A Quiet Neighbor (13 page)

Chapter
Nine:

Flashback
to:

Wednesday,
August 20, 1975

1:35
P.M.

Young Neil Wilcox:

It was nearing the end of summer when I first
met Elizabeth. The August sun scorched Ocean Beach in a bright glare. All the
kids ran onto the sand, each with their goggles strapped to their head, beach
towel hoisted under one arm, wearing a baggy old shirt over a colorful
swimsuit. Those who ran barefoot ran faster than the others, jumping into the
waves to relieve their sun-scorched feet. A group of mothers wearing light
summer dresses sipped iced tea under oversized umbrellas and chatted nonstop
about their children, the other mothers, and their husbands. There was always a
lot of town gossip to keep the women gabbing for hours. No one was watching the
children, but back in the seventies, safety meant being obedient and making
sure you weren’t on the wrong side of the belt. No one worried about pedophiles
or child-snatchers out in broad daylight.

I was the scrawny kid wearing my older
brother’s hand-me-down swim trunks. The hem was torn but I patched it up using
my mother’s needle and thread. I didn’t care that the trunks were two sizes too
big or that the thread was pink when the swim trunks were navy blue. All I
cared about was that it once belonged to my brother. Johnny wasn’t at the beach
that hot summer day, splashing water and hitting on all the pretty girls squeamish
about getting wet. Johnny was somewhere far away.

Johnny was five years older, my parent’s first
mistake (me being the second). Johnny ran away last summer. He was eighteen so
everyone assumed he enlisted and was doing something right for a change. The
cops couldn’t do anything or chose not to, and my parents sure weren’t going to
try to bring him back. They were more relieved than anything else; one less
mouth to feed. All they hoped was that Johnny didn’t make trouble and have the
cops dragging him home in cuffs.

“Think he could do better? Let him. Maybe the
Army could do something with a kid like that,” my dad, Bobby Wilcox said the
following morning when they found Johnny’s bed empty. I didn’t cry that day or
the following, but I did pray that Johnny would come back and take me away with
him. I was too afraid to go out alone.

Our dad, Bobby, was a truck driver who was gone
for months at a time. He smelled like beer, cigarettes, cheap cologne, and
cheaper perfume. Our mom, Cherie, was a waitress at a nearby diner in the
mornings and in the evenings she took on other odd jobs that left us alone and
deserted.

Bobby tended to smack us boys around whenever
he returned home from a trip. He always stopped by a bar on the way home, his
breath was hot and sour and his drunken hand was as deadly as a caged animal
once released.

Cherie generally wasn’t around to witness the
abuse; often she was gone in the head. Although on her good days, she’d tend to
my bumps and bruises. The days when she’d return home late from work, she’d act
surprised each time she saw my reddened neck, scraped knees, or bloodied face.
She would shake her head while dabbing Mercurochrome onto my forehead or
holding ice against my ribs, making that
tsk
sound. She had this faraway
look on her face while telling me not to play so rough with my friends next time.
She spoke to me in a haunted whisper, soft enough so Bobby couldn’t hear, just
in case he was still conscious. I think she thought doing so would absolve her
of the same fate. I know my mom feared Bobby too.

When Johnny was around, the beatings were
bearable. Johnny always tried his best to bear most of the attacks—the first
few were always the worst—and I did my best to make my brother proud by
quenching my screams. Johnny never cried out, so I tried really hard to make
him proud by not acting like a sissy too. But when Johnny left, Bobby’s anger
escalated and I became my dad’s personal punching bag. I never thought to take
a self-defense class or learn how to fight back—not then, anyway.

Luckily we lived in a one story so I could jump
out the bedroom window when I heard Bobby slam the front door; the few scrapes
I got from the prickly bush and rocky landing were a hell of a lot better than
what I would end up with if I stayed.

After all these years, Johnny never came to get
me. No call, no letter, no visit. From time to time I would think of him and
hope he made it. Maybe it was better that he never came to save me, because if
he had I would never have met and saved Elizabeth.

I saw her that day on the beach. She was
wearing a long-sleeved thermal with a Strawberry Shortcake design and long
sweatpants. I remembered, because her outfit was so odd for the scorching
August heat.

