Murder on Bamboo Lane

by Naomi Hirahara

  We sit silently in the car before Cortez speaks. “Let’s get this straight from the beginning. I’m the supervising detective, and you are assisting me, okay? Anything you know, I should know.”

  I smell his cologne in the car, and I nod my head. “Yes, agreed.”

  He then looks at his notebook. “We got a statement from this Pho— Pho—” He’s having problems pronouncing the name.

  “Phuong.”

  “Yes. He says that Tuan Le was in the gallery for the whole night before retiring in his loft.”

  I saying nothing. I know that he’s conceding that my hunch was right, but I don’t need to rub it in his face.

  Cortez starts the engine and pulls out of the garage. A few more minutes pass, and I notice that we are passing Staples Center.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The Adams Corridor Project.”

  I glance at my watch. Chances are that Benjamin will be there working when we arrive. Great. If Miss Boots is there, too, it’ll be just icing on the cake. Focus, Ellie, focus, I tell myself. Also at the projects is Ramon. If I run into them, I may find out if he was near Bamboo Lane when Jenny was shot.

  “By the way,” Cortez interjects, “I followed up with Susana Perez. Since she was last questioned, she and her boyfriend have moved out of her apartment.”

  Not a surprise. If I’d been held at gunpoint in my house, I would probably move, too.

  Cortez brakes for a red light. “She also no longer uses that cell phone number. You didn’t get the boyfriend’s name, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Then I remember the uniform he was wearing. “I think that he works for some towing company. It had a weird name. Alfie, I think it was. Alfie’s Towing.”

  Cortez gives me a long look. Don’t do that to me, I think. You don’t know what your look does to me. “I’ll check it out,” he says. “You don’t know whether Susana is still enrolled at PPW, do you?”

  “Can’t you just go to the school and find out?”

  Cortez shakes his head. “There’s a federal privacy act that protects school records. I can’t access that information without a court order. And since Susana isn’t being charged with any wrongdoing, there’s not much the department can do. But maybe you know someone.”

  Wow. I’m floored. My mother could hack in and look at my grades, but not the police in a murder case? “Sure,” I tell him.

  Once we arrive at the projects, Cortez glances at his notes.

  “The manager’s name is Marta Jimenez.”

  “There’s a tenant organizer, too. Leticia Kind. I’ve met her before. At one of the neighborhood watch meetings I’ve been assigned to.”

  We decide splitting up is the best use of our time. I decide to take on Mrs. Kind. At least I know who she is. I get her apartment number, 204B, from the rental office and go up the stairs of a unit on the far south side. My POLICE T-shirt is attracting unwanted attention from men and women sitting on their porches. One young man, lying on a moldy, torn-up couch, gazes up at me, and I mistakenly think that he’s smiling before I realize that his face is marred by a large puffy scar cut into his right cheek. It’s obvious that he hasn’t been given much of a break in life—and based on his angry eyes, he’s not about to offer one to anyone else, either.

  The door to Unit 204B is open, and I knock my knuckle against the door frame. “Hello, Mrs. Kind? It’s Officer Ellie Rush, we’ve met before? I’m Benjamin Choi’s friend.”

  I hear a shuffling and then see a heavyset black woman in a sweatshirt appear in the hallway. Her hair is hidden behind a dark blue bandana.

  “Who’s that? Oh, yes. The little bicycle police officer. What was your name again?”

  “Ellie. Ellie Rush.”

  Mrs. Kind offers me a seat at her kitchen table. She has something simmering in a pot on her stove.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’m here about someone who used to work over here some months ago. A census worker. An Asian woman about my age. Jenny Nguyen.”

  “Jenny Nguyen. No, no, I don’t recall.”

  “She probably was going door to door. Doing these special annual surveys. I bet she most likely checked in with you.”

  “Well, I remember all those census workers from a few years ago.”

  “No, this was a little different. I think she asked different kinds of questions.”

  “Well, she didn’t come knocking at my door.”

  “When she was working here, she noticed some irregularities.”

