Murder on Bamboo Lane Read online

  Here, in a patch of concrete across from a trading company and hole-in-the-wall restaurant I happen to know serves the best dim sum in Chinatown, are the twenty-five porta-potties. Ever since a flasher exposed himself to a dozen women in one of those during Fiesta Broadway, we’ve (or should I say, I’ve) been charged with carefully monitoring the plastic temporary structures. I see some homeless men making good use of them right now.

  I settle in for a long, stinky day. As each hour passes and the sun battles through the clouds, the streets become more and more alive with people, cars, sounds and smells. A steady stream of families travels down the concrete stairs of the Gold Line station, and I see a lot of non-Asians walking around in coolie hats. The vendors that sell those hats should be cited with perpetuation of a bad stereotype. But I guess they, like most people these days, just need to make a few bucks.

  I try to concentrate on the porta-potties, keeping in mind the description of the flasher—five eight, 160 pounds, possibly Hispanic. Incredibly generic. I try to be as visible as possible to serve at least as a deterrent.

  At around noon, the radio on my belt squawks with noise. The reception isn’t great, but I can make out that a dead body has been discovered on Bamboo Lane, only three blocks away. Asian female. Approximately twenty years of age. About a hundred and ten pounds. Gunshot wound to the head.

  How many twenty-year-old Asian women are there in LA? Maybe a quarter of a million, at least. But I can’t help but think of the missing one in my circle: Jenny Nguyen.

  I know I ought to remain at my assigned station, and I manage to do so for about fifteen minutes. But after hearing police sirens nearby, I decide to make my way through the crowd.

  Yellow crime tape has already been stretched across the narrow street by the time I arrive. My colleagues, on bikes and in black and whites, are already there. Curious onlookers loiter before they are told to move on. In the middle of the alley, a couple of detectives are blocking the view of something on the ground, presumably the body.

  As I attempt to duck under the tape with my bike, I see Mac on the other side. He stops me, his arms crossed.

  “Rush, you can’t go in there. You’ll compromise the crime scene.”

  “Is it her?”

  “Who?”

  “You know, the missing girl in the flyer that I had. The one who was at Pan Pacific West at the same time as me. Did she have any ID on her?”

  Mac swallows, and I know that he is also swallowing my leads. He tells me to get back to North Broadway, but I’m not moving.

  I recognize one of the detectives on the scene. He’s black with a shaven head and a light mustache. Detective Cortez Williams. I’m not quite sure how old he is, but he looks around thirty. I’ve heard good things about his work; plus, as one of the hotter-looking guys at the station, he’s kind of hard to miss.

  Mac approaches Cortez and says something to him. They’re about a hundred yards away, and I can’t hear their conversation.

  Cortez writes something in his notebook, then says something to Mac and Mac just shakes his head. Cortez pats Mac’s back, and I can see him mouthing, “Good work.” Cortez walks off in the opposite direction, and Mac, meanwhile, pretends that I don’t exist.

  Anger rises to my head. What the hell? This is beyond office politics now. The dead girl may be Jenny, but for some reason, Mac wants to shut me out.

  There’s another surge of people, and Mac returns to the yellow tape to disperse the lookie-loos. He still won’t look me in the eye.

  “Why didn’t you tell Detective Williams that I may have some pertinent information about the victim?” I demand.

  “Because you don’t know if you do have pertinent information.”

  “I told you that I went to Pan Pacific West with a missing girl who fits the description of the victim.”

  “He has been informed.”

  “Yeah, because you informed him.”

  “They’ll check with the school and Missing Persons. I’m sure any information you have, they have.”

  Mac is such an SOB, I can’t believe it.

  “What is your problem?” I can’t keep it inside anymore. I don’t know if I can get in trouble for speaking like this to a fellow officer who has five years on me, but at the moment, I don’t care.

  “What did you say to me?”

  I take a deep breath. “I’m just saying that I may be able to help this investigation and you’re preventing me from doing so.”

