rookie Ellie Rush, is a total home run, a crackling mystery featuring a character who has strength, brains, and yards and yards of heart. I love this book!”

  —Timothy Hallinan, Edgar®-nominated author of the Poke Rafferty and Junior Bender mysteries

  “Insightful into the twists and turns of the human psyche and the enclaves of the vast Southland . . . Hirahara delivers the goods in this first of what one hopes will be many mysteries involving bicycle officer Ellie Rush.”

  —Gary Phillips, author of Warlord of Willow Ridge

  “Hirahara takes us inside two cultures closed to most of us: the Japanese American family and the LAPD. What I love about this book is the complete lack of sappy sentimentality about the one or hero worship about the other. From the first page, Ellie Rush and her world seemed real to me and I was glad for every moment I spent there.”

  —SJ Rozan, author (as Sam Cabot) of Skin of the Wolf

  “The ingenious idea behind Naomi Hirahara’s new novel—bike cop as sleuth—allows her to navigate LA’s mean streets in a whole new way and plunges us viscerally into the city’s colorful neighborhoods . . . Murder on Bamboo Lane brims with authenticity about city politics, ethnic identity, police banter, and family dynamics . . . Ellie Rush is a wonderful new protagonist, the plot is gripping, and the book is a winner.”

  —Denise Hamilton, author of Damage Control and editor of the Edgar® Award–winning anthology Los Angeles Noir

  “Highly entertaining . . . Readers will want to see more of Ellie, who provides a fresh perspective on LA’s rich ethnic mix.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Hirahara’s well-written mystery evokes a light and breezy style, making it a quick and enjoyable read despite the dark subject matter of murder. The author has also done a fantastic job of creating a main character who is both warm and realistic as she tackles a murder investigation close to her heart. This novel is a wonderful read.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “A well-constructed whodunit . . . introduces an appealing and original heroine who guides readers to the rich ethnic mix of contemporary Los Angeles.”

  —The Japan Times

  “Naomi Hirahara has hit a home run with this new mystery . . . would make for a unique, fun TV cop series! . . . [Hirahara] has an extensive, deep knowledge of Little Tokyo and the greater Los Angeles area, and she engages the reader as Officer Rush covers this multiracial city with an upbeat tempo and easy familiarity.”

  —Cultural News

  “Scoop this one up! . . . Hirahara’s new series debut strikes just the right tone, neatly tuned into the twentysomething set. Her multiethnic cast promises a fascinating future for a cozy series tangling with serious topics.”

  —Library Journal

  “Features insightful exploration of Los Angeles’s Japanese American community and stars a perpetually underestimated protagonist . . . Ellie’s youthful perspective and two-wheeled perch are delightfully unique, sure to draw a wide range of readers, from young adults to seasoned police-procedural fans.”

  —Booklist

  “Naomi Hirahara affords a fresh perspective of LA’s rich multiethnic residents in Murder on Bamboo Lane. As the first in a new series featuring Officer Ellie Rush, the uniqueness of the cast of characters and the insightful plot premise hold great promise for future novels.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Naomi Hirahara

  MURDER ON BAMBOO LANE

  GRAVE ON GRAND AVENUE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  GRAVE ON GRAND AVENUE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2015 by Naomi Hirahara.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-60946-0

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2015

  Cover illustration by Dominick Finelle (The July Group).

  Cover design by Jason Gill.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To Denise Blanco, />
  who always was at least a chair ahead

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is completely fictional, but research led me to fall in love with the Walt Disney Concert Hall and the Los Angeles Philharmonic. I feel so lucky to be so close to this Los Angeles treasure. Thanks to the usual suspects, including Wes, but mostly to my agent, Allison Cohen, and my editor, Shannon Jamieson Vazquez, whose blue and green editing bubbles showed me where Ellie was going astray. And also to Chiwan Choi, the great conspirator of Writ Large Press and all things literary in downtown Los Angeles.

  I know who I am and who I may be if I choose.

  —Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote

  grave (It.) (grä-vĕ.) . . . a deep low pitch in the scale of sounds . . .

