Murder on Bamboo Lane Read online

  “So?” I’m amazed she can even tell this stuff.

  “So these panties are from last season. Not this season. And you know what else? These aren’t Jenny’s.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  “Don’t you remember how tiny that girl was? She was a size two, if that. These are a size six.”

  Nay flips through a few photos before the picture of the panty box. I rest my chin on her shoulder as I also look on.

  She stops at the Vietnamese dress.

  “That was in the same box as the panties,” I say.

  “I love áo dài,” she comments. It looks a lot like those tight Chinese traditional dresses, only this one has long sleeves.

  “Yeah, so pretty, huh?”

  She squints. “The dress wasn’t Jenny’s, either.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It looks old school. And this dragon-and-phoenix motif? That’s usually for weddings.”

  I think back to the label on the box. CH Clothing, it had said. I thought CH was short for City Hall, but maybe it stood for something else. Like Cam Hanh.

  Jenny had a special box for her dead mother’s clothes. In a way, it makes sense. Jenny had no family here, so it figured that she’d want to hang on to some personal keepsakes. But panties from a high-end lingerie shop? It seems a little pervy.

  “Maybe she was thinking of selling them? They still look brand new,” Nay says.

  “Why didn’t she, then? She obviously needed the money.”

  A server brings by a toasted cheese bagel with a side of jalapeno cream cheese spread. We split the bagel, and it suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t had any food in my stomach all day.

  “You know, you’ve really inspired me, Ellie,” Nay says as she crunches on her half of the bagel.

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  “I’ve decided to change majors. From sociology to communications. I want to be a journalist.”

  A bit of jalapeno hits my tongue in the wrong place and I grimace.

  Nay continues, “I like all of this. This asking questions stuff. But you’re right, I don’t want to look like you everyday—I mean in terms of the uniform—and I probably couldn’t pass the physical. But the rest of it, the rest of it is really . . . stimulating.”

  The skeptic side of me starts to kick in. Newspapers are closing down. Hardly anyone our age watches broadcast news, unless it’s over the Internet. Bloggers basically work their butts off for free. But more than that, Nay’s a fifth-year senior. Changing majors now may mean that she’ll be way old, maybe even twenty-five, by the time she graduates.

  Then I think about Father Kwame’s advice to hold on to my friends lightly so they can grow. If Nay feels like this is the best direction for her, I have to support her.

  “Nay, you’d be a great journalist. I can totally see you on TV.” I say this with great confidence. And as I’m saying it, I realize I really mean it.

  My compliment makes an impact, and fuels Nay to further play Nancy Drew.

  “You know, if you want to check out the store where they sell those panties, I can take you there on Saturday.”

  Sure, I agree. What else do I have going on?

  • • •

  As soon as I’m by myself, I give Cortez a call. He doesn’t pick up his phone, and I immediately think, Maybe he’s on a date.

  I decide not to leave a message. It can wait until tomorrow.

  When I get home, I try to do some cleaning. The house is a disaster area. I’ve lived there seven months now, and I don’t think that I’ve mopped the floor more than three times.

  Unlike the expansive loft Tuan is living in, my house is teeny-tiny. In fact, the whole building could literally be plopped into his living room. It’s five hundred square feet, if even that, including all the strange cubbyholes and shallow closets.

  I begin by tackling my refrigerator and quickly fill a couple of garbage bags with takeout containers of old leftovers.

  Once I’ve cleaned the inside of the refrigerator, I start on the outside. Underneath a Thai restaurant’s takeout menu, I find a photo of Benjamin and me from our trip to Hawaii. Wearing snorkeling masks, we both look like dorks: Benjamin with his wet hair spiked up like a cockatiel’s crown and me looking like a wet, smiling seal. I throw the photo in the trash and then quickly retrieve it. Even though we’re over as a couple, the vacation did happen. It’s not like a computer hard drive. It cannot be erased.

  Instead, I toss the photo into a box in the corner, along with other Benjamin-related paraphernalia. While I continue my cleaning and purging, I get a phone call on my landline.

