A Quiet Neighbor

by Harper Kim

  I shrug. “You think she could pass as a model?”

  “Ky—”

  “I’d like to continue the interrogation if you don’t mind. We’re wasting precious time here.”

  “Just tell me you’re good.”

  “I’m good.”

  Waiting a few beats, he eyes me and then moves aside. I know Pickering isn’t going to let me off that easily, but I hope he knows that if something is going on, I have my reasons. But he’ll bring it up again and when he does, I’ll have to be prepared.

  Knocking softly against the bedroom door, I wait a few seconds before cracking it open. Two girls are huddled on the bottom bunk, both still wearing their pajamas from the night before. The older of the two rocks the younger one side-to-side, trying to evoke a sense of calm. It doesn’t seem to be working.

  “Hi,” I kneel down to be at eye level, “my name is Kylie, but you can call me Ky. All my friends do.”

  The older one gives me a weary once-over, lifts her chin, and says, “We’re not friends.” The girl has some spunk. Which is good. Means she’ll probably end up okay.

  “True, but I’d like to be your friend.”

  “But you’re a cop.”

  “Yes, but cops are friendly if you give them a chance to be. Please, let me try. I’m here to help find out what happened to your sister. But I can’t do that without your help. Will you help me?”

  The oldest nods, hesitantly. “My name is Tory, and this is my younger sister, Bella. I’m six and she’s five. But I’m turning seven next month. Loral was supposed to take me to the park, just the two of us.” Her voice trails off and she starts whimpering softly.

  “No fair. I wanna go too.” Bella sits up, pouting and wiping off the tears and snot that stain her chubby face, suddenly unaware of the reason for her sadness.

  “Don’t worry Bella, we’re not going anymore,” Tory says softly.

  Uncomfortable, I stand up, anxiously searching the room for something with which to distract the girls. There is a framed collage of photos hanging on the wall above a plain wooden desk. The collage has pictures of the three girls; some are individual photos, but most show all three of them smiling and acting goofy. The good times.

  “When was this picture taken?”

  I stand in front of the collage with my back turned toward the girls. It takes a few seconds, but Tory takes the bait. She walks over and stands beside me, curious. I point to a picture of the three sisters dressed in Halloween costumes: Bella as a pumpkin, Tory a mermaid, and Loral a nurse-slut. All three are smiling but Loral’s eyes show a vacancy I cannot depict.

  “That was Halloween. I was five, still a baby.”

  “Oh?” I manage to stifle a giggle, trying to keep a straight face. “The three of you did a lot of things together?”

  Tory looks back at Bella, nodding.

  “It looks like you guys had fun. Did everyone have fun that Halloween?”

  Tory shakes her head.

  “What happened?”

  Fiddling with the hem of her shirt, Tory continues to shake her head.

  “It’s okay. Remember I’m one of the good guys.”

  Cocking her head, Tory gives one long examining look before she sighs and whispers, “Daddy and Mommy didn’t like Loral’s costume. They fight.”

  I nod, understanding. If I wore that outfit in public when I was sixteen, Gramps and Halmoni would’ve flipped.

  “Do your mommy and daddy fight often?”

  Tory nods warily. “That was the first time Daddy ever yelled at Loral…but Mommy and Daddy yell at each other a lot.” She whispers, “They think we don’t know but I’m old enough to know when they are mad.” Tory pauses and motions me to come closer. Tory presses a hand to my ear and whispers, “Sometimes Bella doesn’t understand, because she’s still a baby.”

  “Ah. Do you know what your daddy and mommy fight about?”

  Tory fidgets with the hem of her shirt again. “Sleepovers…I think. Daddy and Loral doesn’t like it when Mommy comes home late. Sometimes she has sleepovers.”

  “Why do you think your mommy has sleepovers?”

  “Her hair is a little messy and she’s wearing the same clothes and she smells funny. When she sleeps at home and wakes up she’s prettier.”

  “Oh, I see. Do you know who your mommy has sleepovers with?”

  Tory looks up at the ceiling, squishing her face trying to concentrate, but when nothing clicks she shakes her head.

