Follow Her Home (18 page)

One day when the teachers' lounge was empty she held his hand. He looked startled, but they continued to hold hands for most of the session. At the end, he walked her to her car and told her he had fallen for her. They gave up the pretense of teacher and pupil and scheduled their next meeting for his house.

She hadn't told our mom about her breakup with Paul, and she realized she'd anticipated the need for a cover story. She and Quinn met a couple times each week outside of school, and always on Sundays, during church hours.

He didn't pressure her into a physical relationship, but he didn't have to. She went to Planned Parenthood and got a prescription for birth control before sex even came up. She knew he would have more experience, and she wanted to be ready.

“I knew you would think it was weird, and that you would worry about me. But he's just this wonderful person,
unni.
I've never felt the same way about anyone before, and I'm not sure I ever will again. You have to understand.”

I heard the clichés spill from Iris's lips with an earnestness that made me ache. “If he's so wonderful, why are you so sad all the time? Why isn't he here for you?”

She still had her back to me, and I saw her neck straighten toward the ocean. “It was my fault I got pregnant. I was stupid and forgot to take the pill a couple times. When I told him, he freaked out. He wasn't mean to me, it wasn't like that. But he panicked. He would lose his job, his friends, and he might even go to jail. So I told him I'd take care of it. And that seemed to make him feel better.”

I sighed. “Shit, Iris. This is the kind of stuff they warn you about.”

“But I knew we couldn't be together after that. I knew how much he was risking to be with me, and I knew that if we kept going, someone would find out. So I broke up with him. He didn't abandon me.”

“Did he try to stop you?”

She hesitated, and I could hear her sniffling. “No. He didn't.”

We didn't go into the water that day. When we left the beach, our eyes were swollen, and I had the beginnings of a bad sunburn on my back.

*   *   *

We left the Red Palace and Lori led the way up Western to a coffee shop she knew between Fifth and Sixth called, cute enough, Mr. Coffee. I let her stay ahead of me while I dialed Luke. I got his voice mail four times along with a violent urge to smash my newborn iPhone into a mound of plastic and glass seeds against the pavement. The pins of my stilettos fell uneasy on the sloping sidewalk and my knees wobbled like a baby goat's. I stepped harder on the balls of my platforms and we made the three long blocks to the café in a harsh and unpleasant silence raided by the background buzz of a city sliding into intoxication.

My phone, now back in my good graces, showed 12:36
A.M
. I hoped Luke was keeping his nose clean.

Mr. Coffee took the most conspicuous spot in a strip mall boasting all sorts of Koreatown–specific goods and services. A small Hispanic man in his late thirties played valet to a cheerful overabundance of automobiles. A new car entered the lot, and he spoke to the driver in Korean. The inside of the café was decked out in hollow wood and cheap red velvet. It was small and busy enough, thick with the mingling scents of smoke and pastries. I chose a circular table for us in the deepest pocket of the little space, with two oversize armchairs.

Lori sat in one chair and I pulled mine as close to hers as I could manage while leaving room for my knees to exist. I faced the last corner of the café, close enough to see the cracks in the vertical line separating wall from wall.

I had one elbow up on the table and concentrated my vision on her compact frame. The coffee shop was dimly lit, but no shadow could hide her from my gaze. I took one look at the crowd and knew no one was watching us, and that no one cared if I smoked. I lit a cigarette and watched her squirm. We sat still in this bully-and-bullied posture for a good minute before she spoke up.

“Did you say Greg Miller was…”

“Dead.”

“Dead?”

“Uh-huh.”

She nodded slowly, her curls suddenly heavy as sailor's rope.

“You didn't know?”

She shook her head with the same pendulous awe.

“Are you surprised?”

Again she nodded, switching the angle of her neck without surrendering a moment's motion.

“Do you have any idea why?”

Shaking her head again. Like train tracks changing. I was starting to get tired of it.

“Look. What can you tell me about Greg?”

