Murder on Bamboo Lane Page 22

  Jenny has also included a photo of her and her mother together. They both have faint smiles on their lips; they don’t show their teeth. They are not that kind of women.

  Jenny had her mother’s eyes. Big, deerlike ones that communicated vulnerability and sadness.

  Then there are newspaper clippings in Vietnamese. Small articles, barely two paragraphs long. I look at the date that Jenny has written on top. The thirtieth of September, last year. That’s during the time of the Los Angeles trade mission.

  She’s included a list of names and phone numbers. And occasionally an identifying agency. There’s someone with the Ho Chi Minh City police department. Someone with the coroner’s department. Jenny went back to Vietnam right after her mother’s death. By then, the trade delegation would have been going in the opposite direction, on its way back to LAX.

  Based on conversations with her aunt and cousins, Jenny had found out that her mother had volunteered to serve as one of the hosting committee members for the delegation. Jenny had been surprised; she had not heard anything about this directly from her mother.

  Is that how Cam Hanh met her killer? Most definitely, I imagine.

  Photos of men in the delegation. A large section on Garrett Mancuso. Jenny even included excerpts from articles documenting the sexual harassment lawsuits filed against him. Based on his past history, Mancuso had clearly been her number one suspect. The notorious player.

  But there’s also another man in her book. Councilman Wade Beachum. Jenny even has some notes on Teena Dang. Jenny had discovered Teena’s impromptu visit to Vietnam. I wonder if she had confronted Beachum’s aide. If so, there’s no mention of it in the murder book as far as I can tell.

  Jenny mentions the expensive Blue Flag panties. And some new information, about some irregularities in her mother’s corporate accounts. One hundred thousand dollars is missing. Withdrawn from the bank the day that she was killed. What does this mean? I wonder. Was her murder related to a financial crime?

  On certain pages, Jenny has blocks of stream-of-consciousness writing. Toward the front is this:

  Sometimes I feel so lonely, like there’s nothing in the world left for me. There’s an ache in my heart. It’s open and endless. Some people say that my mother is up there, looking down on me, but I don’t think that’s true. I can’t believe that I won’t ever see her again.

  I check the dates around the time Benjamin breaks up with me in November:

  I did it again. This time it was with a boy from PPW. I barely knew his name before. Tuan has ruined me. I cannot believe anyone anymore.

  TWENTY-TWO

  WEST FIRST STREET

  The next day, I go to LAPD headquarters, the elegant grounded ocean liner.

  The secretary at the Robbery-Homicide Division locates Cortez. I had called him early in the morning to inform him that I had uncovered evidence that revealed Jenny’s frame of mind, her “mission” during the last days of her life. When he shows up, I’m not sure how he feels about seeing me. He is holding a brown accordion file; most likely he’s busy with his “other case.”

  I follow Cortez into one of their interrogation rooms; it’s much sleeker and more modern than ours.

  Cortez dispenses with the small talk. “Where is it?”

  I open up my backpack and present Jenny’s journal, sealed in a quart-size plastic bag.

  He goes out of the room and returns with a pair of gloves. He takes a seat, and I sit across from him. He slides the book from the plastic. For a man with large hands, he is graceful. Obviously experienced.

  “Where did you find this?” he says, studying the page with the mother-and-daughter photo.

  “Reserved reading. The undergraduate library at PPW. She was hiding it there. I think she thought someone was after her.” I am convinced that someone was indeed following her. I’m just not sure who.

  His gloved fingers delicately turn page after page. He takes a notebook from his pocket and begins to jot down observations. He pauses at certain pages and takes multiple photos with his phone. Underneath the fluorescent lights, I notice how long and curly his eyelashes are.

  “Well,” he says, finally closing the journal. “This is quite a book.”

  “This is what those people who went to Susana’s house were looking for. Some kind of documentation,” I say. “I think one of them was Teena Dang.” Susana said there had been two people, but one of them hadn’t said a word. That person could have conceivably been a woman.

