by Dianne Emley
“Another unique aspect of Asian gangs is that members don’t admit to being in a gang. They don’t get tattoos with their gang name. They don’t tag. The kids lead double lives. Many are from affluent families. Honor students. When they’re home, they’re respectful, dutiful sons and daughters. Their parents have no idea.”
Vining again recalled Ken Zhang’s eyes flashing that night outside the Hollenbeck Paper building when he said, “Are you Emily’s mom? She’s in my photography class.”
Lam continued. “In the nineties, there was a member of the Asian Boyz who got straight As in school, volunteered at a hospital, and had a part-time job, all while he was involved in a month-long crime spree that left seven people dead.”
He sat back in his chair, finished. There was a period of silence, as if following a sermon.
Vining finally spoke, “Which brings us to our friend Marvin Li.”
She held up an 8×10 mug shot of a much younger and clean-shaven Li. To her, he looked like any other of the hundreds of young punks she’d encountered, out to subjugate the world, or die trying. A sprinkling of acne in the hollows of his cheeks contraindicated his tough-guy mien. The V of skin visible beneath his open shirt collar was not yet covered with tattoos. His eyes were different from what she’d seen that morning. In the photo, he had the dead eyes of a life-long criminal. The touch of whimsy that she’d observed in person was missing. He was a killer, but he loved butterflies.
“Cameron, did Sergeant Velado have a take on Marvin Li and his transformation since he got out of prison? His Guns Gone organization and alleged other good works?”
“Velado says the sheriff’s and the FBI have been watching Li and his allegedly former gang, Wah Ching, for years. Like I said, the gang leaders do a great job of insulating themselves. In Chinese, Wah Ching means ‘Chinese Youth.’ It originated in San Francisco’s Chinatown in the sixties, formed by immigrants who banded together to protect themselves from other gangs. They eventually developed into a criminal organization that controlled illegal gambling, prostitution, and narcotics trafficking in San Francisco’s and L.A.’s Chinese communities. In Southern California, Wah Ching is active throughout the region covered by the six-two-six area code. Recently, Wah Ching has attempted to consolidate its power by aligning with various Asian organized crime groups.”
“Marvin Li is charismatic,” Vining said. “It would be easy to talk myself into believing that he’s being honest. Everything he claims to be checks out. He sent his employees here to be interviewed. They were all cooperative and nice …” Her voice trailed off, leaving an opening.
“Makes you wonder what’s wrong with this picture,” Sproul said.
“Exactly,” Vining agreed.
“Some pieces don’t fit,” Jones said. “Pearl Zhang’s company, Red Pearl Enterprises, owns the Love Potion bridal salon. Makes sense to have her mother’s shop under her corporate umbrella, but why is Red Pearl incorporated in Curaçao? Maybe that’s for tax reasons, but generally anyone who sets up a corporation there is trying to hide the true owners.”
Sergeant Early rubbed her eyes, digging in her fingers in a way that looked painful. “I’m a believer in the American dream, but it’s a stretch to accept that a woman who supposedly worked as a cocktail waitress in Hong Kong to pay off the men who smuggled her out of China became one of the area’s biggest property developers in a few short years.”
Caspers added, “Why does Marvin Li have guys wearing costumes standing on street corners all hours of the night? Are they lookouts for drug dealers?”
“Human directionals,” Vining joked. “Li informed me that it’s a trained profession.”
“My apologies to the Union of Professional Human Directionals,” Caspers said.
“I guess a fancy job title makes the work more attractive.” Early shook her head.
“Scrappy was working on the corner of Orange Grove and Newcastle,” Vining said. “Caspers and I drove by earlier today and Li’s got another guy out there. There’s also one standing a blocknorth, on Newcastle and Mountain. Apparently they’re there until midnight. We have to check it out. Seems like a strange way to advertise apartments. Cameron, do your guys have any information about drug activity over there?”
“No reports of any drug activity.”
