There was little need for words, but they were drawn to each other like survivors of a ship wreck. As astonished survivors staggering onto the beach, there was now a bond between them that neither would have chosen. The worn shoes, polyester clothing, rough hands and dirty purse showed how tough life had been. Choi did not look much better. He had not aged well, even his clothes looked tired.
He finished his food and wiped his mouth and stood.
"I promise nothing," Choi said, writing down her phone number, and walked away. But in the end, his conscience gave way. He sometimes wondered if the bad times he endured in America were because of the lie he told the Dumok and for stealing Nara’s money. Fate walks on whispers, as softly as a kiss and deadly as poison.
It was Choi who had come up with the idea, who had brooded on it, second-guessing himself a hundred times, and then, finally, convinced Nara that it was the best thing to do. "Save yourself," Choi said. "It is better to lose one child than two to the system. You are young. You can get remarried. But not with that one around," he said, pointing.
The day came when she had to give Choi her answer. Nara stared into the mirror. A death mask stared back. She had defied her father by not saving herself for an appropriate marriage, disgraced the family name, and was less than nobody. There would be no death mask for her, only an unmarked pauper's grave. She was no longer in Korea. She was in America. She would change her fate.
Nara did not go to work that day. Instead, she came home with a plastic wading pool for the backyard. Choi had come early and brought candies for the girls. He blew up the plastic pool and filled it with water from the garden hose while the girls shrieked with delight. The little pool thrilled the girls and their shrieking and splashing filled the air.
Two hours later, the terrible deed was done. Choi walked out into the sun-blinded street to his car. He could barely stand. Leaning into the car he started it, lit a cigarette and stood outside waiting for the interior to cool. An idea is light like a cloud, but reality has the weight of stones. His mind raced and his heart pounded, gradually, his heart slowed, the forgotten cigarette burned his fingers. The ashes fell to the ground, and he smeared his gray ashen fingers against his un-pressed navy suit.
One month later, Nara looked out the window overlooking the backyard. An hour had passed and Nara waited, watching. She saw her daughter sitting alone in the small pool. Nara was sure that soon, very soon, she would hear splashing and happy noises coming from the pool where the girl sat, motionless. But the afternoon passed and still she did not move. Finally, Nara went and pulled the little girl out of the water and tried to feed her open mouth but the rice just fell out into a clump onto the floor. Nara screamed, her fists clenched, the strength draining out of her legs into the soggy grass. Fate walks on whispers. Soon after, Nara Song left Koreatown. She severed all ties, changed her name and never looked back. Before Nara disappeared, she made a secret pact with Choi to never tell anyone what they had done.
Chapter 20
The phone rang. It was Heather.
"Holly, you have to cover for me," Heather blurted.
"Details, details!"
"Holly..." Heather stopped. "I'm seeing him tonight," Heather whispered conspiratorially. “The cop. We're going out tonight," Heather confided, her voice excited. Holly laughed and tried her best not to let her surprise show as the words hung awkwardly between them. Heather never actually went out with anyone. She kept her affairs and crushes to imaginary and emotional ones. Until now.
"Cover for me, Holly. Gordon thinks I'm going out with you!" Then Heather was gone.
"To you. The exception to all the rules," Heather lifted her glass merrily. She eyed Detective Mick Chang merrily across the table. He was not in uniform tonight. He wore a dark corduroy jacket with jeans and faux crocodile shoes that were unnaturally long and narrow with square tips. Heather didn't care. The effort was enough. He was enough.
"I'll drink to that," Mick's eyes were full as he met her gaze. Heather laughed as she studied him over the rim of her wine glass. She resisted her desire to reach out and touch his face the skin was so smooth. He was so damn charismatic. There was something brash and daring that she liked, something she didn't understand.
"Top up, madam?" The sommelier was deferential as he poured from the near-empty bottle of a Premier Cru Chablis, a 2005. A bus-boy cleared the empty oyster shells.
"Try the scallops, dear," Heather said, as she reached over and pushed the plate across the table.
