Murder on Bamboo Lane Page 6

  “Yah, I think so.” That club is one of our former go-to places. “We’re not in yet.”

  “I’m not that far away. I can just stop by on my way home.”

  “Jenny, Benjamin’s kinda with somebody.”

  I can only let out a short breath.

  “I mean, I don’t know if he’s with with her. But they showed up to Osaka’s together. With Rickie.”

  Just friends, I try to convince myself. Maybe she’s into Rickie. Yeah, right.

  “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know. She a transfer student. Helps out in the tutoring program with Benjamin.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Ellie, you don’t want to go there, okay?”

  That means that she’s definitely hot.

  “I’ll ask Rickie about Jenny,” Nay promises. “What am I supposed to ask him again?”

  “Just find out if he’s gotten any leads from that flyer. And tell him to contact the detective.”

  “Okay, okay. But I can’t make any promises. He’s been acting weirder than usual after hearing that Jenny was that dead girl in Chinatown. And you know what he thinks of cops.”

  Yeah, I say to myself, trying not to take it personally.

  “So what’s the detective’s name again?”

  “Cortez Williams.”

  “I have to write this down. My damn phone’s acting up. Hey, do you have a pen?” I hear Nay call out, most likely to a random person on the street.

  • • •

  I know what I should do next: drive straight from the 710 to the 10 and then the 110 to my off-ramp. Downtown LA sits in the middle of the 110, but that doesn’t mean I have to get off early. I get off early. I’m a fool.

  I should be thinking about what I’m going to bring to my grandmother’s birthday potluck this weekend. Or about Jenny, about how even her best friend didn’t really know what was going on in her life. I wonder about the ex-boyfriend, Tuan Le, whose exhibition was right there where her body was found, in Chinatown. I know I should tell Cortez about Susana, but I have made some promises to her. Maybe after I get to know him better, I’ll figure out if I can really trust him.

  Then I see them. She’s gesturing with her hands. She’s probably one of these witty girls who is also pretty. She’s wearing denim shorts, even though it’s February, and long suede boots that go up to her knees. Practically three feet of all leg. Those boots would reach my waist.

  Benjamin’s hands are in his pockets and his shoulders are hunched up as he listens to what this girl is saying. What’s worse than seeing her talk is seeing him listen to her. Listening means so much more.

  Some jerk starts honking at me from behind and the light turns red, so I make a sharp right, almost running over Benjamin and Miss Boots. She looks toward me, startled, and gives me the finger. Benjamin, on the other hand, recedes from the street.

  Damn. Driving the Green Mile is like having my name in lights. Benjamin knows exactly who’s behind the wheel.

  FIVE

  HILL DRIVE

  “Happy birthday, Grandma!” I say, weighed down by a bag of fresh tamales in one hand and Shippo in the other. Standing in the doorway of my parents’ house, Grandma Toma’s wearing a red beanie and a vest made of puffy, shiny material. She is not happy.

  “They put me in this getup, can you believe it?”

  The they she is referring to are my parents, mostly my mother, her daughter. My dad just goes along with it, especially if it has to do with anything connected to Japanese culture. My dad, the white guy, is sometimes more Japanese than any of us.

  Grandma grimaces, reminding me of a sad organ grinder’s monkey, forced to perform in a ridiculous outfit. She’s been living with my parents for two years now and goes along with their occasional antics in lieu of being sent to the Japanese retirement home in Boyle Heights.

  “Turning eighty-eight is special, a celebration of life coming full circle. And red represents a second childhood,” Dad explains, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.

  Soon Mom appears, too, from the kitchen. She’s in her trademark workout clothes. Ever since she recovered from breast cancer, she’s taken up marathon running and now only wears clothing that “breathes” and repels sweat.

  She frowns when she sees that I’ve brought Shippo. “I told you that I’m allergic to dogs now.”

  “You mean you were serious?” Mom’s never been a big Shippo fan, and I thought she was just using her hormonal imbalance as an excuse not to have him around. I feel guilty, so I change the subject. “I see Grandma’s all dressed up.”

