Murder on Bamboo Lane (18 page)

AVENUE 26

My landline rings, and both Shippo and I stare at it for a moment before I pick up.

“Hello?” I ask tentatively, afraid that it’s going to be my dad again.

But instead, it’s a female voice. “Hello, heeellooo.”

“Hi, Grandma,” I say.

“Hello, Ellie?”

“Yes, Grandma, it’s me.”

“Oh, Ellie. Hello.”

“Hello, Grandma.”

“Do you know anything about this A-P-A-P-O-A?”

“Excuse me?”

“Apa-poa.”

“Is that a new kind of restaurant or something?”

“No, it’s a policemen’s group.”

“Oh, APAPOA. It’s short for Asian Pacific American Police Officers Association.” I get solicitation e-mails on a regular basis, but I haven’t yet gone to any of their meetings.

“Well, they are honoring your Aunt Cheryl.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Cheryl was saying that it’s not a big deal, and your mother says that we don’t have to go, but I want to go.”

“Okay.”

“So, can you get me information about it? It’s on a Monday afternoon. I don’t know if I need tickets. And I’ll need a ride. And also, I’ll need to know what to wear.”

“Of course, Grandma. I’ll look into it and make the arrangements.” I rub the loose skin underneath Shippo’s chin. “By the way, how is Mom?”

“Nuts. She keeps driving over to Estel’s house and Noah’s school. I’ve had to go with her sometimes. She parks and just watches for Noah. She even brings opera glasses. ‘Go and just talk to him,’ I tell her. But she’s stubborn. Always has been. She’s too goody-two-shoes for her own good.”

Then, how about Aunt Cheryl?
I feel like asking her. Unlike my mother, does she compromise her values to get her way?

After I get off the phone with Grandma Toma, I sit back on my couch. Shippo senses that I’m in a contemplative mood—the best time for him to get a rubdown—and he lies on my lap, his head resting on his paws. As I rub and pet Shippo’s back, I think. I’m not sure what to make of Aunt Cheryl. I mean, I love her. She’s been my hero for most of my life. If anyone asks me who my role model is, it’s LAPD Assistant Chief Cheryl Toma.

But now that I’m officially part of her world, I’m seeing things that I kind of wish I didn’t. I’ve been pretending that the flaws and danger signs weren’t there, but I realize that I can’t ignore them any longer.

“Shippo, wanna go for a ride?” I say, getting out his leash.

• • •

Aunt Cheryl knows that we are on our way up, because the doorman in her marble-floored lobby has already buzzed to announce us. As soon as we come out of the elevator, her door flies open.

“Shippo,” she cries, bending down and, on cue, my dog jumps onto her lap. Wet dog kisses are planted all over her face.

After Aunt Cheryl comes up for air, she notices the look on my face. My body language is apparently communicating my message well. I stand straight, my legs planted firmly on the ground. I am ready for battle.

She waves me inside, then asks if I want anything to drink. I shake my head.

We sit in her living room. The curtains are pulled back, revealing her spectacular view of lower downtown, all lit up neon in the night sky. The thin blue wisp of a hotel, all twenty-six floors of it, looks surreal and mythical, a towering flame above Staples Center and the Nokia Theatre. Based on the specks of people flowing into the arena, there must be a basketball game today.

Aunt Cheryl is all brass tacks at work, but at home she reveals her inner self: French romanticism. Her condo is drenched in pink and mauve, from the upholstery to the embroidered pillows. Even her furniture has fancy carved legs shaped like sharp bird claws, ready to pounce on passing prey.

“Have you talked to Mom or Grandma recently?” I ask.

“No, not since Grandma’s birthday. Why, is something wrong?”

I shake my head. Getting Aunt Cheryl involved will probably only make things worse, but since I’ve tipped my hand, I have no doubt that Grandma Toma will be getting a phone call from her favorite elder daughter. But I’m not here about Noah; I’m here about Jenny.

“Aunt Cheryl, I need to know something.”

“Sure.” Shippo has made himself at home in Aunt Cheryl’s lap.

“Did you purposely bring me to Metro Club to parade me around?”

“You sound like I was treating you like a show dog.”

“Either that or fresh bait.”

No response. Just the manic stroking of Shippo’s back.

“You haven’t told me everything. Councilman Beachum told you something, didn’t he?”

