It’s true. I’ve been reading police reports since the eighth grade. It was mother-daughter work day at the LAPD, and since Aunt Cheryl never had kids, she asked me if I wanted to join her for the day. My mother, at first, refused to allow me to miss a whole day of school, but when my principal found out about it, I was practically ordered to go. Mom was convinced that her big sister was behind my principal’s “encouragement.” At the time, Dad thought Mom was being paranoid, but now I think her suspicion was probably correct. What Aunt Cheryl wants, she usually gets.
Anyway, I started reading the police reports stacked on her desk, and Aunt Cheryl asked me whether I understood the sequence of events being described. Most of the time, I was confused. You see, Ellie, she’d told me. Our job isn’t only about the arrest, it’s about the conviction. And these reports are important.
That afternoon with Aunt Cheryl had had a profound effect on me. Until then, I’d thought police work was all about running around, crashing into houses with guns like on TV, but she explained that it was really about talking to people and, more importantly, listening to them. It meant working as a team and documenting things in a way that a regular person could easily understand. I could get behind that. Later, in high school, when my mother was badgering me about my future (as if a sixteen-year-old could know what they wanted for a profession), I blurted out, “International affairs.” It sounded important, exotic and, well, global. My secret dream, though, was to become a detective with the LAPD. And when I actually did some summer college internships in dreary state government offices, I knew that I needed to stay true to my intuition and listen to my gut instead of my mother. Listening to my gut was what has brought me here to the Metro Club, in a seat across from my aunt.
It isn’t until around the time we get our dessert that Aunt Cheryl switches from interested relative to police brass.
“By the way,” she says, breaking the thin caramel glaze on her crème brûlée. “What’s going on in the Jennifer Nguyen case?”
I know, of course, that this is what this lunch was all about, but I’m still unclear why. A young, Asian, female college student with no family? Hardly a victim the higher-ups typically pay attention to.
“Did you see me on the news this weekend?” I sidestep. Although I spent Sunday clicking on different television channels, I never saw the footage I was in and was curious what was broadcast.
“Just for a couple of seconds. You were in the alley. With Cortez Williams.”
“Well, since I knew Jenny, and I knew that she was missing—”
“She was missing?”
“Yes. There were missing flyers for her all over the Adams neighborhood. I mean, I didn’t know she was missing until I saw those flyers. We had mutual friends who were closer to her than I was.”
“What’s their assessment?”
Assessment? That was a mighty formal word, especially to be used with the likes of Nay and Rickie. “Uh, they didn’t know too much. They were just helping out.”
“Helping whom?” Aunt Cheryl’s voice takes on a sharp tone, as if I’m being interrogated.
“Uh, nobody in particular.” I don’t know why I lie, but I feel like I need to buy some time before I reveal Rickie’s connection to Jenny’s best friend, Susana. Because this is lunch with my aunt, right? Not official police business.
“Has anyone mentioned a Tuan Le?”
“No,” I say, but the name sounds familiar. I’ve seen it before somewhere.
“They were apparently dating. He’s an artist. I think that he has a show opening in Chinatown.”
“Oh yeah,” I say, feeling dumb. That’s why the name is familiar—there are a ton of banners in Chinatown announcing his exhibition on both Hill Street and Broadway. “I didn’t know they were together.” Obviously, to know so many details already, my aunt is super interested in this case. “Is there something I should I know about?” I finally ask.
“No, no. It’s just that it’s Chinese New Year. The LAPD wants to make sure that we protect the community as best we can.”
It’s a weak explanation, but possible. I’ve also heard stories that we flubbed a case in Koreatown, a shopkeeper, mistakenly thought to be a gang member, who’d been wrongfully arrested in a drive-by shooting incident. I know the department is still hurting from that.
“Well, Detective Williams is assigned to the case,” I tell Aunt Cheryl. “He’s probably the one to talk to. He’ll have a lot more information than me.”
