Edge of the Knife

by A. D. Miller

  “For you?”

  “For my sister-in-law,” Nyman said. “She’s got a lot of talent.”

  “How old?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  The piano player frowned. “Come by my place sometime and we’ll talk about it. I have Sundays off.”

  Taking a napkin from the bar, he wrote down a Burbank address, handed the napkin to Nyman, and followed the rest of the customers out into the street.

  Behind the bar, the bartender moved more slowly than before and looked more frequently at the clock. Nyman had long since put away the notebook and was talking to Laura in a low, serious voice that was only occasionally slurred. At exactly ten minutes to two the bartender said:

  “Sorry, guys, but I gotta close up.”

  Nyman and Laura left the bar together, their arms around each other’s waists. The night was still hot; the thin scattering of stars had become thicker since he’d left Alana Bell’s apartment. He led the woman to the end of the block, where an apartment building stood behind a pair of sun-browned palms.

  The paint on the building’s façade was chipped and faded; crooked metal letters identified it as the Monte Carlo Arms. He led Laura up a wooden staircase and unlocked the door of apartment 2C.

  The living room was small and bare; in one corner stood a pile of empty cardboard boxes. A hallway led to a bathroom and two bedrooms. The door of the larger bedroom was closed.

  “You moving out or something?” Laura said, shuffling unsteadily to the couch.

  Nyman didn’t answer. He went into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. Then, taking off his tie and jacket as he walked, he came back into the living room and sat down on the couch, where Laura was lying with her legs pulled up to her chest, already asleep.

  He said her name and shook her by the shoulder, but her mouth had fallen open and she was snoring. He watched her for a time, frowning, and then went back into the kitchen.

  He poured coffee into a mug, added an inch of Bacardi from the row of bottles beside the sink, and carried the mug into the smaller of the two bedrooms. He sat down in the chair beside his bed and took a book from the nightstand.

  When he woke four hours later the mug was empty, the book was still in his hand, and Laura was gone.

  Chapter 15

  The day dawned hot and windy. Nyman, still in the same clothes, went into the kitchen and filled a clean mug with the rest of the coffee. Then he walked to a window and looked down at the palm trees and brown yard below.

  A small, shirtless boy from another apartment was standing at the edge of the yard and throwing peanuts from a can into the grass. Birds—first jays, then crows—drifted down from the trees and picked the peanuts out of the grass, lifting their glossy wings as they bent forward.

  Nyman watched them with eyes that were swollen and discolored. The hand holding the mug was shaking. After five or ten minutes he turned away and walked to the kitchen table, where his notebook was lying open at the page with Patrick Choi’s phone number.

  He took the phone from his pocket and dialed. After a short conversation he hung up and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. When he left the apartment it was eight o’clock and the yard was black with crows.

  * * *

  In Echo Park, a few blocks from Angelus Temple, Nyman found Patrick Choi at a table on the patio of a diner. He was in his early twenties, wiry, shy, with black hair shaved at the sides and worn long at the top, so that his bangs came down in a crest to cover part of his face.

  Nyman thanked him for coming and apologized for calling so early. Choi ignored the apology and said:

  “You think she was murdered, don’t you?”

  Nyman sat down at the table and reached for the menu. His hands were no longer shaking and his tone was mild and friendly.

  “Is that what Professor Freed told you?”

  “I haven’t talked to Freed. All I got was an email from the dean saying Allie had been killed in a car accident.”

  “Then why mention murder?”

  “Because you’re a private investigator. Allie’s family wouldn’t have hired you to investigate an accident.”

  Nyman admitted as much. “And yes, I do think she was murdered.”

  “Why?”

  Nyman told him his reasons. Choi stopped him more than once to ask a question or clarify a point; despite his shyness, he met Nyman’s gaze directly and intently.

  When Nyman was finished, Choi nodded and sat back in his chair. “That’s why you wanted to see me, then. Because of my connection to Merchant South.”

  “I wasn’t aware you had a connection.”

  “Allie didn’t tell you?”

  “She didn’t have time to tell me very much.”

  “What about Freed?”

  “He told me even less, in some ways.”

  Choi gave a small smile. “Yeah. There are probably lots of things he didn’t tell you. He and Allie spent a lot of time together.”

  “I’ve heard they were romantically involved.”

  “Physically involved, at least. Allie never struck me as a romantic kind of person.”

  “What kind of person was she?”

  Choi let his gaze wander to the next table, where a dog was lying at its owner’s feet, panting.

  “I’m not really the one to ask,” Choi said. “I hardly knew her.”

  “Her uncle seemed to think you two were pretty close.”

  “Her uncle’s wrong, then. We weren’t close at all.”

  “You never talked to her?”

  “Only in class and around the department. Everybody talks to everybody.”

  “You must’ve gotten some kind of impression of her, then.”

  A waitress came to the table to fill their water glasses and take their orders. After she’d gone away, Choi said that Alana had been no different from any of the other students in the program.

