by P. D. Martin
“That’s not long.”
We’re both silent over the body.
After a few minutes, Grove says, “Well, I’ve got my weekend reading lined up…Anything else here, Anderson?”
“Not for Saito, but I do have another question.”
He peels off his gloves. “Uh-huh.”
“You ever heard of heart concussion?”
“Sure. Commotio cordis. Not a common cause of death. The reported cases usually involve sporting accidents, like trauma from a hockey puck, a baseball, a hockey stick…that sort of thing. But the timing must be extremely precise.”
Lee had mentioned the timing, too.
“How precise?”
“There’s a small window of time, fifteen to thirty milliseconds, when the heart is repolarizing and getting ready for the next beat. That’s when it’s vulnerable.”
“You think it’s possible with kung fu punches?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“It’s one other thing my teacher mentioned. Apparently there are a few direct dim mak attack points in the chest wall, and that book correlates the points with heart concussion.”
Grove considers it. “Again, plausible. If the force was hard enough.”
“They’ve tested the force outputted by different martial arts punches and a boxer’s punch. They’re all very high.”
“True. So I guess the answer’s yes—a skilled martial arts practitioner could strike the chest wall hard enough to cause heart concussion.”
Seventeen
When I get back to the office and join Ramos in the project room, there are papers everywhere.
“How’d you do?” Ramos asks.
“I’ve got proof that our killer used dim mak on Saito. We probably can’t prove it on the other victims, unless the forensic pathologist noted underlying bruises.”
Ramos nods. “You told Petrov?”
“Called him from the car with the update.” I take a seat. “How’s it going here?”
“Good.” He takes me through the piles. “I’ve got financials here, birth certificate, passport and immigration records in this pile, education records here, and I’ve kept everything on her mother separate. I’ve also added in the paperwork that was in her study—bills, her tax returns, receipts and so on.”
“Anything interesting yet?”
“Nope. She’s the model citizen.”
I spend the next hour getting into Mee’s world and by the end of that time Ramos and I both know as much about her as we can without actually knowing her personally. On paper, Mee Kim looks squeaky-clean. Good student—in fact she got good enough marks to study law or medicine but decided she wanted to teach. According to her college application, she loved children and always wanted to be a teacher. She continued with the good grades in college and was actively involved in a number of campus clubs, including the tae kwon do club. In fact, she competes in tae kwon do and is considered to be one of the top females in the US. No criminal record. She photocopies her tax return before she submits it every year and keeps the photocopy, with a note of the submission date—always on time. She donates one thousand dollars every year to charity. On Saturday mornings she works in the Korean community teaching English—for free. No speeding tickets. No parking tickets. Got her license first go at age sixteen. Registered the Hyundai Tiburon last year, and before that had two cars: a Toyota Corolla from 1999–2002 and then a Hyundai Elantra. All cars were fully paid for, no finance. She’s got a credit card but every month it’s under a thousand dollars and is paid off in full, on time. Her bank statements don’t show anything irregular, except the monthly payments from Saito. Her mother died on November 4 last year and the payments to Mee started on December 1 that year. Saito knew Sun-Mi Kim had died and that his payments had to be made directly to Mee. So Sun-Mi either contacted him toward the end, or Jun Saito had someone watching them.
“Like I said, the model citizen,” Ramos says.
“Uh-huh. I keep coming back to the father–daughter angle. I just don’t see this girl getting involved any other way.”
“No. Unless she liked older men and Saito was her lover, not her father.”
I shrug. “It’s possible, I guess. But you should have seen Bailey, her boyfriend. He seemed like a nice guy and I can’t imagine her going for such a bad boy when the boyfriend’s more like her—squeaky-clean.”
“Women go for the wrong type of man all the time.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Although for me at the moment it’s more a case of not going for the right guy—Darren Carter. I focus on Mee again. “I don’t buy it. Mee seemed so…She likes control. Everything neat and orderly. And a crime figure as a lover, that’s not orderly. But if he was her father, well, as the saying goes, You can’t choose your family. Plus I’m still not convinced she recognized Saito.”