  “Just because she’s mentioned in a few places in this journal?”

  “Because she lied to us. She said that she hadn’t been in Vietnam during the trade mission, but she had. Garrett Mancuso says she came in at the last minute, to handle something on behalf of Councilman Beachum.” I let Cortez hear the implications in my voice.

  “Ellie, Ellie.” Cortez squeezes his eyes shut for a second. I know that he is exasperated with me and my theories. “That crime—and if it was one—occurred on foreign soil. Vietnamese soil. Their government can try to extradite an American, but we can’t try to solve a mystery that happened over there from here, thousands of miles away.”

  He rises from his chair and then begins to pace. “Besides, do you know what you are implying? You are accusing a councilman of homicide or at least adultery. Based on no evidence! Do you know he’s about to announce his candidacy for mayor? You don’t want to make accusations, especially without sufficient evidence. And it doesn’t matter if you are Chief Toma’s niece or not.”

  I look down at my hands. So, the discovery of Jenny’s murder book is worthless?

  Cortez softens. “I will follow up with the Vietnamese authorities mentioned in the notebook.” He returns his notebook and pen to his pocket. “By the way, Susana Perez did come forward. She sat down with us and gave us a full report of the assault that occurred in her boyfriend’s apartment.”

  Thank you, Susana, I say silently.

  “But there is nothing that directly links Teen a Dang with that incident.”

  “Use me then,” I tell him. “Use me as bait. You can put a wire on me and let me offer her the book. I’ll get her to confess.”

  Cortez shakes his head. “You are something else. I don’t know. I can’t imagine that woman tying Susana Perez up and threatening her.”

  “Why not? Because she’s pretty? Because she doesn’t fit your image of a criminal?”

  “No, not because of that,” he says.

  “If you are so convinced that Teena Dang is not capable of violence, then what are you afraid of?”

  “If we do this, will this end it? Will you finally let go of this?”

  I nod.

  “Well, then, we’ll have to find a good safe, public place to do this. Somewhere that’s quiet enough to get good audio.”

  “Teena Dang is not going to admit anything in public. She works for the councilman. And she won’t meet anywhere that smells like the police.”

  “Well, then, where do you suggest?”

  I smile, and Cortez immediately frowns. He knows that he won’t like what I have to say.

  We toss my suggestion around for a few minutes. Cortez, of course, thinks it’s too dangerous. But it makes perfect sense. If I am posing to be handing over incriminating evidence, it should be in the confines of my home.

  “Your aunt is not going to like it,” Cortez.

  “Who the hell cares?” I say. “And besides, she doesn’t have to know.”

  • • •

  My first order of business: Find someone to take care of Shippo for a couple of days. I think of Noah first. Only he’s at Lita’s. I call Lita’s cell, and she answers on the third ring.

  “Hola, querida,” she says. I can barely make out her voice over a din of noise. In the background, someone is making an announcement over an intercom. “I’m at LAX. I’m going to Cabo San Lucas with Tomas.” Tomas, I figure, is the guy in her salsa class.

  “But Lita, what about Noah?”

  “I had to take him home
. He’s back with your parents. It was just ridiculous. Do you know that your mother was stalking him?”

  Yes, I do know, but I don’t admit to it.

  “I just planted him down with your mother and told the two of them that they needed to iron things out. I can’t be swooping down and saving the day every time,” she says.

  Every time? I can’t remember Lita really helping with Noah until this latest incident.

  “Oh, oh, they’ve started to board.” I hear the sound of her kissing the receiver. “Hasta la vista, mi Ellie.”

  Before I can return her good-bye, the phone clicks off.

  I was hoping to postpone any meeting with my mother. I have enough things to deal with now, but Shippo needs a home and it’s not going to be a doggy motel.

  Nobody picks up the landline at home, and I start to leave a message. I lie and tell them that my landlord is painting the inside of my house, so I need a place for Shippo to hang out for a day or two.

