A Quiet Neighbor

by Harper Kim

  When Won Bae died from being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Gramps took on the duty of finding Won Bae’s wife and child and delivering the difficult news. But when he met Halmoni and Min Ah, he fell in love.

  Halmoni married Gramps out of survival and for the benefit of her daughter, Min Ah. Without Won Bae and after the destruction and unrest from the war, she had no future in Korea and her daughter had even less. But with Gramps, she had a direct path to America and a chance for a better life for Min Ah. At that point, she was a martyr, believing her life was over and her only purpose was to protect her daughter and do anything and everything to ensure her daughter had a better life than she.

  Before she left with Gramps to America, she had to deal with downcast eyes and cold stares from being disowned from her mother-in-law and her late-husband’s family. Her own family was shamed and embarrassed but she held her ground. She couldn’t think of her wants and needs. She couldn’t think of her name being burned or her husband’s name stripped from her. She could and would only think of Min Ah.

  Maybe if she had a son, she would have spun her fate differently. She would have served under her mother-in-law’s iron hand and watched her son be cherished and raised as Won Bae’s son: proud and honorable. But since she bore a daughter, she chose a drastic and dishonorable fate. She chose an older Caucasian man whom she learned to love, and lived the rest of her life forever grateful.

  With a job at the USAF academy in Colorado, Gramps was able to take Halmoni and Min Ah with him to America as wife and adopted daughter in 1956. Min Ah was three then, and already knew the tribulation of being rejected and loved. Halmoni always wondered if it was her fault Min Ah turned out so weak. Maybe she protected her too much from the whispers that nipped at their backs and the disappointment that clouded their hearts. Min Ah was young, but the discontent that surrounded her was strong and ate through the protective shield that Halmoni worked so hard to provide.

  Living in Colorado changed little. The guilt Halmoni felt toward Won Bae drew a wedge between Gramps and her entire heart. Gramps gave her the space she needed to weep and feel guilty. He gave her time to adjust and morn for Won Bae and her country. He might have found and saved her out of duty and respect for Won Bae, but he grew fast in love. He didn’t expect more than what she was willing to give and he did his best to care for Min Ah as his own.

  Each time he held Min Ah he wished for a child of his own, one that solidified their marriage, but he sacrificed his needs for Halmoni’s. Each time he mentioned a child, she clammed up, the guilt overpowering.

  After watching the years slip by and Halmoni’s unhappiness grow more apparent, he decided to move to Los Angeles where there was a growing Korean population. Gramps noticed the change in Halmoni immediately. She relaxed, smiled more, and she finally took a chance on their relationship. She began to see him in a different light. No longer was he a foreigner who was to be feared and distrusted, but a man full of compassion and heart.

  While Halmoni gave her new life a second chance, my mom grew unnoticed. Min Ah was quiet, obedient, and sensitive. Growing up, she knew she was different and felt out of place. She didn’t feel like she belonged anywhere and didn’t see the point in expressing her discomfort. The move from Colorado to L.A. made her retreat more deeply into her shell. Halmoni and Gramps were building on their relationship, getting closer, and ultimately leaving less time for Min Ah to have Halmoni all to herself. She held resentment and that resentment burned long. Bottled up with her emotions, she cried in desperation for a way out, a place to belong, someone to look at her the way Gramps looked at Halmoni.

  No one seemed to hear her anguished plea. Then one spring day, when the sun was warm and the breeze crisp, Min Ah almost took her life. Halmoni never forgot that frightening day she received a call from Jay Kang. It was three o’clock.

  My father was a student attending Los Angeles City College and took the bus to school. He was at the bus stop when he noticed her. There was something off about her demeanor that made him take a second look. Quietly, she rose from the bench seat and walked stoically toward oncoming traffic. Reacting, he grabbed her, pulling her back to safety. My mom found her knight in shining armor and my dad found a woman he could control.

  The marriage came quickly. Although Halmoni didn’t completely approve of Jay or his parents, she couldn’t ignore the fact that Jay saved her daughter’s life and the only person that could make life worth living for Min Ah was Jay; her hands were tied.