  —Elson’s Music Dictionary (1905)

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Murder on Bamboo Lane

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Naomi Hirahara

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ONE

  The Green Mile is gone. Not everyone will be bummed about it. After all, it’s a green boat-sized 1969 Buick Skylark, no air bags and only twelve miles to a gallon. My best friend, Nay Pram, calls it sick, but not the good kind of sick. She means puke, or at least its color. But I’m devastated. There is something about that car I love. The Green Mile makes a statement. A statement that I’m not your average LA girl. Or your average cop.

  I don’t know how I’ll break it to my grandmother Lita (short for abuelita; even though she’s not Latina by blood, Lita taught Spanish to high school students for forty years and inspired me to pursue my BA in Spanish). She’s the one who gave me the car in the first place. It used to belong to my grandfather, my father’s father. Mr. Anonymous. When I had to do a family-tree project in elementary school, I had branches going from Los Angeles to Okinawa, Japan, on my mother’s side. On my father’s side, I had Lita’s Scottish ancestors, but one tree branch abruptly ended with my grandfather John Doe, the name my father told me. I was so naïve back then that I thought that was his actual name.

  But Lita, thankfully, is out of town, on one of her exotic getaways. This time she’s in Puerto Rico. I don’t know how she’s going to react. I feel like I’ve let her down. And I’m not too proud of myself, either. I mean, to have your car stolen out of your own driveway while you’re home is pretty embarrassing. Doubly so when you consider that I’m supposedly one of LAPD’s finest. I’m a P2, Police Officer II, no longer on probation after a year of patrol. My goal is to make detective by thirty, though right now my friends joke that as a bicycle cop assigned to downtown LA, I’m barely a glorified security guard. I don’t need to give anyone more fodder. In other words, I won’t be Tweeting my car theft anytime soon, even if I was on Twitter.

  Detective Cortez Williams of the Robbery-Homicide Division can’t believe it when I call him to file a report. Again, embarrassing, as I relate how I’d last seen it parked in my driveway just a couple of hours earlier. “You didn’t hear the engine? And your dog didn’t bark?” Cortez asked.

  Shippo, the fattest Chihuahua mix in the world, bark at a car thief? I forgot that Cortez never met my dog. Shippo may play watchdog when I’m not around, but once I’m home and he’s snoozing on my stomach while I’m lying on my couch, surfing the web? Not even sirens responding to a five-alarm fire would cause Shippo to bend an ear.

  “Well, I’ll tell the Robbery section to keep tabs on it. But I wouldn’t—”

  “I know, I know.” Don’t expect it to ever be found. “So, you’ve been busy,” I say. It’s a loaded statement. More like, Why haven’t you called? Although I’m pretty sure I know the reason. Cortez and I got close a few months ago, back in February, but professional issues overshadowed our personal attraction. It’s complicated. He’s seven years older than me, and has a kid. And, most important, we both have the same boss—the LAPD—and having a relationship wouldn’t be good for either of our careers.

  “Yeah, well, the Old Lady Bandit,” Cortez says.

  How clueless could I be? The Old Lady Bandit has been the talk of the station for a week. A woman who looked to be at least seventy years old on security camera footage had hit ten banks around downtown LA, the latest one in Lincoln Heights last Wednesday. Only this time, the robbery left a security guard dead. It was strange to hear of bank robberies these days, especially in Los Angeles. Totally old-school. We used to be the bank robbery capital of the world, but a recent Los Angeles Times article said we are getting beat out by San Francisco and even places like Atlanta.

  “No leads?” I ask.

  “No, not a one,” Cortez says, but I know he’s lying. Why would he tell me, a lowly P2, anything? He knows better from previous experience.

  “Well, thanks,” I finally say. “I’ll, uh, see you around.”

  “Take care of yourself, Ellie.”

  The end of the conversation—très awkward. It’s not like I’m begging for a sympathy date, or even to go out again at all. But maybe calling him wasn’t the best idea. We both know that I could have handled this on my own. But didn’t the Green Mile deserve the best? And everyone in the department knows that Cortez is the best at what he does.