  My mother’s face brightens and she pulls up her sleeves. “I borrowed it from Janice. Isn’t it cute? I guess you’re supposed to wear brown when you are eighty-eight to symbolize the rice harvest or something, but I thought red was so much more festive. It’ll photograph so well.” Janice is Mom’s best childhood friend. She lives in a condo in Little Tokyo and volunteers at the Japanese retirement home, so I guess she’s up on all the hot Japanese elder traditions.

  “No one’s going to be taking a picture of me in this,” muttered Grandma, heading for her bedroom. I hear a basketball game in the background; Grandma’s been a die-hard UCLA fan ever since John Wooden was the team’s coach.

  “But, Dorothy, you look so nice! Maybe we’ll use it for our next Christmas card,” Dad calls after her. Christmas is ten months away. My parents, always thinking ahead.

  “Wait to see if I’m alive until then,” I hear Grandma spouting out.

  I extend my contribution to the potluck to my father. He takes the bag of tamales. “So, where did you end up going?” he asks eagerly. Dad grew up on tamales, and he has his favorites. When I tell him they’re from La Mascota, his face breaks out in a big smile. “Good girl,” he says.

  “I’ll put them on the table, Dad,” interrupts Noah, who then enters the hallway. He’s such a kiss-butt; I greet him by giving a sideways kick on his thigh.

  “Here, I’ll do that. You take Shippo into your room.” I hand the dog to my brother, who accepts with no argument.

  As I place the still-warm tamales on a plate, I ask Dad, “Is Lita back from her trip?”

  “Mom’s back, but whether she shows up today . . .” Dad shrugs his shoulders. Lita was in New Zealand. Before that she was in Egypt, and before that she was in Taiwan. Retirement definitely looks good on Lita.

  After I help in the dining room, I go watch the basketball game with Grandma.

  “Benjamin can’t make it?” she asks. Those two got along so well. I can’t bear breaking the bad news about our split on her birthday.

  “Ah, no, he had some stuff to do.” Like maybe kickin’ it with Miss Boots.

  Around halftime, Mom appears in the doorway.

  “Ellie, please call Cheryl. It’s almost seven, and she’s not here yet.”

  “Why me? Why don’t you call her?”

  “Don’t be that way. You know I have my hands full.”

  I look at Grandma, and she shrugs her shoulders. We both know when we’ve been beat.

  My phone call goes straight to voice mail, so I leave a message. “Ah, Aunt Cheryl, it’s Ellie.”

  “Remind her to bring the salad,” Mom, the master eavesdropper, calls out.

  “We were just wondering what time you might be coming over. And I guess that you’re supposed to bring a salad.” I get up and walk into the kitchen to report back to my mom, who already knows what’s been said. She arranges Spam musubi on a platter, and I steal a rectangular rice ball to snack on.

  Mom frowns. “Everyone’s hungry,” she murmurs, more to the invisible Cheryl than to me.

  “Mom, it’s not a big deal. We can eat salad at the end.”

  “That’s how the French do it,” Dad offers.

  “Bonjour, Frère Jack-ass, French fry,” Noah lists all the semi-French words that he’s heard. He walks into the kitchen wearing Grandma’s eighty-eighth birthday beanie. I stare into his eyes to see if his pupils are dilated. He know
s what I’m doing and gives me the evil eye.

  Lita comes walking through the kitchen doorway wearing one of her flowing, colorful outfits, adorned with layers of scarves and with a flower in her spiked orange hair. She holds out bags marked AUCKLAND. “Well, hello, my dear familia.”

  “Estel, you scared me half to death,” Mom says, almost dropping the plateful of Spam musubi.

  “Mom, you know there’s a thing called a doorbell,” Dad says, giving Lita a kiss on the cheek.

  “The door was unlocked,” she argues.

  Everyone else gets a kiss from Lita, even Mom, who winces a tiny bit. The Tomas aren’t into kissing.

  Lita doesn’t waste any time and starts passing out gifts. Dad gets a map of Middle Earth (there’s apparently some Lord of the Rings amusement park down there); Mom, a T-shirt featuring a kiwi bird with a long beak; and Noah, a wooden boomerang painted with black and red geometric designs. “That’s from their indigenous people, the Maori.”

  “That’s just for decoration,” Mom warns. “Don’t actually use it.”

