Authors: Harper Kim
Brushing the damp hair off her face, I said,
“You’re safe now. You’re safe. Safe. You’re safe.”
Her face was wet with streaks of mean tears, a
purplish bruise started to appear on her bare shoulders, and her clothes were
ripped and disarrayed like her hair. She burst into a fit of noisy sobs.
“Shhhh. Shhhhh. It’s okay. Everything will be
okay. He can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe.” I held her tighter until the
sobs became strained from the pressure. Once her sobs mellowed, I reached for a
new shirt and dressed her.
“Is he dead?” She turned and pressed her face
in my chest. How many times did she wish her father dead? How many times did
she hope this would be the last time? I hoped she’d be able to look at this day
with relief and not grief. A part of me worried that she’d feel regret and distance
herself from me.
Without looking at the motionless body below my
feet, I continued to stroke her hair. She wasn’t the only one in the room who
was scared. “Elizabeth, I think we should call the police.”
Chapter
Fourteen:
Tuesday,
June 26, 2012
3:24
P.M.
Detective Kylie Kang:
When the Lieutenant notified me of Michael’s
willingness to talk without representation I had a hard time rubbing the stupid
grin off my face. Maybe I just caught a lucky break. I know I’ll have to keep
the questions direct and quick before his parents get wind of the impromptu
meeting.
When I step into the station, Michael Cobb is
already squirming in a metal seat with no scrap of cushion to protect his
pricey bum from the cold steel. Nervously he runs his fingers through his
coiffed nest of brown hair. His hair is a bit long, allowing the ends to curl.
Part of the growing up, pre-college-man-style, no doubt. A UCLA Bruins ball cap
rests on the seat beside him. He seems a little on the lean side.
The kid is on summer break, should be at the
beach surfing or playing sports with friends. This should be the best time of
his life, the in-between time where he is still a kid yet about to be an adult.
He shouldn’t have to deal with death so soon.
The kid has a whole new future ahead of him and
he doesn’t even know it yet. He’ll attend UCLA, probably forget all about Loral
Holmes, dive into his classes, probably join a frat, meet a new girl, and bulk
up. They don’t call it the freshman-fifteen for nothing.
Of course I was never cursed with the
freshman-fifteen; that was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Training to become a cop
kept me in line: early to bed, early to rise, hit the gym while most were still
in bed nursing a hangover. But lawyers? If I remember the stories correctly,
kids attending UCLA who were studying pre-law invested long hours in Greek
Life: hazing, party planning, partying, getting wasted, nursing hangovers.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
The buzz around campus was that the craziest
parties were always thrown by pre-law students because they could circumvent
and neuter the campus police with legal minutiae. For example, one party was
thrown on a 150-foot yacht they towed onto campus and parked legally (with all
the right permits) in front of the campus residence of the Chancellor. The
party raged on, and whenever the campus police arrived everyone would pile
inside the boat, kill the music, and hunker down. The mastermind of the party
would approach the police with valid long-term parking permits from the City of
Los Angeles and UCLA Parking Administration, and would inform the officer that
their jurisdiction did not apply to maritime craft and they certainly did not
have permission or legal grounds to board (whether or not this was actually
true, it worked like a charm). Baffled student rent-a-cops leave, party on.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Sure, Michael has a lot to look forward to, but
for now he looks genuinely miserable.
Motioning to Malone that I arrived and am fully
revved to question Michael, I take a deep breath and cross the room in a few
quick strides to my desk. It is the only desk in the room free of clutter and
excess cables and wires. The station-issued plain oak desk holds a dated Dell
PC, phone, lamp, folders, pens, jumbo-sized Purell bottle, and tissue. Besides
the desk lamp, the only other personal item is a photo of
Halmoni
and
Gramps, taken a year after I came to live with them.
When Michael hears the clack of my boot heels,
he turns and nervously stands from his seat. Manners; the boy has manners, I’ll
give him that.
