by P. D. Martin
Petrov whispers. “Montebello High School is her current employer. They did the standard criminal record and Live Scan check five years ago when they hired her.”
In California, all public school employees have to undergo a criminal check, including a fingerprint search, as part of their job application. It’s a small but essential step in protecting children. If Mee Kim is still working as a schoolteacher, there’s a chance she’ll be home already. But when no one answers after a few minutes and another two rings, we decide to sit in Petrov’s car and wait it out.
“You updated Joe?” Petrov asks.
Ramos and I both shake our heads.
“May as well fill him in now.” Petrov fishes out his cell phone and hits two buttons before putting the phone up to his ear. Obviously De Luca rates a speed dial.
The phone call is brief, with Petrov summarizing the recent developments before suggesting De Luca goes home early to see his kids. Again, even though the call is short, the reference to De Luca’s home life makes me think he and Petrov are close.
Petrov flips his phone shut. “Done.” He looks at his watch. “So who wants to get the coffee?”
Ramos and I both look at him uncertainly.
“I’m joking.” He smiles. “We’ll wait until at least six-thirty before we go for a caffeine fix.”
Nine
At 6:30 p.m., just as we’re about to cave and head off on a coffee run, a silver two-door pulls into the driveway. The movement triggers the outside light and from our position I can just make out that the driver is female, with long dark hair. I’ll need more light and a front view before I can distinguish her exact hair color and see whether she’s Asian.
Once her engine’s off, she leans over the center console and straightens up with a large tote bag slung over her right shoulder. The driver door opens and she swings her legs out. She’s wearing a skirt that sits just above the knees, coupled with what looks like a silk blouse from the way it moves and falls around her upper body as she gets out of the car.
“We gonna wait until she’s inside?” Ramos asks.
I’m not sure who he’s asking. I guess Petrov is in charge as the one who’s part of the task force, albeit as a consultant, and as a senior-ranking FBI agent.
“When she’s at the door.”
The woman leans into the car and takes a suit jacket off the back of the driver’s seat before shutting and locking the car. Moving along the path, she flicks through her keys.
As her foot hits the top of her porch step, Petrov swings open his door. “Ms. Kim?”
She turns and looks our way, as Petrov moves closer. She seems hesitant at first, but then sees me and relaxes a little. Petrov hasn’t identified himself yet, and a lone male coming toward a woman in the dark is ominous.
We walk down the pathway and now I can make out that the sporty coupe is a Hyundai Tiburon. And it looks pretty new.
“I’m Special Agent Petrov with the FBI.” He moves to the porch with Ramos and I close behind. By the time we get to the step, Petrov is showing Ms. Kim his ID. “And this is Special Agent Anderson and Detective Ramos with the LAPD.”
She’s obviously surprised by our presence. “Yes?”
“If you’ve got a moment, we’d like to talk to you inside.” Petrov motions to the front door.
“Um…okay,” she says, but takes another, closer look at Petrov’s ID before unlocking the door. Swinging it open, she invites us in before placing her bag on a peg. “Is everything okay?”
“We’d just like to ask you a few routine questions for an investigation.” Petrov’s eyes dart around her house, taking it in.
We’re still standing in the hallway, but from here you can see an open-plan living area through into the kitchen on the left, and a more formal dining area to the right. The house has been meticulously renovated inside, with polished floorboards, plush cream rugs and modern furniture. It’s also been tastefully painted and decorated, with contrasting colors on the walls. Either Ms. Kim has a very good eye for color, or she paid an interior designer to coordinate everything. From the doorway I can only just make out the kitchen, but I see lots of stainless steel, cream cupboards and a warm shade of mushroom-gray on the walls.
“Is this about one of my students?” Kim seems concerned.
“No.” Petrov doesn’t elaborate. After a few beats, he says, “Can we sit down?”
“Sure. Sorry.” Kim leads us into the living room and we all take a seat on the black, modern couches. She springs back up within a couple of seconds. “Sorry…can I get you anything? A glass of water? Coffee?”
Ah…our coffee run.
We all say yes to coffee and she moves into the kitchen.
“Your home is beautiful, Ms. Kim. Have you always lived here?” I ask.
“Yes. My omma, mom, and I lived here together until a year ago.” Kim looks up. “Until she died.”
“Sorry for your loss.” Ramos’s voice holds genuine sympathy, enough that I don’t see a need to echo his condolences. Instead, I stand up and start snooping. Petrov and Ramos stay seated, realizing that this is a job best left to one person. Mee Kim can see us through the kitchen bench that borders the open-plan living area and looking up to see all three of us peering at her photos and belongings might not go down so well.
The room is sparsely furnished, with only two areas of interest—a small bookshelf and a matching ornamental stand that forms gridlike shelving that can house photos, vases, statues or any other bits and pieces. The bookshelf contains mostly novels, but on the bottom shelf Mee Kim also has, to my surprise, several books on martial arts.
“You’re into martial arts?” I ask her.
She leans over the kitchen bench. “Yes. I’ve trained in many of them, actually.”
