Grave on Grand Avenue Page 6

“Are you sure about this?” I ask. Nay hasn’t had the best taste in men. But, as Rickie says, it’s Nay’s 31 Flavors. If she doesn’t like one on Monday, it really doesn’t matter because there will be a new one the next day. “How are you going to get home?”

  “Well, maybe I won’t go home.”

  “Nay!”

  “Look at him. I have a good twenty pounds on him. I’ll be all right.”

  I’m not so sure. I’m worried about Nay. I know she has pepper spray in a sparkly Hello Kitty case, but despite these precautions, Nay could get hurt. Badly. Now that I work in Central, which covers PPW, I hear about many more incidents of assault and date rape than I ever realized were going on while I was attending college. I can’t tell her the private details, but I realize more than ever that PPW isn’t the protective enclave that we all thought it to be. And beyond its walls, in the outside world, literally anything can happen.

  “Listen, you call me if you need a ride,” I tell her. “Anytime, okay?”

  Nay’s already heading back to Washington’s side. I try to mad-dog him, give him a fierce look and puff out my chest in my uniform. You hurt my BFF and you’ll answer to me. Benjamin used to tell me whenever I tried to look menacing, I just managed to look cross-eyed. Either way, Washington doesn’t even seem to notice me.

  The crowd has thinned considerably and I look for a place to leave my empty glass when I notice someone next to me. Someone at least six feet tall, with a beautiful head of black hair, smooth skin and sparkly eyes. It’s Xu, being a wallflower like me.

  Shouldn’t you be out there, in the center of things, signing autographs or something? I think. Instead, I say, “Oh, hello.”

  “Hello,” he says back. I’ve never heard him speak before, and wasn’t sure how well he spoke English.

  “Nice concert,” I say. Lamest thing ever.

  “You were at the accident site.”

  He has a slight British accent, which throws me off a little. I know Hong Kong was a British colony, but wasn’t Xu from mainland China? Isn’t that more New World than Old?

  “Yes. And you were, too.” And it would have been nice if you’d stayed around to see if the man your father injured was okay.

  Xu’s cheeks are pink and I wonder whether it’s from the wine he’s holding or from what I’m insinuating. “How is he?” he asks, meaning Mr. Fuentes. He takes a sip of wine as I just shake my head. It’s not my place to divulge any medical details, especially ones I’m completely unsure about. “My father was just protecting me. Protecting my cello,” Xu says.

  “So you’re saying that the gardener was a thief?” I can’t help myself.

  Xu’s whole face is flushed now. I wonder if he’s missing the enzyme to properly process alcohol, a condition that a lot of us Asians have. “I don’t know why he did what he did. Truly I don’t,” Xu says. Which he? I wonder. Fuentes or his father?

  “Well, at least you got your cello back.” I figure that by making the assumption, it will generate an answer to what I’ve been wondering about all night.

  “I did,” Xu says; then his eyes widen. “Did you have anything—”

  A woman in high heels and a low-gelled ponytail comes our away. It’s Kendra Prescott. “There you are,” she says to the cellist. “I was looking all over for you. Bono wants to take a private meeting with you.” She notices me beside Xu and frowns, just in the corners of her mouth, before quickly turning up her lips. “Ah, hello. I didn’t know the police were here.” She still doesn’t seem to recognize me from the day before.

  “Just here as a private citizen,” I tell her.

  Before Xu can say another word, Kendra’s ushering him away. PR flak—was that what Nay called her? All I can say is that she’s very good at her job. I toss my empty plastic cup into the trash can and walk across the expansive lobby to the escalators leading to the parking structure. Most everyone has left, so there are only a few couples—all older ones with stylishly groomed gray hair—on the escalator with me.

  I’m parked on the lowest floor, and by now most of the parking spots are empty. Sound carries through the empty parking garage, and I hear angry voices as I make my way to Kermit. I look around warily, and in a section marked ARTISTS’ PARKING, I see a flash of platinum hair. Standing next to a dark BMW convertible, Cece is speaking loudly in what sounds like Chinese to someone obscured by a parking column. I must have been spotted, because she immediately lowers her voice.