Ramos nods, accepting the logic before moving on. “She’s only left the country once.”
“The trip to Barbados in January this year. Nothing in that.”
“No,” Ramos agrees.
The trip was a holiday with Bailey, nothing more.
“And she’s never been to Japan or Korea.” Again, I think back to the vision of Saito getting the call. What if someone was threatening his daughter? My thoughts are interrupted by Ramos’s phone vibrating on the table.
He flips it open. “Ramos…uh-huh…yeah, okay…thanks.” He flips the phone shut and looks up at me. “That was Court. From the fence and debris at the parking lot, they got one print. It matches Saito.”
“Damn.” The same end result as our DNA sample from the cigarette butt—a match with the victim.
“Uh-huh.” Ramos punches Petrov’s extension into the conference phone. “I better tell Petrov.”
Petrov picks up after two rings. “Yup.”
“Prints are back from the lab.”
“Anything?”
“They got one print, but it matches our victim, Jun Saito.”
Petrov sighs. “Okay.” He pauses. “Hey, what did you think of Mee’s file?”
“She looks pretty clean to me.”
“Me, too.” I flick the ring on my finger, keen to get moving. “Good grades, no criminal record, perfect tax record, gives to charity every year…”
“I get the picture. What about Sun-Mi Kim?”
“The father–daughter angle is looking more likely,” I say. “Immigration records place Sun-Mi Kim out of the country and in Korea for the summer in 1982.”
“And nine months later…”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay. Thanks for the update. Did Ramos tell you Mee didn’t ring into the school today?”
“No.” I look at Ramos.
“Sorry, got caught up in this.”
“I rang Montebello High, Huntova and Bailey this morning,” Petrov explains. “Mee Kim didn’t show up for work or call in sick and neither Huntova nor Bailey has heard from her. She’s definitely on the run. You’re right about the framed photos—if she’d been abducted the photos wouldn’t be missing. Plus her car’s missing, and it’s more likely she drove off in it rather than someone abducting her in her own car. It’s also possible someone came through her house after she left, but I think the rest of the house would have looked like the bedroom if it had been ransacked.”
I know from my vision at Mee’s house that Petrov’s right—she ran. But he doesn’t know that the Yakuza was on her doorstep and that there was a struggle. The crime-scene techs focused on the interior, and the backyard looked untouched anyway. I wouldn’t have noticed the few small tufts of upturned grass or a couple of broken Camellia branches if I wasn’t looking for evidence to support my vision. I can’t tell Petrov or anyone else what I know because they’d want a source. Sometimes I can get away with passing off what I see in my visions as hunches and presenting them as possibilities, and I’ve also been known to flat-out lie. I guess I could make up a source—say they won’t talk to anyone but me. I sigh…it’s going to lead to more problems than it’s
worth. For the moment, I better keep my inside knowledge of the Yakuza visit to myself. Even though in some ways Mee seems so vulnerable, so clean-cut, she fought off two male attackers—she can look after herself.
“Anyway, I’ll let you know if I get anything back on the APB. But so far she’s lying low.”
I bite my lip. “I still don’t understand why she hasn’t come to us. Why she hasn’t called.”
Ramos voices his theory. “Maybe she’s hiding something…or someone.”
“Anything to support that in the paperwork, Detective?”
“No.”
Petrov sighs. “It sure would make me feel better if she called us.”
After we hang up there’s silence for a minute before Ramos says, “So where would Mee go? Presuming Huntova and Bailey are telling the truth and she hasn’t contacted them, who would she contact?”