“Maybe, but I want the information from you. If you want to get promoted, Ellie, you need to work the streets, cultivate your own confidential informants. Some officers grew up in gang territory. They are going to have that advantage over you.” Only in law enforcement would it be seen as beneficial to have been raised in the hood versus the suburbs.
“Eagle Rock is still officially LA,” I meekly offer about the area I grew up in.
Aunt Cheryl raises an eyebrow. “I would hardly classify it as a den of inequity. But you have an edge here, Ellie. Your age. Your youth. Your connection to Pan Pacific West. It’s right there in West Adams. And you still have contacts there.”
“Yeah,” I say, not really understanding how having college students as my CIs would help me solve any crimes in the neighborhood.
“You don’t need to tell your commanding officer about this. This is just between you and me. Rush to Toma.”
She then wipes her mouth with her white napkin, while I do the same with my black one. Aunt Cheryl signs the check and we set off down the plushy hallway, back to the elevator.
At the ground floor, I prepare to get off at the lobby, while Aunt Cheryl remains on for the underground parking level. “Stay in touch,” she says, and I merely nod.
Finally outside, I fasten my helmet on my head. I feel a bit numb, maybe even stunned. What the heck was that all about?
• • •
After lunch, I ride down Grand and then east to the school district building, a nondescript tower next to the 110 freeway. The school board is having a special meeting to decide whether to cut back on subsidized lunches, and a protest of parents and teachers is expected. A group of us have been assigned to make sure that the protesters waiting to go inside the school board meeting don’t create gridlock.
I get there around the same time as the other officers, but the crowd is much smaller than expected. We steady our bikes, trying to look menacing, but no one really cares.
Mac brakes a bike beside me. “So, how was your lunch?”
Since when does he have any interest in my dietary choices?
“Where did you go? Water Grill? Jonathan Club?” He lists off the most exclusive eateries in Downtown Los Angeles. I know what he’s getting at.
“I don’t think where I eat is any of your business.”
Doesn’t Mac have anything better to do than spy on me? Before I can say anything more, his radio squawks and he moves over to answer it from a quieter spot.
The rest of the afternoon is uneventful, almost boring. When no one is looking, I check my personal phone. Nay’s sent me at least six messages during her statistics class. She’s obviously bored out of her mind. Numbers aren’t her thing.
Nothing from Rickie. I had given him a heads-up that Cortez would be contacting him, but he hasn’t bothered to respond to my texts. It’s not unusual for Rickie to ignore my correspondence, but this wasn’t about getting together at Osaka’s or something stupid. It’s about the life, or rather the death, of one of our classmates. I quickly slip my phone into my pocket when I see one of my colleagues approach, but luckily he’s only coming over to tell me we can all leave now.
I go back to the station to file some more papers and change into my street clothes before walking to the train. I have no plans after work, so decide to stop by the farmers’ market in South Pasadena. It’s only one stop north of Highland Park Station, but it’s a whole different world. While my community deals with black and Latino gang rivalries, South Pasadena is pure 1950s, with
its brick storefronts and cute train crossing.
I pick up fresh tortilla chips and a small container of guacamole from my favorite stand there. I can’t quite wait until I’m home, so I sneak a few chips while I’m walking from my train stop. I slow when I see a familiar figure in a worn plaid flannel shirt rise from one of my moldy wicker chairs on the porch.
The back of my skull tingles in apprehension.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” Benjamin says. It’s been weeks since I last saw my ex. His hair is still long, past his shoulders. His eyes are the color of the blackest ink.
“What are you doing here?” I try to keep my voice light.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Well, come inside.”
I unlock the double bolt and push open the door. Shippo rushes straight to Benjamin, barely even giving me a sniff hello. Traitor. Benjamin rubs the fat folds around Shippo’s neck. He knows where my dog’s erogenous zones are. Mine, too.
“I’ve missed you,” Benjamin says, looking into Shippo’s black eyes, and I feel a pang of jealousy. Pitiful, I realize.