  I get into Kermit and check my rearview mirror as I back out. The BMW’s rear lights are now on, but I don’t see Cece or the person she was talking to. As I drive up the next level of the parking lot, all I can hear is the squeak of my tires against concrete, a familiar sound at the end of a strange day.

  FOUR

  The next morning I check my phone. No calls, texts or e-mails from Nay. Since I’m on a four-day schedule, I’m off today, even though it’s the middle of the week. Nay is my usual go-to person to goof off with. Now, thanks to the translator, that option is not available.

  I text Nay: What are you doing?

  About five minutes later, I get a phone call. It’s her. I don’t bother with hello or any of that stuff. I get right to the point. “Where are you?”

  “At Washington’s apartment.”

  “Nay, already?”

  “No, it’s not what you’re thinking. We did some barhopping in K-town and he lives right here. We just came to crash.”

  She can apparently feel the disapproval in my silence. “This is all for the paper. Really.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Taking a shower. He lives in a two-story multiunit thing. The outside is nothing special, but the inside is so, so cool. Wait a minute. I’ll send you a video clip.”

  On my phone is a link to a short movie that Nay’s made on her phone. The footage is bumpy, like Nay’s been in a 7.0 earthquake or something. But I still can make out the room and furnishings. I immediately recognize the spare Scandinavian furniture and colorful throw rugs and pillows from catalogues I get in the mail.

  “Nice,” I tell Nay.

  “He actually has a sense of style.”

  She thinks he’s stylin’ just because he knows how to order from IKEA? I’m not going to say anything, however. The video clip includes the view out a large window. I can see a parking lot, palm trees and a weirdly shaped concrete building in the distance. I squint at the image and pause the video. What is that? It looks like a gigantic gray bucket.

  “By the way, I was right.” Nay sounds proud of herself.

  “About what?”

  “About Xu and Cece doing the dirty. Washington got a call from Cece while we were at this one bar and I swear that I heard Xu’s voice on the line with her.”

  “How did you know that it was him? It’s not like you know him or anything.”

  “Because Washington called the person Xu, okay? Maybe I don’t speak Chinese but I get that much.”

  I change the subject. “What are you doing later today? It’s my day off.”

  “Well, Washington and I were talking about hanging out more. He’s pretty interesting.”

  “I bet he is.”

  “No, really. There’s a lot that I can learn from him.”

  Nay’s talking like Washington is some kind of wise monk rather than an ordinary guy with a facility for language and a penchant for bad wardrobe choices.

  “Just be careful, okay, Nay?”

  “Yes, Officer!”

  My phone is running out of juice, so I plug it into the outlet beside my bed. I pull last night’s program from where I left it on my nightstand, and reread both Cece’s and Xu’s bios. There, as a sidebar, is the brief story Kendra Prescott had written about the Stradivarius. “Cello of Secrets” is the headline. She writes that, constructed in the early 1700s in Italy, the instrument was taken over to China by Jesuit missionaries
who performed classical music for royalty. One of the Chinese court members and generations of his family kept the cello safe and intact during various political turbulences in China’s history—the family even defied the ban on Western instruments during the Cultural Revolution, hence their desire to keep their identity a secret. Hearing Xu perform as a teenager at a local competition, the family was inspired to present the Stradivarius, now valued at five million dollars, to him anonymously. Since Xu’s uncle was a high-ranking official within the Communist Party, Xu was allowed to keep the instrument. There’s also a quote in there from Xu saying, “I play for China.”

  Something about the story sounds off. Even though I just met Xu, I can’t imagine him declaring, “I play for China.” I return the program to the nightstand and get ready to start my day.

  Once my bare feet hit the floor, Shippo is all over me. He’s right—it’s true I’ve been neglecting him, and I figure that he can use a good walk. I slip into an old PPW T-shirt and sweatpants, put on my glasses and grab the dog leash.