Her bobblehead finally lost some steam and she parted her lips with some hesitation.

“You may speak ill of the dead tonight. Don't worry, I'll write you a note.”

She gave me a malnourished smile. “I don't like him. I mean, I didn't like him.”

“I hear the feeling wasn't mutual.”

“He was really creepy. We met when I started working and at first I thought he was really nice. He would bring me coffee and make a point of chatting with me at my desk. I was new, and most of the lawyers were too busy to be friendly.”

It was my turn to nod.

“But he asked me out pretty soon after I started. And he didn't just ask me to coffee, he sent me roses and asked me to be his girlfriend.”

“Not your type?”

“Not so much, no.” She said it quick and turned a sad shade of guilty at her targetless disgust. “I mean I thought he was sweet and all, then at least. But I said no.”

“And that wasn't the end of the story.”

“He wouldn't give up. It started with e-mails and phone calls, which I put up with more than I had to because, I don't know, I felt bad. He was so nice to me. But then he started following me around.”

“I gathered as much. What'd he do?”

“Somehow he figured out where I hang out, where I work, where I live, and he'd drive by, show up, stalk.” She grimaced. “There was this one time a few months ago, I was with this guy I met out, and we were walking around the Grove. I don't remember what it was but I said something and he got really mad and started yelling at me, calling me bad names. People were staring and I was about to start crying, and then Greg came out of nowhere.”

“Did he knock him out?”

“No, he just put a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Hey, leave the girl alone.'”

“How very gallant.”

“Well, the guy went away and I was thankful for a second. But then he asked if I was alright and put an arm around my shoulder and I felt icy as soon as he did that, because I thought, what was he doing here?”

“When did he start coming by the Red Palace?”

She bit down on her lip. “It's been a couple months.”

“How did you deal with that?”

“It freaked me out when he first showed up, but it's not like it's a secret that I work there. I tried my best to treat him like any other customer. I drank with him, made conversation.” For a second she looked like she might burst into tears. “But a few weeks ago he made a move on me. He said something like in the movies, that he knew he would get me to love him, and then he just…” She closed her eyes tight and pinched the skin above her nose, like she was chasing away a migraine. “I had my mom throw him out.”

I felt a drop in my store of pity for the dead man with a strange sense of relief. I put out my cigarette with a tight-wristed squash. “This isn't going to make you feel better, but he died outside your house.”

She shuddered like her insides were yanking at her outsides. “How did it happen?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. I can tell you he was probably strangled, but I don't know why. No guesses? Who knew that he was stalking you?”

“It wasn't a secret, was the strange thing. He didn't seem to think he had to hide it, and people at work teased me about it all the time. They thought it was funny.” She let out a sad, breathy laugh that was mostly a sigh.

“What did Mr. Cook have to say about him?”

She paled. I pushed.

“Last night you said you weren't sleeping with him. I don't believe you.”

She was silent, staring at a ringed and laminated menu lying on the table.

“Take your time. I'll get us some coffee.” I pressed the service button. A ponytailed and aproned waitress came and took my order for two six-dollar coffees and, when I realized I hadn't had dinner, a ham and cheese sandwich. I leaned back into my chair, crossed every limb, and kept my eyes barnacled to Lori's nervous head.

The coffee came dark and fuming in kitschy ceramic mugs. She stayed motionless and I lit another cigarette. Smoke swirled from its tip, steam rose from our coffee, and the air hung with the chatter of fellow patrons, noise so close and so irrelevant.

I nudged her shin with the bottom of my shoe. “Have some coffee. Are you drunk?”

She looked at me as if she'd forgotten I was there. “A little, but not too.” She emptied two packets of Splenda and a full three-second stream of cream into her mug. She lapped at it suspiciously.

I was still smoking, watching, when the waitress brought my sandwich. I took a few thoughtless bites and turned back to Lori. “So what's the deal with you and Cook? Don't say ‘nothing' 'cause I won't hear it. That clutch.” I nodded at the Chanel where it rested on an arm of her chair. “Is that from him?”

