Murder on Bamboo Lane Page 9

  I don’t hesitate to say, “Of course.” What’s a meal between work colleagues? He names a place on Olvera Street, and we agree to meet in fifteen minutes.

  Unfortunately, I’m still in my uniform, but I at least take my hair out of its ponytail and try my spit-mousse technique again. I could have just walked to Olvera Street from Little Tokyo, but since I’m already at the station, I take the train one stop to Union Station. Olvera Street is just a simple walk across the street.

  Most locals consider Olvera Street just a tourist trap where you can be swallowed up in a pit of tchotchkes that look Mexican but are probably made in China. Dig a little deeper, I tell my friends. It’s more than taquitos. There’s an adobe house there that may not look like much, but it’s the oldest standing house in Los Angeles. And then there’s the Siqueiros mural, painted in the 1930s and restored recently for ten million dollars.

  The restaurant Cortez has chosen is one of my favorites. It’s cozy, with little lights everywhere and heavy wood chairs. I wouldn’t say it’s the best Mexican restaurant in LA—not by a long shot—but it’s the one that my parents always took Noah and me to when we were in elementary school.

  The vendors and visitors give me looks as I wait in front for Cortez. Luckily, he’s pretty prompt himself and appears after five minutes.

  “No time to change,” I say to him, waving my hand over my shorts and police-issue shirt.

  “You look just fine,” he says. “I like a hard-working woman.”

  I don’t know if we should shake hands or hug, but he instead gestures toward the restaurant’s entrance. Awkward moment averted. We both walk in.

  Once seated, we are handed the menus for dinner and drinks. I sure could use one or two of their famous margaritas, but dressed in my uniform, I don’t dare.

  It’s pretty obvious that I know what I want because it takes me barely a minute to scan the menu.

  “You’ve been here before?”

  I nod and take a long sip of water, casually admiring his nice blue shirt. I think that he’s ditched his tie. Does that officially make this a date?

  When the waitress returns, I can’t help but rattle off my order in Spanish, and Cortez seems surprised.

  “Forgive me, but what’s your background? I’ve been meaning to ask you since the first time we met.”

  “You mean my ethnic background?” I’m glad that Cortez doesn’t ask about my nationality. That question always floors me. I’m American, you doofus!

  “I’m mixed,” I tell him. “My mother is Japanese American, Sansei. Third generation. My dad is white, maybe a mixture of English and Scottish. But his mother taught Spanish in high school and always spoke it to me for as long as I can remember.”

  “Anyway, great genes,” Cortez says, and my cheeks grow hot. “I’ve never seen eyes like yours before.”

  I’ve heard the comment about my eyes from other people, mostly men. In a certain light, they look green. Based on my high school genetics class, I know it means that someone in my Japanese family tree must have messed around with a gaijin, literally an outsider, maybe a Russian. You need those recessive genes on both sides to have light eyes.

  “How about you? What’s your background?”

  My question throws Cortez off for a moment. And then he laughs. “My mother’s from Mississippi, grandfather on my father’s side is from Tennessee. We’re pretty mixed, too. Mostly black, but there are some white folks, Native Americans. Originally, I suspect that we came from the Gold Coast.”

  “Gold Coast. That’s where Ghana is, right?”

  Cortez seems amused. “What do you know about Ghana?”

  “I have a friend who’s from there,” I say, thinking of Father Kwame. “I actually majored in Spanish in college,” I tell Cortez.

  “You got your degree?”

  I nod my head. In fact, I’d not only graduated, I’d done it in three years, but I don’t mention that, because it will sound like I’m bragging or, worse yet, confirm that I’m a super-nerd. I’d had so many Advanced Placement units from high school that I’d started PPW as a sophomore.

  “You got me beat,” Cortez says. “I never went to college. I didn’t even make it through high school, in fact. Got my GED and went straight into the academy.”

  “When did you enter the academy?”

  Cortez gives me a big smile, dazzling white teeth. I bet he never had to get braces. “Are you really asking me how old I am? Turn thirty next month. And you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “I thought that you were a few years older. You carry yourself well.”