  It’s warm today and I’m missing the few days of rain that we had back in February. My dad is all concerned about the drought and tells me that I need to take shorter showers to help in the conservation effort. Well, world, here we are—Shippo and I are members of the great unwashed, without one drop of wasted water.

  When I turn the corner away from my house, it’s like those Christmastime car commercials when a sedan—a gift from a husband, wife or parent—magically appears outside of someone’s home. Except instead of having a big red bow around a new car, I find the Green Mile with a bunch of dead leaves on the roof. Pulling poor Shippo on his leash, I run up to it.

  There are streaks of sap all over the car; those dead leaves aren’t going anywhere without a good power washing. It’s dirty inside, too; there are tons of balled-up wrappers from various fast-food chains all over. The thief’s main dining criterion seems to have been food that can be purchased for less than a buck.

  I curse myself for not having my phone with me. Not only that, I’m without my Glock. When it’s so early, I don’t think about carrying my gun around. In my experience, most criminal types are still in bed until way after noon. I try the door and it’s locked; my keys are hanging on my living room wall.

  Much to Shippo’s disappointment, I cut our walk short. I need to get my keys, then make a call into the station.

  I jog back to the house, only to find an older man looking through the window screen to my living room. He’s wearing jeans with a khaki shirt that looks like it could use a good wash and ironing. His hair is a mix of black, white and gray—the colors of a raccoon. When he turns, I see that he’s white, or maybe Latino, with a heavy, untrimmed mustache. He could be a handyman, finding himself at the wrong house, or he could be a Peeping Tom.

  “Can I help you?” I say, lowering my voice at least an octave. Shippo starts to bark furiously.

  “Bacall!” he calls out. A small black poodle, unleashed, comes out of the bushes. She’s a mini-projectile, heading straight for Shippo. As she gets closer, she emits a high-pitched screech. Shippo is not amused and unleashes more barks of his own. The old man scoops Bacall up before she torpedoes my dog.

  “What the hell?” I cry out. “Leash your damn dog! And what are you doing on private property? You’re trespassing.”

  “Ah, Ellie. Ellie Rush,” he says.

  I am so pissed that it takes me a minute to register that the old man knows my name. “I don’t know you,” I say.

  “Puddy Fernandes,” he says. “And this is Bacall.”

  Bacall is groomed as well—or should I say as badly—as her master. But then again, Shippo and I are not ones to talk.

  “You don’t know who I am,” the man says when I fail to react to his name.

  I let the heat of my anger cool down. Is this guy some kind of family friend or something I don’t recognize? I don’t want to say anything that I may possibly regret later.

  Then he reports, “I’m your grandfather.”

  I hear the words, but they don’t make any sense. “No, you’re not,” I say. I don’t know what I pictured when I thought about my long-lost grandfather, but it’s certainly not this guy. “Prove it.”

  “Your grandmother is Estel. She has the prettiest red hair and a mouth shaped like a heart.”

  Most of her former coworkers and friends call Lita by her nickname, Essie. Most people don’t know her real name. But if he really knows her at all, it’s also obviously been a while since this man has actually seen Lita. Lita now has hair the color of orange popsicles, thanks to some box dye that she uses. And she pretty much has to draw her lips on.

  “Call your grandmother. Estel will tell you.”

  I ignore his directive. “What are you doing here? Are you the one who stole my car?”

  “Your car? I don’t think so. I bought that car from a Chevrolet dealer in Burbank in 1969. I don’t believe that you were even alive then.”

  “It is mine. I have the pink slip to prove it. My grandmother gave it to me.”

  “Then why do I have this?” He pulls out a chain from his neck. Hanging around it is a rusty key, the same shape as the one I have on my key chain.

  I’m starting to feel slightly nauseated. How can this man have an extra key to the Green Mile? Could anything he was saying be true?

  “That wasn’t the true color of the Skylark, you know,” Fernandes tells me. “It was yellow like a canary bird. This here is one lousy paint job.”