  When I call my folks with the news, my parents, of course, go ballistic.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” I say. “I know it was your father’s car and everything—”

  Dad doesn’t seem to care at all about the car, or about his bio-dad. “You okay? Maybe you need to move back home.” A bicycle cop who lives at her parents’ house with her teenage brother and eighty-eight-year-old grandmother? No, thank you. That’s all I need to lower even the small amount of cred I’ve got now.

  My folks want me to move to Pasadena, South Pasadena, somewhere outside of the city of LA, even though my parents’ own house in Eagle Rock is still technically within the city limits. My dad may work for the city and constantly sing Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.,” but when it comes to his daughter, he’d like me to get out of town. Even my fellow police officers tell me it’s not a good idea to live where you work—we know too much about local gangs, drug trafficking, prostitution. And I have firsthand experience to show they’re right; I recently had to move (just a few blocks from my old place) because there were unfortunately too many bad guys who knew where I used to live. That’s something my parents don’t need to know about. The thing is, even though I’m making pretty good money for a twenty-three-year-old, I have Shippo. And having a dog means needing at least a little yard. Highland Park is the best I can do, and that’s fine with me.

  Mom sighs. “I guess it’s just as well. That car was going to kill you one of these days.”

  My brother, Noah, is just concerned about what I might get to replace the Green Mile. He immediately texts me—no hybrids. He can’t wait to get away from the hybrids in his life (Dad’s Honda and Mom’s Toyota). One reason that he still doesn’t have his license is his refusal to be seen driving anything remotely environmentally friendly. He’s counting on me to come through for him with something cooler.

  After I break the news to my family, I wander aimlessly around my small rental house. The TV is on, but I’m barely watching. I can’t relax. What a waste of a day off. Today is offic
ially Cinco de Mayo, but most of the festivities were this weekend when I was working—my legs are stiff from all that pedaling and standing these past few days in Olvera Street. I look out my kitchen window. It’s May, so there’s still some light even though it’s after six. My driveway is empty, only a sad oil spot left by the Green Mile remaining as proof that it once lived here. I start to feel jittery, violated, angry. What did I learn in psych class? Anger is part of the five stages of grief and I don’t want to be in it alone.

  But I know where I can go.

  I toss Shippo a chewy treat, replenish his water bowl and grab my jacket. I get on the Gold Line light rail—I may be missing my car but unlike some Angelenos, I know how to use public transportation; my dad is an engineer with the Metro—and get off at Little Tokyo.

  Two blocks east from the station is Osaka’s, the best ramen in the neighborhood. Inside, I find my friends—Nay, my ex-boyfriend Benjamin, and the fourth member of our little posse, Rickie, the ultimate Mohawked diva—right were I knew they’d be.

  “You won’t believe this,” I announce. “Someone stole the Green Mile!”

  The whole table begins to clap. I hate them all.

  “Wow, I had no idea you all thought so highly of my car,” I say bitterly, sinking down in an empty chair. How many times had I given them all rides? How often had the Green Mile come to their rescue (especially Nay’s) in the middle of the night?

  Nay is sensitive enough to backpedal. “Girl, don’t get us wrong. We’re not dissin’ the GM.”

  “I am,” Rickie spouts out, his mouth full of noodles.

  Benjamin lowers his eyes. He doesn’t dare say anything negative about me or my beloved car. Things between us have still been pretty awkward since last year, but, well, as good as they can be. We’re polite to each other. But we don’t go out of our way to make one-on-one conversation. I’ve told myself that I have to forgive him. I mean, really forgive. Our breakup was both of our faults (well, maybe his a little more than mine, but who’s keeping score, right?). We’ve been the Fearsome Foursome since freshmen year at PPW, Pan Pacific West, and even though I’ve gone in a different direction (I graduated in three years, while the rest of them are working on their fifth), we still hang out together all the time. I’m not going to let a little thing like a breakup get in the way of that, right?