“There’s a little residential neighborhood tucked in there, above Orange Grove.” Sergeant Early squeezed her eyes closed as she visualized the area. In the decades that she’d lived in Pasadena and served in the PPD, she had become familiar with every street and alley of the city. “That stretch of Orange Grove has a lot of small businesses. There’s a hubcap place and a brass plating place.” She opened her eyes. “My husband took our doorknobs to that brass place.”
Caspers said, “There’s a tire place and auto repair shops. On the southeast corner, there’s that new building that got some cosmetics company in it. What’s it called?”
Vining responded, “Terra Cosmetika. It’s a line of organic, eco-friendly cosmetics. No animal testing, sustainable, yada yada …”
“Groovy,” Caspers said.
Sproul asked an obvious question. “Where’s the apartment building these human directionals were hired to advertise?”
“Good question,” Early added.
Vining said, “Li told me it was on the corner of Newcastle and Orange Grove, but there’s no apartment building there. I want to surveil that block of Newcastle between Orange Grove and Mountain. I also want to know who comes and goes in that bridal salon.”
“I’ll set up the surveillance,” Lam said.
Vining concluded the meeting. “I want to believe in redemption and that Li’s a changed man. Still …” She rifled through the documents she’d prepared and found a crime-scene photo of the Golden Lotus shoot-out twenty-five years ago. It showed the innocent bystanders—a man and his daughter—with plates of food on the table in front of them, their bodies riddled with bullets and slumped in the booth. “We can’t forget this.”
TWENTY-TWO
VINING RETURNED TO HER CUBICLE AT NEARLY SEVEN O’CLOCK. She still had work to do before she went home. She needed to check in with her grandmother, whom she’d asked to pick up Emily from school and stay with until she got home. Em was old enough to stay by herself, and had, and she could have gotten a ride home from a friend’s parent, but they hadn’t spent much time with Granny lately. Vining wanted Granny to feel useful. Vining’s mother and sister rarely called, much less visited the old woman. Vining’s attempts to encourage them to do so, even to try and make them feel guilty, fell on deaf ears. Granny still drove and lived in her own home, but Vining saw the handwriting on the wall.
Plus, Vining admitted to another motive. Based upon the photograph of Ken Zhang that Emily had taken, the girl had spent time with Ken outside of school. Vining wanted to keep her daughter on a tighter leash.
The message light on her phone was blinking. She quickly went through her messages, deleting most, saving others, not hearing the one voice she most desired to hear: Kssick’s.
She heard a new voice that she didn’t immediately recognize. It was Marvin Li, again inviting her out to dinner. While she found an invitation to dine with the illustrated, sexually aggressive murderer and key suspect in her investigation unappealing, there was something alluring in his melodic voice. His tone had a quality that made him sound like a dangerous man. Something in it evoked things she knew well: crime and criminals. And things she didn’t: distant lands and foreign flavors. There was a suggestion of things she’d indulged in rarely: sensuality and wild abandon.
The allure was fleeting. She deleted the message.
She phoned home. When Granny answered, Vining could barely hear her warbling voice over the television blaring in the background. Granny’s hearing had deteriorated to the point that she should wear her hearing aid all the time, which she stubbornly refused to do. The device was old-fashioned, large, and prone to emitting a high-pitched buzz. She rebuffed Vining’s offers to help her
with the expense of a new one. This forced everyone to yell if Granny was to hear them.
“Hi Granny, it’s Nan. Nan.” Vining had Caller ID on her home phone, but Granny wouldn’t look at the display. She cupped her hand over the receiver and shouted, “Turn down the TV
The remaining detectives in their cubicles tittered.
Granny had turned down the television’s volume, but Vining still had to speak loudly. “Everything okay?”
Even though Vining’s hearing was perfect, Granny shouted in response. “Everything’s fine. How are you?”
There were more titters. The detectives enjoyed this mundane family drama, distracting them from whatever bleak task they were engaged in.
“I’m fine. Emily okay?”
“Sure. She’s in her room working on a school project.”
“Okay. Good. Thanks for picking her up.”
“What’s that?”
“Thanks for picking her up.”
“Don’t mention it. Will you be home late?”
“No. I’ll bring home takeout for dinner. I’ll call you when I’m on my way. Gotta go. Bye.”