  The Green Mile had been that same ugly green color for as long as I remember, but Fernandes’s comment has a ring of truth to it. My little brother, Noah, scratched the sides with a hanger when he was about three years old, and I’d noticed the original yellow paint at that time. Lita had quickly covered over the scratch with touch-up paint. I was nine years old and had even helped her with it.

  Fernandes keeps trying to offer more evidence that he is connected to our family. “Your grandmama has a birthmark on her thigh. It’s a beaut—shaped like a pelican.”

  Ew. Like I would know that? I use this moment to check out my alleged grandfather more carefully. I hate to admit it, but I do sort of see a resemblance to my dad. They are about the same height, around five nine. Normal build. My dad’s neck seems to bend forward more as he gets older, and Fernandes has the same type of posture. Dad has never had a mustache, but I know that he could easily grow one.

  “Cute dog,” Fernandes says.

  Shippo growls in response. He doesn’t care for either Fernandes or Bacall. I don’t blame him, especially when the poodle starts her insane yapping.

  I hesitate for a moment, unsure what to call my so-called bio-grandfather. Not Grandpa, for sure. Not Mr. Fernandes. Not Puddy (what kind of name is that, anyway?). I settle on not addressing him at all. “So, you’re Latino,” I say.

  The man shook his head. “I’m Luzo. Portuguese blood.”

  “Portugal.” So I may be not only part Japanese and Scottish, but also part Portuguese.

  “Something wrong with Portugal?”

  “No, of course not.” My mind starts refashioning my elementary school family tree. Whereas there was once a branch that abruptly ended, now there’s one that may stretch to Portugal.

  “I heard that you’re a cop.”

  I narrow my eyes. How does he know that?

  “Rookie, right?”

  It’ll be good for Fernandes to know that I’m part of law enforcement. “Got out of the academy a little more than a year and a half ago.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I want to help.”

  “Help what?”

  “I want to stop the Old Lady Bandit. Before he kills anyone else.”

  I bend down and rub Shippo’s head to hide the shock on my face. Old Lady Bandit? What kind of crazy coincidence is this? And why did he confidently refer to her as a he?


  “Why would you know anything about that?”

  “Let’s just say that I’ve made some mistakes in my life when I was around your age. I’ve paid my debt to society; I can tell you that.”

  My stomach feels queasy. Whenever people say things like this, it means that they’ve been in jail. Does this mean I’m actually related to a felon?

  “I live in San Bernardino now,” Fernandes continues. “Getting my land legs back. Been at sea too long.”

  Is he speaking metaphorically? San Bernardino is a couple of hours inland, nowhere close to the water. “What, were you a sailor?”

  “In a way. I was a crewman on container ships. Been to Latin America about forty-three times. China, at least twenty. Too old for all that now. Staying with a friend in San Bernardoo. That’s when I saw the TV reports. I know this guy’s MO. He’s got his fingerprints all over these robberies. When I heard about this latest, with this security guard getting shot, I figured I had to do something. Got on the bus and looked up your grandmother.”

  I’m confused. Lita was in Puerto Rico until today. “You’ve talked to her already?”

  He doesn’t answer and continues to chatter about this guy he knows.

  “How do you know him, again? And what’s his name?”

  “A guy I used to run around with. I know how he works. I know that he’s the one behind those bank jobs.”

  Fernandes can sense my skepticism. I notice that he’s managed to avoid my question about the guy’s name.

  “He has a certain style; let me say that. Wouldn’t it make sense that the Old Lady Bandit is successful because he’s done it before?”

  He has a good point. “If you’re so sure that it’s him, why don’t you talk to the detective in charge? I can give you his phone number.”

  “Ah, well, I don’t feel that comfortable talking to the police.”

  What does he think that he’s doing now?

  Fernandes quickly clarifies, “I mean, I know that you’re part of the LAPD. You can get me some inside information. So we can catch these guys.”

  “What, like vigilantes?” I smell manipulation, and I’m not going for it. “Listen, I really can’t get too involved. There are policies in place.”