  I pick up, not even bothering to say hello because I’m expecting to be greeted by a robocall. But it’s a human being: Dad, sounding a little desperate: “You better come over to the house.” He doesn’t explain exactly what’s going on, but for my dad, aka “Mr. Sunshine,” to call me like this means it’s serious. I waste no time in driving to Eagle Rock, which takes me seventeen minutes.

  When I arrive, it looks like my parents are having a yard sale. There are piles of clothes, a laptop computer. Then I notice that it’s all Noah’s stuff.

  I park the Green Mile and go up to Noah, who’s sitting on the curb as if he’s a criminal. He’s pulled his long-sleeved shirt over his hands.

  “What the heck is going on?” I ask.

  Noah doesn’t bother to answer and just looks at me. He’s not crying, but his eyes are bloodshot.

  “Oh no,” I say. He’s obviously been found out. He is a criminal.

  Dad, meanwhile, is also outside, pacing back and forth on the driveway.

  “Are the police involved?” I ask.

  Dad shakes his head. “No, just your mother.”

  But we both know that she can be the scariest enforcer of them all.

  I go into the house and check Grandma Toma’s room. She’s holed up in there watching a UCLA basketball game. “It’s Looney Tunes in this house,” she warns me.

  Next I go upstairs. Mom has single-handedly dismantled Noah’s room. There’s only a bare mattress on his floor. His bed frame has been taken apart and shoved in the back of the hallway.

  “Did you know about this?” She shakes a plastic bag of weed in front of my face.

  I can’t lie, so I don’t respond.

  Mom lets out a “Hmph,” and adds, “And you’re a so-called police officer.” As it turns out, Mom’s the real professional.

  “Noah, come in here right now!” she yells out the open upstairs window. She then plows down the stairs to meet him at the front door and gestures for him to go into the kitchen. Dad, meanwhile, re-enters the house with Noah’s laptop and garbage bags full of clothes.

  Mom has obviously watched one too many episodes of cable TV shows like Scared Straight! or Intervention. She forces Noah to sit at the kitchen table while she circles around it.

  “So, who’s your dealer? Who’s been giving you this stuff?” She grips the bag of weed for emphasis.

  Noah crosses his arms. He’s not going to crack.

  “You’re going to stay at that table until you tell me.”

  This is too painful to watch. I’m having flashbacks to the times Noah refused to eat his green vegetables. The impasses went on for days.

  I intervene. “Mom, he doesn’t have a dealer. He’s been growing weed with Simon Lee and his older brother.”

  Noah looks wounded. “Snitch,” he says under his breath.

  “Simon Lee? The same Simon Lee whose parents always tell me is bound for MIT? The same Simon Lee who got almost a perfect score on his PSATs? I’m going to give them a piece of my mind.” She takes out her cell phone from her purse and places her reading glasses on her nose. She calls the Lee household and apparently gets ahold of a parent.

  “Mr. Lee, this is Caroline Rush. Yes, Noah’s mother.” She then glares at Noah as if to say, I can’t believe that you’re my son. “Yes, I’m fine. I know that this is last minute, but my husband and I would like to come
over to discuss something with you and your wife. Yes, right now. It’s very important.”

  Ending the call, she turns to all three of us. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  I take a few steps back. I have nothing to do with this.

  Mom immediately knows what I’m up to. “Oh no, Officer Rush.” She grabs my wrist. “You’re coming with us for backup.”

  • • •

  Mom tells me to wear my POLICE Windbreaker that’s in my trunk.

  “I really don’t think I should go with you,” I argue.

  “You are going with us,” Mom insists. “You could have told us, the parents, of what was going on with your brother. You withheld information about his illegal activities. You bear some responsibility for this.”

  I want to deny it, but seeing my father’s anxious eyes, I agree to tag along, for his sake.

  The Lees live in an expansive estate in southeastern Pasadena. It’s immaculately manicured, with leafy trees and square bushes. Next to the front door is one of those black lawn jockeys, a remnant of a different century.