She was by the stone wall and crusty shower
stall, hiding. Her brown hair was tangled and greasy, covering part of her
face. She was weathering the snickers and snide remarks thrown her way. Nearby
girls and boys pointed their fingers at her and started chortling, yelling
names like “stinko,” “weirdo,” and “dummy.”

Transfixed, I continued to stare. She stood
motionless. Immune to their nasty comments and finger pointing, she raised her
chin a fraction and gave them a steely stare. Once she started chanting
incomprehensible words, the children left her alone in search for a safer
activity to pursue. They feared she might be psychotic or have an untreatable
disease.

No tears welled up in those large haunting
vessels. No words escaped her purple lips. But when her eyes drifted to mine,
there was a spark that thrummed my heart. I felt her pain, her silent scream
for help, her unspeakable wish for a friend. It was then that I fell in love.

She was my first and only.

Chapter
Ten:

Friday,
June 8, 2012

8:00
A.M.

Detective Kylie Kang:

It is important that I meet Leila at Tazza d’Oro,
a coffee shop a block from my apartment. Normally, I would prefer to see the
victim on their turf; breathing in the same air the victim breathed, seeing the
same sights the victim saw before the final moments when his or her life was
drastically cut short. The desire to catch the bastard that ended a life
intensifies at the sight of medium-velocity spatter, yellow evidence markers,
and other hallmarks of a murder scene.

Being at the primary scene always heightens my
senses when solving a murder. Most detectives are strongly advised against
personal attachment to the victim and the case, but I get my mojo from it.
Making the crime personal is my weapon of choice. But this is different.

This time it
is
personal.

A murder case,
that
I can handle. Lead
detective, that’s me. But this time I feel like the victim, my dignity dismembered
and my reputation charred. This time I am vulnerable and I desperately need to
be on my turf. I can’t give Leila the upper hand; not this time.

Arriving an hour early, I wait for the front
corner table to become available. The position has a clear view of the door and
is tucked between a lush green ficus tree and the newspaper vending machines.
This table gives me the strategic advantage to see Leila coming in before Leila
spots me. Not being caught unawares is key to maintaining composure and keeping
the upper hand. I also like that there are no adjoining booths or tables,
making it harder for would-be eavesdroppers. There’s always someone wanting to
stick their nose in where it doesn’t belong. I am not sure what is going to
come out of this meeting, but whatever it is, I want damage controls in place.

Oh good
, the man hogging the table
looks to be on the last page of the Tribune and has already finished his coffee
and pastry. The coffee shop is packed so I sidle up next to the man and get into
position for the takeover. A musky-woody scent hangs in the air. Apparently no
one told him that a little goes a long way.

Grunting and clearing his throat, he rattles
his paper a bit, overemphasizing his dislike of my intrusion on his personal
space. I hold my ground. If he wants me to move than he needs to say it in
words. I can’t stand passive-aggressive people. Uncomfortable, he fidgets with
the trash on the table, gets fed up, folds up his newspaper and heads for the
door.

By leaving his trash in a scattered mound on
the table, he is giving me the middle finger. He is one of those passive-aggressive
introverts that fights battles in his own cloistered, conniving way.
Bastard.
Got you out of your seat sooner, didn’t I?
Wishing I had my gloves, I pick
up the paper cup as if it is contaminated or part of a crime scene—saliva dries
at the lip and a sticky, sugary substance coats the sides—and toss it into the
trash. Taking wads of discount-thin napkins from the dispenser, I dip them into
my water cup and vigorously wipe the table clean of the man’s filthy message.
Got
it, loud and clear.

After getting one of the baristas to replace my
cup of water, I place my bag on the table and walk to the front of the line.
Bitter stares dig into my back like knives.
Sorry guys, I know this is a
jerk move, but please excuse me this one time. I need this.
I flip open the
flap of my jacket, exposing my badge and Glock in one seamless move, and the
stares retract immediately. I always feel a twinge of guilt when I use my
position for personal benefit, but a cop should be entitled to a few perks,
shouldn’t we?