  Following the Korean tradition, Min Ah moved in with Jay’s parents into a small, two bedroom apartment in Koreatown and quickly tried for a child. To Jay’s and his parent’s angst, Min Ah had a hard time getting pregnant. She took Chinese herbs and medicine, which seemed to help at first, but ended in a few miscarriages. Min Ah’s failure to get pregnant made living in the house exponentially harder, especially since she was married to the only son.

  Min Ah finally gave birth to me but wasn’t able to have any more kids.

  Since a grandson wasn’t in their future, Jay’s parents moved back to Korea with their eldest daughter, whose husband landed an elite job as a professor in Seoul.

  Jay’s parents left the family restaurant to Jay; almost immediately, he made a bad investment and had to sell. My family moved to Rowland Heights and with his parent’s financial help, started another Korean BBQ restaurant. Halmoni and Gramps moved in with us to help raise me until I was old enough to attend school. Then Halmoni and Gramps decided to move to San Diego to retire after Gramps’ first medical scare. He was aging and Halmoni felt it was time to put his needs first. He made so many sacrifices for her and her family, she couldn’t let him die without returning the favor and showing her appreciation.

  Gramps always talked about retiring in S.D. They moved to Santee and cashed out a mobile home in a small trailer park community, a two-hour drive south down the I-15. The rest of the money they kept accessible for medical bills and for my education. Gramps distrusted Jay, and feared my dad would become reckless with his love of gambling, leaving me with nothing for my college funds. They lived simply but happily. They took me in when I was entering the seventh grade and raised me ever since.

  The transition was difficult at first, being away from my best friend and nuclear family, but as time moved on I became grateful and craved the attention they gave me. With Halmoni’s and Gramps’ support, I graduated from Miramar College’s San Diego Regional Public Safety Training Institute and went to work for the San Diego Police Department. Then at twenty-eight, I became one of the youngest homicide detectives in my division. I would never have been able to pursue my dream of becoming a homicide detective if it weren’t for them. My mom and dad would have probably wanted me to be a lawyer or doctor. Now, the job Gramps helped me achieve was causing me to break my three o’clock date with him.

  When I enter Gramps’ room, I notice the blue curtain is again pulled tight across the divide. A thin piece of plastic is all that shields visitors from reality, all that lets the dying rest in peace. Prying my eyes away, I focus on the man sleeping soundly to my right: Gramps.

  The blinds are closed, which is just as well considering the thick blanket of fog that I had to walk through to get here. Patients shouldn’t have to subject themselves to the dreadful weather outside these plain white walls. It can’t be good for their already damaged psyches.

  Grabbing the chair from the corner and dragging it bedside, I sit holding Gramps’ hands, rubbing them as if trying to start a fire. Blood moves slowly in his veins, at the rate dictated by the monitors and machines keeping his heart alive. His hands feel cold to the touch, lifeless.

  Once his hands hold a semblance of warmth, I tuck them under the thick quilt I brought from his home and sit back in the uncomfortable green-vinyl chair. Since Halmoni’s passing, I have taken it upon myself to be the sole caretaker of the home I grew up in, the home that brought comfort, the home that knew and breathed love from every corner. No changes have been made, nothin
g boxed up or thrown out. Only the dust and cobwebs have been cleared. I continue to pay the utility bills and maintain the property because I have to keep on hoping—although improbable and childishly optimistic—that Gramps will wake up.

  “Sorry, Gramps. Sorry for missing our three o’clock date.” Holding a thousand-yard stare, I squeeze his hands. “The house is good, still holding on and all…just missing you and Halmoni.”

  My exhaustion makes it hard to hold back the lump nagging my throat, the burn behind my eyes. I feel alone and vulnerable and I hate that. I crave to be held in arms that could warm my soul and ease the pain I feel.

  “I wish you were awake…I need your guidance…”

  Leaning back against the chair, absently lifting the front legs an inch off the ground before letting gravity pull it back down, I sigh. The weight of the day has taken its toll. Pulling my ponytail tighter against my head, I feel the inner dip just above the eye, just under the brow ridge, start to twitch—my body’s way of telling me that if I don’t get some sleep soon, my body is going to crash.

