Grave on Grand Avenue Page 21

We both order coffee and our expensive breakfasts.

  “I know that you can’t say much about the investigation, but you haven’t mentioned anything, have you? About Puddy Fernandes being related to me?” Or, more important, to Aunt Cheryl?

  Cortez frowns. “No, no. That would never—I keep my word, Ellie. Is that why you wanted to see me?”

  “Ah, well, I’ve been thinking . . .” I say. Actually, I have been thinking nonstop for the past three days, both during work and on my day off on Sunday. I trace a finger on a glass saltshaker on the counter. “I just want to say that I’m sorry if I seemed weird that day at Philippe’s. I should have been nicer to your friends.”

  “Not really my friends. Just Misty. She’s my best friend’s wife.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” I say. I am such a doofus.

  “Anyway, I don’t think Misty noticed.”

  “But you did.”

  Cortez smiles. “I did.”

  Our expensive but beautiful breakfasts arrive. “By the way,” I announce, “this is my treat.”

  “Oh really?”

  “This is my ‘I admit that I’ve been slightly crazy’ apology.”

  “Well, okay. I’ll take it.”

  For the next half hour, it’s like when we first met earlier this year. We tease, laugh and share silly stories. It’s light. Comfortable. I want it to keep going. Then Cortez has to go and ruin it by saying, “So what is this we’re doing, Ellie?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I like you, Ellie. I want to spend more time with you. Alone. I don’t want you to get upset at me when I don’t even know what I’ve done.”

  It would be so easy for me to say back, I like you, too, Cortez. But saying those words scare me. I don’t know whether it means going through a door I’m not ready for.

  Cortez glances at his watch. “I need to go. You don’t need to say anything to me right now. Just think about it, okay?”

  * * *

  As I enter the City Council chamber, the Media Relations guy, Officer Marc Haines, greets me at the door. He’s all happy, practically panting like Shippo does when I open up some new treats. It’s pretty pathetic.

  I’ve been inside this room a few times before; the first time was probably when I was in grade school and Aunt Cheryl was receiving a commendation of her own. With its steepled ceilings, hanging lights and tile mosaics, it made me feel like I’d stepped back in time to some foreign place in Europe with kings and knights. Indeed, even today, the chamber feels like a slightly religious place—at least, until the proceedings start. Then you feel like you’ve walked into some Shakespearean play with one too many fools, most of them politicians.

  Jorge looks miserable when he sees me, and so does Mac. A morning of awkwardness. Fantastic.

  Each of us sits in a different pew, but Haines gathers us together like a high school sports team. I’m just waiting for him to pull out a whistle and make us huddle and cheer, “Go LAPD!”

  Mac is up first. I have no idea why he’s going to be commended. The council agenda gives no clue.

  Mac stands next to a councilman for the San Fernando Valley. All fifteen members of the council sit at a curved wooden desk and face us in the wooden pews in the public gallery.

  I’m confused. I know Mac lives in the Valley, but we in the Central Division service downtown LA. The councilman is older and has been in his seat for a number of years. I recognize his name. I think there’s a middle school named after him.

  The councilman tells all of us to wait one minute and then a young man in a suit—maybe one of his aides—hands him a small package. At first I think it may be a gift of some kind, but no, it’s alive. It’s a Yorkshire terrier about a third of Shippo’s size.

  The crowd coos. The terrier is adorable. But I’m still scratching my head. What does this have to do with Mac?

  Then the councilman tells his story. “I was going for my morning walk with Lemon Drop here; we call her LD for short. We were in the local city park in the neighborhood.” LD then licks his owner’s face. The crowd oohs and ahhs again. “And then these three dastardly, wicked—”

  I’m waiting for gangsters, or maybe teenagers, but no, it’s . . .

  “—squirrels began to attack LD. A totally unprovoked attack! I had never seen anything like this before.” I glance at Jorge next to me. He can’t believe this, either.