I feel at home inside the warm coffee shop with
its distressed floors and bold décor. Retro reds, purple and dark gray showcase
International portraits that line the walls. An eclectic mix of plush,
conversational seating scatters the room while a vinyl-cushioned bench seat lines
the far wall. Everyone that works here knows me as
the detective with the
intense eyes
. They grant me the privacy and space I need.

By the time I finish paying at the register, my
large extra-hot Americano (no room for cream) and honey-wheat bagel, toasted
with a thin spread of butter is waiting for me. As with my social life, my
breakfast order is predictable and drab. Nibbling on the bagel, I ponder over
the message Leila left me.

Leila, now older, has finally dropped the annoying
baby voice she used to keep in her back pocket for whenever she wanted
something. She also sounded a bit rushed and hesitant. I already knew she is
married; most likely her husband has been approved by her father, which means
he has money and status. Don’t money and power usually solve everything? So,
why did Leila insist on help from an old friend, who isn’t really a friend,
considering, especially if the problem deals with Brett? Was Brett murdered?
Was that it? No, Leila would be bawling her eyes out if that were the
case…wouldn’t she?

We haven’t spoken or seen each other in
seventeen years. Why call now? Leila’s reluctance to explain the situation over
the phone makes me wary. All I know for certain is that whatever the favor is,
it isn’t something I would have jumped at over the phone.

From across the street, I see an elegant lady
dressed in a slimming, wraparound floral dress and nude pumps strolling toward
the café. She glides in through the swinging door as two men on their way out
both wrangle to hold it open for her, grinning dumbly. Pausing, with her head
held high, she scans the room. She frowns slightly and moves effortlessly to
the bar, motioning for one of the handful of employees sporting fitted black
t-shirts screened with the coffee shop’s logo (a steaming ceramic cup filled
with what you would guess to be a cappuccino).

Peering from my corner table, I observe the
young lady with keen interest. Her fair blond hair—most likely touched up
monthly to keep the natural appearance of exuberant youth—is intricately
braided and set into a neat bun. Wisps of hair frame her small ivory face and her
deep-set blue eyes squint under a thick fan of lashes. Her painted coral lips
twist into a frown as she tries describing the person she is scheduled to meet
in five minutes. I wish I could hear what she is saying.

I knew it was Leila the minute she glided
through the door. Leila has aged gracefully, which shouldn’t have been a
surprise. What gets to me is the fact that I am disappointed. A part of me
secretly wanted Leila to show up fat, with a face full of pimples, limp hair,
wrinkles, and perhaps sporting an awkward limp.

Leila is still as perfect as I remember and I
suddenly feel eleven again.

Let’s get this over with. Come on Ky, you can
do it. Buck up!

I force myself to stand and wave a hand.
Leila’s eyes widen in surprise before fixing back to neutral. Her glossy lips
curve into a slight smile. I watch as Leila thanks the boy with the ridiculous grin
behind the counter and moves in regal strides toward me.

Timidly, Leila stands across from me. Her face
flushes slightly. “My…it’s been a long time. Hasn’t it? I almost didn’t even
recognize you. You look fantastic, Ky.”

“You look great too, Leila.” I gesture for
Leila to sit in the bench seat across from me. I give her a couple points for
not wiping the seat first.

The boy with the ridiculous grin stumbles over
his untied shoes to get Leila’s order. She smiles, courteously, and says, “I’ll
have a cup of lemon tea. Thank you.” He blushes and scurries away, probably hoping
that expedient and attentive service will grant him another smile.

Scrutinizing my long lost friend, I say mildly,
“I see some things still haven’t changed.”

Leila giggles nervously. She daintily props her
left hand on the table—her nails properly manicured—exposing a glittering stone
as large as a dime. “I’m married.”

“Yeah. I’m not blind, although now I might be.”
I can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy.
Of course Leila would be married
first.
I take a punitive bite of my bagel, which is golden and gleaming
with the sheen of melted butter.

“Kids?”

“Oh, no…” Leila sniffs and sighs. “I can’t.”

“Oh. Uh, sorry.” Tension mounts heavy between
us.
Shit, wrong topic.
Kids are usually a great icebreaker. Just like it
wasn’t a surprise she was married, I assumed she’d have a Brady Bunch family.