  “Just a little more ambitious, maybe. She knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Different things from different people,” Choi said. “From me it was access. A way into the councilmember’s office.”

  “Councilmember?”

  “The L.A. city council. I did an internship last semester with Grace Salas.”

  Nyman said that the name sounded familiar.

  “It should. The Merchant South development was basically her idea.”

  “How so?”

  A busboy came over to put two cups of coffee on the table. Choi’s eyes, looking up at Nyman as he reached for his cup, were wary.

  “You really don’t know about any of this?”

  “I don’t anything,” Nyman said. “Why was Alana so interested in Salas?”

  “It wasn’t just Salas; she was interested in everybody. The council. The mayor. The developers. She thought the whole thing was a scam. That Merchant South was just a way for everybody to get rich.”

  “Get rich how?”

  Choi shrugged and drank. “I don’t know where she got the idea. She thought I’d be able to give her some kind of inside dirt on Merchant South. As if they’d give anything important to an intern.”

  Nyman asked if that was why she’d wanted to work with Freed on his analysis.

  “She never said it outright, but that’s what I figured. I got the sense she wanted to blow up the whole development, either through Freed’s report or her own pressure.”

  “She cared about it that much?”

  “She seemed to. With any kind of big development, somebody’s going to get hurt; but Allie didn’t want to see anybody get hurt. She wanted the world to be perfect. All roses and rainbows.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of some of their food and the small talk of the waitress. When she’d gone away, Nyman said:

  “It sounds like you didn’t think very highly of Alana.”

  Choi turned his attention to his food. “I didn’t think much about her one way or the other. I hardly knew
her.”

  “You seem to know how her mind worked.”

  “I’m good at reading people, I guess.”

  “You’re sure you never saw her socially?”

  “Not that I remember. Once or twice, maybe, at the most.”

  “Did she ever go to any bars or clubs in Vista Hills?”

  “Allie? She never went to bars or clubs, period. The only thing she cared about was her work. That’s why it was so bizarre when she sent me the text from Vegas.”

  Nyman paused with the fork in his hand. “Vegas?”

  Choi nodded. “She kept begging me to get her a meeting with Salas. I finally set one up a couple weeks ago—for the Friday before last—but Allie sent a text saying she couldn’t make it, because she was in Vegas. Sent a picture to prove it.”

  He took a phone from his pocket, found the photo he was looking for, and put the phone on the table.

  It was a picture of Alana Bell, evidently taken by Alana herself. She was standing in front of a wall of glass and smiling at the camera, her chin slightly raised. Framed in the window behind her was a section of the Las Vegas Strip in full daylight, the outlines of the casinos blurred by the glass. Visible in the lower right-hand corner was the façade of a building encased in stainless steel. A sign had been attached to the façade, a two-letter symbol comprised of an overlapping L and V.

  Nyman said: “Did she tell you what she was doing there?”

  Choi shook his head. “Not a word. That was the last time I heard from her.”

  “She didn’t get in touch when she came home?”

  “No. A friend of mine saw her in City Hall last week, though. Apparently she got an appointment with Salas on her own. Spent an hour in her office, just the two of them.”

  “Talking about what?”

  “You’d have to ask the councilmember.”

  Nyman looked again at the picture. There was no bruise on Alana’s face, no sign of anxiety or fear.

  “Want me to send it to you?” Choi said. “The picture?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “No problem.”

  While Choi sent him the photo, Nyman looked at his watch. “The council has a meeting this morning, doesn’t it?”

  “Every Friday at ten.”

  “Usually lasts about an hour?”

  “More like an hour and a half.”

  Nyman nodded to the phone in Choi’s hand. “Was that the only picture you kept of her?”

  Choi’s eyes were party hidden by the fringe of black hair. He put the phone back on the table and reached for his coffee. “I don’t know. I might’ve kept some others.”

  “How many?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  “You took a lot of pictures of her?”

  “We all took pictures together—in class and stuff. I didn’t follow her around taking pictures, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “There’s no reason to get angry, Patrick.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “You cared about her, didn’t you?”

  Dark blood, as if from a fresh wound, rose in Choi’s neck and face. He put down the coffee, took the wallet from his pocket, and counted out money for the bill.

  “It must’ve been hard,” Nyman said, “seeing her spend time with someone like Freed. You must’ve been upset.”

  Arranging his money on the table, Choi shook his head. “I didn’t get upset, and I didn’t kill her.”

  “I’m not saying you did. Where were you Wednesday night, though, just for the record?”

  He’d been on campus, he said. “In the library. You can ask the guy at the checkout desk.”

  “You know the guy’s name?”

  “No. But he’s always there on weeknights.”

  Nyman took out his notebook and made a note.

  Choi, watching him, said: “You think I did it, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think anything. I’m just asking questions.”

  “I never would’ve done anything to her. You can ask anybody.”

  “I’m not accusing you, Patrick.”