  “Look, Rush, we have this covered, so go patrol North Broadway again. Or do you need to hear it directly from Cherniss?”

  I glare at him but stalk away, and as I pedal back to Broadway, all I can think is “S-O-B, S-O-B.” I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to risk interfering with an active investigation. Should I call Rickie?

  The news about the discovery of a dead body hasn’t reached North Broadway yet, or if it has, the visitors don’t care. I brace myself for questions in various native tongues once the word gets around to the actual residents of Chinatown, however. It’s strange—in times like this, people claim me as their own. With death literally on their doorstep, it’s like they suddenly intuit my Asian heritage, while at other times, they view me as a complete outsider.

  I stand by the porta-potties for at least another half hour and then circle the park again and return to the front of the dim sum eatery.

  I hear the bang and twang of approaching drums. The lion dancers are on their way to the restaurant. Behind one of the drummers is a woman carrying a head of lettuce hanging from a long pole.

  “What’s the lettuce for?” A deep and syrupy voice says next to me. It’s Detective Williams, apparently taking a late-morning break to eat a pork bao from one of the street vendors.

  “Good luck,” I respond. “The lion is supposed to reach up and swallow it.”

  “Cortez Williams.” He reaches out a hand to introduce himself, though of course I know who he is.

  “Ellie Rush. I’m part of Central Division’s Bicycle Coordination Unit.”

  “I can see that,” he says. I’m so glad my legs aren’t chafed today.

  “Captain Ardiss Randle’s a good man,” he says of my boss.

  I know that I won’t get this opportunity again, so I dive in. “Detective Williams, actually, I wanted to talk to you. About the victim in the alley. I want to make sure that it’s not a girl who’s missing from my old school. Jenny Nguyen.”

  Cortez’s head jerks up and he carefully wipes the corners of his mouth with a napkin. He looks at me carefully. He is listening. “How well do you know her?”

  “Well, we had a class together a couple of years ago.”

  “Could you ID her?”

  My head feels light; I am slightly dizzy. Now I regret saying anything. The last thing I want to do is see Jenny Nguyen’s dead body, or any young woman’s dead body, for that matter.

  “I thought that it had to be next of kin.”

  “I mean, just for our purposes.”

  “I’ve been assigned to patrol this area.”

  “I’ll tell your captain. Come with me.”

  • • •

  I’ve never seen the dead body of anyone whom I knew alive. My whole extended family has been ridiculously healthy, except for my Grandpa Toma, who died from prostate cancer when I was five; he was immediately cremated. That isn’t to say I haven’t seen cadavers—we saw them in the county morgue during our academy training, but they just seemed like preserved and pickled meats, nothing left of their humanity.

  But Jenny is different. As of at least last week, her future was like mine—wide open.

  Guiding my bike beside me, I follow Cortez back to the crime scene. Mac’s not happy to see me. “I thought I told you to patrol North Broadway.”

  “This officer is here to help in the investigation. She might know the victim,” explains Cortez, leading me around Mac and to the body.

  I don’t gloat. There’s no reason to. Each step closer to the body makes me
feel sick to my stomach. The smell—it’s not quite like rotten eggs but close to it—doesn’t help.

  It’s more awful than I could have ever imagined. It’s not like television or movies, where the victim looks almost angelic, as if they are sleeping. We are now standing above the body, trash and cardboard boxes moved away to the side and numbered by investigators.

  Her mouth, those sweet lips that once shone with gloss, is agape and distorted as if she took her last breath mid-scream. Her large eyes are still open. On her forehead is a black hole from the bullet wound, a wash of dried brown blood all over her forehead. I am just thankful that it had been relatively cold in LA this week. I don’t know how long Jenny has been dead, but at least the maggots and flies haven’t gotten to her yet.

  “Is that her?”

  I can’t say anything, so I just nod.