  The meeting with Michael Cobb hadn’t gone as well as I hoped. Even though I am not supposed to, even though my commanding officer warned me during training that I might be tempted to target a culprit solely on a gut feeling or personal vendetta—but shouldn’t—there is a large part of me that wants Michael Cobb to be my UNSUB.

  He was the last to make contact with the vic, so it is understandable to presume there had been a lover’s spat and things got out of hand. The jury would sympathize. He is a good kid; people love him, and his dad is Nick Cobb, one of the best prosecutors in San Diego County. He’d serve a reduced sentence in a minimum-security pen, that I am sure of…

  Look at me, I’m trying to spin a story like one a lawyer would spin to make a case, a story that sounds good to the ear but doesn’t quite hit the mark on paper.

  Deep down, I already knew by my first encounter with Michael that he isn’t my guy. My gut feeling said Michael is innocent. God, what am I doing? I shouldn’t even be assigned to this case.

  If Pickering or Malone found out that I know Brett—have a history with the guy—I would be thrown off the case, or worse, I’d lose my job. Jeopardizing the case would attract negative media attention and the public would have one more reason to distrust the authorities. Not something the station wants or has time to deal with.

  Why does the past still haunt me? Why can’t I forget about Brett?

  The problem is this: if Michael isn’t the UNSUB then the man I know as Brett Ficks has little or no means of escape. Brett is their number one suspect and it doesn’t look good. I am grasping at straws—bent and whole—to get him off the hook. Why am I risking my career for a guy I barely know?

  There is no question that Michael’s grief is real. No question that the tears and confusion were due to his overwhelming love for the victim and his utter shock at the news of his then girlfriend’s sudden death.

  His parents, on the other hand, are sketchy. Especially the mother. Vivien Cobb immediately went on the defensive and tried covering for her son and family. Unfortunately, the mother’s alibi checks out. Mr. and Mrs. Cobb were at a charity gala in Del Mar surrounded by hundreds of the most affluent San Diegans—a solid half-hour drive away—only to return around midnight to a quiet house with Michael in his room and his soft snores playing accompaniment to the music pumping from his ear buds.

  The fact Michael wasn’t able to provide a decent alibi, the fact he voluntarily admitted that he did indeed see Loral the night of the murder and had argued with her in the hours beforehand—these facts got my detective juices flowing. Unfortunately, there is no evidence or link tying him to the scene of the crime; everything is circumstantial.

  Then there is his father, Nick Cobb, the affluent prosecutor who is able to surround Michael with the best council a suspect could have. I had the privilege of seeing Nick in action on previous cases and he wasn’t given the name “Hangman” for nothing. Give an inch and he’d have you escorted out by the Bailiff in cuffs by the end of the hearing, whether you were on trial or not (he holds the informal State of California record for incarcerating perjured witnesses, something he is proud of to no end and will discuss readily after his third martini).

  Although the prospect is unlikely, I am still keeping Michael on my short list of suspects.

  Chapter Fifteen:

  Wednesday, June 20, 2012

  9:30 P.M.

  Detective Kylie Kang:

  Upon entering my empty apartment, I decide it is about time I get myself a cat or at least a goldfish to come home to. No dogs, though. That would be too much of a time investment considering I barely have time to grocery shop. Days like today make me wish I had a roommate, boyfriend, or better yet, a family to call and rant to. I miss not being able to lay out on the porch with my head on Halmoni’s lap, while I dish about my exhausting day.

  I could talk to Halmoni about anything. I’d talk about a case that was bothering me, problems with the guys at work, issues with men and horrible first dates, nightmares I had the night before—anything and everything that needed soothing. Halmoni would always lend a patient ear and a shoulder to cry on. She would never judge or criticize. Halmoni was the heart I need at times like these. And now, nearing the age of thirty, the emptiness from being completely alone in the world is starting to be too much.