  “If you knew how I felt about her, you’d know I couldn’t have done it.”

  “How did you feel about her?”

  Choi put the wallet in his pocket and stood up. “That’s none of your business.”

  “What about Alana? Did she know how you felt?”

  Choi gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “I don’t think the idea ever occurred to her,” he said, and left the restaurant.

  Chapter 16

  Nyman passed under the shaded portico of City Hall and came into the air-conditioned dimness of the lobby. Telling his name and business to a security guard, he accepted a nametag and walked with echoing footsteps to a bank of elevators covered in cast bronze. He left the elevator at the twenty-fourth floor and went through a door marked Ethics Commission.

  He told the man at the receptionist’s desk what he was looking for. The man led him to a workstation and showed him how to search the Commission’s public files. Half an hour later, having filled a page of his notebook with names and figures, Nyman thanked the man, took the elevator to the third floor, and made his way into a large ornate room with rows of marble columns flanking a central gallery.

  The members of the City Council were sitting in a half-circle behind broad oak desks. Nyman sat down on a bench that gave him a view of Grace Salas.

  In her middle or late sixties, dressed in a black suit with silver piping at the collar, she’d risen from her chair and was reading from a piece of paper.

  “—that we adjourn today in memory of Alberto Aguilar, who passed away last week after a twenty-nine-year career in the Department of Water and Power. Alberto was a resident of my district, a kind-hearted man who could always be counted on to support his neighbors. He’s survived by his wife Julia, four children, and six grandchildren.”

  She sat down and slid the paper into a manila folder. There was no clapping or show of approval; the other members gave no indication of having listened. A man at the center of the half-circle said:

  “Seeing that there are no other adjourning motions, that concludes the agenda. The meeting is adjourned. Have a safe weekend, everybody.”

  The chamber filled with noise as people shuffled to the door. Assistants and aides came in to talk to the councilmembers; the noise grew louder with a dozen conversations. Nyman, following the crowd, made his way out of the chamber.

  Salas emerged a few minutes later, flanked by two aides who talked to her in low, imploring voices. Nyman followed them at a distance, his hands in his pockets.

  They went up to the fourth floor. Passing between walls covered in black-and-white photos of L.A., they came to a door painted with Salas’ name and the number of the district she represented. The aides said their goodbyes and moved away toward the elevator. Salas was opening the office door when Nyman said:

  “Mind if we talk for a minute?”

  She turned. Her gaze, moving over his face and clothes and returning to his eyes, was brisk and curious. Her smile was friendly.

  “Sorry,” she said, “but I have to leave early today.”

  “This will only take a second.”

  “Call my office on Monday. They’ll be happy to set up a time.”

  “It’s about Alana Bell,” Nyman said. “Her family hired me to investigate her murder.”

  The smile went away. “In that case,” she said, “you’d better come in.”

  The office was large and well appointed. Its walls were covered with diplomas and newspaper clippings and letters from constituents. On the desk was a photo of a younger Grace Salas marching with a crowd of people down what had once been Brooklyn Avenue.

  “Your name’s Nyman, isn’t it?” she said, sitting down behind the desk.

  “You’ve heard about me?”

  “From Michael Freed, yes. He told me you’ve already talked to him and his wife.”

  “Did he tell you anything else?”

 
“Only that you have a very active imagination.”

  On the contrary, Nyman said, he had a feeble imagination. “But I’ve learned a few things about Alana’s death. Things I’d like to ask you about, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Salas leaned forward. “Mr. Nyman, we’re talking about a brilliant young woman who died for no reason. If her murderer’s out there somewhere, I’ll do anything I can to help you find them.”

  The words came out smoothly and without any note of falseness. Nyman asked her why she thought Alana was brilliant.

  “Because it was obvious. She came to see me last Friday—sat in the same chair you’re sitting in. We talked for an hour, maybe. Two hours. I meet lots of people in this job, but I don’t meet many who are as sharp as she was.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  Salas shrugged. “Anything and everything. It was like talking to my younger self. So much idealism. I got started even earlier than she did: the East L.A. walkouts in sixty-eight. Seventeen years old and ready to take on the world.”

  “And you thought Alana had the same kind of passion?”

  “Yes, but she had something even better—or something equally good, I guess. She had discipline. I saw that in the work she did with Freed. She had a plan for what she wanted to do and she was getting herself the skills to make it happen.”

  “At Pacifica?”

  “At Pacifica, sure, but on the street, too. The work she did in Zamora Park: that was all on her own initiative. She got academic credit for it, probably, but it wasn’t necessary for the review Freed was doing. Her work with the homeless was her passion.”

  Nyman said that he’d like to know more about Freed’s review. “This was for the Merchant South development?”

  “Right. Which is all being built on the city’s land. The taxpayers’ land, to put it another way. So what we wanted from Dr. Freed was an analysis—an independent economic analysis—to make sure the city was using the land in the best possible way for the taxpayers.”