  “I was struggling to save LD and then this man, this fine representative of our city’s LAPD bicycle unit, comes riding in with a water bottle to save the day. Scares those scoundrels with squirts of smartwater. LD needed ten stitches. The squirrels, of course, escaped.”

  Jorge presses his mouth closed so he doesn’t bust out in laughter. I bare-knuckle the bottom of the seat in our pew. Haines frowns at us. We are being impertinent. Rude.

  “This is proof that we need to ban the feeding of all wildlife in parks and nature areas. We cannot let these aggressive animals terrorize our citizens.”

  During the councilman’s whole tirade, Mac has been wearing the biggest fake smile ever. All his top teeth, aside from his molars, are visible. The ends of his mouth are starting to tremble.

  He is presented with his commendation, and bombarded with flash from camera phones and even legitimate cameras.

  When it’s all over, Mac passes me by, murmuring, “You tell anyone about this, you die.”

  No worries. I see Haines has been taking plenty of digital photos. This is going to end up on Twitter for sure.

  Councilman Beachum then steps from his desk, calling Jorge and me up forward. I secure my cap on my head; I’m totally official now. I have to say, Jorge is also looking pretty darn respectable.

  As we turn toward the public gallery, I note a familiar blue Windbreaker in the third pew. It can’t be, but it is. My father, taking time off from his Metro job? Next to him is my mother, aiming her iPhone camera right at me. And believe it or not, next to her is Grandma Toma, her hair again freshly dyed. She always seems to break out the box of L’Oréal when one of her family members does good.

  Beachum can talk, that’s for sure. He goes on and on about how he’s committed to biking and bike lanes. And how thefts of bikes cannot be tolerated. He gives the BCU and specifically me props and then some.

  The longer he goes on, the more I feel like a fake. I can’t stand Beachum, and at the moment I don’t think Jorge can stand me.

  “Officer Rush showed alertness in following up on a possible stolen bicycle. That alertness led to her discovery of the largest bike theft ring in the city.

  “Through the work of Rush and the BCU unit, individuals can be reunited with their primary form of transportation, including Kenyon Low, an orderly at the hospital in Chinatown. He needs that bicycle to get to work each day.”

  The man I’d seen locking up the pink bicycle rises from the front pew. He’s wearing his hospital scrubs, and for a moment, I’m seriously taken aback. He shakes Jorge’s hand quickly but grips mine extra hard. “Thank you, Officer,” he says to me. “I’m raising my daughter on my own. That bike is the only way I can easily get to the hospital.”

  I blink away some tears and all of us pose for more photos, including some for the Rush family’s personal collection.

  When the council moves on to the next agenda item, we begin to file out. My family follows me into the hallway.

  “I didn’t know you guys were coming,” I tell them. “How did you find out about this?”

  “Your mother saw it on her Google Alerts,” Dad says. He seems perfectly fine, back to normal.

  Who’s worried about the NSA? It’s Google Alerts that we should be afraid of, I think.

  “That Councilman Beachum is a tall man,” Mom says, admiring his height.

  “You’ve seen him before,” I say.

  “I just never noticed how tall he was.”

  �
�He’s tall,” Grandma Toma agrees.

  “Can we stop talking about Councilman Beachum?”

  Just then Mac walks out of the chambers, followed by a couple of older women who want to pose for a photo with him and LD.

  “Say cheese, Lemon Drop,” they coo to the dog.

  I inadvertently lock eyes with Mac, but just for a second. Smile, I say to him silently. Smile for the camera.

  * * *

  The rest of day is delete-able. That’s actually Nay’s word for any time spent on anything mundane. Delete. Cannot get back. Delete. Like old e-mails crowding your in-box, old texts eating up your phone’s memory, delete-able moments just suck up our time. In my case, however, they are also providing me with a paycheck.

  Although I acted annoyed when I saw my family at City Council chambers, it actually means a lot to me. It may have been the first time—other than my graduation from the Police Academy—when my mom seemed proud of me for being myself. Not the way she wants to see me, but the way I see myself and hope to be in the future.