Granny was in the middle of asking her something about the case when Vining hung up. She didn’t enjoy cutting off her grandmother, but the yelling was getting on her nerves and she didn’t like being comic relief for bored detectives.
She was tired and cranky. She was really feeling her lack of sleep. She’d worked other cases where the passion to solve it had propelled her to work days on end without a break, barely feeling the fatigue. She just had to keep at it. Scrappy’s family deserved to know what happened. Scrappy deserved justice. The homicide detective’s mantra was: We work for God. For murder victims and loved ones, the homicide detective was their last chance to see justice meted out in this life.
Luck played a larger role than detectives liked to admit. She hated depending upon luck, but was now praying it would shine upon her.
She needed to go home. She needed her chenille throw, a box of vanilla wafers, and an old flick on her classic movie TV channel. She needed a hug and a big, wet kiss from her daughter and her grandmother’s papery lips on her cheek. She wished she’d given in to Emily’s pleas for a dog because she’d take that big, sloppy kiss, too. A memory of spooning with Kissick flitted into her mind, her butt nestled against his thighs and belly, his strong arms enveloping her …
She forced the image from her mind.
She stuck her head into the detective sergeants’ office and told Sergeant Early that she was thinking about calling it a day after she checked with Cameron Lam about the surveillance of Newcastle Street.
Ron Cho, the large Latino/Korean sergeant who was one of the three that shared the office razzed her, “Working another half day, Vining?”
She was too tapped out to think of a snappy comeback. “Yeah.” She managed a feeble laugh.
Sergeant Early, whose piercing gaze had made criminals quake, showed Vining another side of that intensity. She felt as if Early was looking through her, but the scrutiny felt maternal, laced with concern. Vining didn’t recall ever seeing that in her mother’s eyes. It touched her and she felt suddenly teary, a sure sign that she was overtired.
An exhausted cop wasn’t good for the PPD or the public.
Early didn’t see the red that had shot through Vining’s eyes because she’d returned her attention to the report she’d been reading. “Any news on that shirt?”
“I’m going to check on my way out.” Vining made a move to leave, hesitating in the doorway. “Any word from Kissick?”
“Not since he called to tell me he’d arrived in Morro Bay.”
“Thanks for everything, Sarge. See you tomorrow.”
Vining left the Detectives Section and walked down the corridor until she reached a door with a window at the top that was stenciled FORENSICS.
Through the glass, she saw her friend Forensics Services supervisor Tara Khorsandi peering into a microscope. Tara looked up when Vining came inside.
“Hey, Nan. What’s doin’?”
“That’s what I was gonna ask you. Any word on when the Crime Lab will be able to process that shirt?”
“You know how it goes with them. ‘We have three agencies ahead of you.’” Tara flashed a broad smile. “But I told them it was a ten.” Meaning, high-priority.
The Los Angeles Forensic Science Center processed forensic materials for the LAPD and the LASD and had contracts with smaller law-enforcement agencies. Even after the expanded, state-of-the-art facility opened on the nearby campus of Cal State L.A., backlogs were still long.
“Thanks, Tara.”
Khorsandi added, “I’ve been thinking about that shirt. How he kept it for over a year. Wonder if he has other mementos.”
“That’s assuming I’m not his only victim.”
“I’ve always assumed that. Haven’t you?”
Vining smiled sadly. “Definitely.” Tara was her only real friend at the PPD other than Kissick. She hadn’t confided in Tara about her surreptitious investigation into T B. Mann and his victims, even though she knew she could trust her with anything. Hell, Vining hadn’t even confided in Kissick until forced to. Her relationship with T B. Mann was like an illicit affair.
“Matter of fact,” Vining said, “Jim’s in Central California right now, following up on a lead that came about from that mute guy’s, Nitro’s, drawings. There’s evidence my bad guy targets female cops.”
Khorsandi looked up in alarm. “Really?” She shook her shoulders. “That just gave me a chill. What kind of weird psychosis is that?”
“Who knows? I’m not big on psychoanalyzing psychos, although some people make careers of it.”