  Both Mr. and Mrs. Lee greet us at the door. Mrs. Lee is thin and birdlike with a hairstyle that resembles her younger son’s. Mr. Lee also has a slight build, but his jawline is well defined and angular.

  We follow them inside. In contrast to its lush exterior, the house inside is strangely bare. There’s no artwork on the walls and little furniture even. The hallway is lined with a stack of moving boxes.

  “Did you move in recently?” my father asks. I was thinking the same thing.

  “No, six years ago.”

  “Oh.”

  We sit in these overstuffed fake leather couches around a low coffee table. After some small talk, my mother dives in. She places the bag of weed on the coffee table.

  “I found this in my son’s room, and he claims that he got it from Simon.” And, in case there was any confusion, she declares, “It’s marijuana.”

  The Lees lurch back on their couch.

  “I didn’t say that. Ellie’s the narc,” Noah says.

  The Lees exchange glances and seem intimidated by my POLICE Windbreaker.

  “Apparently, your sons are growing marijuana in your house,” Mom says.

  “That’s quite an accusation,” Mr. Lee says. “You are greatly mistaken.”

  “Siiiimon!” Mrs. Lee calls out. Her voice is shrill, like a boiling teakettle’s whistle.

  “Simon!” The father then calls out, more baritone.

  Simon finally shows himself at the top of a staircase, his signature earbuds still in place.

  He slowly makes his way down and sits next to Noah.

  The father points out the weed on the table. “Do you know anything about this?”

  Simon, as usual, says nothing.

  Mr. Lee yanks out his son’s earbuds and the MP3 player connected to it. He repeats his question.

  No response. The Lees then both speak in Chinese among themselves and to Simon.

  Finally Simon responds: “Yes.” “No.” “No.”

  We have no idea what’s being said, and Mom’s getting impatient.

  “Do you have a greenhouse here?” she asks.

  “It was installed by the previous owner,” Mrs. Lee says. “My older son does some school projects there.”

  “May we see it?” Mom asks.

  The Lees exchange glances again.

  “Of course,” Mr. Lee finally agrees.

  We walk through their kitchen, which, in contrast to the empty living room, is fully stocked and crowded with items from big-box stores. We go out the back door to a large yard, the greenhouse looming on one side. It’s dark, and Mr. Lee uses a flashlight to lead us to the greenhouse door. Then he snaps the light on.

  The greenhouse is completely empty.

  “So where are these plants you speak of?” Mrs. Lee asks.

  Both Lees look victorious; my parents, foolish.

  “I don’t think that your son should be associating with my son anymore,” Mrs. Lee says.

  “You got it,” Mom agrees.

  On the drive home, Mom keeps going on and on. “Can you believe them? Taking no responsibility for their son. Unbelievable. I don’t believe he really scored that high on his PSATs, either.”

  “I kind of feel sorry for him,” I say.

  “What?”

  “I do, too,” Dad says. “He seems neglected. The whole house, in fact, seems half-lived-in. It’s obvious that the Lees don’t really want to know what’s going on with their sons. They knew that there were plants back there. They just didn’t want to believe it.”

  Noah stays silent, but once Dad parks the car, he runs out and into the house. A few minutes later, he emerges from his bedroom holding a toothbrush and fistful of underwear.

  “I’m not staying here,” he announces to my parents in the downstairs hallway.

  Well, you’re not staying at my house, I think.

  “Noah, you are a minor. You can’t decide where you are going to live,” my mother says.

  “I will run away. I swear I will.” There’s such defiance and anger on his face. I actually think he will.

  “Okay, maybe everyone’s gotten a little hot under the collar. Let’s just sit down, maybe have something to eat, and talk it out,” Dad proposes.

  Noah, on the other hand, has his own proposal. “I want to stay at Lita’s.”

  • • •

  “So, our niño is in trouble,” Lita says after opening the door of her San Gabriel home. Everyone had agreed it would be best if I drove Noah over to her house alone. I tried to talk to him, but Noah gave me the full-on silent treatment.

  “Hi, Lita,” mumbles Noah as he rushes in with his plastic bag of underwear.

