The Chinese Beverly Hills (20 page)

A flash of light lit the block briefly. Uh-oh. Four… five… six… seven. Then the peal of thunder. A little more than a mile, if he remembered right.

There was no question of Loco waiting around to calculate the distance in dog miles. He was gone with the sound, vanished from the glide like a disturbing thought to head for whatever hidey-hole he had in reserve.

The rap of the cane started up inside, strident enough to cut through the wall of the house and the guilt. Coming, my conscience, he thought.

*

The nurse had told him that 347 was doing quite well for a crispy. He’d said nothing since he’d invited that with a dark comment of his own. Roski peered inside.

“You alive, Piscatelli?”

“What if I said no?”

“I’ll just send Housekeeping in to water you.”

The fire jumper smiled, lying on his side on a bariatric air mattress that was noisily tilting him at an angle. He didn’t smile with his eyes. Pain obviously lurked in the tension inside. “You’re the arson desk jockey, aren’t you?”

“Walt Roski.”

“Thanks for coming, sir.”

“In pain?”

“I pray, that’s my way.”

“Well, they say that what doesn’t kill you just about kills you.”

The fire jumper looked puzzled. “They bury Routt yet, sir?”

“Yesterday, partner. Fire trucks from all over the county flying the flag. A couple of antique pumpers. A slow code three to the cemetery. TV cameras. Mayor and chief at attention. Bagpipes and ‘Last Call.’ The whole nine yards.”

“Routt woulda laughed at it, but not me.”

Roski figured this was one earnest human being. “Nothing’s too good for a man who gives his life fighting fires. I hate firebugs with a passion.” Roski set down his briefcase. “Can I get you anything?”

“That’s what the nurses are for.”

Roski smiled. “They’re usually not so good about cheeseburgers or Little Debbies, but you seem to be a rule-abiding man.”

“Rules are made for a reason, sir.”

“For sure. How’s your memory of the incident? Still skating around it?”

“Yes, sir. I remember the roar getting loud and me yelling, ‘Safe zone.’ I must’ve shook out my shelter on instinct.”

“You told me last week about Routt calling your attention to a dead girl.”

Piscatelli nodded. “To be honest, I think I remember telling you a lot more than I actually remember.”

Roski took out the photo of Sabine that Jack Liffey had given him. “I want to show you a photograph. It may have nothing at all to do with the fire. Just tell me if it brings up any thoughts at all.”

Roski held the photo up and the smoke jumper’s eyes bored into it. “Pretty girl. Chinese? Japanese? I told you she looked Asian, didn’t I?”

“Never mind what you said. It doesn’t matter much one way or another.” And it probably didn’t, since the provisional DNA test, but he had to check off all the boxes.

“The old brain ain’t much good right now.”

“That’s fine, Tony. We don’t need your ID so much.”

“Is that girl okay?” All at once, the man began to weep silently.

“Let it out, my brave friend.” Roski was about to rest a hand on a part of the shoulder that looked burn free, but he’d been told of the danger of infection. “A big box of rocks like you usually has powerful emotions.”

*

Diana Yao had called Ellen. Her parents were away for the evening so they had the living room up in the hills to themselves. She had engineering books nearby as signs of homework in case her folks came back early.

“Thanks, Diana,” Ellen said at the grown-up Scotch-rocks her old comrade had thrust into her hand. “Nothing is
ding hau
right now.”

“I found out nothing about Sabine, but maybe she’s off testing a boyfriend. Have you talked to her parents?”

“Yoohoo, I told you the Rohs hired a private detective to find her. Don’t give me some Nature Channel story.”

“Sorry. I’ve been asking around warp ten because I like Sabby. I heard, maybe, about a trip to Mexico. And I heard she had a run-in with that dumb pudge with the big thingy. If it helps you, the dummy likes the ponies.”

“And you know this how…?” Ellen asked.

“I actually followed him to Santa Anita yesterday, just in case he was meeting Sabby. He spent all day searching the stands, I mean
all day
. Hunting for discarded win tickets, right? Think how hard that is. You’ve got to keep checking every race in your head, and they allow off-track betting now so there’s a bunch of tracks running all the time. It’s harder than actually betting. What a doofus.”

“Did he find any winners?”

“Would a ten-buck win matter? No, he didn’t, not one. What a jackass. He’ll be flippin’ hamburgers at sixty.”

“You going to keep watching him?”

“No. I’m out for good.”

“Okay,” Ellen said, resigned.

*

Gloria was sitting up in bed looking pretty grim, either angry or hurt, he couldn’t tell. Hard to read was the cop way. “I get panics when I’m alone, Jack. Not really panics. I feel real nervous and tummy-upset. I start thinking about Bakersfield. I try to watch TV but I can’t concentrate.” She sighed deeply and rolled her neck. “Did I tell you I killed two cops? Bad cops, but cops. And I was so helpless. You know, I got so wild I wasn’t me.”

“How about I get you some regular visitors? Paula Green, Señora Gomez, Maeve—anybody else?”

She shook her head. “I got to deal with this.”

The rain surged and rattled away on the roof like angry gods wanting in. A half-dozen leaks would need pots and pans soon, he thought. Just par for a hundred-year-old frame house. “Did something set this off today?” he asked delicately.

She scowled. “I got my butt bit off.”

“Mood adjustment,” he said, handing her the beer. “Tell me.”

“Thanks, Jackie.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed with a can of ginger ale and rested a hand on her leg gently on top of the covers. “I’d be happy to bite your butt, too.”

