A Quiet Neighbor (22 page)

Eve smiled wryly. “Suit yourself. I’ll be sure
to remind you again about the importance of sunblock and foundation once the
case is over. Just remember, there’s
always
another case, but you only
have
one
face.” Eve quickly turned back to find a crime scene tech to
bag the body before I could retort.

Eve’s dedication, discerning insight, and
borderline-OCD tendencies might explain why we quickly became friends, but it
was Eve’s mothering spirit and keen sense of judgment as to when to pry and
when not to that had cemented our friendship.

Motioning to Pickering, I moved along the taped
path back to the side of the service road. Pickering turned and followed, still
mumbling about that second cup of coffee.

I crouched to scan the dirt garden path and the
asphalt walk leading up to it. “All the footprints have been smudged, possibly
by the body when the UNSUB dragged it over. But why would he go through all the
trouble to kill her, drag her a few feet away, leave her in the prettiest location,
carefully position her and close her eyes, and cover her in a blanket? It
doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re jumping way ahead in assuming this is
the primary, kid. But no, it doesn’t.” Pickering looked up at the sound of his
name in the distance. A uniform was coming out of the school’s brick building,
motioning him to come over. “I’ll be right back.”

I nodded and returned my attention to the dirt
walk. “What were you doing on school grounds? Were you meeting someone? Was it
an accident? Did you know the person? Did you see it coming? Did you feel
pain?” There were so many questions and not enough evidence to run with.

As the bagged body was being eased into the
ME’s van, Pickering came running (yup, there was definitely some extra pudge in
the midsection).

“Got an ID. Name is Holmes, Loral. Seventeen.
Graduating senior here at Patrick Henry. Graduated just last week. Lives a
couple blocks from here. Mom’s name is Holmes, Tess. Dad is an unknown but
stepdad is a Holmes, Brett.”

“You said stepdad is
Brett
Holmes?”

“Ky are you okay? You seem a little pale.”

No, it couldn’t be…could it?

“Uh Sean, do me a favor and check if that’s the
name he was born with.”

“Why? Do you know something you’re not telling
me?”

“Just do it. I’m going off of a hunch.
Specifically, check to see if he took the wife’s last name. Let’s go check out
the house.”

After checking the records, it turned out that
my “hunch” was right, and Holmes, Brett was indeed Ficks, Brett. The man from
my past, the man I was looking for, and the man whose stepdaughter was murdered
were all one in the same.
He’s been living in San Carlos this entire time?
Why is the universe so cruel?

Frustrated, I rise from the sofa, grab the
Windex and dust rag from under the sink and start wiping the windows. Years ago
Halmoni
joked that I had some deformed gene that made me a clean freak.
I took it as a complement back then, mainly because Gramps had always praised
me for keeping my room neat and tidy. But now I wonder if my need for order and
cleanliness springs from my obsessive need for control, to wipe away any and
all uncertainty.

As I wipe away the scant coating of dust accumulated
on the window panes from the past thirty or so hours, I feel the weight of the
day condense and crystalize into a ponderous, pervading precipitate. My muscles
ache and my skin is waxy with sweat, dirt, and grime. Behind the rag I swipe
frenetically to and fro across the squeaky-clean window, the reflection looking
back is of a worn, discouraged woman. Deeper still into the looking glass is a
scared, unwanted little girl.

In a grown woman there is no poison more potent
than discouragement; in a young girl there is no pain so deep as being
unwanted. And in both, the ego can protect or hinder, depending.

Flashbacks of when I was young, shy, and filled
with curiosity flood my mind. Mixed in is Brett’s aged yet handsome face,
confused and horrified with the news of his dead stepdaughter. Past and present
merge in my thoughts every time I close my eyes or make a feeble attempt to relax.

Ever since the first time I laid eyes on Brett,
I felt the pitter-patter of my heart. It was a secret crush, the innocent kind
that little girls have when a cute boy shares his cookies or tags her out on
the playground during a game of freeze tag. Not even Leila knew my secret. Not
even I knew its extent.

