A Quiet Neighbor (24 page)

“Ah. Do you know what your daddy and mommy
fight about?”

Tory fidgets with the hem of her shirt again.
“Sleepovers…I think. Daddy and Loral doesn’t like it when Mommy comes home
late. Sometimes she has sleepovers.”

“Why do you think your mommy has sleepovers?”

“Her hair is a little messy and she’s wearing
the same clothes and she smells funny. When she sleeps at home and wakes up
she’s prettier.”

“Oh, I see. Do you know who your mommy has
sleepovers with?”

Tory looks up at the ceiling, squishing her
face trying to concentrate, but when nothing clicks she shakes her head.

Hmmm.
So there may be a mystery man
worth looking into. I get the picture. Trouble in paradise. Wife sneaks out
with lover and comes home late. Daughter finds out, is distressed and
embarrassed by Mom, causing a fight, and possible murder? Did the vic get in
the way of a lover’s tryst gone wrong? Did the other man not like competing for
Tess’s attention? Did Brett know? I’ll have to ask. But first, I’ll have to
conduct a second interview—outside the home—with Tess Holmes regarding this new
information.

I put the nagging thought into my back pocket
and hurriedly move to my next question. There is only so much questioning a
six-year-old attention span and emotional cache can handle. I don’t like
wasting precious time and resources.

“Did your sister look worried about something?
Angry? Sad?”

Tory shakes her head warily.

Bella takes an interest in our conversation and
walks over, tugging on Tory’s shirt. Tory leans in and Bella whispers loudly,
“She was upset at Mommy.”

Tory glances up at me hesitantly and then turns
back to Bella to tell her to go back to the bed and color. Frowning, Bella
stomps to the bed.

“She was mad at Mike not Mommy,” Tory says defensively.

“Mike? Who’s Mike?”

“Her BOY-friend,” Bella giggles from the bed.

That makes sense. An attractive girl would have
a boyfriend in high school. If Tess was having an affair, wouldn’t the vic
confide in her boyfriend about it?

“And why was she mad at Mike?”

Motioning for me to move in closer (the girl
really likes telling secrets), Tory says, “They did something bad.”

“Oh? What did they do?”

“Loral didn’t know I saw but I did. I closed
the door fast like Loral told me to do when I saw Mommy and Daddy doing
something bad one time. I didn’t tell anyone. Promise you won’t tell anyone.
Pinkie-swear.”

I smile. “I promise,” and stick out my right
pinkie for the sacred oath.

“Is that why Loral was mad at Mike? Because he
made her do something bad?”

Tory shakes her head. “No,” her eyes twinkle.
“Loral promised she wasn’t going to do that again. She never breaks her
promises…”

“Tory, what did Mike do that made Loral mad?”

“He stole something in her notebook.”

“Oh? What was that?”

Tory shrugs. “Some paper. She wrote in the
notebook a lot. I got ten dollars to keep the secret.” Tory’s gray-blue eyes
widen in worry. “You won’t tell him I told, right?”

“Pinkie-swear.”

Tory sighs, relieved, and smiles the all-too-trusting
smile of a six-year-old, turning seven.

Pickering knocks on the open door as he enters.
His bulbous forehead has four deep creases and his beady eyes wear deep purple
bags. Tory looks up and freezes, instantly terrified of the bulky frowning man
in the room, and hides behind me.

“Are we almost done here?”
Ugh…
he sounds
like a man on an angry mission.

“Just about.” I motion him away so the girls don’t
wet the carpet.

When he gets the hint, he throws up his hands
and sheepishly backs out of the room. As the door closes behind him, Bella asks,
“Who’s that? Is he a bad guy?”

“No sweetie, he’s one of the good guys.”
Neither of the girls seem convinced and I honestly don’t know how to convince
them. As I head for the door, I receive a text:

Autopsy starting in 30.

Chapter
Eighteen:

Friday,
June 1, 2012

4:45
A.M.