  “Make yourself at home,” she calls out. “The extra bedroom’s yours.”

  Lita then gives me a hug and quick kiss on the cheek.

  We sit in her wicker chairs in her living room, which is decorated with Mexican masks and dancing skeletons.

  “Well, it’s not armed robbery,” she says, taking another sip of wine. “I can’t tell you how many of my students came to class stoned and high. And your father—”

  I quickly shush Lita. The last thing Noah needs is any kind of ammunition that Dad experimented with illicit drugs.

  We talk some more, and then I finally tell Lita that I have to go.

  “Bye, Noah,” I call out.

  No response.

  “He’ll come around,” Lita says. “I’ll work some of my magic on him.”

  I drive home in a daze. I can’t help but feel a little sorry for Mom. First me joining the force, and now Noah with his stash of pot. We are not turning out the way she wants us to, and now both of us are out of the house.

  When I get home, I call Nay to process what has just happened.

  “It’s not like he’s a serial killer or anything,” Nay says.

  “That’s what Lita says.”

  “Your Lita is so cool. I love her. Do you think that she’ll adopt me?”

  “She’s not home enough to adopt anyone.” Lita’s gone so much, she can’t even keep cactus alive.

  “Well, anyway, we’ve all done it.”

  “I haven’t,” I tell her.

  “Well, you are a special case. A jock. ‘My body is a temple’ and all that, right?”

  “I never said anything like that.”

  “But you think it, right? Anyway, isn’t your mom of the seventies, eighties crowd? Weren’t they all Fast Times at Ridgemont High or something?”

  “Mom wasn’t.”

  “Guess it runs in the family. Don’t worry. She’ll get over it. Noah is her little darling. I know how Moms are with their sons.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “You’re lucky. You have a normal family.”

  “You think my family’s normal?”

  “Pretty darn close. I’ll take your family’s crazy over mine any day.” I hear her take a sip of what I assume is Diet Coke. “By the way, when we m
eet up tomorrow to go to that store? Don’t wear the same stuff you normally do on the weekends. No jeans and T-shirts. Wear something expensive. Alluring.”

  Alluring? I’m not even sure if I know what that looks like anymore.

  EIGHTEEN

  NORTH ROBERTSON BOULEVARD

  My feet are killing me as I wait underneath a pink sign that says CERISE. I am wearing a pair of black stilettos, reprising a misguided attempt to be sexy for Benjamin once.

  Nay appears in a low-cut wraparound dress that shows off her ample cleavage. Once she makes it to the front of the lingerie store, she circles around me. “Not bad,” she says. “I’ll give you a C plus. No, B minus.”

  Thank you, Professor Alluring.

  From the outside, Cerise, which I quickly learn means “cherry” in French, is not what I expect. First of all, it’s in a quieter part of Beverly Hills, next to a small, well-watered garden. In fact, it looks like it could be a Paris bistro, at least to people like me who’ve never set foot in France.

  Once we walk inside, however, it’s clear that we’re in a sex shop. Wine-flavored condoms, fruit-scented massage oils, see-through lingerie, it’s all there. The only things that set Cerise apart from the sex shops on Hollywood Boulevard are presentation and price: Everything here is tastefully displayed on large polished stones underneath spotlights—and most of the items are priced in the three digits.

  Nay squeezes her knockoff Gucci bag as she approaches the saleswoman at the counter.

  “We’d like to see your Seven-Day-a-Week panty gift pack.”

  “Certainly.” The saleswoman, who is probably in her early thirties, carries herself like Audrey Hepburn. She glides away to a back room in her glamorous high ponytail.

  I sidle up to Nay at the counter. “You’ve been here before?”

  “Of course. Not to buy, but just window-shop with friends.”

  Friends? What friends?

  The saleswoman returns with a black box with a satin finish, much like the one we found in Jenny’s car.

  I take a close look at the box, while Nay engages the clerk in a conversation.

  “I go to PPW, and I’m taking a human sexuality course,” Nay tells her.

  “Oh, you’re a college student. Fabulous. We’ve been trying to do some more outreach to your demographic.”