It was in the second grade when Leila and I
became inseparable. We shared a common interest making sand-cakes in the
playground during recess, and sometimes when Leila invited me over to play in
the tree house after school, Brett would be there in the yard with his friends
or inside, lounging on the couch watching a game.

He was thirteen at the time I first met him,
and he wasn’t like the other boys I knew at school. He was different, older,
sweeter, and very handsome. His blue eyes twinkled when he looked at me and he
was unbelievably nice. He never berated me about being an immature girl, about
being gawky or poor. And he always said “hi” and smiled when he saw me. I
misread the signs. My longing, burning a hole in my chest.

That day in the tree house, the day of the
blood-oath, when Leila asked me if I had any secrets, I wanted to tell her—scream
it—but I bit my tongue instead. I convinced myself that it wasn’t a good enough
secret to share. But truthfully, I was embarrassed and worried that if Leila
found out about my secret crush, our friendship would dissolve and we would no
longer be blood-sisters.

When I was seven, there was nothing I wanted
more than to be a part of Leila’s life. When I was seven, her friendship meant
more to me than my first love. What I didn’t realize at the time was that our
blood-sister days were already numbered.

I was young and easily susceptible to stories,
promises, and images, so the video Leila turned on during that warm spring
day—her secret—etched into my porous mind. At first the movie seemed boring,
poorly made, showing a young girl with dark hair and dark almond-shaped eyes
dressed in a red and black plaid skirt and white collared shirt that buttoned
all the way up. The girl was wearing her school uniform, or at least that’s
what it looked like to me.

Then the scene changed.

The way the girl moved made me blush, and when
the girl parted her mouth and legs, I felt a strange heat build down below. I
squirmed in my seat as if I had to pee, but I knew it couldn’t be that because
I had gone to the bathroom when I arrived. I was fascinated and couldn’t pry my
eyes away from the screen.

All too quickly an older man walked into the
scene. All he did was watch. He watched the girl undress. Her skin was white,
milky and shiny. The girl moved her hips and walked toward a large bed with red
rose petals strewn over the covers. She looked young, but her eyes were
all-knowing and old as if she’d seen and done many things that I could never
know. The girl slithered onto the bed and started playing with the petals and
then with herself. She was very creative. Watching made me embarrassed and
ashamed but I also remembered feeling a twinge of jealousy.

Before I could find out how the movie ended,
Leila shrieked and ejected the tape. Leila’s cheeks were also tinted pink.
“Gross! I can’t believe my brother. He’s so disgusting.” She rolled her eyes
and laughed. “Boys. I can’t believe they like things like this.”

The tape was never brought up again. The secret
was safely locked away in that tree house. I don’t remember what we ended up
doing after the video was cut short. I couldn’t get the pictures out of my head;
they were scored in my brain. All I thought about was:
Does Brett like that
kind of stuff? Is that the kind of girl he dreams about? What does the tape
mean to him?

My silly little crush escalated to obsession
sometime between my eleventh birthday and my twelfth. Realizing that Brett was
about to graduate high school and leave Walnut for good helped clarify my
feelings.

Ever since I experienced the first signs of
womanhood—getting my period and the beginnings of what I hoped would one day
blossom into large, luscious breasts (like the ones the girl in the video
sported)—my mom nagged me time and time again not to waste my potential
worrying about boys, and that there would be plenty of time for that in college
and beyond. After all, it was during college when people found love and got
married; not before. If Brett left Walnut before knowing my true feelings for
him, it would be too late. He’d find someone else; someone that wasn’t Kylie
Kang.

Pausing—the saturated rag crumpled in my fist,
the blue-tinted solution dripping streaks down the window and pooling on the
sill—I wonder what the hell I am doing. I have to snap out of it. I am allowing
the past to meddle with my present. I am no longer the confused seven-year-old
or the love-stricken eleven-year-old that looked to poorly filmed videos for answers
to life’s mysteries. I am a homicide detective who finds answers to those tough
questions and brings peace and closure to those alive and dead.