Again, interesting. Why would a schoolteacher need to be skilled in hand-to-hand combat? Then again, I know from my own kung fu class that the students come from all walks of life. Some are driven by self-defense, some use it as a more interesting form of exercise than pounding the pavement or pumping iron, while others are captivated by its Eastern origins.
“I study kung fu.” I offer some personal information to help relax her and maybe make a connection with her. “Which is your favorite discipline?” I push myself off my haunches, back to standing.
She smiles. “Guess I should say kung fu, huh?”
“Not at all. Unless that is your favorite.”
“Well, I’m Korean so I have focused more on tae kwon do.”
I nod. Kung fu originated in China and Hong Kong, tae kwon do in Korea and karate in Japan, and within each discipline there are different styles.
“Are you taking classes at the moment?” I ask.
“Yeah, three times a week. And I practice most mornings before work.”
“So you’re dedicated. What level are you on?”
“Fifth dan.”
“Wow. I’m studying for my third.”
“What’s that mean?” Ramos asks.
“There are nine levels of black belt in kung fu,” I explain, “called dans.”
“And it’s the same in tae kwon do,” Kim adds.
“Whatta ya know. I thought it was just black belt. And even that sounds pretty impressive.”
“The black belts are when it really starts getting hard. Ms. Kim here is two levels above me, but that’s about an extra four to six years of training.”
Ramos lets out a long whistle. “I’m impressed.”
Kim blushes and busies herself with the coffee. “Thanks,” she manages.
I move on to the shelving area. There are a few photos of Mee Kim growing up, starting from when she was about four years old. In most of the pictures she’s by herself, although there are two that show her and her mother. Looks like Mee Kim was an only child, and maybe mum was widowed, divorced or single from the outset. I also notice the absence of grandparents in Mee’s life—or at least the life she likes to remember. The only photo that doesn’t feature Mee is on the top le
ft shelf. Here sits an older photo of her mother, and I can tell by the clothes and hairstyle that the picture was taken in the seventies.
“You look like your mum,” I say.
“Yeah, I know.” Kim pours cream into a small jug, completing the setup of a tray with four cups, a cream jug and a sugar bowl.
I can see the coffeemaker in the background, and it’s half-full.
With everything ready, she moves back into the living space. “So, what’s all this about?” She delivers the line politely.
I take my seat again and Kim follows suit.
Petrov fishes a head shot of Jun Saito out of his inside suit pocket. “Do you recognize this man?” The shot is cropped so it doesn’t show Saito’s throat wound.
Kim takes the photo and flinches at the image. “Is he…is he dead?” The closed eyes and gray undertones in Saito’s skin give his fate away.
“I’m afraid so,” I say gently.
She nods and takes a deep breath before looking at the photo more closely. People look different in death, but after a good ten seconds of staring at the photo, she says, “No.” She looks up at us. “What happened to him?”
Petrov takes the question. “He was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“Yes.”
After a considerable pause, she says, “I’m sorry I can’t help you, but I don’t recognize him at all. You thought I knew him?”
“Yes.” Again, Petrov lets silence hang in the air before continuing. “This man transferred two thousand dollars a month to your GCE bank account, for the past year.”
I watch her reaction carefully.
“What? Transferred money? To me?” She shakes her head. “I’m afraid you must be mistaken. I don’t know that man.” She points to the photo and her confusion seems genuine.
Ramos takes out some folded pieces of paper from his pocket. “The most recent payment was on the first of this month.”
She shakes her head again. “I get two thousand dollars on the first of every month from a life-insurance policy my mum set up with a company called Best Enterprises.”
We’re silent once more.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Kim,” I say, “but those payments aren’t from an insurance company. They’re from this man, Jun Saito.”
Again, I watch her reaction carefully. It’s the first time we’ve mentioned the vic’s name. Her face is impassive but she does flick her eyes down to her clasped hands. Breaking eye contact is often body language that accompanies a lie. But in this case, it could also be an expression of her confusion.
“I don’t understand. What about Best Enterprises?”
“It’s just a shell company Saito set up,” I explain. “The payments to you are the only outgoings from that account.”
“Do you think your mother knew this man?” Petrov asks.
“I don’t know…she certainly never mentioned him.” She looks over to the kitchen. “Oh, the coffee. Sorry.”
In the kitchen she pours out four coffees, before bringing the tray over to us. We help ourselves to a cup and cream and sugar. Once she’s taken her own coffee and is seated again, Petrov continues.
“He’s actually of Korean descent, like you. He’s half Korean, half Japanese. Are you sure the name Jun Saito doesn’t ring a bell?” he presses.
Kim takes a sip of her coffee. “Saito,” she repeats. “No, definitely not.”
“What about Jo Kume?” I ask. “This man was also known under that alias.”
She shakes her head again. “No, sorry.”
“Do you have any old photo albums of your mum’s? Perhaps she knew him,” I suggest.
“Omma and her family immigrated here when she was only ten years old. I don’t see how she could know this man.”
“Probably not,” Petrov says. “But if we could flick through any old albums, that would be most helpful to the FBI, ma’am.”
She answers Petrov’s not-so-subtle guilt trip with a nod. “I’ll be back shortly.” Putting down her coffee, she walks down the hallway and into the third room on the right. A study or bedroom perhaps. She returns five minutes later with one photo album. “This is all I can find. And I don’t remember my mum ever showing me any other photos anyway.”