  I’m flattered. I ask Cortez about his career because I’m genuinely interested. I’m aiming to be a homicide detective by the time I’m his age. Or maybe even earlier.

  We start talking about the police academy, and Cortez surprises me by saying that he heard about my report writing skills from our instructor, a captain in the Valley. He says that other detectives have vouched for my editing abilities, too. (Harrington, no doubt.) “I should have you look over my report on the Jenny Nguyen case,” he says.

  “Sure.” Grandma Toma always warns us not to get too big for our britches, but right now my head is as big as the Goodyear blimp. I start asking about the ballistics report in Jenny’s case. “Do you know what kind of gun Jenny was killed with?”

  Cortez stops mid-bite. He finishes his mouthful of enchilada and then wipes his mouth with his napkin. He has good table manners. I’m not used to that, for sure.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Ah”—I had opened this door and now I had to go through it—“if possible, can you keep this on the q.t.?” I am in no position to be asking for favors, but I have to at least try.

  Cortez carefully places his napkin on the table. “Okay,” he says.

  “Jenny’s ex-boyfriend contacted me.” I leave out the fact that he showed up at my house.

  “He what?”

  “No, no. He didn’t threaten me or anything. It’s just, in certain circles, people know that I’m a cop. I guess they feel they can come to me.”

  Cortez doesn’t seem satisfied with my answer. He has a good BS barometer. I just hope that he can’t accurately measure mine.

  “He mentioned that he owned a gun. A Smith and Wesson.”

  “Yeah, we’re aware of that. He told us that Jenny borrowed it from him.”

  “So I was wondering about ballistics.”

  “The bullet was from a thirty-eight caliber firearm shot at close range.”

  “That doesn’t look good for him.”

  “We suspect that she was having another relationship.” Cortez gives me a hard look. “But you heard about that already.”

  I meekly nod my head.

  “We’re not sure with whom. Any ideas?”

  I shake my head.

  “I still don’t understand why he reached out to you. Did you know him from before?”

  I know what Cortez is insinuating. “No, no,” I tell him emphatically. “I barely knew his name before, and only from those exhibition banners in Chinatown.” I don’t mention his connection to Benjamin.

  “Is there anything else that you want to tell me?”

  I think about Susana and the Ratmobile. It would be too much for me to mention that now. “No, nothing else.”

  We talk a little more about law enforcement, about why I’d joined the force. I give him honest answers, as honest as I can without revealing Aunt Cheryl. His cell phone rings, and he looks down to see who it is. Work?

  “Sorry, I have to take this,” he says. “It’s my son.”

  As he speaks into the phone, I feel like such a fool. I know nothing about Cortez Williams. Why did I let myself imagine that he might be interested in me beyond work? He’s talking about homework and spelling tests. The kid must be at least old enough to read and write.

  Cortez finally gets off while I’m finishing up my chicken mole. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “My son calls me every night to give me an update on h
is day and school. He lives with his mother in Phoenix.” He reaches for his phone and searches through his digital pages. “Here he is.”

  Cortez proudly shows me a photograph of a light-skinned boy with a mop of curly hair. He’s really gorgeous.

  “How old is he?”

  “Nine.”

  Nine? Cortez became a dad when he was only about twenty. “Do you get to see him?” I ask.

  “As much as I can. He stays with me for a couple of weeks in the summer. His mother and I never got married. It was one of those things.”

  “Yeah,” I say, as if I know what that means.

  “So what about you?”

  “No kids.”

  Cortez laughs. “Boyfriend?”

  I shake my head. Somehow that admission throws me off balance. My eyes get watery. What is wrong with me? Maybe meeting Miss Boots bugged me more than I thought.

  Cortez immediately notices that something is wrong. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  I take a deep breath, forcing the tears away. “No, no. It’s okay. It’s just that we were together for a couple of years. And I just ran into his new girlfriend.” Why the hell am I spilling my guts out to Cortez Williams, of all people?