Loral Holmes:

It is nearing the end of my senior year, so I
decide to skip school and instead take the train up to Los Angeles. I think the
trip will be more educational than anything I could learn at school, and I’m
ready to find out.

Over the last few days, I mapped out the nearly
five-hour public transit strategy: 115 bus to San Diego State University; Green
Line trolley to Old Town, Amtrak to Union Station; Gold Line light rail to East
L.A. if there’s time.

Today there are no scheduled tests or
assignments due so I decide to go for it. Hell, I’ve practically graduated already.
What do I have to lose? I slip out of the house early, to catch the first
available 115 bus.

Immediately upon entering Union Station, I fall
in love with Los Angeles. The midmorning light filters in through high windows,
diffusing into a milky haze inside the beautiful, cathedral-like arched vault
of the station’s main atrium. I walk looking upward, reminded of the pictures
of European cathedrals I’ve seen in textbooks and slideshows at school. And
this is just the train station!

Outside, the lively banter of cars and people
rushing and frolicking along the street awakens my senses. I stroll a few
blocks, always in the shade of viciously tall skyscrapers, aimlessly turning
left or right at each intersection, until I miraculously end up right back
where I started. The city is shockingly grand, and this particular area is a
bit too austere for my taste. I want to be near a bustling civic center, but can’t
see myself living and working in this business-suit jungle. I go back inside
Union Station and decide to take the light rail to somewhere a bit grittier. I am
excited and unafraid.

I stand before the Metro Rail ticket vending
machine with indecision. I see three lines on the stylized map overhead:
Red
Line toward North Hollywood
,
Purple Line toward Wilshire/Western
,
Gold
Line toward Atlantic/East Los Angeles
. While I have my heart set on seeing
East L.A., something about the allure of Hollywood spontaneously draws me in as
I wait in line.

The elderly woman in front of me walks away
with a ticket in hand, and I approach the vending machine set on first taking
the Red Line to Hollywood, then the Gold Line to East L.A. I’ve made it this
far, and who cares if I get back home late? Tess will be “working late” and
Brett is probably working on some wacky business plan. This is one of a handful
of times when I’m thankful for having absentee parents. I worry about the
girls, but have enough faith in Brett to take care of them.

Written on the vending machine are instructions
in so many languages my eyes cross. I suddenly feel a bit overwhelmed, and cannot
seem to figure out what I am supposed to do. I stand there for a moment,
collecting myself and trying to play it cool. A voice from behind me rings out:

“Where you goan’ to, chile? Goan’ miss yo’
train if you keep that up! We all goan’ miss it! Ha! Ha-ha!”

I slowly turn around to see an elderly,
heavy-set black woman jiggling all over with laughter, dressed in her Sunday
best: lavender dress suit complete with hat, veil, matching heels and handbag.
The woman stops laughing and looks at me with annoyance, gilded in genuine
motherly concern. Her eyes twinkle.

“Well, the thing is…I’m not really from around
here. Can you please help me with this thing?”

“Sho’ will,” the woman says as she brushes me
aside to approach the machine. I instantly become enveloped in a shroud of
overpowering perfume, which matches the woman well because it even
smells
lavender. “Lemme in here. First time in the City, huh? Ha! Ha-ha!” She seems to
end most of her statements with this same boisterous laughter. I don’t know
what’s so funny, but somehow the laughter makes me feel more at ease. In an
instant, I trust this woman more than my own mother.

“So, I’ll ask again. Where you goan’ to,
chile?”

“Ummm, I just want to take the Red Line to Hollywood,
and later the Gold Line to East L.A.”

“Ah, you jus’ need a day pass, sugar. It’s fi’
dollars.” The woman begins pressing buttons in rapid succession on the machine.
“Here, chile, jus’ put the money in right there.”

I take a five out of my bag, smooth it against
my thigh and place it into the machine. After a few whirring noises, a small
ticket comes out below.

“Thank you so much, ma’am.”