Annoyed at the drying streaks the cleaner left
on the window, I spray on another layer and start over with a fresh rag, making
sure to sop up all the pooled excess on the sill. With the job done, I finally
look out beyond my own reflection to the panorama outside. White lights flicker
from apartment windows across the city. Families enjoying dinner with loved
ones, individuals watching television, couples entertaining guests, parents
tucking their restless children into bed. Lovers strolling two-by-two on the
sidewalk below, getting in and out of taxis. The occasional band of
guys-night-out or gaggle of girls-night-out weeknight debutantes hooting and
hollering as they move the party elsewhere. People laughing, throwing chance to
the wind, living.

When did my life become so dull? Only
twenty-eight and I feel life passing me by.

Deciding the place is too quiet, I turn on the
television. I need a distraction from my loud thoughts. Oblivious to the
channel, I move to the kitchen and start scrubbing the white-tiled countertops.

The phone rings.

My hair has come partially undone and wisps of
hair fly wildly across my face. I blow a puff of air in disgust and agitation.
“Ugh, what now?” I hate being interrupted when I am on a mind-clearing cleaning
spree.

Setting the sponge in the sink, I unglove my
hands and pick up the phone on its fourth ring. “Kang,” I announce crisply.

“Ky?”

My heart sinks at the sound of Leila’s wavering
voice. I close my eyes as if they are made of lead. “Leila. Sorry I haven’t
called. I didn’t—”

“What’s going on Ky?” I realize by the strain
in her voice that Leila already heard the news. Of course she did. Pickering
and I visited the Holmes residence earlier that day, leaving five hours from
the time we departed and the time of this call for Leila or her parents to find
out. But this isn’t the way I hoped to break the news that her long lost
brother has been found.

“How did you find out?”

“Daddy called. Told me his lawyer’s kid knew
the girl.”

“Knew the vic? Who’s the kid?

“Do you think I care? Ky, tell me what’s going
on? First I ask you to locate my brother and now…now this? Murder? You think he
could murder someone?” Anger rises in her voice, followed by hysteria.

“Leila, calm down. No one’s saying Brett
murdered anyone…it’s just…” It’s just that the police are pointing fingers and
Brett is their number one suspect, but it isn’t like I am in the position of
disclosing that kind of confidential information right now. I am the freaking
lead detective for fuck’s sake. “Leila, he’s the stepfather and—”

“So,” she counters bitterly, “that doesn’t
prove a thing. Is it a crime to marry a woman who already has kids? I can’t
believe how stupid he was to even get involved with someone like that. If he
hadn’t left, he wouldn’t be in this mess.”

I remain calm. Leila isn’t in a state to be
reasoned with so there really isn’t anything I can say that will get through.
“Leila, we are doing everything we can, but I think you should ask your husband
to look into representation for Brett.”

“We’ve already taken care of that,” she snaps.
“Art’s going to represent him.
We
know that he’s innocent.”

I wince. That comment was intended to hit a
deep wound and it worked. Mission accomplished.

“Leila, trust me, I want Brett to be innocent
just as much as you do, but—”

“Trust you? Ha. How can I trust you? Especially
with Brett. You out of all people should know that he’s innocent. And you out
of all people should be trying very hard to keep him out of jail. You owe him
this, Ky. You owe me this. Please—” the anger fizzles into an emotional
outburst of sobs. Choking back tears she continues, “I’m begging you, you have
to help him.”

“Leila, I hear you. Trust me or don’t trust me,
that’s up to you, but I’m telling you that I’m going to do my best. I know he’s
innocent.” At least I hope he’s innocent. “Now, I need to know who your dad’s
lawyer is and the kid that knew the victim. Can you tell me that? It can really
help your brother.” I hear sniffling on the other end of the line. “Leila?”