“Hi Detective. I—I’m here about Loral’s case.”
I nod and extend a hand. He shakes it and sits
back down. His hand is cold and clammy, his brow is dotted with beads of sweat.
Either he is nervous about what he’s about to reveal or about the scolding he’s
going to get from his parents when they find out about this informal meeting.
Assuming the latter, I start by saying, “So
Michael, I’m guessing your parents don’t know that you are here.”
He nods, nervously.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell if you don’t.”
His shoulders dip slightly, relieved. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me quite yet. First tell me why it
is you’re here.” Practice keeps my eyes sharp and steady. I had to learn how to
observe every move, gesture, change in tone, posture, and flicker of the eyes.
I am a cop, through and through.
“I know I should have talked to you sooner,
but…my parents…they, well they thought differently. I want to help. Really I
do. They just don’t understand. I want you to know that I love—I mean loved
Loral. I gave her my class ring and asked that she wear it around her
neck…because it’s too big to fit around her fingers. She had lovely, delicate
fingers. I even bought her a gold chain and everything. Anyways, I’m rambling.
I know I’m rambling. Sorry, my dad says I need to work on that if I want to
become a great lawyer.”
“No, it’s fine. Continue.”
“Oh right, well, she said she’d wear it and she
did wear it, at least whenever I saw her…doesn’t that mean she loves me too…I
mean did? She did love me…” He looks up at me, eyes wide and filled with teen
angst. There is pain and pleading hope in his rhetorical question. Loral was
still very much alive in his heart. He came here for closure. He slumps in his
chair and his voice softens. “I keep dreaming about her. Seeing her face…she
was so beautiful—”
“Go back to the class ring. You said you gave
her your class ring and she wore it around her neck?”
Mike’s moist eyes clear and regain focus.
“Yeah,” he shrugs, “on the gold chain I bought her. I gave it to her during Winter
Break last year so she knew I loved her. I heard somewhere that women need
reassurance. I didn’t want her to worry about that. I wanted her to know. I
also heard that women like gifts, demand them. I couldn’t wait to give it to
her. I don’t think she knew what to make of it, but she never took it off.”
I lean forward, my heart thudding beneath my
chest. “Was she wearing your ring that night?”
He nods.
“You’re positive.”
“Yes,” he straightens his posture, “I always
looked out for it. I was nervous she wouldn’t wear it one day so I always
checked. But why are you asking me if I’m positive? Didn’t she have it on when
you—,” he licks his lips, suddenly dry, “when you found her?”
“No. There was no jewelry found on or near the
body.”
Mike gulps and licks his lips again. “What does
that mean?”
I motion to Sean Pickering—my partner since the
day I was hired on the force—to bring the kid a cup of water before he passes
out. Begrudgingly, Pickering pushes back from his swivel chair and gets up,
exhaling the word “fuck” as he stands (it sounds more like an Arabic whisper: “
faaaaaaakh
”).
Pickering is a short beefy guy at five-six and
a solid one-eighty. He claims to be all muscle, but I’m sure there was a little
jiggle going on in his midsection the last time I saw him playing for the
“skins” on the b-ball half-court in our gym. Also, the way that guy can inhale
two quarter-pounders would make anyone second guess his “all-beef” proclamation.
At thirty-nine, his black hair is receding
before the gray can set in, accentuating his reddened round face and beady
charcoal eyes. Those deadpan eyes can make your skin crawl. He’s a great cop,
loving husband, and father of two rowdy sons and one angel of a daughter. I’m
lucky to have a partner as dedicated, tender, and headstrong as Sean Pickering.
But today, he’s pissed that the kid only wants to speak to me while he is stuck
behind the desk with a shit-load of paperwork. Tomorrow I’ll bring him an apple
fritter as a peace offering, but right now, I have to focus on the kid’s story.
Ignoring Pickering’s testy body language I take
the paper cup from his thick hands and hand it to Michael.