I’ve been trying to put myself in Mee’s shoes. On the one hand, she doesn’t want to drag an innocent bystander into a potentially deadly situation. But at the same time I think she’d be sensible and organized enough to know she had to think, and I mean really think. And to do that she’d need time. Staying with someone for a few days while she figured out what to do is her most likely move. And she’s smart enough to stay away from the obvious choices like her boyfriend or Huntova. The Yakuza, the killer and whoever was behind the hit on Saito would know where she works and who she’s sleeping with.
“She must have gone to someone she felt the Yakuza wouldn’t know about. Maybe even someone she didn’t think we’d find. So hotels and motels are out, because she’d probably have to use her credit card and she’s smart enough to know we can track that.”
Ramos puts his hands on the stack of papers. “There must be something in here.”
“True.”
“What about her students at Montebello High?”
I scrunch my face up. “I don’t see her hitting up one of her sixteen-year-old students to crash the night. But her adult students from her Saturday-morning teaching…”
Ramos nods. “They’re equals, a lot of them are probably older than her. Plus she wouldn’t have to worry about parents.”
“Exactly.” I flick through the papers. “Okay, it’s the Korean Cultural Center on Wilshire. Number 5505.” I stand and scoop up all the papers, placing them into my briefcase.
Ramos nods. “I think I’ve seen it before. Near Dunsmuir. Should only take us about fifteen minutes.” He stands up.
“I’ll drive. My car’s closer.” I’ve got a spot in the Bureau’s employee area, but Ramos’s car is in the visitor parking lot.
Wilshire’s busy, but the Korean Cultural Center is about six miles from the L.A. field office, so we make good progress.
“Take a left into Dunsmuir,” Ramos directs as we come to the corner of Wilshire and Dunsmuir and a two-story building with the Korean flag flying on top.
I swing the wheel around, and from Dunsmuir we see off-street parking for the center. “How’d you know about this?”
“I worked a homicide around this area a few years back.” He taps his head. “Agents aren’t the only ones with good memories.”
I smile and pull into one of a few empty parking spots. As we get out of the car I glance at my watch—2:20 p.m. That should give me plenty of time to interview some of Mee’s adult students and still get to kung fu.
The center’s quite large, and signs in the entrance advertise the center’s museum, exhibition area, library and auditorium. Long posters on the wall document the more recent exhibitions, and all signs are in both English and Korean Hangeul. There are also some promotional items that appear only in Korean. “Guess we should have brought Agent Kim along for this one,” I say to Ramos.
We approach the desk and a Korean woman in her thirties gives us a welcoming smile. “Good afternoon.” Like Mee and Hana, she speaks with an American accent, so she obviously grew up in the States. “Welcome to the Korean Cultural Center.”
“Thanks.” I take my ID out of my pocket. “I’m Special Agent Anderson with the FBI and this is Detective Ramos from LAPD.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “Oh, what can I do for you?”
“We’ve got some questions about one of your employees, Mee Kim.”
“Mee, yes. She’s actually one of our volunteers. She teaches English every Saturday.”
I nod. “Are you close to Mee?”
“Not really. I do work on Saturdays but we only talk to one another in passing—she’s in classes and I’m out here.”
“Have you heard from her recently?”
“No, why?”
I take a breath. “I’m afraid Mee is missing.”
“Missing?” The woman seems genuinely shocked. Either Mee’s not staying with her and hasn’t contacted her or she’s a damn good actor. “That’s terrible,” she says. “Do you think…do you think something’s happened to her?” She shakes her head. “Of course it has if she’s missing.” A small tear forms at the corner of her eye. “Poor Mee.”
I hold my hand up. “At this stage it looks like Mee has packed a bag and a few things from home and taken off. But we are worried about her, and want to help her. Is she close to anyone here? Maybe her students?”
“She’s got lots of students. She teaches five classes on Saturdays. Her first class is teaching young children Korean, but then she teaches English to adults in the next four.”
“Do you have a list of her adult pupils? It would help Mee enormously.”
The woman nods her head and taps a few things into her desktop computer. “I’ve got names, addresses and phone numbers. Does that help?”
“Definitely.”