Aunt Cheryl breaks out in a huge smile. She leans back and releases a couple of noiseless laughs.

“What’s so funny?”

“You are born to do this. I didn’t know if joining the LAPD was just my influence. But it’s in your blood, just like it’s in mine.” She stops petting Shippo, and he lifts his head to see if anything is wrong.

“You are absolutely correct. I used you. You were my ‘bait.’” Her eyes bore into mine, and for a moment I feel afraid. “The chief was giving me pressure about this case as soon as Jenny’s body was found. We were told to look at Tuan Le two hours after the discovery of Jenny’s body. I didn’t like it. The investigation had just started. When I challenged the chief, he said that he was getting directives from City Hall. He wouldn’t say who, but I assumed that he was talking about someone from the city council. Then I saw you on television at the scene of the crime, and I figured that together we could shake the tree and see what came down.”

“But I wasn’t in on what you were trying to do. You kept me in the dark, Aunt Cheryl.”
You
used
me
, I think.

“If I had told you, you would have been more vulnerable. This way, you were just doing your job. Nothing more.”

“Well, some anonymous source complained to my sergeant. Said that I was acting inappropriately. I almost got written up.”

My aunt gets quiet. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t expect that they would go after you. You’re just a rookie. Just a—” Aunt Cheryl stops herself, but I could complete the sentence for her.
Just a bicycle cop.

“What do you want me to do?” she says. “Call your sergeant? Tell Detective Williams that I was the one who initiated your involvement in the first place?”

“No,” I tell my aunt. “Actually, Detective Williams was informed that the department won’t be aggressively pursuing this case.” I frown. “But we can’t just give up now. We’re close, Aunt Cheryl. I can feel it.”
You owe me.

In the end, I get what I want. Forty-eight more hours to investigate Jenny’s murder.

• • •

The next morning, I call Valerie Ahmed at the Census to give her the address of Jenny’s relatives in Vietnam.

“I appreciate this so much. We’ve collected some money and plan to send over a special gift,” she says.

“Ah, Ms. Ahmed, I also wanted to ask you . . . Remember you mentioned that you wrote a recommendation letter for Jenny? Did you ever find it?”

“No, I haven’t come across it yet. I’m sorry.”

“Does the name Blue Flag Swimwear—or Garrett Mancuso—sound familiar to you?”

“Mancuso. Mancuso. That might be it. I believe that she had met him at a Redistricting Commission meeting. She wanted a job with his company. That’s right. I thought that she would want to work for a councilman instead, based on her work for the Census. But she was after something altogether different.”

• • •

Sometimes a uniform is all it takes. A doctor’s white coat to make you think that you are in good medical hands. A polo shirt with a big box store’s logo to give customers the impression that you actually know what items are on sale. A police uniform, even one with shorts, also does the trick, at least with the receptionist at Blue Flag Swimwear. She allows me to barge into her boss’s office, located on the ground level of the five-story brick warehouse building.

I recognize the man at the desk immediately. His receding hairline is more noticeable in person.

Garrett Mancuso looks up from the document that he is reading. “Are you here for the ad shoot?”

What?
I think.
Isn’t the word
POLICE
emblazoned on the back of my shirt a big enough clue?

“No, I’m Officer Rush. I work for the Central Division.”

Mancuso puts down his paper and checks me out over his reading glasses. “Sorry. You’re too good looking to be a cop.”

I’m surprised by this middle-aged man’s comment. Who put this sleazy guy on the Redistricting Commission?

“You do look familiar to me,” he says, perhaps remembering me from the Metro Club or the station.

“I’m actually here to discuss a case with you. A homicide case.”

“Don’t they have detectives for that?” He glances at his watch and gets up from his chair. “I have a shoot to go to. Follow me.”

Apparently, Mancuso is used to getting women to follow him, and I’m annoyed to discover that I’m no different. We walk through a long hallway covered with photos of celebrities posed with a more lustrously coiffed Garrett Mancuso; the covers of some
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issues; and memorabilia of international travel, including a group shot of what looks to be the Vietnamese trade delegation, based on our smiling mayor kneeling in the front row.

At the back of the hallway we enter a rickety elevator with old-fashioned folding doors. I feel like I’m in the middle of 1930s New York City not modern-day Los Angeles. I keep one hand on my club.