  I’m not one of those women who cry about a white hair or a pre-wrinkle. I’m not one to worry about aging or looking ten years younger. But I am scared about being destined to live the rest of my life alone. I think I jinxed myself when it comes to men. I worry about sharing my mom’s fate.

  Switching on the lights, I cross the entryway to the living room and click on the air conditioner. Being closed up all day, the room is stifling hot and stuffy as hell. Opening a window would just let in smells from the busy city—smog, cigarettes, piss, and tar—or bugs. I hate bugs. Lacking the energy to even take a nice cool shower, I settle for a glass of wine, kick off my house slippers and slump into my comfy leather sofa.

  My hectic day started at six this morning. I received a call about a possible homicide at Patrick Henry High School. With barely four hours of sleep under my belt I took a quick shower, brushed, dressed and rushed out the door. My wet hair and the lingering morning chill brought a shiver to my skin as I walked to the car. These early summer days can be hot and oppressive in Southern California, but the pre-dawn fog still cools the early morning hours considerably. The sun was just up, clocking in for another scorcher of a day, blazing bright and slanted, cutting through the haze. It still smelled early, like wet sidewalks, sprinklers, lawn and gro-mulch.

  Arriving in forty minutes flat, I was last on-scene. There were three black-and-whites and a crime lab van parked in the Faculty Lot and two more cruisers blocking off the street entrance and exit. After flashing my badge to the officer at the blockade, I was directed down the small service road behind campus, toward what looked like the auto shop yard. The hull of a rusted-out Camaro sat atop a lift, appearing to be more Bondo than steel. An array of bumpers lined the back fence on an enormous rack. The two roll-up doors connecting the yard to the classroom were closed tight. The area was already taped and cordoned off, starting from the edge of the classroom building, extending through the handball courts, and ending at the top of the asphalt footpath where it met up with the road above.

  Several officers stood along the sidewalk up there, their heads bobbing in conversation, feet planted wide, hands on their hips or folded across their chests as they chewed the fat. At the epicenter, a small flower garden. Crime scene techs moved busily in the garden, snapping photos and collecting evidence. At least I was ahead of the media. No white vans with phallic antennae rising up, no choppers or camera crews could be seen or heard.

  I spotted Pickering awkwardly standing by a tree, brushing crumbs off his shirt; possibly a bagel, more likely a doughnut. Judging by his posture, he had only downed one cup of coffee and desperately n
eeded a second. Digging my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket, I walked over for an update.

  “Pickering, what have we got?”

  “Kang. You don’t happen to have a nice hot cup of java in that car of yours?”

  “No, but I’ll be sure to call one in for you when I get the chance.”

  Grumbling, Pickering started filling me in as we walked over to the area cordoned off by yellow tape. “Vic is female. Young, between sixteen and twenty. Caucasian, blue eyes, brunette. Five-seven, one-ten. No ID. Checking prints now. Bagged a cellphone, battery dead, so we got one of the techs on that—cellphones are appendages for a teenager, may as well be surgically attached. ME is on the scene, calls TOD between nine and midnight. Janitor found her when he came in this morning.”

  “Sounds pretty…is she?”

  “I’m not even going to go there, but I see where you’re going with this. Media?”

  “They’re going to be all over this.”

  “Which is why your little ME buddy is working her little yoga’d ass off trying to clear the body out before a camera crew catches wind. But being your buddy and all, Eve said she’d wait to remove the body until after you see it. Glad you could finally join us so the show can go on.”

  “Hey, don’t give me that look.” Uncomfortable with Pickering’s peculiar animosity regarding my close friendship with the ME, I ducked under the barricade tape and smoothed the flyaways back from my face as I walked. Without breaking stride, I pulled a pair of nitrile gloves out of my pocket and began gloving up as I spoke. “So anyways, what was the vic doing on school grounds? Isn’t school out?”

  Pickering also fished out a pair of gloves and sauntered beside me. “Getting ready for summer school, fooling around with her gearhead boyfriend, meeting up with friends, who knows? You’re a girl. What would you be doing?”

  “I wasn’t that kind of girl.”