  Mrs. Kind frowns, a heavy line dividing her forehead in two.

  “According to her records, way more people are living around here than there are supposed to be.”

  Mrs. Kind waves her hand as if she were shooing away a fly. “Oh, that. Of course, we all know that.”

  “And you didn’t say anything?”

  “Listen, first of all, the tenants need to speak up for themselves. If they don’t have a problem with it, then I don’t.”

  “But according to Jenny’s numbers, there might be as many as fifty people living in one unit.”

  “Where else they gonna live? At least this way they have a roof over their heads, a bathroom that works at least half the time, and some water to drink. That’s what I tole that girl from the Census.”

  My ears perk up. “So, you do remember her?”

  The line returns to Mrs. Kind’s forehead. She starts to backtrack and then gets mad at herself.

  “Okay, okay, so I do remember her. Nosy little thing.”

  I remove the notebook from my pocket as quietly as possible and keep it in my lap as I take a few notes.

  “She said that she had to get a particular unit to answer some questions,” Mrs. Kind says. “Well, the person on the rental agreement wasn’t having any of that. There was fifty people living in that place. And, I’m telling you, I think that little Asian girl got so frustrated that she was threatening to tell the authorities. Oh, what a commotion.”

  “Who’s the name on that rental agreement?”

  “Stella Ramos. She rents a couple of places. The other one she actually lives in with her family. And their dog, although I haven’t seen that animal around recently.”

  The mention of a dog reminds me. “This Stella Ramos—does she have a nephew named Ramon?”

  “I don’t know her people’s names.”

  Cortez appears at the doorway. Mrs. Kind immediately gets up. “He with you?” she asks me.

  “This is Detective Cortez Williams.” I make the introduction. “Leticia Kind.”

  “Detective Williams.” She shakes a dishcloth at him, telling him to take a seat. She ogles his behind as he walks by. “My, my, aren’t you a healthy boy?”

  I almost start laughing but bite my lip to keep it inside.

  “I’ve never seen you here before,” she says to Cortez.

  “I’m a homicide detective.”

  “Homicide? What do you mean? That Jenny girl was killed?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Kind,” I say.

  “Oh my, oh my. How did it happen?”

  “She was found shot in Chinatown.”

  “Well, it’s probably one of those Chinese gang shootings.”

  “No, it doesn’t seem to be that,” I say.

  “Were people bothered by Ms. Nguyen?” Cortez asks.

  “You mean bothered enough to kill her?” Mrs. Kind goes to check on her pot on the stove. She stirs the contents with a wooden spoon and turns back to Cortez.

  “No, no, I would say not.”

  “But she knew about the illegal sublet. What if she reported it to the authorities?”

  “Well, that would cause trouble with the manager and Stella, that’s for sure. But I don’t think that little girl was really going to do that.”

  “What makes you say that?” I am curious why Mrs. Kind would come to that conclusion.

  “She seemed like a kind of person who just wanted to get her business done. You know, clock in and clock out. Collect her pa
ycheck. She didn’t seem like one of those do-gooders who want to save the world. Not like those youngsters at the tutoring center, like your friend there.”

  I am fascinated by Mrs. Kind’s assessment of Jenny’s character. Judging from Cortez’s face, he is, too.

  “She was definitely singular minded. I just remember her saying to Stella, ‘You do what you have to do to survive and I do, too. I don’t care what rules you break. Just help me do my job and we won’t have any problems.’ I thought that was mighty bold of that little girl. She was determined.” Then Mrs. Kind adds another attribute. “Deep down inside, that girl was angry. I know anger, and I saw it in her.”

  I exchange glances with Cortez. What was Jenny so angry about?

  “Maybe we’ll stop by Stella Ramos’s apartments,” I say.

  “They won’t open the door to you,” Mrs. Kind informs us. “They’ve been told not to.”

  We go to the Ramoses’ units anyway; one is upstairs from the other. Mrs. Kind is right. No one opens either door. The downstairs unit has wood covering the barred windows. I figure that’s the one being rented out to fifty people.