Her features grew tight and for a moment I thought she was gearing up to shout. Instead, she let out a pained breath and said, “Why?”

I smirked. “Why? As in, why do I want to know?”

“I like you,” she said, her voice high and quiet and bold. “But I've only known you since yesterday. Why do you get to know everything you want about me?”

She looked at me with shaky defiance and I stared back at her with all the heat my two eyes could bring. “Do I have to spell this out for you? A man was killed—”

“But I didn't kill him. I didn't do a thing to Greg Miller. If anything,
he
hurt
me
.” She was expressive, and her tone carried the indignation of the falsely accused.

I leaned forward and bowed my head toward her. “Give me your hand,” I said.

Her fingers were cold despite the coffee, and as they alit on the tender bump on my head, I felt them vivid against its rawness. I let go of her hand and she pulled it back slowly.

“What happened?”

I looked at her again and took a softer tone. “I'm in trouble, Lori, and you're the only person right now who can help me get out. Please.”

Her shoulders dropped and her mouth quivered but she didn't speak.

I looked back at the clutch. “Is that from Cook?”

She pulled one arm across her chest, gripped her neck, and nodded—just the tiniest grade of a nod, but it was enough.

I felt no triumph, no vindication. Only the solid, dead weight of a suspicion confirmed. “Jesus. Luke was right.”

Her eyes filled with terror. “What do you mean?”

I felt sorry for her. “Tell me something. When did you develop a taste for the son?”

She blushed and opened her mouth. “How did you know?”

“Were you trying to hide it?”

She nibbled a finger at the second knuckle and nodded.

“I guess you would have. I don't envy whatever you have going on with that family.”

She sighed and took a swallow of her coffee, lifting the mug with both hands. She put it down and the strings that bound her lips fell with it.

“I don't know if I can explain my relationship with Mr. Cook. It isn't … romantic.”

“Some men give you flowers, some go for luxury goods. I wouldn't knock either.”

“No, that's not what I meant. I mean, it's very friendly.”

“Lori, middle-aged married men don't have ‘friendly' relationships with attractive young girls. Not if their wives can grow fingernails.”

“I know. I know that, it's just—” She tilted her mug and looked without looking into its center. “I don't know.”

“Does he hang out at the Red Palace?”

“No.” But her eyes darted and she saw that I noticed. “He came once. He didn't know I would be there, but we started to get to know each other that night. We've been friends since then.”

“Does he know Greg made himself a regular?”

She nodded. “He knows the bouncer who made him leave.”

I sat up. “What do you mean he knows him? He put him there himself, to look after you, didn't he?”

“I don't think it's like that.” She dragged a nail across the tablecloth, and her eyes followed the motion. “He told me he had a friend who could use the job, and I asked my mom if she could use him.”

“This bouncer—is he a white guy, medium height, blondish, in his thirties?”

“How did you know?” She looked up and her eyes went wide. “What does he—”

“Is he there tonight?”

“He usually is, but I didn't see him.”

“What's his name?”

“John.”

“Last name?”

“Something with an
L.
I don't remember.”

It was better than Humphrey Bogart.

I decided not to name a murderer to Lori just yet. “Why would Cook install someone to spy on you if you guys are just ‘friendly'?”

She said with surrender, “It's complicated.”

“I can help you simplify.” I leaned forward and rested my chin on an easel of thumbs. “Are you guys having sex?”

She opened her mouth fast and let out a gasp that was the beginning of a protest, but thought better of it. “I'd rather not get into it.”

I didn't push the issue. It didn't seem to require pushing.

“How about Hector Lopez? Are you involved with him any?”

“Who?”

I fiddled with my iPhone until the screen showed my interlocutor in her heavy Japanese formalwear. I curled it across the table.

She leaned forward and crooked her neck to look at the screen before taking it in her fingers with sudden and startled recognition.