Khorsandi looped a lock of her straight, shoulder-length black hair around her ear. She wore simple, small gold loop earrings. “Still, it makes you wonder. I mean, even murderers have mothers, right? Was your bad guy the devil spawn of a prostitute, abused as a child, like Charles Manson? Or did he grow up in an affluent family, educated in private schools, playing tennis at posh members-only clubs, giving no hints about the monster within until the terrible night his fury was unleashed, like the Menendez brothers?”
Vining laughed. “You’re watching that true-crime cable station too much.”
She smiled. “Maybe so. A person will watch just about anything when up in the middle of the night with a colicky baby.”
Nan remembered how fond she was of Tara. They had started with the PPD around the same time, and had helped each other up that high learning curve. Tara was now married with a toddler, but in those early years on the nights that Emily was with her dad, she and Tara had often gone out on the town. Nan had been invited to Tara’s house, where she had lived with her Indian parents and U.S.-born younger brother and sister. Life at the Khorsandi house was warm, lively, and loud; its kitchen smelled of wonderfully exotic spices. Nan had liked being there very much.
Vining went on. “I’ll leave the analysis to the so-called specialists. I just want to put the creep in prison for as long as possible.” That was a white lie. She actually wanted to see T B. Mann’s head on a stake, but some things were best left unsaid.
Khorsandi laughed. “Thatta girl. Hey, I processed your creep’s prints through the databases.” She frowned. “Zilch.”
“You’d think this jackass would at least get picked up for being a Peeping Tom. A DUI would be too much to ask, I guess. Thanks for doing that every single week, Tara. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Happy to contribute something.”
Khorsandi segued from the horrible to the social in a way common within their profession. “We should get coffee soon. It’s been too long.”
“I know,” Vining said with regret.
“You’ve been so busy lately.”
Vining thought, You don’t know the half of it. “We’ll make a date soon.”
“I’m gonna nail you down now. Next week?”
“Sure.”
“I
’m holding you to it.”
Vining smiled and turned to leave. At the door, she said, “Thanks, Tara.”
Her friend wistfully returned the smile. “You’re welcome, Nan. Take care.”
TWENTY-THREE
VINING DROVE TO THE CORNER OF NEWCASTLE STREET AND ORANGE Grove Boulevard. She recognized one of the PPD surveillance vehicles, a van painted as a mobile pet shampooing service, parked near the corner.
One of Marvin Li’s employees, Victor Chang, stood on the corner, swinging a large plastic arrow that advertised apartments for lease. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and chinos, but wore a King Tut headdress that extended to his shoulders.
She slowed while driving past. Chang spotted her and gave a half-hearted wave. She gave him a nod and continued up Newcastle to Mountain.
There she saw Daniel Shin, another of Li’s crew she’d interviewed earlier. He wore a multi-colored Afro, like Scrappy had worn, but no costume. His sign advertised LUXURY CONDOS and he was swinging it to point across Mountain.
Vining continued driving in that direction.
Three blocks north of Mountain, she stopped in front of the first apartment building she saw. A wooden sign on the façade in script letters said: Bali Hai. A large tiki head near the entrance was losing a bat-tle with dry rot. It had two stories and was built in a 1960s courtyard style with exterior corridors facing a kidney-shaped pool in the center patio. Vining took a picture of the building.
The managers were an older couple, the Shugarts, who let her inside. They knew nothing about anyone hiring human directionals to promote their apartment building. When they had a vacancy, they always placed an ad in the PennySaver.
Next she drove to the alley behind the tire store where Cameron Lam said his team had found a tagged death threat against her. The words were pure street-gang bravado, but the tag didn’t look like any she’d seen before:
It had been done in spray paint, the tagger’s typical medium. While many taggers’ work was artistic, Vining had never seen this style of lettering. Plus, the tag was huge; the letters were about three feet tall. The edges were clean and precise. After studying the work with her flashlight beam, Vining saw remnants of a pencil sketch that the tagger had done before he began painting. This art wasn’t the result of a spur-of-the-moment inspiration. This had been well planned and had to have taken a long time.