  “How can they live like that?” I wonder out loud.

  “The alternatives must be way worse.”

  We cross a patch of dirt that probably was designed as a lawn. Weeds don’t even seem able to grow there. All I see are cigarette butts and blunt wrappers, as well as some syringes mixed in with old, scattered receipts.

  Before we make it halfway, a woman wearing a red sweater stops us. She has dark circles underneath her deep-set brown eyes. “Why are you still here? I don’t want you harassing my tenants,” she says to Cortez. I’m barely an afterthought.

  I quickly figure out that this must be the manager, Marta Jiminez. Unlike Mrs. Kind, Cortez cannot work his charm on this woman. She, in fact, seems utterly uncharmed by him.

  “We’re not harassing anyone.” Cortez raises his voice about an octave. “But I do have a follow-up question for you. We just heard that there was a recent incident between Jenny Nguyen and Stella Ramos. Do you recall what happened?”

  “It wasn’t an ‘incident’ or whatever you call it. That census girl was badgering my tenant. Mrs. Ramos didn’t want to answer her questions, and I told her that she didn’t have to.”

  “We’ll need Mrs. Ramos’s phone number.”

  At that, the manager smiles, revealing a chipped front tooth. “I’m afraid she can’t be reached right now. She is out of the country.”

  • • •

  “Is it always this frustrating?” I ask Cortez as we step out the gates of the projects.

  “Sometimes it’s easy, like all the pieces of puzzles are right in front of you,” he says. “Just a matter of getting people to talk. But in these neighborhoods, it can be tough. They don’t trust us.”

  Benjamin and his sister would contend that they have good reason not to.

  Speaking of Benjamin, I see that the door of his tutoring center, located directly outside the gates of the projects, is open.

  Cortez is checking his phone, and I tell him that I want to touch base with some college friends who work at the center. He says sure, he has some calls to return anyway, and tells me he’ll be waiting in the car.

  Once I reach the doorway, I look for Benjamin’s lanky frame, but I’m instead greeted by the statuesque figure of Kari Colbert. Instead of those long boots, today she’s wearing short ones that accentuate her shapely calves. I look down at mine. No contest. Miss Boots, winner!

  “Hi. Kari, right?” I say.

  “Oh yeah. Ellie. Is something going on here?” Miss Boots looks down the street, perhaps expecting to see some kind of criminal disturbance.

  “No. We’re following up on a homicide.” I love how that sounds. I’m even impressing myself.

  “A homicide? Here?”

  “No, it involves a PPW student named Jenny Nguyen. She came here regularly last year to do some survey work.”

  Kari shakes her head. “Don’t know her. I just started interning here in January.”

  Benjamin appears and stands next to Kari. They look like the perfect PPW couple. Put a crown and tiara on them and call it a day.

  “Hey,” he says to me, a little more tentatively than usual.

  “Hey.”

  He shoves a hand in his pocket. “What’s up?”

  “Police business.” I’ve always wanted to say that. “We’re looking into Jenny. Can I speak to you alone?”

  Miss Boots’ forehead creases. When she frowns, her face becomes a bit pinched, making her look like a bird. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me feel.

  “There’s really nowhere private,” Benjamin says. He doesn’t want to be alone with me.

  “Then maybe outside.”

  “I’ll be right back,” he grudgingly tells Kari before walking out with me. Cortez is still on the phone but takes notice of us.

  “Tuan Le didn’t kill Jenny Nguyen,” I say to Benjamin.

  “So you and my sister say.”

  “No, he has an alibi. Someone planted that gun in the gallery.”

  “So he says.” Why does Benjamin have it out for Tuan? I don’t get it.

  “We’re investigating other possibilities.”

  “Like?”

  “Jenny’s work here.”

  “I told you, people didn’t like her asking so many questions.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “Mrs. Kind tells me that Jenny was filled with anger.”