  Hmmm. So there may be a mystery man worth looking into. I get the picture. Trouble in paradise. Wife sneaks out with lover and comes home late. Daughter finds out, is distressed and embarrassed by Mom, causing a fight, and possible murder? Did the vic get in the way of a lover’s tryst gone wrong? Did the other man not like competing for Tess’s attention? Did Brett know? I’ll have to ask. But first, I’ll have to conduct a second interview—outside the home—with Tess Holmes regarding this new information.

  I put the nagging thought into my back pocket and hurriedly move to my next question. There is only so much questioning a six-year-old attention span and emotional cache can handle. I don’t like wasting precious time and resources.

  “Did your sister look worried about something? Angry? Sad?”

  Tory shakes her head warily.

  Bella takes an interest in our conversation and walks over, tugging on Tory’s shirt. Tory leans in and Bella whispers loudly, “She was upset at Mommy.”

  Tory glances up at me hesitantly and then turns back to Bella to tell her to go back to the bed and color. Frowning, Bella stomps to the bed.

  “She was mad at Mike not Mommy,” Tory says defensively.

  “Mike? Who’s Mike?”

  “Her BOY-friend,” Bella giggles from the bed.

  That makes sense. An attractive girl would have a boyfriend in high school. If Tess was having an affair, wouldn’t the vic confide in her boyfriend about it?

  “And why was she mad at Mike?”

  Motioning for me to move in closer (the girl really likes telling secrets), Tory says, “They did something bad.”

  “Oh? What did they do?”

  “Loral didn’t know I saw but I did. I closed the door fast like Loral told me to do when I saw Mommy and Daddy doing something bad one time. I didn’t tell anyone. Promise you won’t tell anyone. Pinkie-swear.”

  I smile. “I promise,” and stick out my right pinkie for the sacred oath.

  “Is that why Loral was mad at Mike? Because he made her do something bad?”

  Tory shakes her head. “No,” her eyes twinkle. “Loral promised she wasn’t going to do that again. She never breaks her promises…”

  “Tory, what did Mike do that made Loral mad?”

  “He stole something in her notebook.”

  “Oh? What was that?”

  Tory shrugs. “Some paper. She wrote in the notebook a lot. I got ten dollars to keep the secret.” Tory’s gray-blue eyes widen in worry. “You won’t tell him I told, right?”

  “Pinkie-swear.”

  Tory sighs, relieved, and smiles the all-too-trusting smile of a six-year-old, turning seven.

  Pickering knocks on the open door as he enters. His bulbous forehead has four deep creases and his beady eyes wear deep purple bags. Tory looks up and freezes, instantly terrified of the bulky frowning man in the room, and hides behind me.

  “Are we almost done here?” Ugh…he sounds like a man on an angry mission.

  “Just about.” I motion him away so the girls don’t wet the carpet.

  When he gets the hint, he throws up his hands and sheepishly backs out of the room. As the door closes behind him, Bella asks, “Who’s that? Is he a bad guy?”

  “No sweetie, he’s one of the good guys.” Neither of the girls seem convinced and I honestly don’t know how to convince them. As I head for the door, I receive a text:

  Autopsy starting in 30.

  Chapter Eighteen:

  Friday, June 1, 2012

  4:45 A.M.

/>   Loral Holmes:

  It is nearing the end of my senior year, so I decide to skip school and instead take the train up to Los Angeles. I think the trip will be more educational than anything I could learn at school, and I’m ready to find out.

  Over the last few days, I mapped out the nearly five-hour public transit strategy: 115 bus to San Diego State University; Green Line trolley to Old Town, Amtrak to Union Station; Gold Line light rail to East L.A. if there’s time.

  Today there are no scheduled tests or assignments due so I decide to go for it. Hell, I’ve practically graduated already. What do I have to lose? I slip out of the house early, to catch the first available 115 bus.

  Immediately upon entering Union Station, I fall in love with Los Angeles. The midmorning light filters in through high windows, diffusing into a milky haze inside the beautiful, cathedral-like arched vault of the station’s main atrium. I walk looking upward, reminded of the pictures of European cathedrals I’ve seen in textbooks and slideshows at school. And this is just the train station!