“Only the one album?”
Mee Kim shrugs. “That’s all Mum ever showed me. We’ve got about twenty from the time I was born, but only one from before that.”
Petrov holds his hand out and takes the book. He flicks through it quickly, and then shakes his head at us once he’s done. “Any other questions, Agent Anderson, Detective Ramos, before we let Ms. Kim get back to her evening?”
“Do you live alone, Ms. Kim?” I ask.
“Yes. But my boyfriend stays over occasionally.”
Ramos brings his pen down to his notebook. “And his name?”
“Paul Bailey.”
I wonder if the name rings any bells with Petrov. He certainly doesn’t respond, keeping his face expressionless. But he’s trained to do that.
Petrov stands up, and we follow his lead. He thanks Ms. Kim and gives her his business card, asking her to call him anytime if something comes to her.
I’m the last one out, and at the door I turn back to her. “Ms. Kim, do you mind if I ask about your father?”
She shrugs. “What about him?”
“Is he alive?”
She shakes her head. “He died when my mother was pregnant. Car accident.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, giving her a two-handed handshake and my card before walking back to the car.
Ramos instinctively climbs into Petrov’s car, ready for the debrief. “What do you think?” he asks.
“Seems genuine enough,” Petrov responds. “But I’m not convinced she’d never heard of Jun Saito before.”
“No,” I say. “She did break eye contact when I mentioned Saito’s name. It’s possible she was trying to hide her response, hide a recollection. And then when you pressed her on it, she took a sip of her coffee right at that moment.”
“Mmm…And the flinch when she saw the photo. Could have been recognition rather than distress at seeing someone dead,” Ramos offers.
“She’s the right age to be Saito’s daughter, you know,” I say.
“I wondered about that, too.” Ramos leans forward in the backseat.
“Well, if that’s the case, either she doesn’t realize Jun Saito is her Daddy, or she doesn’t want us to know.”
Petrov starts the engine.
Ten
I sink lower into horse stance, hoping better technique will help me turn the tide. I’m in a dark, secluded alleyway, fighting a man who only appears as a silhouette against the night sky. He’s trained, and trained extremely well, and I have to move my arms at lightning speed to defend myself and block each incoming strike.
He lunges forward and turns his waist at the same time, using the momentum to gather extra force for a punch to my rib cage. I can’t block it in time and I crumple in pain, but after another strike hits me I fight the pain and concentrate once more on blocking and protecting myself. I manage to block another onslaught of punches, followed by a flying kick, before I see a small opening. I lunge forward and deliver a punch to the man’s solar plexus, momentarily winding him. But like me, he quickly resumes the fight, blocking my next strike—a side kick aimed at the ribs and meant to shatter bone. I just manage to withdraw my foot before he grabs it. I need to be faster, stronger, to beat him. I have to face it: he’s better than me.
After blocking another series of punches, I process my options—fight or flight. I tried fighting; now it’s time to flee. I turn and run, but I can hear him closing in behind me. I urge my legs to go faster, run harder, but they don’t respond. I turn a blind corner and come to a dead end.
The man behind me laughs.
I wake up covered in sweat and look around for my attacker. Where am I? That’s right…I’m in my bed, in my apartment. I instinctively reach for the gun I keep under the pillow next to me. Gun
in hand, I take the safety off, but within a few seconds I shift from dream reality to actual reality. I’m in my apartment, safe. Popping the safety back on, I put the gun on my bedside table and check the time—5:55 a.m., five minutes until my alarm goes off. I flick on the light and can’t resist a second look around the room to make sure I’m truly alone.
I think back to the dream and remember running down a dark alleyway with someone behind me, but I can’t recall anything else. It’s possible the dream is a premonition, or it could just be my subconscious—lots of people dream of being chased. Apparently it’s supposed to signify anxiety in your life. Or that you’re running away from something or someone. Still, this dream did have the sense of reality that my premonitions usually do…plus I’m covered in sweat, and physical symptoms are also a sign that what I’ve seen has already happened or will happen in the future. I write down as much of the dream as I can remember. I try to shake the fear and sense of being trapped as I get myself ready for the day and I go through my plan of attack. First off is the task-force meeting and then my ViCAP search.
I get in my twenty-minute pilates workout, some push-ups and a few stretches before eating breakfast and hitting the road. I arrive at the office at 7:40 a.m., giving me time to start my computer and check my e-mails before heading up to the briefing room.
When I arrive, Petrov is already sitting at the front of the room, flipping through his notebook. Next to him sits Agent Joe De Luca and a young Asian woman.
Petrov looks up as I enter. “Anderson.”
Once I’m closer, Petrov says, “You met Special Agent De Luca yesterday, and this is Special Agent Hana Kim from the DEA.”
I shake De Luca’s hand and then turn to Agent Kim and shake her hand. “No relation to Mee Kim?”
“Who?”
“You’ll find out all about her in the briefing, Agent Kim.” Petrov turns to me. “Agent Kim is Korean, and about thirty percent of Koreans have the last name Kim.”
