Murder on Bamboo Lane (9 page)

I usually have to circle the block at least a couple of times before finding a parking spot, but this evening one is miraculously available right in front of my destination, a weathered fourplex.

Before I can get out of the car, my phone rings. I debate whether to answer.

“Hi,” I say after the third ring.

“Hello,” Cortez says. “You sound tired.”

“Had one of those days.” I watch the splattered rain dribble down my windows.

“Well, maybe this will make you feel better. We retrieved the car that Jenny was driving. She was actually living in a vehicle borrowed from her friend.”

“Oh yeah?” A rush of guilt floods over me. I should have told Cortez everything when I had the chance, and now it’s too late to go back.

“Unfortunately, there’s not much there. No cell phone. No computer. We did find out that she worked for the US Census Bureau, but they are extremely tight-lipped there. They verified that Jenny had worked for them in the field but said that all other information is private, that it’s protected under the Constitution.”

“What?” I can’t believe it. “This is a murder investigation! Don’t they get that?”

“I know, I know. Someone I know has an in with a higher-up in the Census Bureau. I’m sure that we’ll be able to convince them to cooperate.”

I hope that it’s sooner rather than later, because the more time elapses, the more the killer can cover up his trail.

“You may be able to help us by looking over some of her clothes. I tagged an outfit that looked like it was from China.”

It’s Vietnam
, I almost blurt out, but thankfully I stop myself. “Sure. Do you want me to come over to your office?”

“I’ll send it over to the Central Division.”

“Ah, just check in with my sergeant,” I tell him. “So that he knows beforehand.” All I need again is a report that I’ve overstepped my bounds.

“By the way,” I add, “I’m sorry about the other night. I mean, I don’t want you to think—” I’m not quite sure what I’m trying to say, but Cortez saves me before I can embarrass myself further.

“What? No, don’t be sorry. I’m not.”

Both of us are silent for a moment.

“Well, I have to go,” I say. Before ending our conversation, Cortez suggests we meet for lunch in Chinatown the day after tomorrow, and I agree. I’m looking forward to seeing him again. But tonight I need someone who already knows me inside out.

• • •

Benjamin isn’t a roommate kind of guy. He needs his space, but not necessarily physical space. If all he can afford is a kitchen pantry, he will live there, as long as he is by himself. This place in Thai Town fits the bill.

I knock, and the door opens. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I was just taking a chance that you might be home.”

He motions for me to come inside, and I do. I’m scared that I’ll see signs of “her.” A woman’s sweater or shoes. A certain novel that Benjamin would never read. A flowery scent or perfume. Contact lens solution.

I take a deep breath—nothing. Just a faint scent of his soap. Everything seems to have remained the same—his Brazilian masks on the wall, his iPod docking station. A small shelf of his favorite books.

He offers me a beer, a dark ale. One of our favorites.

One thing about Benjamin: he doesn’t ask a lot of questions when you’re trying to get something out. He just stays quiet and lets the words dribble out, pool together and start to form a coherent picture.

Pretty soon I’ve told him practically everything. Meeting with Susana. Finding the Ratmobile. Getting yelled at by Susana’s boyfriend about her getting jumped. Being in hot water with Cherniss.

I don’t mention Tuan’s visit. The fact that Tuan found my house through one of Benjamin’s basketball buddies is not going to sit well. I also leave Cortez out of my story. There’s no need for Benjamin to hear about him.

“I’m just not sure whom I can trust,” I say.

“Then trust no one.” Benjamin, ever the cheery one.

“I can’t do that. Even at the academy we learn that everyone needs backup.”

“Well, then, give up the least amount of information possible to make things happen.”

“I haven’t told Aunt Cheryl everything.”

“Good.” Of course Benjamin, the LAPD skeptic, would be fine with that. “So she called you after Jenny’s body was found?”

“Yeah, she told me that I need to develop my own CIs—you know, confidential informants.”

“Maybe that’s true. Like in
The Wire
,” he says, mentioning the old HBO show that we used to watch together.

“
The Wire
’s not the LAPD. And it’s not real.”