  Outside, the lively banter of cars and people rushing and frolicking along the street awakens my senses. I stroll a few blocks, always in the shade of viciously tall skyscrapers, aimlessly turning left or right at each intersection, until I miraculously end up right back where I started. The city is shockingly grand, and this particular area is a bit too austere for my taste. I want to be near a bustling civic center, but can’t see myself living and working in this business-suit jungle. I go back inside Union Station and decide to take the light rail to somewhere a bit grittier. I am excited and unafraid.

  I stand before the Metro Rail ticket vending machine with indecision. I see three lines on the stylized map overhead: Red Line toward North Hollywood, Purple Line toward Wilshire/Western, Gold Line toward Atlantic/East Los Angeles. While I have my heart set on seeing East L.A., something about the allure of Hollywood spontaneously draws me in as I wait in line.

  The elderly woman in front of me walks away with a ticket in hand, and I approach the vending machine set on first taking the Red Line to Hollywood, then the Gold Line to East L.A. I’ve made it this far, and who cares if I get back home late? Tess will be “working late” and Brett is probably working on some wacky business plan. This is one of a handful of times when I’m thankful for having absentee parents. I worry about the girls, but have enough faith in Brett to take care of them.

  Written on the vending machine are instructions in so many languages my eyes cross. I suddenly feel a bit overwhelmed, and cannot seem to figure out what I am supposed to do. I stand there for a moment, collecting myself and trying to play it cool. A voice from behind me rings out:

  “Where you goan’ to, chile? Goan’ miss yo’ train if you keep that up! We all goan’ miss it! Ha! Ha-ha!”

  I slowly turn around to see an elderly, heavy-set black woman jiggling all over with laughter, dressed in her Sunday best: lavender dress suit complete with hat, veil, matching heels and handbag. The woman stops laughing and looks at me with annoyance, gilded in genuine motherly concern. Her eyes twinkle.

  “Well, the thing is…I’m not really from around here. Can you please help me with this thing?”

  “Sho’ will,” the woman says as she brushes me aside to approach the machine. I instantly become enveloped in a shroud of overpowering perfume, which matches the woman well because it even smells lavender. “Lemme in here. First time in the City, huh? Ha! Ha-ha!” She seems to end most of her statements with this same boisterous laughter. I don’t know what’s so funny, but somehow the laughter makes me feel more at ease. In an instant, I trust this woman more than my own mother.

  “So, I’ll ask again. Where you goan’ to, chile?”

  “Ummm, I just want to take the Red Line to Hollywood, and later the Gold Line to East L.A.”

  “Ah, you jus’ need a day pass, sugar. It’s fi’ dollars.” The woman begins pressing buttons in rapid succession on the machine. “Here, chile, jus’ put the money in right there.”

  I take a five out of my bag, smooth it against my thigh and place it into the machine. After a few whirring noises, a small ticket comes out below.

  “Thank you so much, ma’am.”

  “Don’t you mention it, suga’. Now you best get goan’ befo’ the folks behind me get ornery. Ha! Ha-ha!”

  I smile at the woman, and she smiles back. Feeling as though I just made a breakthrough, I turn toward the terminal and walk to the Red Line platform. Along the wall a few homeless men and women lie on newspapers and old blankets. An unkempt man makes the rounds for handouts. He approaches me and tells me a story about being only $3.62 short for a ticket home; without hesitation, I count out the exact change and hand it to him. I think I stunned the man. I hope he gets home safely. Today, after so many dim days, I am set on looking at the bright side of life.

  As the Red Line makes its way toward Hollywood, my stomach starts to roll from hunger. It is nearly lunch time, after all, and I have been on the move since a little before six o’clock. I decide to get off at the next stop.

  “Vermont/Santa Monica Station, Koreatown,” the automated voice says as the railcar slows to a stop and the doors shush open. It sounds exotic and new. I step out into the sunlight.

  Koreatown seems quieter than downtown at this time of day. It is gritty, and I don’t see anyone with the same twinkle in their eye as the woman back at Union Station. But I’m sure there are good people here, too—there is goodness everywhere if you are willing to push past fear and really look for it.

  As I walk south on Vermont Avenue, I pass restaurant after restaurant with signs I cannot read. Some of the signs even have English on them, but the letters spell out words I have never seen before.