“Don’t you mention it, suga’. Now you best get
goan’ befo’ the folks behind me get ornery. Ha! Ha-ha!”

I smile at the woman, and she smiles back.
Feeling as though I just made a breakthrough, I turn toward the terminal and
walk to the Red Line platform. Along the wall a few homeless men and women lie
on newspapers and old blankets. An unkempt man makes the rounds for handouts.
He approaches me and tells me a story about being only $3.62 short for a ticket
home; without hesitation, I count out the exact change and hand it to him. I
think I stunned the man. I hope he gets home safely. Today, after so many dim
days, I am set on looking at the bright side of life.

As the Red Line makes its way toward Hollywood,
my stomach starts to roll from hunger. It is nearly lunch time, after all, and
I have been on the move since a little before six o’clock. I decide to get off
at the next stop.

“Vermont/Santa Monica Station, Koreatown,” the
automated voice says as the railcar slows to a stop and the doors shush open.
It sounds exotic and new. I step out into the sunlight.

Koreatown seems quieter than downtown at this
time of day. It is gritty, and I don’t see anyone with the same twinkle in
their eye as the woman back at Union Station. But I’m sure there are good
people here, too—there is goodness everywhere if you are willing to push past
fear and really look for it.

As I walk south on Vermont Avenue, I pass
restaurant after restaurant with signs I cannot read. Some of the signs even
have English on them, but the letters spell out words I have never seen before.

Not far from the rail station, the aroma
emanating from an open restaurant door stops me cold in my tracks. It smells sweet,
like caramelized sugar and charred beef.
Soowon Galbi
, the English
portion of the sign reads:
KBBQ
. The word “BBQ” is easy enough to
understand and this particular aroma draws me inside.

As I enter the restaurant, I notice the painted-over
lettering on the sign above the door. In faded ridges of pastel, beneath the
lettering of
Soowon Galbi
, the sign reads:
Kang’s Korean BBQ
.

“Annyeonghaseyo.” A demure Korean woman of
short stature bows to me when I enter, and beckons me inside with a gesture of
her hand. She has a lacquered helmet of shoulder-length hair and wears
excessive makeup. I follow the hostess to a large booth, where a stainless
steel square is set into the center of a spacious lacquered table. Above the
table, a large stainless steel vent looms square and bulky. The hostess extends
a menu toward me with both hands and a bow of her head, and then swishes out of
sight into the back.

As I look around the nearly empty restaurant, I
notice each booth has the same vented setup. The color scheme is neutral, with
more interplay of contrast than color. The walls are creamy, textured beige,
the booths and floors are coffee brown, and the ceilings are a pure white.

The walls are sectioned off by symmetrical
grids of wooden trim, stained the same coffee brown as the floor. Rice paper
panels divide the room strategically for privacy between tables, and large,
leggy indoor plants swoon and cascade in deep and vibrant greens. A thick red
sash with gold painted script decorates each plant as if it were in the running
for a beauty pageant.

A murky, dimly lit fish tank sits against the
far wall, teeming with large-jawed pinkish fish and lazy, bottom-dwelling
grayish fish.

Beside the aquarium, set back into the wall, is
a long row of glass-door refrigerated coolers like you see in liquor stores,
filled with cases of beer and what looks to me like little green bottles of
white wine. I guess the green bottles are some type of Asian liquor. All I know
is that Tess never has that brand at home.

The menu, which is written entirely in Korean
script, is worrisome. I can’t read anything, so I am grateful the menu has lots
of colored pictures. I avoid anything that looks raw, inedible, and red. Then
an elderly waitress approaches to take my order. I point to a picture of a
large plate of thinly sliced beef and something else in a cast iron cauldron
with an egg on top. Rice, meat, egg, I think I can handle that.

