“And?”
“He got kind of weird. Like he knows more than he’s letting on.”
“Are you sure that it’s not because Kari was at Osaka’s, too? Maybe he was preparing himself for a clash of the titanettes.”
I ignore the “titanettes” comment, but Nay is probably right. I tap my phone and gaze down at the photo of Cortez. Both Benjamin and I are moving on. That’s a good thing, right?
• • •
The next morning, I am assigned to patrol the Federal Building with the only other woman in our unit, Armine. Originally from Armenia, Armine was an insurance underwriter before she decided to make a career of law enforcement. Maybe it’s because she’s a little bit older than the rest of us rookies, but she’s easy to work with. She brushes aside off-color comments from the men in our unit; she has a couple of kids at home. She doesn’t have enough energy to care about what people think of her.
“How old are your kids again?” I ask Armine as we watch the line of people wait to go through the metal detector.
“Six and nine.”
Nine. The age of Cortez’s son. I stare at the thick foundation on Armine’s face, the fine lines by her eyes. My world seems so different. What would it feel like to be plopped down in hers?
Nothing eventful happens at the Federal Building, and we make our way back to the station before lunch. Armine quickly makes a personal call to talk to her daughter’s teacher, while I start to head inside to park my bike.
“You Ellie?”
A man steps in front of me. He’s in his mid-twenties and wears a work shirt that reads ALFIE’S TOWING. I’m pretty sure that I’ve never seen him before.
“Yeah.” I place my hand on my club.
“Thought that you should know: Susana got jacked in our place last week. The same night she met with you.”
Shit. This must be Susana’s boyfriend. “What happened?”
“I told her not to talk to you. That it could lead to trouble. But no, she felt that she had to. For the sake of her friend.”
“What happened?” I ask again, my heart racing.
“They were probably following her from the coffee shop. When she was going into the apartment, they put a gun to her back. They wrapped her wrists in duct tape, covered her eyes with a blindfold. She couldn’t see a thing, including who was holding her.”
“Jesus,” I whisper. Home invasions are the worst.
“They wanted to get information from her. About Jenny. About where she kept her things. They even ransacked our apartment.”
“Why do you think that meeting me had anything to do with it?”
“Because they said your name. They warned her not to talk to the police, and especially not to Ellie Rush.” My body goes numb. What? “The police found Susana’s brother’s Honda. The one that Jenny was living in. Now the police are coming over, asking Susana questions. She’s not saying anything to them, including what happened to her that night.”
I glance at my watch. I need to go back into the station, but I fully intend to follow up with Susana to convince her to file a report. “Thanks. Thanks for letting me know.”
“I didn’t come here for your sake. I did it for Susana. You need to stay the hell away from her.”
• • •
As soon as I walk into the station, Sergeant Tim Cherniss is waiting for me. “What was that all about?”
I’m at a loss as to how to respond. If I say too much, I’m going to get into trouble. And if I say too little, same thing.
“He came into the station and was asking for the girl who was investigating the Jenny Nguyen case. ‘Some girl named Ellie,’” Cherniss says.
“Oh,” I say, feeling sweat form above my upper lip. “I was just asking some of my old college friends about the victim. I went to PPW with her, you know.”
Tim Cherniss gestures for me to step inside one of our holding rooms. There’s crumbling white soundproof panels on one half of the walls. It’s cold in there. I feel both trapped and exposed; no wonder so many criminals have cracked in that room.
“You’re not a detective, Officer Rush. You have no place hotdogging and interfering in an investigation. And I’ve gotten another complaint about you.”
Huh? No one has ever—ever—complained about my work. I’m thinking that it has to be Mac. “What kind of complaint? Is it someone in Central Division?”
“No, it’s not within the department. It’s from the outside. I received a call that you have been acting inappropriately while on patrol.”
Inappropriate? “Who’s lodged a complaint?” My mind flips through my contacts—maybe it’s the neighborhood watch president, Mrs. Clark?
“I can’t say. No formal complaint was filed, so I was planning to ignore it. But now this. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to write you up.”
I can’t believe what I am hearing. To get written up just months into my new job with the bike unit would mean doors closing, not only in terms of future promotions but also in my current position.
“Wait,” I say. “My aunt asked me to look into Jenny’s murder.”
Sergeant Cherniss is one of the few people in the station who know that I’m Cheryl Toma’s niece.
“The assistant chief told you to make inquiries into the Jenny Nguyen case?”
I swallow and nod my head. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I am. I am selling out my aunt.
“Listen, Ellie, I like you. I really do. I think that you have a bright future in the department. But I’ll be straight with you, even knowing your connections. I’m taking a risk because I think you’re smart and can think on your own.”
I shift my weight from my right side to my left.
“Chief Toma has a lot of supporters. But she has a lot of enemies, too. You’re going to have to take extra care in where you walk.”
Again with the walking metaphor.
“There are minefields in this department. To survive, you’ll have to make some good decisions. First of all, deciding whom to trust.” Cherniss leans back on the metal interrogation table. “I’m not a major player in the department. And I probably won’t be, which is fine with me. I have two young kids and I want to live to see them grow up. So I just mind my business. My business here, in Central Division BCU.”
I ball up my hands; my fingers are freezing.
“But you’re not like me. I can see that. In ten years, you don’t want to be where I am.”
“Are you saying that I should keep my distance from my aunt?”
“No, not at all. Just that you don’t need to do everything she tells you to do. You should know this better than I do. Sometimes you have to find ways to negotiate your situation.”
How many people are in my situation? I wonder.
“Look, I give every rookie one chance to screw up. One chance. You used up yours, okay? I’ll cover for you on this. But the next mistake, Ellie, you’ll be on your own.”
• • •
I feel like I can’t breathe. Someone is out to get me, and it may be someone other than Mac. And it’s probably not Mrs. Clark. Who knew that I was meeting with Susana? Hardly anyone. Basically only Nay. But someone could have been following Susana, like her boyfriend said. Or tailing me.
Is someone trying to get to my aunt through me? Hardly anyone other than Cherniss is aware of our connection. Our last names are totally different, and it’s not like I’ve advertised the relationship. No, it’s more likely that the complaint is related to something more serious. Jenny’s murder.
I know that I must be close to uncovering answers to be getting so much heat. What should I do? Retreat? Pretend that I never spoke to Susana or Tuan?
I wish that I could be more honest with Cortez, but I’ve held back. I don’t want him to think that I’ve gone rogue, or worse yet, that I don’t trust him or the other detectives to solve the case.
I go through the motions for the rest of the afternoon. Complete some paperwork and proofread some more of Harrington’s rep
orts. I just want the day to end so that I can get out of the Central Division station. Finally, my shift is over, and I change into my street clothes. Ironically I came to work in a PPW sweatshirt, which now just reminds me how on the outside, at least, there’s only a fine line dividing me from Jenny.
It starts raining, and I’m glad that I drove the Green Mile to work. Instead of turning north on Figueroa, I continue west. West to Thai Town.
Hardly anyone knows where Thai Town starts or stops, much less that it exists at all. I only really know it’s there because my father made me go to a special designation ceremony when I was seven. He worked on the Red Line Metro station in the neighborhood, which sits below a transit village of apartments.
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 c
atch Jenny’s killer.
NINE
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.
Murder on Bamboo Lane Page 10