The Deepest Cut (8 page)

When Vining approached, Kissick handed her a business card. It was printed in English with Chinese characters in a smaller font below. The English said: Red Pearl Enterprises, LLC. Pearl Zhang. President and CEO.

Vining recalled the sign posted on the chain-link fence outside the construction site.

Lam introduced Vining to Pearl Zhang.

Zhang glanced at the badge attached to Vining’s belt with a hint of scorn and said in perfect but accented English, “How do you do, Detective Vining? I own this property. This is my son, Lincoln Kennedy.”

“How do you do?” Bowing slightly toward Vining, the boy was handsome, with Asian and Caucasian features. He was probably in his late teens and was definitely uncomfortable with the commotion his
mother was causing. Sidling back near the entrance as if hoping to make an escape, he looked at the ground.

Vining said, “Nice to meet you both. What seems to be the prob—”

Peering past Vining, Zhang gasped. Her hand with its perfectly lacquered nails flew to her perfectly painted lips.

Vining could tell by the direction of her gaze that she wasn’t looking at the corpse on the ground, but at the graffiti.

Wordlessly, the detectives parted to let Zhang get a better view, exchanging glances among themselves.

She moved several steps closer, the high, narrow heels of her black patent-leather pumps clacking on the bare cement. “Look what they did …”

Lam put his hand on her arm to stop her. “Ma’am, a murder was committed here. This is a crime scene.”

She glared at his hand. “I saw worse during the Cultural Revolution.”

Lam released her, letting his hand hang in the air as if to suggest that he was happy not to touch her.

Now free, Zhang did not attempt to get closer. She leaned forward as she took in the graffiti. “What does that mean? That number?”

“One hundred eighty-seven is the California Penal Code number for homicide,” Kissick said. “When it appears in gang graffiti, it’s a death threat. It means, ‘Death to China Dog.’”

Zhang’s arched eyebrows moved higher on her forehead and her red lips formed an O.

Kissick went on. “Mrs. Zhang, do you know who China Dog is?”

The boy began, “Isn’t—”

A hiss from his mother silenced him. He again dropped back and looked at the ground.

EIGHT

K
ISSICK PRESSED HER.
“
MRS. ZHANG, DO YOU KNOW ANYONE WHO
goes by the nickname China Dog?”

She didn’t correct him for calling her “missus.” “I know a lot of people who go by a lot of names. I would have to check and get back to you.”

Vining said, “You seemed upset when you saw the graffiti.”

“Of course I’m upset. Look at the damage to the mosaic. It’s the work of renowned artist Woodrow McKenna, the largest mosaic ever done by him. It was appraised at a half a million dollars and now it’s ruined. A collector put a down payment on it. I pay for security to watch the site all night. I don’t know where the guy is. Have you seen him?”

She and her son turned to look as two coroner techs pushed a gur-ney into the building. Both were young men, one black, and the other white.

Lam directed them to the body.

Kissick replied to Zhang’s question. “The security guard said he was asleep in his car and didn’t see anything.”

Zhang’s eyes burned. “They are paying for this. My insurance is not paying for this.”

Vining faced Zhang’s son. “What about you? You were about to say something about China Dog.”

The young man had been watching the coroner techs move the body. He looked at Vining and rapidly blinked, as if surprised.

“Do not talk to my son,” Zhang said. “He’s a minor child. He’s only seventeen.”

“I’ll talk to him and you and whoever else I think might have information about this murder,” Vining said. “Lincoln Kennedy, is there something you’re not telling us?”

His lips parted and he took in a breath. When his mother shot a comment to him in Chinese, instead of looking at the ground as he had done before, he stood tall, squared his jaw, and returned Vining’s direct gaze. “People call me Ken.”

“Okay, Ken. What do you know about China Dog?”

Zhang interrupted, raising her chin to look at the taller Vining. “Do I need my attorney?”

Vining was glib. “Have you committed a crime?”

Her bloodred lips barely moved when Zhang said, “Of course not. But where I come from, one needs to protect oneself from people like you.” She said it with a straight face, adding, “From the police.”

The group made room as Tara, the Forensic Services supervisor, and her assistant returned with video equipment. They were accompanied by Lieutenant Garner, who was leading three uniformed officers carrying floodlights and portable generators.