“Never mind that.” Dabbing at moist eyes, Leila
strains for composure. “So, how are you doing?”

“Good.” I shrug. “I’m a homicide detective for
the SDPD. Single. No kids. But I’m guessing you know that by now, given the
call.”

Leila nods politely. “Yes, well, I had to have
Art—my husband, Arthur Grimwald the Third—look you up. Guess you’re wondering
about why I asked for us to meet,” she says, keeping her tone reserved.

I give an impatient nod as the boy with the
ridiculous grin sets the small ceramic cup and an extra pot of hot water onto
the glass tabletop. Leila lifts her head and smiles. With a fixed grin, he
walks in a daze back to his station. He probably already took a sly photo of
her with his iPhone and would soon hurry out back to tweet her picture to all
his friends and followers.

I clear my throat, getting us back on track.
“The thought had crossed my mind.”

Cradling the teacup in her hands, caressing the
rim, Leila hesitates before looking up. “Ky, I need your help.” Leila’s gaze is
steady, her voice low. “You see, I don’t know where Brett is and I want you to
find him for me.”

An acorn-sized knot forms in the back of my
throat. I cannot believe his name still brings a pang to my system. Taking a
sip of my now lukewarm Americano I will my body to relax and hope my voice is
steady enough to respond. It is. “I don’t understand. For one thing, isn’t
Brett like, I don’t know, thirty-four by now?”

Leila gives a defeated sigh and nods.

“Second, I’m a homicide detective, not a search
party. So why—”

“Long story short, Daddy disowned Brett shortly
after the…the incident…and Brett stormed out. He just left and Daddy let him. I
thought he’d at least contact me, at least he did in the beginning, but he
stopped right before I announced my engagement on Facebook. He must have seen
it, but he didn’t call, send a card, or visit. He just vanished. I’m worried
about him. And Art, he’s a big time criminal defense attorney in Irvine, but even
with his connections I was only able to track Brett to some club downtown. I
guess he was a bartender there, but he stopped working a little over six years
ago and is no longer listed in the directory. So you see, I thought that since
you worked here, that you could help. I need your help, Ky. Please, help me?”

“You’re telling me Brett’s been working here?
In downtown San Diego? What club?”

She shrugs. “Some upscale club called the
Onyx.”

He’s been here this entire time?
I
idiotically feel my heart race at the idea that I have been so close to seeing
him again. I am acting like a teenybopper going crazy for Justin Bieber.

Fumbling with my half-eaten bagel—now separated
into bite sized pieces and smeared with butter and crumbs—I rehash the painful
past with a slight shudder. Embarrassed and unsure of how this request will pan
out for all parties involved, I sit up and look into my once best friend’s
weary eyes.

Relenting to the memory of the blood-oath that
binds me to the elegant lady sitting before me, I suck in a deep breath. “Okay,
I’ll see what I can find out.”

Leila lifts her head. Surprisingly stunned and
filled with gratitude, she exposes her vulnerable, wet eyes—water pooling over
thick darkened lashes, as she must have also remembered the oath—and whispers,
“Thank you.”

I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable.

Rising from her seat, Leila slings her designer
purse over her bare shoulder and hesitates. Turning, she says, “For what it’s
worth, I’m sorry, Ky.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

I meet Leila’s saddened smile with one of my
own. The smile seems to weigh a thousand pounds and hangs in the lively café
like a pile of used coffee grounds, wet and useless. How many times did Leila
cross my mind? Too many to count. How many times did I visualize our first
meeting and the apology I’d deliver? Also too many, always ending the same,
with the final goodbye to our childhood friendship.

Watching Leila leave, I know that once Brett is
found, our ties will sever and we will graciously part ways forever. This
momentary truce cannot last as we are no longer the same two naïve kids in that
tree house, joining our blood and vowing to be sisters.

The reality is that I no longer know anything
about Leila Grimwald and Leila doesn’t know anything about Detective Kylie
Kang. The oath and blood we exchanged on that bright spring day within the
secrecy of the wooden tree house is only a fond memory, faded over time, and will
eventually vanish completely.