"Another bottle, please," she chirped to the Sommelier, "Actually, perhaps a demi, please? We don't want to get pulled over."
As Mick told stories, Heather's laughter filled the room. She was at her most charming tonight. Not being the hostess, not on show, she relished the freedom to just enjoy herself. Mick noticed the heels of her shoes, sexy and beautifully crafted by her favorite Italian designer. She, too, was distracted. She focused on his face, his strong and muscular shoulders, so disproportionately large yet graceful and smooth, deliberate and dangerous in his exactness. She stared at his forearm wanting to stroke the muscles in his arms. His hair was black with an unruly cowlick that fell in front of his mocking eyes.
The heiress loved her dining companion. She was happy tonight as she lifted the glass of Chablis to her lips.
At home, her husband, Gordon would be finishing his evening cocktail of medication: a red one, a green one, a blue one and two yellows... or was it two reds? No matter, he would take his pills with a glass of ice-cold water from the pitcher by his bedside and put himself to bed, looking only for the dog. He would not even think about Heather, his mind everywhere else but on her.
"Had to shoot the dog," Mick took another bite and swallowed, talking with his mouth full. "Pitbull. No choice. The suspect started shooting and unleashed the dog," Mick shook his head. "What a cluster-fuck." Mick reached for his wine. "This any good?" He took a swig.
Heather sighed happily to herself. He was real. It was only him that made her feel alive. He was the cock-of-the-walk in her pinched, circumscribed, sterile, white-breaded, blue-blooded world.
"Darling, pardon me a moment," Heather lightly touched his arm and sprang up turning all heads as she made her way to the powder room.
Two men, lawyers, dressed in bespoke suits watched Heather then turned and looked as Mick tore off a large chunk of baguette and stuffed it into his jacket pocket with one hand while texting with another. They shook their heads and exchanged glances.
Mick's phone rang. The exchange was brief. He gulped down the last of it. He helped himself to some more bread and wiped his fingers on the tablecloth just as Heather reappeared.
"I got called out. I gotta go, sorry Babe."
He was unapologetic as his mind was already calculating the shortest route to the crime scene.
"Go, dear," Heather demurred, reaching for her wine glass. "But text me later so I know you are safe."
Heather crossed her legs absentmindedly and nursed her wine.
He had chowed. His mind was elsewhere now. He made an illegal U-turn, tires screeching and peeled away into the night.
Mick Chang knew well the parking lot that had once served as a meeting ground for drug dealers and prostitutes until the City had cleaned it up and made the owner put up a fence. He parked and climbed out of the car. His nostrils flared as he kicked open the door and walked into the Club Kiki to investigate the source of the call.
Off to the side there was a narrow flight of stairs.
He skipped the stairs on his toes two and three at a time and kicked that door open and stopped, surprised at the sight of marble floors, a French chandelier and a large lobby with no furniture. The lights were off here, too. He unclipped a small flashlight and looked around. On each interior wall were doors. Just doors. One, two three... ten, he counted. As he was walking down the corridor, he saw a room with ornate brass handles. He knew instinctively that the call had come from behind those doors. He drew his weapon and kicked it open.
It was dark, but the city lights were coming in now through the windows. Something had happened here, everyone left, the last person out had shut off the lights. Smoke curled thinly from an ashtray, and Mick saw an abandoned cigarette with a very long ash.
Out of the corner of his eye Detective Mick Chang saw the fleshy buttocks of a large man in a dark suit laying face down, his pants down around his ankles. He shone his flashlight over the body, and caught the red soles of a woman's black high heels sticking out between the legs of the fleshy white buttocks. It was then he caught the sight of the girl underneath him. She gasped for air, then shielded her eyes from bright flashlight with her thin arm. Her blouse was open. She had straight long black hair shiny with blood. The bloodstains on the man's dark suit were wet. The suit looked expensive. There were hundred dollar bills stuck to the blood like post-it notes.