Meanwhile, Zhang had started a heated conversation with Lam in Chinese. He mentioned Sergeant Kendra Early, who was Vining and Kissick’s boss, and Lieutenant George Beltran, who was Early’s boss.

Vining expected Zhang to voice the tired remarks that moneyed people who were having confrontations with cops often whipped out of their designer satchels: “I pay your salary” and “I know your boss.”

When Zhang and Lam had concluded their discussion, Vining said, “Mrs. Zhang, you may have an attorney present if you want to pay one to observe our friendly conversation.” She matched Zhang’s steely demeanor and intentionally stood straighter, emphasizing the half foot in height she had over her. “I find it curious that a man was murdered on your property and you’re more concerned about your damaged mosaic and your absent security guard.”

“Of course I care about the dead man,” Zhang retorted. “Who is he?”

As if on cue, the coroner techs moved toward them, pushing the gurney.

Ken gaped at the mound encased in a body bag on top.

Kissick took the clipboard one of the techs handed him.

Vining unzipped the top of the body bag and pulled it open to reveal Scrappy’s face.

Mrs. Zhang stoically observed the corpse, while her son, disturbed by the sight, took a step backward.

“Do you recognize this man?” Vining asked Zhang.

Zhang arched an eyebrow. “I don’t know him, but I don’t know everyone on the construction crew. Maybe my project manager, Joey Pai, knows who he is.”

“What about you?” Vining asked Ken.

He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

“His name is Abel Espinoza.” Vining added, “He goes by the nickname Scrappy. Are those names familiar to you?”

The Zhangs again denied knowing Scrappy.

Vining rezipped the body bag and signaled the techs that they could leave.

“Mrs. Zhang …” Kissick began. “Do you know anybody who has a grudge against you, who might want to hurt you by defacing your property like this?”

“I am a businesswoman, Detective. I’ve lived in the United States for eighteen years. I’ve run my own property development company for ten years. When you’re in business, especially when you’re a woman, especially when you’re a minority, you have to be tough. Of course I’ve made enemies.”

“I understand.” Kissick was deferential. He spoke softly, trying to defuse the tension that Vining had whipped up. “Mrs. Zhang, would you come to the station with us so we can better discuss this and you can look over photos of people who might be responsible?”

“It’s late,” Zhang said. “My son has to go to school tomorrow and I have a busy day. I’ve already told you what I know. You have my business card. Should you wish to speak with me again, I am easy to find.
My crew starts work at eight in the morning. Mr. Pai, my project manager, will be in his office in that trailer across the street. I need to see what’s to be done about that mosaic.”

“I can’t guarantee that we’ll be able to release the crime scene by then,” Kissick said.

Zhang slid her cuff up her arm and looked at a thin gold watch set with diamonds. “It’s nearly two in the morning. Certainly you’ll be finished by eight o’clock.”

Lam shifted his feet, sensing the brewing confrontation.

Vining felt smug as she saw Kissick slowly losing his cool.

He held up his hand to indicate Tara Khorsandi, who was directing the officers setting up the additional lights.

“Mrs. Zhang, we haven’t even begun to search yet. We have to completely measure, sketch, and photograph the scene. Then we’ll divide the area into a grid and then we’ll start to search. It’s going to take a long time. I’m keeping control of the scene until I’m confident it has nothing further to tell us.”

Zhang frowned as she looked around the partially destroyed building, as if the magnitude of the task was sinking in. She looked back at him and demanded, “When will that be?”

An edge crept into Kissick’s voice. “When we’re finished. It could take a few days. It could take weeks.”

“Eight this morning, works starts again. I pay the crew if they work or not. Who’s going to pay me for money I spend on workers who don’t work?”

“I’m in charge of this murder investigation and this crime scene is released when I say it’s released.”

“You are an employee of the city of Pasadena. I do business in Pasadena. I pay city taxes. I pay your salary. I support charitable orga nizations in Pasadena. I know your boss, Chief Haglund. I know him very well.”

Vining snickered and shook her head as Zhang fulfilled her expectations.

Zhang’s eyes shot daggers at her, but Vining kept the closed-lipped smirk on her face.

Lam silently watched, staying out of it.