  Cortez rises. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He pays the bill, and we walk past the line of stalls selling cheap Mexican leather goods, piñatas and homemade sugar candy. We continue through the open plaza; a couple of vagrants are sleeping on the benches around a raised gazebo stage. Before I know it, we are standing in front of a small church, La Placita.

  “Have you ever been inside?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head no.

  “It’s the oldest church in LA.” Somehow being there makes me feel bold, and I take his hand and pull it toward the church. “C’mon.”

  There’s a basin of holy water at the entryway, but both Cortez and I pass it by to walk through the aisle separating the wooden pews. The altar, as always, is spectacular: ornate golden frames of religious imagery lit by lamps. My favorite painting is one of a robed monk being surprised by a glowing flying object—from the pews it looks like a bird, perhaps a dove, or maybe it’s something more supernatural, like an angelic Tinker Bell.

  “This is something else. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time.” Cortez is in a state of wonder.

  “I love this chapel,” I say. “I always stop here when I’m in the area.” A couple of visitors enter the church and kneel on the low padded benches to pray.

  “Are you religious?” Cortez asks me.

  I don’t know how to answer. I don’t go to church, I have sex even though I’m not married and I have occasionally been known to get punch drunk on tequila, especially after a breakup. But there’s a spot inside me that is reserved for God. It descends on me with a hush. Sometimes in a chapel like this. Sometimes when I’m riding my bike at dusk. “Not really,” I whisper, because it’s too hard to describe my feelings. “And you?”

  “I do believe something’s out there. I was raised Baptist—it’s not so easy to wash that away.”

  As we leave the chapel, Cortez touches my back. “You feel better?”

  I nod.

  “It’s getting late,” he says. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “Oh, I took the Metro.”

  “The train?”

  “I do it all the time. My father works for Metro. My younger brother and I grew up riding on buses. Don’t worry, who’s going to jump me looking like this?”

  Cortez starts to say something, and then he shakes his head. I wonder how many law enforcement officers he’s dated in the past. “I’ll walk you to the train platform,” he says.

  “I’ll be fine.” We are standing next to the clock tower by an arched wall. Inside the station is a sea of humanity. Worn-out families dragging their crying little ones, shady shysters on the prowl, college students naively looking for fun, teenage skateboarders, people strung out on dope.

  But here outside, it’s quiet. And if you look hard enough, you can even make out a couple of stars in the sky.

  Cortez bends down to give me a peck on the cheek, but without thinking, I move my face so his lips touch mine. His lips are soft, and I am close enough that I can smell his cologne. Before he can react, I jog toward the station entrance, both embarrassed and impressed at what I’ve done.

  EIGHT

  SIXTH STREET

  The next day, Tuesday, is my day off, and I’m having breakfast with Nay in Atwater Village.

  She narrows her eyes as she stares at me. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” I take another sip of my lukewarm coffee.

  “You’ve been smiling all morning. You never smile before noon, and you don’t smile that much after that. Don’t hold out on me.”

  “Okay. There’s someone.” I can’t help but smile. Dammit. Nay’s right.

  “What?” Nay is a bit offended that I haven’t said anything to her until now.

  I take out my phone and show her a photo I took of Cortez standing in front of La Placita.

  “Ohmygod, that guy is yummy. How old is he?”

  “Almost thirty. He has a nine-year-old son from a previous relationship.”

  Neither of those things faze Nay. Maybe that’s why I feel safe divulging personal details to her about him.

  “How did you meet him?”

  “Work. He’s a homicide detective. Actually, he’s investigating Jenny’s murder.”

  Nay gets quiet, and I feel bad that I’ve mentioned something so tragic in my story about a guy.

  She cuts into her eggs benedict. “I wish that you had mentioned him to me earlier.”

  Since when do I have to tell her everything about my love life?

  Her phone alerts her of an incoming text, and she glances at it.

  “Just be nice,” she says to me, plastering a fake smile on her face.