"Micky," It was that little girl voice that triggered his memory. "Remember me?" the girl said, playing with her hair. "It's me. Naomi Linser."
Detective Mick Chang started. He knew the voice instantly. It was the distinct voice of Naomi Lee Linser. He looked up. She was beautiful, even in a blood splattered sequin dress. The curve of her pale spread legs, hips and tiny waist from under the half undressed body had a strange hypnotic effect on Mick.
"Can you help me get up?"
Detective Chang lifted the body while Naomi wiggled her way out. Naomi sat, leaning on her hip, dazed, oblivious to the fact she was splattered with blood.
Detective Mick Chang had first known Naomi when she was an adolescent, a minor, victim of a sex crime. Her hair was longer now, loose and flowing which accentuated her exquisitely carved features and her unusually large and impossible gray eyes.
Naomi wore dark purple lipstick, which was smeared on now like a clown. Yet the melancholy of her youth remained. Now here she was, hesitant, her eyes uncertain. That part hadn't changed.
Detective Chang shook his head and stood up, glanced around, and grabbed a glass from the large table that still had booze in it. He took a quick sniff.
Naomi Linser pushed her hair around nervously, rubbing her chest while Mick Chang took in the scene. It was then the detective noticed the small box next to the body. The box was open, inside was a solitary diamond on a simple gold chain. He used his flashlight and shone it hard, the jewel's inner light refracted patterns on the creamy plaster ceiling. For a moment the perfection of the simple beauty of the glimmering jewel overcame the horrific crime scene.
Sirens were in the distance. Naomi caught the look from the detective and their eyes met.
"My chest hurts so much," Naomi whined. The sound of a solo trumpet came up in the distance. Some guy up on his roof practicing, Mick thought.
Finally, they heard the sound of squad cars wailing in the distance, then the thump of boots on the stairs, the beams of flashlights criss-crossing on the walls.
A crowd had gathered, walking in and out of the room. Someone took a blanket and covered the sad nakedness of the late Councilman Willy McClellan.
More sirens grew louder in the distance, competing now with the plaintive trumpet. Mick Chang was getting dizzy himself. There was no oxygen in this place. That was the problem. He went and opened a window.
"In here," Mick called out to the cars below.
"Micky, you'll help me again, like last time, won't you? Say you will?" Naomi whined, prettily. Their eyes met and spoke in silence.
"You have the right to remain silent," Detective Chang began his catechism.
Chapter 21
It was on this hot summer night that a highly respected politician was found dead in the VIP room of a Koreatown room salon, and Naomi Linser arrested and charged with first degree murder. Los Angeles, the ever-hungry city, badly needed a sensational distraction. Even Hollywood was not enough.
Charles Manson.
O.J. Simpson.
The Olympics.
Rodney King.
Arnold.
Christopher Dorner.
Los Angeles, heir to Rome in its decline, perpetual bread, corruption and media circuses and, now, it would be the summer of the sensational trial of Naomi Linser.
Beautiful murderess.
Victim.
Seductress.
Chameleon.
Whore.
Lamb.
Slut.
Classy or trashy? Even Holly didn't know.
By the next morning, Naomi Linser caught the attention of the American public. She was an exquisite, petulant party girl, photographed handcuffed, with a half smile, being pushed into the back seat of a police car wearing a sequined dress and clutching a Chanel handbag. The photo became ubiquitous, and Naomi Linser was crowned the poster girl for every sin in Koreatown - both real and imagined. The mug shot pictured Naomi Linser wearing a fiery purple shade of lipstick that summer when the heat was the worst in California history. She was arrested for first-degree murder, yet there was a melancholy that the cameras captured and which captivated the Americans.
By the next day the Councilman's untimely demise became a media circus. Beloved bridge-builder and peacemaker between the whites, the blacks and the Koreans now murdered by a beautiful young Korean girl in what was described, charitably, as a "house of harlots". The papers were just getting warmed up. The public fascination was endless, Holly, too, hung onto every word and every grainy photo.