Michael gulps down the cool water and wipes his
mouth with the back of his hand. He returns to hunching in his seat, and fixates
on crumpling, folding, and unfolding the paper cup. The cup’s wax coating begins
to fall in tiny flakes onto the floor. The conversation is wearing on him fast.
He looks defeated and uncertain. In my mind I plead with him to hang in a
little longer. I need more answers, because right now all I am getting is more
questions.
“Michael, look at me. Mike?” He lifts his head
and blinks a few times. “I’m not sure what that means, but I can promise you
that I’m going to find out.” He nods. “Okay, so after this meeting is over I’m
going to have you describe the ring and necklace to a sketch artist. Can you do
that for me?”
He nods, again. “Yeah, I can do that.”
I ease back into my chair and offer a smile.
“Good.”
“You know,” he says wearily, “I wanted to marry
her and have a family with her. I even suggested she live off-campus with me
and that I’d support her.”
“And what did she say to that?”
His blue eyes, once bright and cheerful, remain
dull and lifeless. He shakes his head, “She said no, but I know she didn’t want
to stay with her parents…she was just too stubborn to follow me. I think she
was afraid.”
“Why would she be afraid?”
He shrugs. “She was a hard person to love. I
think she was afraid of being vulnerable…of loving me back. She was so
independent. Always trying to protect herself. Sometimes I’d wish she’d break
down all her barriers and ask for my help. I wanted her to trust me enough to
lean on and confide in. Plus, my mom sort of hated her.”
I nod, understanding. Vivien fits the profile
of an uptight suburban housewife who cares more about her position in society
and how she is viewed by her cadre of high-powered friends than about what her
son really needs from his mother. In Vivien’s warped mind, Loral was dragging
her son into a sinkhole which would in turn smudge her polished persona.
“But why didn’t Loral want to stay with her
parents? Was Loral afraid of them?”
“Oh no,” his eyes widen, frightened he might
have said something he shouldn’t have, and then the moment passes. He sighs. “I
dunno.” Shrugging his shoulders he adds, “I guess it’s just that she didn’t
feel comfortable there. She didn’t talk about it much, but I could sense it.
She had issues with her stepdad, but I’m not sure what. He seemed like a pretty
cool guy to me, but then again, I haven’t seen him much. And then there’s her
mom. I think her mom was having an affair. I don’t know for certain, but there
were stories going around, not that I listen to gossip or anything, but near
the—near the end…Loral felt distressed and not like herself. I think it had to
do with her mother staying out late, dressed…well, dressed in a way that my
mother wouldn’t approve of.” Mike looks down, quickly trying to hide the blush
that infuses his cheeks.
I am already aware that Tess has a lover. But
it is interesting to note that Loral didn’t confide in her boyfriend about the
affair. Michael was obviously in love with her, enough to think about long term
commitments, and yet it seemed the feelings weren’t mutual. Was Loral too embarrassed
about her family to confide in her boyfriend? Whatever the reason, Michael
didn’t hold much of an importance in Loral’s personal life, at least not when
it came to sharing family secrets.
“Any names attached to those stories?”
Michael hangs his head as if in defeat, and
slowly moves it side to side.
My mood turns sour. Michael is turning out to
be of little value to the investigation.
“Okay. So there was trouble at home,” My voice
takes on an edge of exasperation, “but what was your fight about? If she didn’t
talk to you about her family problems then the fight couldn’t have been about
her mom and stepdad, am I right?”
He scratches his head, and blushes again. “All
I wanted was the best for her and I believed in her even when she didn’t.”
Lifting his head, his blue eyes lighten slightly. “It worked you know. I wasn’t
the only one who believed in her.”
“What worked?”
Reaching into his back pocket, he unfolds a
torn piece of notebook paper.
“I tore a page from her notebook one day when
she wasn’t aware and sent it in to collages that emphasize literature.”
Empty vessel, sinking deep…