  I have no idea what Nay is up to, but in a few minutes, I find out when we’re greeted by two tall white guys with thick, jet-black hair. They look almost like twins, but one is definitely shorter with a lighter build.

  “Hey,” they both say to Nay, and then the shorter one looks down at me.

  “Ken, Goggy,” Nay says with the same silly smile. “This is Ellie. We all met recently at the Mixed Student Union social.”

  I’m confused on three counts. Number one, why are these two guys here? Number two, why was Nay at an event organized by the Mixed Student Union when she’s 100 percent Cambodian? And last of all: Goggy? Seriously?

  “Ah, hi.” I manage a weak wave from my seat.

  Nobody says anything for a minute.

  “I’ve seen you before,” the shorter one, apparently Goggy, says. “You were on the volleyball team.”

  “She also did track freshmen year,” Nay adds. “She’s the ultimate jock.”

  “So are you into volleyball?” I definitely don’t recognize Goggy, but I am impressed when any guy seems familiar with the PPW women’s sports teams.

  “I manage the men’s team.”

  I get halfway interested and mention a few names of players who I’m friends with. He knows them, of course.

  Ken, meanwhile, has been talking to Nay and is now taking a sip of her orange juice. Now I get it. She is interested in him.

  “So,” Ken announces, “Goggy and I are planning to go to Eaton Canyon this Saturday.”

  “Oh, Ellie and I love hiking,” Nay quickly says.

  What? Nay hates hiking. She says hiking in the mountains on purpose is like getting your teeth cleaned for fun.

  “Wanna join?”

  Before I can somehow get out of it, Nay answers for us again. “Definitely. Just not too early, okay?”

  The plans are made. Three o’clock at Eaton Canyon in Altadena, and they are gone as mysteriously as they appeared.

  “Ah, what just happened?”

  Nay takes a sip of her orange juice, now diluted by melted ice cubes. “We’re going hiking. You always tell me that I need to
enjoy the great outdoors more.”

  “I thought your idea of the great outdoors was going shopping in Caesars Palace.” There, underneath a faux blue painted sky on the ceiling, she can pretend that she’s outside while being cooled by air conditioning.

  Nay ignores my dig. “But aren’t they cute? They’re brothers. Armenian and Japanese.”

  When I don’t respond, Nay repeats herself, only louder. “Armenian and Japanese. Half Japanese like you.”

  “So what, that makes us soul mates?”

  “Anyway, the younger one likes you. He knows all about you. That you work for the LAPD. Everything.”

  I frown. I’m a nobody at PPW; it feels strange that somebody has been keeping tabs on me.

  “He wants to be an FBI agent. I think that he wants to pick your brain.”

  “Goggy? What’s up with that name?”

  “His real name is Kai or something like that. Their last name is Gogoshian, so maybe it’s some play off of that?”

  But Kai is a perfectly nice name, I think. “Anyway, you could’ve given me a heads-up.”

  “If I did, what would you have done?”

  I think about it. Said no. Nay knows me too well.

  She taps my phone, where the photo of Cortez is stored. “And now I understand where your head is at.”

  “I don’t know what he is. Just a friend right now.”

  “Ah-ha.”

  I know what she’s insinuating. A friend with benefits. But I’m not like that, and she should know it.

  “Listen, there’s nothing wrong with exploring other options. You were a monogamist for so long, you don’t know how to date.”

  Nay is right on that count. I didn’t know how to casually date.

  “Well, maybe doing something different might be good for me,” I have to admit. “I’ve been so into Jenny’s case.”

  “So, what’s new with that?”

  I’m hesitant about mentioning Tuan Le’s visit. Seeing Cortez’s reaction last night about him even contacting me, I realize how out of line it was for Tuan to come to my house.

  “Well, I got a chance to look more closely at those photographs from her notebook. It’s all about her census work. Where and when she visited. It was mostly around Downtown LA. She actually went to the projects where Benjamin works a number of times.” I chew on my orange slice. “When I saw Benjamin at Osaka’s, I asked him about it.”