  When I drive home later, the grayness of the day seems to have really taken hold. LA is strange around this time, late May and June. There is a gloom to it, almost an indecision on whether the world should be warm with possibilities or damp with dread.

  The light in the house next to the corner church is on. I park the Green Mile and press the intercom. After a couple of minutes, the door opens.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, Father Kwame,” I say. A few aphids circle the lightbulb at the top of the alcove.

  “Ellie, you look so official.”

  I smile. From anyone else, I’d take that comment as a dis. From Father Kwame, however, it’s what it is. An honest observation.

  We go inside and Father Kwame takes his regular seat in the corner. There’s a Bible on the table. It’s doesn’t look like it’s in English. “Was just doing some reading,” he says. “Related to Mr. Fuentes’s church. The gardener,” he adds, as if I wouldn’t remember. “I’ve actually been in touch with the minister. He was telling me that he’s doing a series of sermons on the crucifixion of Jesus.”

  “But Easter was, like, over a month ago.”

  “I know. But I guess his congregation was mesmerized about the story of Barabbas, so he wants to devote some special sermons to it.”

  “Wait, what did you say?”

  “The crucifixion?”

  “No, the guy’s name.”

  “Barabbas.”

  “What’s his story? This Barabbas guy?”

  “Barabbas was in line to be executed. He and Jesus were imprisoned together. But the crowds started to call out for Barabbas, the guilty one, to be freed. So Barabbas was, and Jesus assumed his position.”

  I hadn’t heard this story before. Or if I had, I hadn’t been paying attention. My face feels hot. That’s what Eduardo Fuentes had said to me. Not Barbara, but Barabbas.

  “The pastor was saying that there are times when we need to step forward in place of a Barabbas. A very interesting interpretation. Has given me much—”

  “Thank you, Father,” I interrupt him. I rise from my seat. “You’ve really helped me.”

  “I’m glad, Ellie, but how?”

  SIXTEEN

  I’m off the next day, but it doesn’t mean that I’m not working, at least in trying to connect some dots. I have RJ’s work number from the day I first met him. I call, and when I tell the woman who answers that I need to talk to RJ in person about something important, she dutifully gives me the address in Alhambra where he’s working. It’s amazing what people will tell a complete stranger over the phone. No wonder those telecom shysters are able to wrestle away the life fortunes of vulnerable seniors with cold calls.

  Alhambra is not far from Highland Park. Only thing, there’s no direct way to get there via freeway, so I take the back streets, mostly treelined and idyllic. I drive east through San Marino, which is even more moneyed than South Pas. There seem to be no apartments in that town, only expensive houses, and few people walking the streets. San Marino’s shopping area is divided along two parallel boulevards, with few opportunities for people to run into their neighbors and friends.

  Alhambra, on the other hand, has plenty of apartments and condominiums, and its Main Street is an actual main street with movie theaters, Chinese and American eateries, a beautiful library and City Hall. Where I’m going is only a few blocks north of that artery.

  It’s not difficult to find RJ, between the sound of the lawn mower and the white truck with LANDSCAPING AND GARDENING painted on the driver’s-side door.

  The house itself is ranch-style and neat. Nothing awe-inspiring, but still probably worth a million dollars.

  RJ, wearing a straw hat, notices me get out of the Skylark. He looks disturbed, as if I’ve crossed over a line of privacy. Sweat is dripping down onto his long-sleeved cotton shirt. I don’t know how gardeners in LA can work with so much clothing on, but I guess it protects them from the UV rays. He has two other helpers—one is cutting the hedges and another is pulling weeds out of a flower bed. He stops the lawn mower. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard I could find you here.”

  He doesn’t look that hospitable, so I get right to the point. “What were you going to do after you stole it?”

  “Don’t know what you saying,” RJ stonewalls.

  “The cello. It’s not like you could take it to a pawnshop. You must have had a connection.”

  “You need to leave. This private property.”