Benjamin knows my after-work routine. By the time I grab a couple of peach Snapples from my refrigerator, he’s already clipped on Shippo’s leash. Because it’s been a while since he’s done this, I let Benjamin walk the dog while I trail a few steps away with our drinks.
The neighborhood is quiet. We don’t talk much. I’m afraid to. I don’t want to spoil my first time alone with Benjamin since our break-up with another fight.
Benjamin is the first to speak. “I wanted to talk to you about Jenny Nguyen.”
What? My second conversation about Jenny today. I know that I need to be careful what I say because it’s not yet public that the dead body found on Bamboo Lane is her. “You mean the missing-person report you and Rickie filed? I didn’t even realize that you knew her that well.”
“We had a bunch of classes together because we’re both sociology majors. I never talked to her much. She’s really quiet. And private. I think her whole family’s back in Vietnam. She basically only has Susana Perez as a friend. Rickie and I were just trying to help Susana out.”
Quiet and private. I’d had the same impression of Jenny.
“Anyway, I just wanted to explain why I didn’t go straight to you first.”
I stop walking and take a swig of my Snapple. “Okay.” I wait for his explanation.
“I didn’t want to get you involved. I’m worried about her boyfriend, Tuan Le.”
“You know him?” I say a little too fast.
“Played some basketball pickup games with him at Alpine. He’s got a mean temper.”
“You think he could do something to Jenny?” My jaw tightens. Could it be that simple? Could Tuan be Jenny’s killer?
“I don’t know, but he has a lot of enemies. He even stopped playing ball in Chinatown because of them.”
Now I’m really curious. “What are you talking about? Gang members?” A gang-related retaliation killing of some kind?
Benjamin accepts the Snapple from me and twists the cap open. His Adam’s apple moves as he takes a gulp. “No. It was like, political. Some anticommunists came by the gym and apparently threatened him.”
“Anticommunists? You mean Tuan’s a communist?”
“It’s just his artwork. He has a piece that tells about his grandfather fighting for North Vietnam and then coming over here.”
“And that’s enough for people to be out to get him?”
“Well, I guess his work could be interpreted as being sympathetic to North Vietnam.” Seeing my blank face, he lifts an eyebrow. “Didn’t you take Professor Leong’s class on twentieth-century Southeast Asia?”
“You’re the history-sociology double major. Not me.”
“Most of the Vietnamese over here, especially the ones who came over in the seventies, are die-hard anticommunists. They believe that the Viet Cong ruined their lives, massacred their families.”
“But that was way back in the seventies.” A lifetime ago. Neither Benjamin nor I nor any of our friends were even born yet.
“People don’t forget. And even the younger generation has hung on to the old feuds.” He then meets my eyes for a second and I know what’s he’s getting at.
Benjamin never even told his grandmother in Korea that I was part Japanese so as not to “rock the boat.” I should have known from the beginning that Benjamin had doubts about me.
“So some people have issues with Tuan. I’ll keep that in mind,” I say coolly.
“This is serious, Ellie. There was the case of a journalist in OC who was viewed as a communist sympathizer and was burned to death. You have to be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
Benjamin rolls his eyes.
“Listen, you should worry more about your own stuff, okay?” I tell him.
“What do you mean?”
“Your kids. The kids you tutor.”
“What about them?”
I tell him about the truancy citations. That revelation quickly backfires.
“Why are you giving out truancy tickets? Don’t you guys have better things to do?”
“Don’t blame us. The principal at your school is asking us to cite them.”
“And you can’t think for yourselves? That’s why I can’t stand cops. Aren’t you supposedly public servants, not hired guns? These kids don’t need fines and tickets; they need people who are committed to help them.”
I feel that familiar pit in my stomach. Same old, same old argument. “So where were you, then, Mr. Committed, when these kids were running around the streets when they should be in school?”
“This was a mistake,” he says, and we both know what he’s referring to. Coming here to my house. Talking to me.