  Mom picks up the phone mid-message.

  “Oh, hi,” I say. “I know that you’re allergic to Shippo, so I hate to ask.”

  “Fine, it’s fine. You can bring him over now.”

  After packing a leash, some dog food, treats and a squeaky toy, I drive the Green Mile to my parents’ house. Noah meets us at the door. He’s been waiting for his little buddy. Kneeling, he playfully rubs Shippo’s ears. “We are going to have so much fun together,” he says.

  “So everything’s okay?” I ask.

  Noah picks Shippo up. He doesn’t look me in the eye. He’s still obviously mad that I informed on his friend. I did it to protect you, knucklehead! I think as he escapes to his room.

  I pop into the kitchen where Mom is applying hair dye from a box onto Grandma Toma’s head. It smells horrendous, like an open container of paint thinner.

  Grandma’s hair has more gray than black, but now her head is topped with reddish brown liquid dye.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “I want to look nice for your aunt’s award ceremony,” says Grandma. She’s wearing one of my dad’s old Cal Poly San Luis Obispo sweatshirts. The school mascot is the Mustang, and now the horse is covered in dark dye. “I don’t want everyone to think that we are country bumpkins.”

  I make a face at Mom behind Grandma Toma’s back. I silently mouth, “Country bumpkins?” and Mom shrugs her shoulders.

  Mom places a clear plastic cap over Grandma’s dyed head. Some of it is already running down her face, looking eerily like streaks of blood. I wipe the excess dye with a washcloth, and Mom sends her away to watch TV for fifteen minutes.

  “I was telling your grandma that the award ceremony is not a big deal,” Mom says when we are alone.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I say.

  Mom looks pleased that I agree. She slips off the stained plastic gloves and tosses them into the trash can.

  I check out the refrigerator and take out a bottle of Honest Tea. I ask my mother if she wants one, and she tells me no.

  “So, you and Noah were able to work everything out?” I keep my voice low so my brother can’t overhear.

  “One day at a time. If I look beyond that, I’ll drive myself crazy.”

  I pop open the top of the bottle.

  “So how’s the job going?” she asks.

  “Not so good,” I say. I take a gulp of the sweetened green tea and it feels smooth going down.

  I half expect Mom to say a version of I told you so, but she doesn’t.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks instead.

  “I don’t want to get into the details, Mom. I’m handling it.”

  “You always do, honey.”

  My mother’s supportive tone catches me off guard. The “incident” with Noah has softened her, and I take the opportunity to come clean, at least in certain areas.

  “And you know that guy, Cortez Williams? You don’t have to worry about him. He’s just a friend.”

  “I wasn’t worried, Ellie. I was just surprised.”

  “And, Mom, please don’t mention Benjamin anymore.” I feel tears come to eyes. “I found out recently that he cheated on me. Last year. That wasn’t the only thing, but it contributed to the breakup.”

  Mom looks at me in disbelief. “I knitted that boy a scarf for his birthday last year.”

  She gets up, and I am afraid that she’s going to hug me or kiss the top of the head. But she instead goes into the hall closet, reaching up for a package wrapped in red-and-green paper. She throws it in the trash can and then takes the end of a dust mop to spear it. I even hear glass breaking.

  “What was that?”

  Mom smiles. “Benjamin’s Christmas present. A compass. Now I can just tell him where to go.”

  • • •

  I don’t tell anyone what’s going to be happening at my house, but I do text Nay to let her know that I’ll be out for a couple of days for work. She calls, grilling me.

  “You going undercover? You going to Vietnam?”

  “Nay, I said a couple of days. It would take me two days just to travel back and forth from Asia. Anyway, no, the landlord’s painting the inside of my house. So no impromptu overnights here, okay?”