“Okay, okay. I think you just need to be a step ahead of everyone.”

“A step ahead? I feel like I’m barely hanging on.”

“You’re doing okay.” That’s what I came here to hear. “Those detectives don’t know jack shit.” Aaaand now I’m pissed again.

“Benjamin, I need to ask you something,” I finally say. “About Jenny Nguyen. At Osaka’s, when I asked you about seeing her at the projects last year, I got the feeling that you weren’t telling me everything.”

Benjamin stuffs his hands into his pockets. “It’s just—some of my students’ families weren’t that thrilled with her coming to their units and asking questions, you know? A few people actually came to me, complaining about Jenny.”

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

“It didn’t seem to have anything to do with her murder. I didn’t see any point in talking bad about my students’ families.” He puts his palm out. “Let me see those pages of her census notebook.”

I scroll to those photographs, and he squints at the small screen.

“Can you e-mail me those photos?” he asks. “I’ll take a closer look at them.”

I nod my head. Any additional help is appreciated.

“Afterward, you might want to erase the photographs from your phone,” he advises me.

I wrinkle my nose. Is Benjamin getting all covert on me?

“Ellie. You need to be careful.” His voice is dead serious.

I look into his eyes. In the darkness, his pupils look almost black.

His phone, which is on the table, rings, and I catch the name on the screen. Kari.

“Take it,” I say, and go out the door.

• • •

I go home to Shippo and the last crumbs of my tortilla chips. (The guacamole is long gone.) I feel stupid about having gone to Benjamin for help and advice. It’s a bad habit. But one thing he said remains with me: I need to stay one step ahead of everyone. It’s true. I didn’t join the force to play it safe and toe the line. I didn’t give up Benjamin so that I could play cop. I want to be a real one. To help people. To get justice.

I think back to how terrorized Susana looked at the coffeehouse. She took a chance on me because she couldn’t keep quiet about her friend. From what her boyfriend said, it sounds like Susana is now effectively silenced, but that doesn’t mean that I have to be. Whoever complained to my sergeant probably wants to put a lid on my activities, but has ended up doing the exact opposite. I am more resolved than ever to catch Jenny’s killer.

SIXTH STREET

My phone vibrates, and I’m startled to see who’s calling me.

“You called?” Rickie says when I pick up.

“I’m surprised that you’re getting back to me so fast.”

“I’m here.” Rickie waits for my response.

I don’t know if Benjamin has spoken to Rickie about my run-in with my sergeant, but the tone of Rickie’s voice is kinder, softer. I decide not to question it. “I tried to call the Census Bureau in Van Nuys, and all I got was the runaround. Do you think you could find out who exactly was Jenny’s supervisor?”

“Yeah, can do,” he says, then “See ya,” and clicks off. About two hours later, I get a text from him with a name and phone number.

Since I’ve been assigned to three twelve-hour days this week, I have the next day off. (“You have the good life,” Nay says.
Yeah, if you think bicycling in dog poop and arresting gangbangers is somehow easy and “good
.”) I have a dentist appointment scheduled in the morning in Burbank, the far east part of the valley. Afterward, I drive the Green Mile to Van Nuys. The Census Bureau office is only a few blocks from the 405 freeway; it’s one of these nasty corners of the San Fernando Valley that’s all wall-to-wall cars on ugly boulevards lined with fast-food restaurants and multilevel structures built in the seventies.

The Census office is in one of these buildings. Like most governmental offices in such far-flung locations, there is no signage—neighbors here are more often detractors than fans of the US government.

I have to show my driver’s license and sign in on the first floor. The friendly receptionist, who was reading a cat mystery when I came in, takes me through the maze of cubicles until we reach a small office with a glass wall. She knocks on the doorframe.

“Valerie, here’s the woman who called earlier. Jenny’s friend,” the receptionist says, then smiles at me and leaves.

Valerie Ahmed reminds me of my aunt; she’s impeccably groomed and probably considerably older than she looks. Her straight bob has faint blonde highlights, and her wine-colored lipstick complements her dark skin.