  Not far from the rail station, the aroma emanating from an open restaurant door stops me cold in my tracks. It smells sweet, like caramelized sugar and charred beef. Soowon Galbi, the English portion of the sign reads: KBBQ. The word “BBQ” is easy enough to understand and this particular aroma draws me inside.

  As I enter the restaurant, I notice the painted-over lettering on the sign above the door. In faded ridges of pastel, beneath the lettering of Soowon Galbi, the sign reads: Kang’s Korean BBQ.

  “Annyeonghaseyo.” A demure Korean woman of short stature bows to me when I enter, and beckons me inside with a gesture of her hand. She has a lacquered helmet of shoulder-length hair and wears excessive makeup. I follow the hostess to a large booth, where a stainless steel square is set into the center of a spacious lacquered table. Above the table, a large stainless steel vent looms square and bulky. The hostess extends a menu toward me with both hands and a bow of her head, and then swishes out of sight into the back.

  As I look around the nearly empty restaurant, I notice each booth has the same vented setup. The color scheme is neutral, with more interplay of contrast than color. The walls are creamy, textured beige, the booths and floors are coffee brown, and the ceilings are a pure white.

  The walls are sectioned off by symmetrical grids of wooden trim, stained the same coffee brown as the floor. Rice paper panels divide the room strategically for privacy between tables, and large, leggy indoor plants swoon and cascade in deep and vibrant greens. A thick red sash with gold painted script decorates each plant as if it were in the running for a beauty pageant.

  A murky, dimly lit fish tank sits against the far wall, teeming with large-jawed pinkish fish and lazy, bottom-dwelling grayish fish.

  Beside the aquarium, set back into the wall, is a long row of glass-door refrigerated coolers like you see in liquor stores, filled with cases of beer and what looks to me like little green bottles of white wine. I guess the green bottles are some type of Asian liquor. All I know is that Tess never has that brand at home.

  The menu, which is written entirely in Korean script, is worrisome. I can’t read anything, so I am grateful the menu has lots of colored pictures. I avoid anything that looks raw, inedible, and red. Then an elderly waitress approaches to take my order. I poi
nt to a picture of a large plate of thinly sliced beef and something else in a cast iron cauldron with an egg on top. Rice, meat, egg, I think I can handle that.

  The food comes out at once on a rolling cart, making my eyes pop out. The beef is arranged in a single layer on a large platter. It is raw, thinly sliced and marbled with fat. Alongside the beef is a large plate of lettuce leaves, a shallow bowl of raw garlic and scallions, and five or six smaller dishes of what look like spicy, pickled vegetables. I’ve heard of kimchi but have never seen it until now. An iron cauldron is set in front of me last, emitting waves of heat and fragrant vapors, with the liquid at the edges still sizzling and boiling.

  My eyes boggle at all the food. I am not sure at first what to do with the beef. I wonder if red meat is eaten raw in Korea. When in Rome, I think, and reach for a raw slice of meat with my chopsticks.

  “Oh! No no no!” The waitress stops me with a wave of her hands and a look of quiet horror. “Not yet. Must cook first.” She lifts the stainless square from the center of the table, turns back to the cart and lifts a white-hot iron basket of coals. I watch in amazement as the woman sets the coals into the empty tray in the center of the table, and covers them with a clean grate. She deftly transfers a few slices of beef onto the grill, along with large pieces of garlic and scallion. As the beef starts to sizzle and steam, the waitress smiles at me, a bit patronizing with her gestures.

  “Cook one side, flip, cook other side, place on lettuce leaf, mogo—you eat. Understand?”

  I feel a bit sheepish, but nod, grateful for the lesson. “Yes, I understand now. Thank you very much for showing me.”

  The meal is delicious, but there is something missing. It doesn’t seem like the type of meal to eat alone. And there is so much food! As I force down the last few bites of barbequed beef, the waitress approaches with the check and a small porcelain bowl.

  “This shikhye—Korean dessert drink. Delicious. Try. You like, yes?”

  I sip tentatively at first, then as full as I am, down the sweet drink in two large gulps. “Wow, that’s really good!” I smile and nod at the waitress, who smiles back warmly. Her eyes twinkle, just a bit, like the woman in the train station. At that moment I think, I’m on the right track.