A couple of minutes later we’ve got a list of twenty-eight names and addresses. A lot of them have cell numbers, which should make contact easier at this time of the day, when most people are probably at work. Hopefully we’ll be able to get through a chunk of them this afternoon.
“Let’s call Agent Kim,” Ramos suggests. “If these students are learning English, we may have a language problem when we’re interviewing them.”
“Good idea.” I punch in Hana’s number and update her on our situation. She agrees to be our translator for the afternoon.
We sit in the car, still in the parking lot of the Korean Cultural Center. While we wait for Hana, we split the list and start phoning. We may well be able to eliminate part of our list on the phone, and certainly if we find an English-speaker at the other end of the phone we can ask about Mee Kim.
By the time Hana arrives twenty minutes later we’ve managed English conversations with ten people out of our twenty-eight. All of them are extremely distressed by the news that Mee Kim is missing, and they all comment on how wonderful and generous she is. Their concern is genuine, and I can tell the community relies on her. She teaches their children Korean and teaches them English.
“What’s up?” Hana climbs in the backseat.
“We’ve managed to get ahold of ten people over the phone who had enough English to communicate with us. I don’t think Mee is staying with any of them, but two of the women said that she’s good friends with Sun Lee and Soon-Yi Park from her last class. Apparently it’s the advanced class, and sometimes they all go out for a late lunch straight after the lesson.”
Hana nods. “Let’s start with those two names.”
“They’ll obviously speak quite good English, but there’s no answer at their homes and we don’t have cell or current work numbers for them.”
“Okay. Well, what about her beginner students? Was there anyone you called that didn’t have much English?”
“Yup. I’ve made notes next to each number.” Ramos hands his sheet back to Hana. “NA means no answer and NE means no or not much English.”
She starts dialing the first number while Ramos and I sit twiddling our thumbs. Hana speaks in Korean, leaving me and Ramos in the dark. After a couple of minutes she hangs up. “Okay, I’ve got another two women she’s friendly with from a beginner cl
ass—Hae Koo and Mi-na Moon. Hae Koo’s on this list with an NE next to her. Do you have Mi-na Moon?” Hana asks me.
“Yup. Only a home number listed and it rang out.”
“I’ll try Sun Lee and Soon-Yi Park again.”
There’s still no answer at Sun Lee’s home, but when Hana dials Soon-Yi Park, she starts speaking in Korean.
“We’re going to Sycamore Avenue. It’s only a few blocks away. Mrs. Park saw Mee this morning.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Let’s see what she’s got to say in person.” She buckles up. “Get back onto Wilshire, heading east, and then take a right at South L.A. Brea Avenue.”
Five minutes later Hana tells me to take a right onto Pickford Street and then a left onto Sycamore. She scans the numbers as I drive slowly down the street. “Two doors down,” Hana says.
I roll the car forward two houses and pull in.
“This is it.” Hana undoes her seat belt. “Let’s go.”
Once we’re out of the car, Hana buttons up her suit jacket and runs her fingers through her hair before repositioning her hairclip. Like Mee’s house, the small lawn is neat and recently trimmed, as are the two small garden beds that contain mostly succulents. Good to see the owners are embracing native plants, in line with California’s dry weather.
We’re not even halfway up the concrete path when the front door opens. A woman in her mid-forties stands at the door, her round face tense. Rosy cheeks contrast milky skin, dark brown eyes and shoulder-length dark brown hair. She beckons us inside, rosebud lip pursed. She says something in rapid Korean to Hana, who nods and gives a brief answer back.
“She just said how worried she is about Mee,” Hana relays.
Once we’re inside, Hana introduces us, talking to Mrs. Park in Korean, and to me and Ramos in English. We shake hands with her briefly and she brings out a pot of coffee—obviously made while she was waiting for us. She pours four coffees and sets them out in front of us.
“Thank you,” I say.
Mrs. Park gives a small nod before launching into something in Korean.