She offers me a seat on the other side of her desk, which is stacked with paper. Promotional posters featuring multigenerational, multiethnic families are pinned to her walls.

“So you were close to Jenny?” Valerie asks.

“Ah, we had a class together.” I am tired of telling so many white lies, so I just go for the truth. “But I’m in touch with a lot of her friends.”

“I already spoke to a detective.”

And gave him nothing
, I think to myself. “I know that you can’t talk about Jenny’s work, about where she went, who she spoke to, but maybe you can tell me something about her. You know, like her personality.”

“I thought you knew her.”

“I mean, her work personality. A lot of times people are different at work than at home or school.”

That seems to satisfy Jenny’s supervisor.

“She was ambitious. So ambitious.”

See? Already I’m surprised.

“She seemed to have political aspirations,” Valerie says. “She always wanted to be at any event. Especially anything involving redistricting. She was a great representative. She always put herself together well for someone so young.”

She rummages around in her desk and pulls out a photo, apparently taken at a special event at City Hall. She points to Jenny, wearing a dress with pumps and pearls. I do a double take to make sure it’s her.

“She really wanted a job at City Hall.”

“She did?”

“Yes, I wrote her a recommendation letter. A very effusive one, in fact. But she was turned down. I think a couple of times.”

“Do you remember what office she applied to?”

Valerie folds her arms in thought. She is wearing a hound’s-tooth suit that fits her perfectly. “I can’t remember. A senior moment, perhaps. I’ve been getting more and more of them these days.”

“If you happen to find a copy of that recommendation letter, can you call me? I’ll be very interested to see where she was trying to work.” I write my phone number and name on a piece of notebook paper along with “Re: Jenny Nguyen.”

“Why do you need to know that?”

“Just trying to put the pieces together for her family,” I tell Valerie.

Her eyes cloud over with tears. “We’ve been talking about sending a card or some sort of flowers to her family back in Vietnam. She didn’t talk much about them, but I’m sure they were so proud of her. Can you provide us with their contact information?”

Note to self: Contact Tuan to get family’s address.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll call you.”

Valerie glances at her watch, and I take it as a sign not to overstay my welcome. I stand up and thank her, then leave my temporary ID badge with the receptionist and walk out of the Census office.

Was this the same Jenny whom I’d always seen dressed in a PPW T-shirt like the rest of us? The Jenny who lived out of a borrowed car?

I remember the bin in her trunk labeled
CH CLOTHING
. Perhaps the
CH
stood for City Hall? Now I regret not opening the bin to look at the contents.

My own trunk is full of dirty laundry. Since I don’t have to go to work today, I plan to stop at my parents’ house for dinner and use their washer and dryer. I leave Shippo at home so not to aggravate Mom, physically or emotionally.

Ironically, it turns out that neither Mom nor Dad is home tonight anyway. Dad has an evening work meeting, and Mom, who has left dinner for Grandma Toma, Noah and me, is off jogging the Rose Bowl with her running group in preparation for her next half marathon.

“How’s Benjamin doing?” Grandma asks as we sit around the dining room table.

I take a deep breath. “Actually, we broke up. Three months ago.”

Grandma Toma looks constipated.

Noah doesn’t say a word.

“Can you two do me a favor? Don’t tell Mom and Dad about me and Benjamin yet. I’d like to break the news myself. I mean, we’re still friends. We all get together at that ramen house in Little Tokyo a few times a week.”

Grandma wrinkles her forehead. “You still see him every week?” She murmurs something about not understanding young people, and we pass the rest of the meal in relative silence. When we finish, she heads toward her bedroom, while Noah and I clear the table and start loading the dirty dishes into the dishwasher.

“I gotta agree with Grandma,” Noah comments.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re still seeing Benjamin even though you’ve broken up? That sounds pretty dysfunctional.”

When did my brother turn into Dr. Phil?

The doorbell rings, and I hear Grandma’s slippers shuffling against the hardwood floor to get the door. A few moments later, Simon Lee enters the kitchen. He wears oversized black-framed glasses and a short-sleeve plaid cotton shirt. He has better hair than I do; it’s long and goes past his shoulders.

“Hey,” he says to Noah.

