Follow Her Home (15 page)

After that summer, I learned a lot about this indiscriminate worship of the oriental flower, a sickness that made itself known to every Asian woman in Los Angeles. I started to look out for the signs, and was quick to cut off suitors who showed symptoms. I was not a frequent target—the favorites gave off the exotic pheromones of submission with polite laughter and dainty walks, and they were almost always petite.

The Asian themes in Quinn's room made me uncomfortable, but I didn't jump to categorize it as a predator's cave. Instead, I made my way through his drawers in the same way I had combed through Iris's, in search of the stray love letter or token, any sign of my sister's place in her teacher's bedroom. I took my time, careful not to make a mess, but in less than ten minutes I saw that his desk drawers held only office supplies, and that there were no little notes hidden between polo shirts in his dresser.

I turned my attention to his bookshelves and scanned the titles with an aimless eye. He wasn't much of a fiction reader—his shelves were dominated by history books and a few dictionaries, including an English–Korean one. What little fiction he had was on the bottom of his three shelves. A few volumes by Haruki Murakami, and the silvery gray spine of
Lolita.

I shivered when my eyes rested on that last book, tucked in the bottom right corner of his lowest shelf, adjacent to the floor. It was so out of place and so pertinent to my search that I crouched down and grabbed it. The book was in brand-new condition, the black lettering and smooth grain of the spine unbothered. When I flipped through the unread pages, something dropped from where it had been tucked inside the front cover.

I picked it up and nearly dropped it again. It was a four-by-six photograph of Iris.

Our school had no uniform, but she was dressed up like a fantasy schoolgirl. She wore a short pleated skirt and long socks, with a white button-down shirt open to the middle button. She was wearing a black bra underneath. Her face angled upward with an expression that was sweet and provocative, eyes wide and lips dewy and parted to show a flash of teeth.

Tears pooled in my eyes. I had come for verification, and I had found it. On the back of the picture Iris had written, “Happy birthday to my darling pervert,” signed with a heart and a winking face.

I returned the book to its place on the shelf and put the picture in a flat pocket of my purse. I made sure my tears had not dropped onto my face, and left the room.

Quinn's roommate and his friend were still in the living room, in the middle of a slow, cheerful conversation. I had been in Quinn's bedroom for less than fifteen minutes.

“Hi,” I said. “I think I have to get going.”

The roommate stayed seated and looked up at me.

“Hey, do you guys know Quinn's girlfriend, Iris?”

They looked at each other and the roommate eyed me warily. “You're not a girlfriend? You are kind of his type.” The girl snickered.

“Oh, no.” I tried to fit in a good-natured laugh. “What do you mean by his type?”

He smiled and subsided into his beanbag. “You know, like, Asian. And young.” He and his friend shared a long, hearty laugh. “You should see some of the babies he brings in here. God, do you remember that Bernadette girl? She must've been twelve.”

I felt the hair on my arms stand up like frozen grass. “So what about Iris? You know her?”

“I've met her.”

“Do you happen to know how she and Quinn met?”

“I think he picked her up at a bar somewhere. She's like, some kind of sorority girl. Pretty shy, though. Haven't talked to her much.”

I nodded. “Have you seen her around lately?”

He looked at his friend and they both shrugged. “I guess not too much. She used to be here all the time, but last I saw her was a couple weeks ago, and she left quick. I guess maybe they're on the outs.” He leaned forward on his knees and eyed me again with mock suspicion. “Hey, why are you so curious?”

“Like I said, just nosy. I left a note for Quinn, but you can tell him I was by if you want.” I hoped he wouldn't bother mentioning my visit, but if he did, I didn't really care. “Thanks for letting me hang around. I'll see myself out.”

I started my car and drove off in a hurry. I cried all the way home.

*   *   *

I hadn't seen Quinn in years, but I felt his presence everywhere. Over the city was the miasma of sexual predation, with submissive young Asian women as its eroticized target. Iris with her small feet and long, almond eyes was a fetishist's snack, and dollish Lori suited similar tastes.

When Lori came up on the screen, my initial reaction was a dry heave. My head lurched forward and my throat made a strangled, retching sound. Right away I felt Luke's hand squeeze my shoulder.