The food comes out at once on a rolling cart,
making my eyes pop out. The beef is arranged in a single layer on a large
platter. It is raw, thinly sliced and marbled with fat. Alongside the beef is a
large plate of lettuce leaves, a shallow bowl of raw garlic and scallions, and
five or six smaller dishes of what look like spicy, pickled vegetables. I’ve
heard of
kimchi
but have never seen it until now. An iron cauldron is
set in front of me last, emitting waves of heat and fragrant vapors, with the
liquid at the edges still sizzling and boiling.

My eyes boggle at all the food. I am not sure
at first what to do with the beef. I wonder if red meat is eaten raw in Korea.
When
in Rome
, I think, and reach for a raw slice of meat with my chopsticks.

“Oh! No no no!” The waitress stops me with a
wave of her hands and a look of quiet horror. “Not yet. Must cook first.” She
lifts the stainless square from the center of the table, turns back to the cart
and lifts a white-hot iron basket of coals. I watch in amazement as the woman
sets the coals into the empty tray in the center of the table, and covers them
with a clean grate. She deftly transfers a few slices of beef onto the grill,
along with large pieces of garlic and scallion. As the beef starts to sizzle
and steam, the waitress smiles at me, a bit patronizing with her gestures.

“Cook one side, flip, cook other side, place on
lettuce leaf,
mogo
—you eat. Understand?”

I feel a bit sheepish, but nod, grateful for
the lesson. “Yes, I understand now. Thank you very much for showing me.”

The meal is delicious, but there is something
missing. It doesn’t seem like the type of meal to eat alone. And there is so
much food! As I force down the last few bites of barbequed beef, the waitress
approaches with the check and a small porcelain bowl.

“This
shikhye
—Korean dessert drink.
Delicious. Try. You like, yes?”

I sip tentatively at first, then as full as I am,
down the sweet drink in two large gulps. “Wow, that’s really good!” I smile and
nod at the waitress, who smiles back warmly. Her eyes twinkle, just a bit, like
the woman in the train station. At that moment I think,
I’m on the right
track.

It’s a quarter to one when I leave the
Soowon Galbi KBBQ
restaurant. I don’t think I’ll have time to see Hollywood
after all, so I decide to head back to Union Station and pick up the Gold Line
to East L.A. I feel a strong gravitational pull to the east. I almost start to
panic at the thought of coming all this way and not going where my gut told me
to go. I’m not sure why. Maybe it has something to do with the name of the
rail: The Gold Line, the golden thread that will pull me out from the smothered
bubble of my so-called life, and into my real life, my destiny.

Something about East L.A. steals my heart. I
plan to jump off at each rail stop so I can see it all, absorb my surroundings.
As I exit the Gold Line underground at Mariachi Plaza and walk up the steps
into the bright sunshine, something about the feel of the place just clicks
with me. It is lived in, like a worn pair of sneakers, yet it is fresh and vibrant
and alive.

The small shops—beauty salons,
panaderias
,
liquor stores—just seem so much more accessible than the shops back home. And
there are no subways in San Carlos. This definitely isn’t plain-vanilla
suburbia.

Next stop: Soto Station. There I am greeted
with brightly pigmented buildings amid a warm, glary sea of smooth concrete.
Wide arcs of fan palms grace the signature SoCal horizon. A group of scroungy
kids that probably should have been in school are instead playing soccer in the
abandoned lot beside the station. The necks of their oversized t-shirts are
stretched from overuse. There is hooting and hollering and teasing in a
cacophony of garbled Spanish.

In the shade of the station awning, a group of
elderly gentlemen huddle over a small folding card table playing poker and
puffing on cheap cigars. Aged apartments and sagging homes cram up and out
along the rutted streets with women peering from barred windows and metal balconies,
pinning laundry on well-used lines.

I walk past the liquor store on the corner to
find a magazine stand.
Spanish Magazines & Newspapers
, the awning
boasts. I suddenly wish I had concentrated more in Spanish class. No matter; if
I live in this neighborhood, the skill will come organically. The smell of
tortillas and tamales lines my nose as I breathe it in, all of it.