  The next day, Cortez gets a small surveillance team, basically consisting of himself and an audio guy named Kiyo. Kiyo quickly assesses my living room and finds the perfect place for his microphone, the burned-out light fixture on the ceiling. Instead of hiding out in a vehicle, Cortez thinks that next door would make more sense. My neighbor, Mrs. Rawluk, a disabled woman on SSI, is more than happy to cooperate. This is the most excitement she’s had since the 1994 Northridge earthquake, she tells me.

  After the installation of the wire is completed and tested, I give Teena a call on her cell phone the following morning.

  “Teena, it’s Ellie Rush.”

  “Uh-huh.” I can tell that she’s in the middle of something.

  “Can you call me back? It’s important.”

  I hang up, and around five minutes later my phone begins to ring. I pick up.

  “It’s Teena Dang. What do you want?”

  “I’ve found what you’re looking for. I have Jenny Nguyen’s notebook.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “If you want it, you can have it. No one else knows about it. But I need something from you.”

  I’ve caught Teena’s interest. She still feigns ignorance, but doesn’t protest that adamantly. “Listen,” she says more sweetly, “I really don’t know what you’re going on about, but I’m willing to meet you.”

  “How about tonight? Around six o’clock. At my place in Highland Park.”

  “Fine,” she says, and clicks off. It doesn’t surprise me that she doesn’t even ask for my address.

  She arrives early, but uses the extra time to check my street. There are mostly passenger cars parked along the curb, but one blue van, its side panel dented. She makes a special effort to peer through the window to ensure that a surveillance team is not monitoring her. Apparently, she is satisfied, because through a side window I spy her walking to my front door.

  The doorbell, of course, has been long broken, nothing but old paint holding the button in place. She tries it anyway, then gives up and raps on the door.

  “Showtime,” I murmur softly to myself.

  I open the door to Teena, who looks totally out of place in my neighborhood and my house. Under the fluorescent porch light, her face has an artificial tinge to it, as if it was created with wax.

  She steps into my place without saying a word. She takes a good look at the walls and furnishings. I can tell that she’s far from impressed.

  “Can I check you?” she asks.

  I’m the one who should be frisking you, I think, but I hold my arms out and allow her to give me a half-assed pat down. I could have been wired, and she would have totally missed it. Nonetheless, she’s satisfied, and she makes herself comfortable on my couch.

  “How much money do you want f
or it?” She gets right to business.

  I shake my head. “No money. I want you to shut down the tutoring center at the Adams Corridor Project.”

  She looks at me, puzzled at first, and then her face alights with insight. “You would do that, just to get back at your ex-boyfriend?”

  I nod my head. So she knows about Benjamin and me, too. And she even knows that Benjamin did me wrong. How? She must have done some research.

  “So let me have it.”

  I take out the neon green notebook. It’s been dusted for fingerprints already, as well as scanned into the computer.

  “I suppose you’ve read this.” Her right eyebrow arches up.

  “Of course,” I say.

  She leafs through the pages, most likely searching for her employer’s name or photograph.

  “It’s toward the back,” I say.

  She turns to Jenny’s last excerpts, her pupils moving back and forth as she reads.

  “Is that notebook worth it?” I finally ask her. “Was it worth it for you to torture Susana Perez for it?”

  “Come on, let’s not exaggerate.” Teena places the book down onto her lap. “We didn’t hurt her.”

  “You scared the hell out of her.”

  “We could have done way worse, you know. We could have made arrangements for her to be deported.”

  Air gets caught in my throat. I’m shocked. Some say that all people are basically good, but I respectfully disagree. Teena Dang can be Exhibit A for my argument against.

  She senses my judgment. “Do you know what Councilman Beachum’s done for LA? For PPW students? Downtown? Little Tokyo? He’s fought for money for schools in our district. Transportation in downtown. Redevelopment funds in areas so blighted that even the homeless were scared to be there.

  “Do you think it all happened instantaneously? That the business community easily said, ‘Yes, yes, take our money to create business improvement districts?’ No, it took years of lunches, talking, negotiating. Convincing leaders that we knew what we were doing. That we had a vision for our city.