  I’m careful to stand on the sidewalk. “Not where I am. What, you gonna call the police and report a public disturbance?” I hate to play the cop card, but I need RJ to open up. “Your uncle knew about your plans. He was trying to stop you by stealing it himself.” The words have truth in them. I know because tears come to RJ’s eyes.

  “Uncle Eduardo didn’t understand. I wasn’t going to steal and sell. How could I be stealing for the owner?”

  I am stunned for a few moments; then I slowly recover. “Are you saying Xu asked you to take the cello?”

  “The old man. The father. I was supposed to take it after the concert. The translator was with him. They told me that no one would get hurt.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police after your uncle got hurt?”

  “I was going to. Believe me, I was. But those men—that translator told me if I spoke up, I’d get into trouble. That Mr. Xu’s son was famous, a star, so who would believe me? And everything was on the TV, and my prima, Marta, was so upset. How could I tell her that I was behind what had happened to her father?”

  “Wait a minute. I still don’t understand. The man who pushed your uncle down the stairs asked you to steal the cello? After Xu had performed?”

  RJ nods. His chin drops to his chest and he presses down on his hat so I can’t see his face. He rubs the edge of his shirtsleeve over his eyes and finally looks up.

  “And then what? Where would you keep it?”

  “I was supposed to take it home and then burn it.”

  What? This was absurd. Crazy. I say pretty much that in Spanish. RJ stays silent. He bites his lip and looks away.

  “They offered you money.” Because what else could there be?

  RJ nods his head. He is ashamed that he would pimp himself out in this way. I’m ashamed for him, too. “Tío Eduardo told me to have nothing to do with it. To go to the police. But I need to grow my business. My wife and me, we are having a baby. I don’t want my kid to do what I have to do every day.”

  The cello was a fake; I was pretty sure of that. Mr. Xu wanted its origin to be hidden. But why take such severe measures?

  “What you going to do?” RJ asks me. Now that his secret has been uncovered, he seems almost relieved.

  “It’s not what I’m going to do,” I tell him, “but what you are.”

  * * *
<
br />   I wait downstairs in the parking lot at Disney Hall. Leaning against the Green Mile, I check the reception on my phone. Not good. I don’t know where Mr. Xu is anymore. Or Xu. But I do know where one person who has been linked to them is.

  Cece comes out, carrying a viola case. I wonder how much her instrument is worth.

  Probably not five million dollars.

  I take a few steps toward her, causing her to slow her gait. “Hello, I’m Officer Ellie Rush.”

  “I know about you,” she says and starts walking faster. “I’m not talking to you. I know my rights.”

  I follow her to her BMW. “I spoke to RJ Santiago. He told me about the deal, how Fang Xu was going to pay him to steal Xu’s cello after the performance.”

  Cece’s chin hardens and she attempts to get to her driver’s-side door. I keep the door closed with the side of my body. I may not be the biggest person in the world, but I’m strong enough to take on the Philharmonic’s star violist.

  Unable to wrench open her door, Cece is utterly frustrated. “I’m going to call—”

  “Who? The police?”

  “Well, someone who doesn’t ride a bicycle, that’s for sure.”

  “RJ is going to be talking to the detectives today. He’s coming clean about the deal he made with Fang Xu.”

  Cece doesn’t bat an eyelash. She acts like she couldn’t care less.

  “I can tell the detectives to call you in next. Unless you explain to me how you’re involved.”

  She takes a deep breath. She has a beautiful face. I wonder what she would look like with her natural hair color.

  “You married?” she finally asks me.

  I shake my head.

  “No, you’re still young,” she says, even though we’re probably about the same age. “But you’ve been in love? You must have been in love at least once.”

  I think that I know where this is going.

  Cece hugs her viola case to her chest. “Xu and I met in Philadelphia, both teenagers in the conservancy. Xu’s father came with him. To make sure he rehearsed every night. Every day. Only breaks for class and meals. Fang Xu is a man obsessed. Feels like the only way he can make his mark is through his son’s performance.”