  • • •

  Captain Randle eventually tells me that I can go home for the day. I’ve tried to be as composed as possible, but I guess it’s obvious I’m shaken. I can’t stop wondering about Jenny and if they will be able to locate her family for an official identification. No names can be released right now, it is explained to me, and I agree not to say anything to anybody. I do provide Rickie’s digits to Cortez, warning him that his voice mailbox is often full. “E-mail is better,” I say.

  “What’s the best way to reach you?” he asks, and at first I’m confused. He knows that I work at Central Division and that Randle is my captain. But I willingly give up my personal cell phone number.

  Once I’m home, Shippo’s doggy sense tells him to treat me more gently than usual. I take him on his walk, then turn on the television and we watch Animal Planet on the couch together. He cuddles up next to me in the curve of my stomach.

  I eventually fall asleep until my phone beeps and vibrates on my coffee table. The room is dark, but I can still read my cell phone display.

  UR ON NEWS NOW!!!! Nay texts.

  What channel?

  4

  But by the time I switch to Channel 4, the anchors have moved on to a story on changing the city council districts’ boundaries.

  I turn on my laptop and wait to connect to the Internet. My phone rings and I answer, expecting to hear Nay. Instead, I hear Assistant Chief Cheryl Toma’s voice.

  “Ellie, it’s Aunt Cheryl. Let’s have lunch on Monday.”

  THREE

  GRAND AVENUE

  Downtown Los Angeles, according to my dad, is about 5.84 square miles, four times smaller than New York’s Manhattan. But under the City of Los Angeles, we have all these neighborhoods and districts shaped like narrow New England states, though the borders tend to blur together. Believe it or not, Downtown LA has a produce market, where semis fill their containers with unripened tomatoes, husks of corn and crates of green peppers. Ironically, it’s right next to Skid Row, which is squeezed tighter and tighter so that the homeless are practically standing on top of each other; the Fashion District, which recently got some play on a few reality TV shows; the Flower District; and Toy Town.

  All of these districts and “towns” are the heart of the city. My ex-boyfriend Benjamin Choi, who’s Korean but grew up in Brazil, pooh-poohs LA, saying it’s not a real city, like his native São Paulo. He talks about the pulse of a real city, about skyscrapers next to shantytowns, music spilling out into the streets, smells of outdoor vendors grilling meats. Brazil is a true melting pot, he says, where you have Chinese with Afros and men named Carlos or Jose wearing yarmulkes.

  LA has architecture, I argue. The mosaic sun on the pyramid top of Central Library can be seen if you stand on the right corner next to some modern office buildings. The Walt Disney Concert Hall, across the street from the jury parking lot, will make any tourist take a second look. And although it may be hard to tell from the outside storefronts, such as the Spanish-speaking bridal and quinceañera dress boutique, the Bradbury Building on Third Street is our holy sanctum. Its cage elevators and filigree iron staircase, especially when illuminated by natural light from above, look straight from the movies, which they are—including Blade Runner and (500) Days of Summer.

  This downtown is not the same downtown that my parents remember. It’s definitely not the downtown that my grandmothers remember. Former druggie hangouts and strip joints are now home to a movie theatre, gourmet Vietnamese noodle restaurants and organic coffeehouses. And pet stores are everywhere.

  After chilling out all Sunday at home, I’m meeting my aunt today in what is probably my least favorite part of the city, however. Bunker Hill, a mecca of wealth, is home to multistory law firms, banks, advertising agencies and Assistant Chief Cheryl Toma. You see men dressed impeccably in Brooks Brothers suits and women in pumps. We are meeting at the Metro Club, a private establishment that “regular people” like me often don’t even know exists.

  I park my bike at one of the lone stands in a brick plaza. Pulling at the lock, I make sure it’s secure—force of habit, although in this neighborhood, no one would be interested in my banged-up LAPD-issue bike.