The elevator reaches the fourth floor, and Mancuso pulls back the accordion metal gate and pushes open the door. We enter a large room illuminated by professional lighting equipment. In the center stands a young woman about my age in a bright yellow swimsuit. She is holding a half-eaten banana.

“Is she our next one?” asks a bespectacled photographer. Next to him is another man, scrawny with a long neck, who holds a clipboard.

Mancuso raises his eyebrows toward me as if to say,
See?
“No, she’s an actual cop. Here about a murder.”

“Wow. Sounds sexy,” says the long-necked man.

I don’t have time for this. “Did you know this woman?” I ask Mancuso, holding up the
MISSING
flyer, which is folded to reveal just Jenny’s face.

“Oh, that one.” Mancuso sits down on a stool and rubs his eyes, as if he has just heard a good joke. “She applied for a job as my assistant. Doesn’t get a call back and then comes here, accusing me of having an affair with her mother in Vietnam. C’mon, do I look like I’d touch anything that old on the vine? I don’t care how good her mother looks.”

I take out my phone and show him a photo of the box of panties. “Do you make this line of lingerie?”

“Yeah, it’s custom-made for a boutique in Beverly Hills. So?”

“This particular box was found in Jenny Nguyen’s car. It was likely given to Jenny’s mother during your trade mission to Vietnam.”

Mancuso shrugs. “So? I didn’t bring those to Asia.”

“Well, then, why did Jenny’s mother have it in her possession?”

“How should I know? Maybe she ordered them online. Maybe she was making knockoffs. Hell, Beachum brought over a ton of samples of products made in Los Angeles. Maybe he was the one who gave it to her.”

• • •

“I thought you weren’t talking to us anymore,” Rickie says over the phone. I’m actually surprised he even bothered to pick up—maybe plain curiosity?

“It’s only Benjamin I’m not talking to. Anyway, I was just in a bad mood that day.” I walk over to the bicycle rack where I locked my wheels. “What do you know about Councilman Wade Beachum?”

“A dinosaur. I mean, how many years has he been on the council? He doesn’t even trim his ear hair.”

“He just turned sixty, Rickie.” Rickie thinks anyone past fifty is a relic.

“Well, the commission is messing with his district, so he’ll be out sooner or later. But I heard he may run for mayor. If he wins, we are so screwed.”

“Do you know anything about his personal life?”

“Well, he’s married, but barely acts like it. He has serious yellow fever. Whenever his wife isn’t around, he’s always flirting with Asian babes.”

“Did you know his aide, Teena Dang? Do you think they’re having a thing?”

“Ew. I don’t think someone as fine as Teena Dang would do the nasty with Mr. T-Rex.”

“But you know, power can be an aphrodisiac.”

“Maybe, but she’s the one calling the shots.”

“What do you mean?”

“Okay, so when Benjamin and I went to the city council meeting to lobby for more funding for our after-school tutoring program, Teena kept going to the councilman’s side to tell him how to vote. She was pulling the strings, dude. It was like the councilman was her puppet.”

“What do you know about her?”

“She went to PPW.”

“She did?”

“A little before our time. But she majored in Asian studies.”

“What is she anyway? Chinese?” I ask.

“No, Vietnamese American. She’s actually super fluent in Vietnamese. I think she even did her senior thesis on the Vietnamese apparel trade. Spent some time there doing research. That girl is going places.”

• • •

“Hey, you can’t just go in there,” the girl receptionist peeps like a newborn bird. It’s obvious that she got new instructions from her boss: Beware of bicycle cop.

I ignore her and keep walking toward the narrow hallway leading to the elevator in Blue Flag’s headquarters. I stop at the photo of the trade delegation in Vietnam. I scan the faces. The mayor, conspicuously in the front, of course. Councilman Beachum, at least six feet tall, standing in the back. There are quite a few Asian faces in the group, too, but there, on the far right side is who I am looking for: Teena Dang.

“What the hell are you doing here again?” Mancuso has come out of his cave, baring his blinding white veneers. “Why do I even have a receptionist?”

The long-necked man with the clipboard follows along. “Eye candy,” he replies.

“Oh yeah. So what do you want now?” Mancuso asks me. “This can be considered harassment.”

I dispense with all niceties. “This photo is of the trade delegation leaving Vietnam?”

“Yeah, at the Tan Son Nhat Airport. What of it?”