  “It actually works. I’ve tried it,” Lita says.

  Mom lets out a small sigh and takes a plate into the dining room. She gives Dad a look that only I catch. The look says, She’s your mother; you handle her.

  “And this, mi amor, is for you.” Lita hands me a thick book with a reddish cover. I can’t believe she carried something so heavy on the plane back home.

  I read the title out loud: “The Bone People.”

  “It’s a classic. I read it during my flight. The author’s part Maori.” Lita dives back into her travel bag. “And I got something for Benjamin, too.” It’s a CD of music from a New Zealand reggae band.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” I say. Louder, in my head: You really shouldn’t have, Lita.

  “He likes reggae, right?”

  The basketball game must have ended, thankfully, because Grandma Toma then joins us.

  “Dorothy, my, don’t you look so festive in your costume!”

  Grandma Toma puckers her lips as if she’s found something sour in her mouth.

  “I got you something, too, from New Zealand.” Lita takes out a tiny sweater that could be worn by a third grader.

  Grandma Toma frowns deeper. “It’s too small. And I don’t need wool in Southern California.” She then heads for her seat at the dining room table.

  “Oh, I guess I misjudged,” Lita says to the rest of us. “She just seems so small when I imagine her.”

  Dad takes the sweater from Lita. “That was very thoughtful of you. I’m sure that we can do something with it.” Dad, forever the peacemaker. Something tells me that he will be busy tonight.

  We start eating without Aunt Cheryl. We’re about halfway through our meal when the doorbell rings three times in a row. Aunt Cheryl is not used to being kept waiting, but Mom takes her time going to the door.

  “You brought salad from the grocery store?” I hear Mom’s voice. “At least you could have gone to one of those take-out places in Little Tokyo.”

  “Listen, I’m here. Let’s not make a big deal out of this, okay?”

  I exchange looks with Noah. It’s going to be an interesting evening. Holding a little blue bag from Tiffany, Aunt Cheryl finally makes her way to the dining room.

  “Hello, everyone,” she says, and Grandma’s face immediately lights up. She can’t wait to get up and enfold her oldest daughter in her arms. Aunt Cheryl is older by three years, making her Grandma’s favorite, according to Mom. She very well may have a point.

  After embracing, Aunt Cheryl takes a better look at Grandma. “Mom, what are you wearing?”

  “I got you something from New Zealand.” Lita bursts from her seat. She doesn’t like to share the spotlight, and with Aunt Cheryl there, all attention is on Ms. LAPD. Lita places something oval and green in Aunt Cheryl’s palm. “Kiwi soap.”

  “Oh,” Aunt Cheryl says, looking a bit confused. “Thank you?”

  As Aunt Cheryl settles in at the table, I concentrate on finishing my plate: the bits of chicken, Korean kalbi, musubi, pickled cabbage and crumbs of pork tamale. I’m thankful that my aunt’s sitting on the other side, because I don’t know what I’ll say if she asks me about Jenny. Susana asked—well, almost demanded—that I keep her identity a secret. She didn’t know that I’d soon be sitting at the family dining room with an assistant chief of police.

  “Well, I have to go,” Lita announces after about thirty minutes. She rises, tossing one of her colorful scarves around her neck.

  “What? No birthday cake?” Dad asks.

  “I have a date with someone I met in my salsa class.”

  Neither Mom nor Grandma Toma looks that disappointed at Lita’s exit. Both Noah and I, however, get up to give her a hug good-bye.

  When we return, there’s a cake on the table. It’s from Porto’s in Glendale, and this one, like all the others they make, is a stunner. It’s chocolate adorned with a sliced strawberry, a kiwi (Lita would have liked that) and the strange husk of a tropical fruit. There are stupid jokes about placing eighty-eight candles on the cake; Mom, of course, opts for eight. Grandma blows the candles out in a couple of tries. Taking my slice with me, I release Shippo from Noah’s room to take a pee in the backyard.

  As Shippo sniffs around, I take a seat on the back porch. I’m finishing the last bit of chocolate frosting when Aunt Cheryl comes outside to join us. Shippo ignores a sparrow to run toward his favorite Toma.