Zhang’s son had moved a few feet closer to the entrance.

Kissick was irritated, but kept his cool. “Mrs. Zhang, I might be just a civil servant, but I can arrest you for interfering with the duties of a police officer.”

Vining couldn’t resist adding, “After you’re settled into your cell, we’ll notify the chief that you’re there.”

Vining was prepared for Zhang’s retort, but saw her distracted by something. Vining turned to see the yellow-and-black butterfly that had flown up from beneath Scrappy’s wig. It now flitted above her right shoulder. She ducked, but it landed on her anyway.

She blew at it. It leaned away from the wind on its slender legs and folded its wings.

Kissick was surprised by the visitor.

Lam said, “You’re lucky, Detective. In the Chinese culture, butterflies symbolize happiness and young love.”

Zhang shifted her gaze from the butterfly to look intently at Vining, as if only now becoming aware of a characteristic that had been there all along, but that she had overlooked.

Vining gave her a wry smile and said, “See. I really am a sweet person.”

Zhang turned to her son. “Ken, let’s go. It’s late.” On her way out, she shot over her shoulder, “My crew starts work at eight in the morning.”

Kissick walked after her. “Officers will be posted here around the clock. They’re instructed to arrest anyone who comes onto my crime scene.”

Vining trailed behind with Lam, asking him, “How much do you think she knows?”

He replied, “More than she’s going to tell us.”

“How did she get inside the perimeter?” Vining watched Ken accompany his mother, his long legs taking one step for every two of hers.

“She parked on the street below and cut between two buildings where no one was posted.”

Caspers was standing in the street, flirting with a young female officer.

Kissick called to him. “Caspers, did you find Scrappy’s car?”

The female officer sped away toward the command post, leaving Caspers in midsentence.

Vining told Kissick, “I’ll escort them out.”

Lam joined Kissick with Caspers.

“I did find Scrappy’s car,” Caspers said energetically. “It’s a pimped-out Honda Civic, lowered to the ground, wide rims, parked over on Dayton. There’s a big, plastic arrow on the seat. I called for a tow.”

“So Scrappy was one of those arrow guys, like we thought,” Kissick said. “Why aren’t you with the vehicle?”

“I told an officer to wait there.”

Kissick regarded him dubiously. Caspers was working in Detectives, but he was new to the unit and held the rank of officer himself. It had been noticed that he was enjoying his new status a little too much.

“It’s cool, Corporal. I cleared it with the ell-tee.”

Kissick gave him a slap on the arm. “Good work.” He turned to watch as Vining lit the way for Zhang and her son with her flashlight and the three disappeared between two buildings.

“Who are they?” Caspers asked Kissick.

“Pearl Zhang and her son Lincoln Kennedy, known as Ken. Her property development company owns this building. They know who China Dog is, but they’re not talking. Cam, what was the big discussion you and Pearl were having in Chinese?”

“She wanted to know who my family is. How long we’d been here. She’s from a province in Mainland China that’s notorious for organized crime triads. My family background isn’t as exotic. Both my parents are from Taiwan. My father is a dentist in San Gabriel. She knows of him. She asked if my father is proud of his son, the police officer. I told her that he’s very proud.”

“Why would she ask that?” Caspers wanted to know.

“In the Chinese culture, being a police officer is not a respected occupation,” Lam said. “She wondered why the son of a dentist would carry a gun for gwailos.”

“Gwhy-lows?” Kissick repeated.

“That’s Cantonese slang for Caucasians, but it’s used to refer to anyone who’s not Chinese. It means ‘ghost people.’”

“So even an African-American is a ghost person,” Kissick said.

“That’s right.”

“She sounds like a dragon lady,” Caspers said.

Lam added, “In Armani.”

WALKING IN SILENCE, VINING FOLLOWED PEARL ZHANG THROUGH A NARROW,
trash-strewn breezeway between a closed florist shop and a small brick apartment building. They exited onto a quiet, narrow street lined with small businesses that were closed.

Taking keys from his pocket, Ken clicked the attached remote control. A shiny, new black Mercedes S-class sedan parked down the street flashed its lights.

As they moved closer to the car, Vining saw a shadow of someone sitting in the backseat. “Who’s that?”

Zhang responded, “My mother.”