Marlowe knew the power of a photograph. The first dead body in Chandler's first novel showed up at a photo shoot with Carmen Sternwood in long jade earrings and nothing else. Her nude photos produced blackmail, heartbreak, and murder. A lot had changed since Marlowe's time, but the transfer from film to file did little to dull the impact of a cold image.

The kimono was an elaborate thing, all crisscrossed folds and drooping panels of fabric, a knife-cut hem brushing the tops of her feet, the toes of which just peeked out in clean white socks. A wine-dark obi clung to her middle, splitting a yard and a half of blushing cherry-blossom pink. Clouds, flowers, branches, and little birds painted and embroidered in soft spun gold and marshmallow white sprawled across the unwrinkled silk below her waist, and on the swingable sleeves that dipped near the ground.

Her hair was done up neat, bangs pinned away from her forehead with a fragile floral clip. Another flower bloomed in partial view over the back of her head in the form of a large comb or pin tucked into the quick of a relaxed bun. Her face was lightly made up, with eyebrows gelled into clean arches and lips wet with clear gloss. She smiled a coy smile, lips closed without pressing against each other, and she eyed the camera with just a slight, languid upward gaze from under a thin coat of mascara.

We stared at the screen in silence, eyes digesting Lori's strange gaze, for what must have been minutes. Eventually, Luke said the first three words that crossed my mind. “What the fuck?”

I nodded, the sick green feeling still swirling in my chest.

“Look at the rest.”

IMG_1352 was Lori in the same kimono, this time hoisting the skirts to reveal the white socks that rode up to her lower calf, lacy ruffles adorning the ankles. Her eyes were wide and averted, and she stuck out her tongue under her protruding tooth.

IMG_1353 made me bite my lip so hard that I winced. Lori stood straight-backed in a sailor uniform, white blouse with a bow at the neck, pleated navy skirt reaching right above the knees. White socks and black Mary Janes on her feet. I tasted bile as I remembered Iris's costume, her flat, child's chest peeking out of an open blouse for consumption by a grown man. She made a picture of tarnished innocence that was more enticing than a real woman to a pervert's eye. Lori's picture, in comparison, was proper, but its existence was no less eerie.

IMG_1355 was the same as 1353, but she was curtseying this time.

IMG_1356. White T-shirt, Daisy Dukes. Pigtails.

IMG_1359. Pigtails. Watering can. No plants in sight.

“This is making me uncomfortable,” Luke said. I could hear the strain in his voice.

I clicked on.

IMG_1363 showed Lori in a hanbok with a short jacket in key-lime green and a big poof of a bright magenta skirt that fell to the floor over a petticoat of equal size. I recognized the stiff, wrinkle-proof silk and arc-cut sleeves as kin to my own hanbok, which I wore once every few years when fancy struck on New Year's Day. The hanbok was far simpler than the kimono, a few blossoms swimming across the hem in tough clusters of off-white thread. Lori's hair fell thick and lustrous over her left shoulder in one long braid tied with the same magenta silk as her skirt. But for this braid's light-molasses hue, she was the picture of a traditional Korean beauty. Her bangs fell lightly over her forehead and her complexion without its toasted July tan still had a smooth warmth in tone, like cake batter deepened with a good splash of vanilla. She stared at a spot below the camera, lips parted in a daze.

I clicked to the last file, IMG_1366, in which Lori sat in some undisclosed posture beneath the pond of opaque silk provided by her hanbok, and in the same motion slid my fingers off the laptop and dropped my arms, letting them dangle at my sides as I cocked my head and puzzled over what we'd just seen.

A few silent seconds later, I revisited the arrow pad and scrolled through all eight photos at a flashing speed, pressing down on the Up key until we were back up top. I shifted to the Down key. Down again, then up again. I felt dizzy and closed my eyes. I crossed my legs and arms, all at once.

“Hey, are you all right?” Luke put a hand to my forehead and pushed back my bangs.

The photo I'd found in Quinn's apartment was one detail I hadn't shared with Luke. No object had ever held such power over me before, and I kept it hidden like some monstrous talisman. Out of sheer panic, I told Diego what I'd seen, but I didn't describe what she was wearing, omitted the doe-eyed expression.