  “Shippo, oh, Shippo, I haven’t seen you in so long!” Aunt Cheryl buries her face in Shippo’s neck, not even worried about mussing up her makeup, which she apparently applies even on her days off. She always takes care of herself, so it’s hard for people to figure out exactly how old she is, though I know she’s fifty-five.

  Aunt Cheryl would totally love to have a dog, but her demanding LAPD schedule prevents her from being a responsible pet owner. And my aunt is all about responsibility. As a result, she goes crazy whenever she sees Shippo.

  After a few minutes of doggy hugs, she finally turns her attention to me. “Any word about the Jenny Nguyen case?”

  I don’t know how much to tell my aunt.

  “Ah, well, I did speak with her best friend,” I eventually say.

  Aunt Cheryl’s eyes gleam.

  “She doesn’t trust the police. I think she may be undocumented. She won’t talk to anyone else but me.”

  “Your first CI.” Aunt Cheryl seems proud. She doesn’t press for Susana’s name. I’m surprised. “What did she say?”

  I hesitate. If I say too much, I may get Susana trouble.

  “Apparently, Jenny was living in her car.”

  “She owned a car?”

  “She might have been borrowing it.”

  “Whose?”

  “I’m not sure.” My first lie to Aunt Cheryl that evening. “But that’s why we can’t get a residence on her.”

  “So, what’s going on out here?” Mom says. She and Dad come outside with their coffee.

  “Nothing. We are just talking about work.”

  “Work? It’s Saturday. Ellie’s day off. And it’s not like you’re her supervisor.”

  “Caroline, I’m the number two person with the LAPD.”

  Ohmygod. I sense where this is going.

  “You’re not officially number two. I’ve seen the org chart. You’re like number four.”

  “You’ve been looking at the LAPD org chart?”

  “It’s right there on lapdonline.org.”

  Aunt Cheryl gives Mom a look. “Anyway, your daughter is doing very well at her job.”

  “Of course; she’s a Toma,” says Mom.

  “Actually, she’s technically a Rush,” Dad says, but nobody pays attention to him.

  As Mom and Cheryl continue their banter, I call Shippo over and quietly excuse ourselves and head back into the house. Grandma, her beanie almost covering her eyes, is in a deep sleep on the living room couch. She’s rolled up the New Zealand sweater into a pillow
; at least she’s found some use for Lita’s gift. I decide to see what Noah is up to.

  “So, what, they’re fighting again?” Noah is on his bed, surfing the Internet on his tablet.

  “Starting to, I guess.”

  Both Shippo and I go around his room, sniffing. I expect it to reek of pot but instead smell dirty socks. I point to his piles of dirty laundry, at least three of them. “Good air freshener.” Shippo disappears under one pile.

  “Hey, have you pulled your gun on any innocent teenagers lately?”

  “No, not any innocent ones,” I say. Noah smiles.

  “So what have you been up to? Anything more with the Lee cartel?” I joke.

  “Simon’s brother’s been breeding this stuff he got on a vacation from Northern California last summer. His parents thought that he suddenly got interested in national parks. It was more about the green stuff growing outside of the park gate.”

  I immediately regret asking him anything. I have a bad feeling that this is all going to catch up with the Lee brothers and, as a result, with my younger brother. “Listen, Noah, you have to ease up on this. I don’t know about Simon or his brother, but I think that they are getting a little over their heads.”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. I just maybe taste-test a little.”

  This is definitely not going to end well.

  The door flies open, startling both Noah and me. “Family photo time,” Mom announces.

  “Oh joy,” Noah says.

  “We should have taken some pictures when Lita was here,” I say, and my mother conveniently ignores me. I decide not to push my luck, and leave Shippo to peacefully nap in Noah’s dirty clothes.

  The camera is on a tripod in the living room, aimed toward my parents’ flowered couch, where we all sit.

  “You better not mail these Christmas cards to any of my friends,” Grandma warns Mom as the camera flashes shot after shot.

  Mom keeps going back and forth between her seat on the couch’s arm and the camera to make sure we all look good. Grandma, who has a blinking issue, only has her eyes fully open in one picture, the same picture in which I’m not smiling.