I place my hands on my hips. “You bet it was.”
• • •
I spend the rest of the evening watching nature cable shows and eating chips and guacamole. Shippo’s tail goes crazy as he laps the salty tortilla crumbs off my hardwood floor.
During a commercial break, I sit up and take a look at what stories about Jenny’s murder are on the Internet. Channel 4 has finally downloaded its six o’clock news broadcast from Saturday. I’m shown only for a few seconds, and I look like a kid in my shorts next to Cortez in his shirt and tie.
A local website has more updated information; the blogger has obviously spoken to Media Relations:
The body of a young Asian female who was apparently fatally shot was discovered on Bamboo Lane in Chinatown on Saturday morning by a volunteer with the Golden Dragon Parade. The victim’s name has been withheld until official notification of her relatives. According to the coroner’s office, the victim most likely died from the bullet wound on Thursday evening. There was no sign of sexual assault. A wallet, which contained some cash, was found on her body, although police have not ruled out robbery as a motive.
• • •
I take out a notebook from my backpack and write in capital letters, THURSDAY EVENING. That’s approximately a day and a half before I identified her on Saturday afternoon. I can’t help but wonder where Tuan Le was on Thursday evening.
I check out the Twitter feed of PPW’s campus gossip columnist, @curiouscatPPW and read:
A hot detective was seen in admin asking about Jenny Nguyen. Why? Related to the dead girl in Chinatown?
Oh no. Talk will be spreading on campus tonight. Cortez will have his hands full.
Then I think about Benjamin’s visit tonight. Even though I claim otherwise, I am fully aware that I’m still not over him. I try to convince myself that it’s because he is the one who broke it off. My ego is just bruised. I’m not used to being the one who is rejected.
But it’s more than that. It’s the stuff that you can’t put into words that I miss. His casual touch at a party to let me know he was there. The way he’d rumple my hair in the morning. Laughing at something stupid that had become an inside joke.
He can
’t get over what he sees as my going over to the dark side, law enforcement. He cites cases of the homeless and mentally ill being beaten, the high number of men of color being imprisoned.
“But look at my Aunt Cheryl. The LAPD is diversifying,” I told him when I decided to join the police academy after I graduated college early, in three years.
“You’ve just been brainwashed by her,” he said.
“Maybe minority women can help reform the department.”
“You can’t change it, Ellie,” he said. “It’s going to change you.”
• • •
My phone starts to ring, and I think it’s going to be Benjamin, apologizing. But it’s Nay. “Ohmygod, it’s Jenny, isn’t it? The body in Chinatown.”
I take a deep breath. I’m not supposed to say anything. Nay breaks her pledge and starts swearing up a storm. “So you’re not going to say? I know that you’re this official LAPD blue or whatever, but remember that you’re a friend first.”
“Listen, her relatives need to be notified before it goes public.” I know by saying this, I’ve pretty much admitted that Nay’s hunch is correct.
“She has no relatives here. They’re all in Vietnam. They are probably still sleeping over there. It’s not going to matter.”
“Nay, listen, don’t—” I know if I try to make her promise not to say anything to anyone else, she’ll just break her promise. So I stop myself. Before I can say anything more, she gets off the phone.
The next several hours are dead quiet. Nothing from Nay. I know that she’s been busy spreading the news.
It turns out by the eleven o’clock news, Nay is right. It doesn’t matter if all of PPW knows. The police have officially released the news: the dead woman is Jenny Nguyen.
FOUR
SIXTH STREET
Tuesday morning, the phone next to my computer terminal rings, and I answer.
“Hello, Ellie? This is Cortez Williams.”
My body starts to tingle; I guess that he made more of an impression on me than I care to admit. I finger the sides of my antiquated keyboard. “Oh, hi,” I say.
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of your contact, Rickie Plata. I’ve left some voice mail and e-mail messages, but he has yet to contact me back.”
Murder on Bamboo Lane Page 4