Chapter 22
“The accused in the murder of Councilman McClellan is a young girl, Naomi Linser…” Holly spoke the words that scrolled across the bottom of the tv screen which hung over the coffee bar as Kendall’s back was to the screen.
"Do you think that girl, Naomi Linser, could possibly be Wolf’s step-daughter?” Kendall Taylor leaned forward across the café table in a hushed whisper. “I’m certain it’s her. The thought simply gives me the chills.”
It was eight in the morning as Holly and Kendall drank coffee and picked at fruit plates on the rooftop of the Four Seasons. Kendall Taylor took a sip, pensive. “If it’s her, then it proves my instincts were right that Wolf was framed. Is she a victim or a murderer? Or can she be both?”
Holly had no answer.
"It's karma, is what it is," Kendall decided in her usual definitive manner. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Naomi Linser is a bad seed. Just like her mother." Kendall's green eyes were those of a hawk, Holly thought. Why it mattered so much, even Kendall probably didn't know, even after all these years. Jealousy, revenge, spite, ambition, the full quiver of arrows that humans rely on.
"I don’t know how common the name Linser is, but I want you to go visit Wolf and find out if it’s the same girl who had Wolf put away.” Kendall's eyes were sad. "I gave to him unconditionally. All I wanted in return was his loyalty. I never knew about the other woman. It never even crossed my mind that he would cheat on me, much less leave... that other side of a man.” Kendall's voice faded.
Holly liked Kendall, her brusque style didn't bother her at all. Kendall sat silently, pensive, thinking about Wolf in a detached sort of way.
"May I smoke?" she asked Holly. Without waiting for an answer, Kendall took a slim orange cigarette case from her bag and lit up. She took a long drag and watched the thin curl of smoke until there was nothing more. "Put a little money on Wolf's books. Just enough for snacks and to win him over - but not too much. Keep him hungry and win his trust."
Kendall had a funny pained look in her eyes. "Holly, have you ever been in love, betrayed and left for another woman?"
"No," Holly said, wriggling her nose.
"I hope you never experience it, because vengeance is insidious. And it becomes an obsession and fills your heart with hate. I want to destroy her the way she destroyed my life. I want to know every detail of that other woman. You find yourself wondering what she had that you didn't have."
"Kendall, you can get any man," said Holly, sincerely. "Why not just move on and forget about him?"
"Pain," Kendall began, "is better than nothing. When I fee
l nothing, I question whether I'm alive. With pain, at least I know I'm still here. That woman is going to rue the day she ever touched my man," Kendall growled.
Holly speared a slice of mango as she tried to contemplate the depths of Kendall's fury. The morning news shows were still on. Holly's eyes were drawn by the already ubiquitous photo of Naomi Linser. The latest graphic read "The Virgin Whore".
Holly left the Four Seasons and went back to her office. A homeless man wandered by shaking a cup for coins. He then turned and Holly watched as he headed the other way searching the streets, restless, searching. She hoped he would find whatever he was looking for, or perhaps the searching was the point, and there was nothing to find.
Chapter 23
Alexis Linser, a woman of an‘age certain’ walked into American Legal Services lobby and sat wearily in a tired vinyl wingback chair. It was obvious why Wolf had left Kendall Taylor for her. She was willowy and beautiful, dressed in Italian knits and carrying an Hermés bag. But her face was tense and slightly contorted and her eyebrows furrowed. She moved as if she were floating, unhurriedly, her clothing moving with her body. She had hair as black as a raven falling softly around her shoulders. Her face was unmarred by time. She looked as cold as a diamond until you saw her eyes, warm and liquid and sad. As great as her beauty was, her eyes told a story that it had been far more of a curse than a blessing.
Kate Hong's eyes narrowed, watching, calculating. Even Kate was stunned by her beauty - and the resemblance.
"Hello," Kate greeted, her chin out and nose high, her voice in that sweet professional sales pitch that worked so well. "You are more beautiful than your daughter if that is even possible."
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