  Benjamin flinches, like I’m waving an open flame in front of him. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I’d ask you. I also wanted to know if you’ve seen Ramon around.”

  Benjamin shakes his head. “After that last truancy citation you issued, it seems like he’s disappeared. He might’ve gone to Mexico with his aunt.”

  “Benjamin,” Miss Boots nags from the doorway. “Come inside, we have a lot of kids today.”

  I narrow my eyes. If there’s anything Benjamin can’t stand, it’s nagging.

  But to my surprise, his feet move toward the tutoring center. “I gotta go,” he says.

  Okay, I think. I get it. My ex-boyfriend is definitely whipped by his new woman.

  SIXTEEN

  SECOND STREET

  “That’s just bullshit,” I hear Nay say as I walk into Osaka’s, craving a butter salt ramen, the greasier the better.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  Nay is standing in front of Benjamin and Rickie, her eyes flashing. “Benjamin’s new girlfriend is barring him from hanging out with us anymore,” she snorts. “She’s breaking up the Fearsome Foursome.” I hadn’t heard that silly nickname for our little group since freshman year.

  Benjamin’s hands are stuffed in his jacket. He looks sheepishly down at the table.

  “Why?” I ask. I notice Nay exchanging glances with Rickie. “Is it because of me?”

  “Well, you have to admit that you are an intimidating force,” Rickie says. “Most of the time, you’re walking around with a gun and a club.”

  Nay jabs Rickie in the stomach to make him shut up.

  “That’s just silly,” I say. “What’s she so afraid of?”

  “You make her feel uncomfortable. Or maybe I should say our relationship makes her feel uncomfortable.”

  “What are you saying? That we can’t talk to each other anymore?”

  Benjamin keeps his mouth open, as if he is just realizing what this all means.

  Nay waves her hands in the air. “It’s just stupid. Doesn’t she realize that she has nothing to worry about? Ellie has a new hunk in her life, a very yummy gummy bear.”

  “What?” Rickie asks, his interest piqued. “Who?”

  Benjamin looks at me, shocked.

  “It’s nothing,” I say.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Then I wouldn’t feel so bad,” Benjamin says.

  Something in his response feels suspicious. “Why would you feel bad, Benjamin? What did you
do?”

  “Don’t do that, Ellie, try to twist my words against me.”

  “No, no, I’m just wondering. Because Rickie says that you were the one who was leading the search for Jenny. Not him. Not Susana. Not Tuan. I find that very interesting. Like why? You never mentioned her before. And now you’re playing Superman? That’s not you, Benjamin.”

  Customers lift their faces from steaming ramen bowls. No one seems annoyed by our heated exchange, though, just curious, like we are staging an impromptu play to entertain them.

  Benjamin glares at Rickie. “What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing, man. I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

  I glare at Rickie, then turn back to Benjamin. “You know what? You can tell your girlfriend that she shouldn’t worry about you coming to Osaka’s anymore because I absolutely won’t be here. Take care,” I tell him, “because I won’t be seeing you anymore.”

  Nay chases after me as I storm out of the ramen shop. “Too over-the-top?” I ask, feeling a little foolish.

  “A little,” she replies. “Osaka’s has the best ramen around. Now where are you going to go?”

  I tell Nay not to worry and to return to the group at Osaka’s; I won’t view her as a traitor. On the other hand, I’m still craving that butter salt ramen, so I end up at Nanda Ramen, around the corner. It’s a discount place that attracts Japanese foreign students who thumb through dog-eared and grease-splattered manga books while they slurp their noodles. I am thigh-sandwiched at a counter between two Japanese men who show no interest in me, which is good. Sometimes the best place to be alone is in a crowd.

  As I dunk a square of butter into my ramen broth with my chopsticks, I think back to the e-mails that Rickie received. One of them was from Missy Kim, an activist who runs her own independent consulting firm. She had spoken about electoral politics in my Asian American studies class, but I’d had little interest in ballot measures or political candidates. No matter who wins an election, it always seems like more of the same, especially in my line of work.