“You remember my sister.” Noah shrugs in my direction.

“Hey.” Simon doesn’t bother to take the earbuds out of his ears.

I give him a once-over. So this is the drug lord of Madison Heights in Pasadena? God help us.

I go back into the laundry room, feeling like I’ve disappointed both Grandma Toma and Noah. What did they expect, that I was going to marry Benjamin? We were together two and a half years, but still.

Before the drying cycle has completely finished, I stuff my clothes into laundry bags. I say good-bye to Grandma and the cartel boys, but all three of them are too busy to notice my departure.

I park the Green Mile in my narrow driveway; there’s no room for it in my tiny garage. I open the trunk and pull out the bags of clean laundry.

Shippo greets me by dancing on my feet as I carry my laundry into the house. I know that I’ve neglected him this past week or so and give him extra doggie treats, then rub the folds of his neck for a good ten minutes.

“Okay, Shippo,” I tell him, “let’s walk.”

Highland Park is a funny neighborhood. Most people my parents’ age think of it as a drive-by place, in multiple senses. My neighborhood has a bad rap for its flashes of gang warfare, and the winding three-lane Pasadena Freeway, the oldest operating freeway, cuts through, leaving the homes on the west side and the Arroyo Seco Park on the other. North Figueroa and York are the main drags; York is becoming increasingly hipster with coffee shops, vinyl stores and bars, while Figueroa hangs on to its Latino postwar past. As more young families have moved in, the image has started to change, but Highland Park is probably still populated with more have-nots than haves. Maybe that’s why the Gold Line track is right in the middle of Figueroa, right next to homes and car lanes. Still, anchoring the area are its museums and historic spots, like the museum with the nation’s best collections of Native American artifacts, or the row of multicolored Victorian houses smack beside the freeway on the Arroyo side. My favorite tourist location is the Lummis House, a homemade structure built with stone and glass photographs taken by the owner, a journalist from the Midwest who literally walked over to Highland Park from Ohio in the 1880s. In a way, Highland Park is still filled with pioneers and daredevils. Maybe I’m one of them.

As I walk Shippo down a street with a neat row of small bungalows, my cell phone rings.

“I cannot believe her!” Nay yells on the other side. I know she’s talking about her mother.

“What happened?”

“My mother just gave our car to my brother—he’s a grown-ass man with a wife and kid. He should be buying his own car!”

“Well, isn’t the pink slip in your mother’s name? Legally, she had a right—”

“Look, don’t get all
Law & Order
on me, okay? I made payments on that car when I was working. I contributed. Hard cash. Part of that car is mine. How am I going to get to school?”

“Bus?” I offer, and Nay ignores me.

“This is it! I need to leave Mommie Dearest, and now is not soon enough. I have to move out.”

“But Nay, you quit your job. How can you afford to move out?”

“Maybe I’ll move in with you.”

I gulp and Shippo looks up at me with concern. “You have the key; if you ever need a break, you can come over and crash for a night or two. But in terms of being roommates . . .”

“I know, I know,” Nay says, saving me. “Besides, you have no closet space.”

I finally exhale.

“Sorry, I’ve just been going on and on. How’s your man?”

“He’s not my man, Nay.” Not yet, anyway.

“Boy toy?”

“It hasn’t come to that.”

“Well, let’s speed it up.”

Cortez and I are supposed to meet in Chinatown tomorrow, but I don’t consider a forty-minute lunch anything romantic.

“By the way,” I say, remembering my conversation with Valerie Ahmed, “I stopped by Jenny’s work today. Did you notice her ever looking dressed up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like in dresses and high heels?”

“Are you kidding me? She always looked like the typical PPW student. T-shirt. Sweats. Hair down or in a ponytail.”

“I talked to her Census supervisor. According to her, Jenny was always dressed to the nines.”

“What? That doesn’t sound like Jenny. Are you sure you were talking about the same Jenny Nguyen? You know it’s like Paul Kim or Grace Park—there’s a million of them around.”

“No, it’s the same person.”

We both then become quiet. Who
was
the real Jenny Nguyen after all?