  I take off my helmet and try to fluff out my hair, but it’s a lost cause. My hair is long and thick and has no real shape to it. I usually have it tied back in a ponytail, but today I try for sophistication—two quick spits in my palms and a rub to slick down the flyaways.

  I walk into the lobby and forgo checking in with the security guard, instead heading straight to the elevator that goes to the top floor.

  I exit the elevator onto plush carpet that feels nice, even with my work shoes on. The entrance to the club is directly in front of me, and as I reach the counter I see another Asian woman, maybe ten years older than me, wearing heels and holding her shiny smart phone in one manicured hand. Next to her, I feel like a total idiot in my shorts and spit-styled hair, my helmet underneath my right arm. Luckily, the woman doesn’t even see me; she walks straight down a hallway.

  The hostess, dressed in a business suit, gives me a blank look. It’s not that she’s judging me—I just don’t belong in her world. She sees me as a cop, not a customer, and looks both ways down the long hallway. “Did something happen?”

  “No, I’m here for lunch,” I explain, though she still looks confused.

  Aunt Cheryl saves me. “She’s with me,” I hear her voice behind me. She places her membership card on the counter. “Cheryl Toma for two at noon.”

  Aunt Cheryl is decked out in a cream-colored suit and the kind of silk blouse that ties in the front. She shops in department stores that have their own tailors and personal shoppers. I get my wardrobe from a mix of Target, garage sales and outdoor swap meets.

  “Sorry,” I say, regarding my uniform.

  “You’re working. I’m glad that your sergeant gave you some time off.”

  Now, that’s a joke, since she was the one who called him to request that I take a longer lunch.

  We follow the hostess through a hallway that features color photographs of various distinguished members, including my aunt. In one of the framed prints, she stands with the police chief, the mayor and a line of other people with whom I’m not familiar, but who I’m sure all have impressive titles of their own.

  A door marked WOMEN in the hallway then opens, revealing the same thirtysomething Asian woman I’d seen earlier. Her eyes widen at the sight of my aunt. “Chief Toma,” she says. “Good to see you.”

  Aunt Cheryl acknowledges the woman, but keeps walking. “Teena, this is my niece, Ellie Rush.”

  Teena almost trips over her heels as she looks at me for, perhaps, the first time. I’m surprised, too. My captain knows, but as a general rule, Aunt Cheryl and I usually keep our relationship on the q.t.

  Teena ducks into a room marked LIBRARY. When I pass the entrance, I recognize some businessmen and city council members inside, seated in plush chairs and couches. A few of them nod toward my aunt, and she smiles back.

  Almost as an afterthought, she doubles back and takes me into the library, which is lined with books that have probably never been opened. A fi
replace, heated by gas flames below fake logs, gives an artificial cheer to the room.

  I’m totally out of my element. I recognize the two council members, Wade Beachum, who represents the downtown area, and the one from San Fernando Valley. A businessman from the Fashion District is with them; I’ve seen him before, but I don’t retain his name.

  “This is my niece,” she introduces me again to everyone in the room. “She works in the LAPD’s Central Division.”

  There’s a general murmur of a greeting and polite smiles. Fortunately the men and women are only too happy to return to their conversations so we can rejoin the hostess in the hallway. After she seats us, a waiter takes over and hands Aunt Cheryl a white napkin, to match her outfit, and me a black one.

  “Order anything,” Aunt Cheryl says. “It’s on me.” That’s another joke, of course, because even if I could have afforded it, the club doesn’t accept any cash, only a membership number.

  I finally settle on a petite Caesar salad. Aunt Cheryl orders a salad, too, and then clasps her hands together over the table. “So tell me how everything’s going.”

  “Okay,” I say. We spend the next several minutes doing an obligatory catch-up. I know enough not to mention my mother.

  “I’ve been taking your advice about helping the veteran detectives with their police reports,” I tell her. That had been her idea, a way to suck up to my superiors.

  “Great. You were always good with reports.”