“Thanks. I'm fine,” I said. I took Luke's hand and brought it away from my face. I blinked and shook my head. I did my best to expel the old image and replace it with what was in front of me. I tried to think. “This was definitely a photo shoot of some kind.”

“It looks like it.”

“For sure. White-sheet background, outfit changes. Skipped file numbers make me think there were some reject shots deleted. And they were all taken the same day. February eleventh.”

“For Valentine's Day?”

“That would make sense, wouldn't it?”

“She's so…” He paused, searching for it. “She's so clothed.”

“I think that's the word I was looking for, too. That, and creepy.”

“So what do we think?”

“She took these photos to give to someone. My hunch is that that someone wasn't Greg.”

“Why not?”

“I gather that Greg had a thing for Lori, but it sounds like it went unrequited.” I scrolled back to the hanbok photos. “I have one of these.”

“Really? You?”

“Yeah, got it when I was in high school. Don't wear it much, but it's a traditional thing.” I clicked back up to the first photo, and Lori changed out of her hanbok into a kimono in a lightning swap of pixels. “I do not have one of these.”

“Right. Why would you?”

“Why would Lori? And why would she take pictures of herself in both a kimono and a hanbok?” I stretched out my jaw and let my tongue get some air, trapped as it was in a dried-out mouth. It made a thick, furtive sound when it moved, like a darting lizard. “This is making me want to throw up. These are the kinds of photos I might think to take if I wanted to whore myself to an Asian fetishist. Someone who just likes his women drowning in silk.” I took another look at the kimono. “This thing is fancy. It belongs behind glass. She may have had the hanbok lying around, but I'm thinking the kimono was a gift.”

“But she's Korean.”

“A gift from an amateur Sinophile.” The welt on the back of my head was starting to throb again. “Whoever it is, I despise him.” I logged into my e-mail and sent myself the files.

“Well, she's clearly playing into whatever this is. These pictures make me feel dirty.”

I felt my hands go cold. “Hector Lopez. Chaz's brother-in-law. He found these files and now he's missing.”

I found Chaz's phone number and dialed it, only to get his voice mail. I left a simple message asking him to call me back.

”Wait, what are you talking about?” Luke's voice was shaking.

“That's why his wife thought he ran off with Lori—because she found these pictures.” Greg Miller's dead white face painted itself in my head. “I hope to God he's hiding somewhere.”

“But why would Hector have Lori's pictures?” His voice trailed off and his face turned white.

“He's a tech guy, and he might've seen something of interest that didn't belong to him. Shared drives, open e-mail—people aren't always careful about what they access at work. He might've seen it and decided it was worth something.”

“Diego said Miller was in love with Lori.”

“Not just that—he was in love with Lori and everyone at Stokel knew it. If Hector wanted a buyer, he didn't have to look very hard to find one.” I folded my hands and looked at them instead of at Luke. “The thing is, someone had to access the pictures in the first place. The original, intended recipient.”

We fell into a silence so thorough we might've heard an angel sneeze. Finally, Luke spoke up, and his voice cracked. “You think that's my dad.”

I rubbed my thumbs together and ventured a look at Luke. It was a mistake—I could see him hoping I would shut him down as I had the day before. “He's the frontrunner in any case. There is something weird going on with him and Lori. And think about it—we're either dealing with a moron or someone from an older generation. Your dad may know how to use a computer, but when it comes to covering his tracks, I doubt he has the strain of paranoid caution that comes with growing up in the digital age.”

He whimpered. “You said there was nothing in his office.”

“I did say that, but I'm sorry. It doesn't absolve him. In fact, if I were involved in anything suspicious in his position, I would keep my office clean and its door open.” I paused. “But again, we don't know anything for sure.”

“My dad doesn't have an Asian fetish.”

“Maybe it's a midlife longing for something exotic.”

“Asian in L.A. is exotic?”

“You'd be surprised. Do you know how many times I get asked where I'm from? Or greeted by a ‘Konnichiwa' or a simple ‘Ching chong chang'?” I shook my head. It was pounding. “Maybe it's not an Asian thing. Maybe he just wants a delicate, soft-voiced girl, beautiful and obedient. Someone he can own and control.” I remembered I was talking about his only father, and I saw the horror on Luke's face with some remorse. I changed the subject. “Do you have Lori's number?”