She smiled without much humor, then let her face go slack.

“Tell,” he said.

“My captain at Harbor called. We talked a while, yadda yadda, of cabbages and whatever it is you’re always saying. How was I doing? Eventually he got around to using the word malingering. Does that mean what I think it does?”

“Probably.”

She grunted. “He told me he reassigned all the jobs in Harbor Division. As if I don’t exist no more. And he had his way of suggesting I’m too emotional to be a good cop. Jesus Christ, Jack, I know for a fact that I’m the best detective sergeant they’ve had since Ken Steelyard. My clearance record beats everybody.”

She summoned a nasty smile. “I’d like to see Collingwood raped a few times and twenty bones broken and see how ‘professional’ he is. Mostly I wanna know are they building up a ‘terminate’ book on me.”

“Wasn’t Collingwood the asshole who read you the riot act for having a messy desk?”

She rested her forehead against his arm. “I used to just suck it up, all their man-woman crap. Forgive me if it spills over.”

“Nothing to forgive, my love.”

“You still love me?” She sounded almost startled.

“I’ve got ways of knowing I do.” Guilt, for one, he thought. “I think you and me are stuck in this lifeboat.”

“You got a way of putting things abstract that loses me, Jackie.”

“I’m just reflecting out loud. How can I help you keep your spirits up?”

“I wish I knew.” She pulled back from his arm to take a swig of beer. It was a good sign that she’d touched him for a moment.

“You’re my moral compass, Glor.” And he meant it

Was it just his own infidelity making him so disoriented? So much pain and confusion surrounding him. The forlorn Chinese parents, the depressive Roski, the bewildered Zook, a daughter about to flunk out, and Tien grabbing for him like a last-chance brass ring.

*

A half-hour later Jack Liffey was cooking up a clean-out-the-cupboard dinner when the phone burred at him. He was in a half-mesmerized drowse.

Burr-burr.

The telemarketers always called at dinnertime, but he decided to answer.

“Is this Jack Liffey?”

“No, it’s the stain on his honor.” He couldn’t get Hardi Boaz out of his mind.

“Christ, man. This is Walt Roski. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

He came totally alert. “I was expecting somebody selling me a lower mortgage. I’m okay, Walt.”

“You sounded like a man three sheets to the wind with home problems.”

“I don’t touch the stuff.”

“Okay. I’ve got news about your clients’ little girl, Sabine Roh, if you want it. Or I can call back at a more convenient time.”

“Right. One of your loved ones is on fire. I’ll call later to tell you which one.”

“Sorry, Jack. It’s bad news. We’ve got DNA back, and it says it
was
Sabine Roh burned up in Coyote Wash during the Sheepshead Fire. I’m sure you don’t want to know the court testimony odds for this DNA test. Given the crucifix we found, I’m convinced.”

“You mean rosary,” Jack Liffey said. “A similar item.”

“I’m not up on the religious stuff. Do you want me to inform the parents or do you want to?”

“Whoa. How do you feel about that?”

“Let’s say I’m ambivalent, but I can do it.”

“I’ve done this before, too.”

“One of us has to tell them.”

Something was crackling too loud in the pan across the kitchen.

“I’ll do it, Walt. I’m coasting on a lot of emotion anyway.”

“Jack, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. The sun will burn out before I’m in any real trouble. I’ll take the Rohs.”

*

The next morning Jack Liffey drove to the Rohs’ house at nine o’clock, his wipers smearing in the rain. He didn’t call first. There was absolutely no way to break news like this in stages. The Army knew that perfectly well and sent its two Casualty Notification Officers to your door without warning.

Such an ordinary American house. With one Chinese decorative screen beside the door.

“Yes?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Roh.” He tried the most neutral smile he could, but she started to have the tremors.

“You got bad news.”

“Can I come in? Is your husband here?”

She opened the door, but she shoved both hands out to stop him entering, as if she could push the bad news away. She knew, of course.

“Please.”

Mrs. Roh collected herself and stood aside. “I’ll get you tea.”

“Thank you.” In the dining area, Mr. Roh was glaring at him over a bowl of what looked like soggy rice boiled into glop, with a hard-cooked egg sinking into it. Across from him Mrs. Roh’s plate had a slice of dry toast with one bite out of it.

He sat at the end of the table without invitation. “Good morning, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you so early.”

“‘Stateside,’” Mr. Roh blurted out. “You know the word?”

“Yes, sir. G.I. slang for the United States. And ‘back in the world,’ ‘on the block,’ ‘Jody’s place,’ several others.”

“Thank you. Why that Jody expression?”

“Jody was the girlfriend you lost to a guy with a draft deferment.”

“Ah. Hard cheese. While you were busy lighting up villages.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“Forgive me. I love idioms.”

“Sir, right now you want to hush and listen to me.”

“I see.”

Their eyes met and the man understood instantly, though his wife was still noisily getting tea.

“It’s bad?”

“Let me tell you and your wife together. But please be prepared to offer comfort.” This annoying man was going to have to take it in like a huge swallow of poison.

The man snapped out something in Chinese or maybe Vietnamese to his wife, and the woman came in without the tea, and after another barked order, she sat, too. Their eyes all met and disengaged and met again. Mr. Roh took his wife’s hand hard.

Maybe in Asia this was all different. No more delay, he thought.

“Mr. and Mrs. Roh, the fire department has told me that your daughter died in the Sheepshead Fire. They ran a DNA test on some remains they found and it matched your cheek swabs. She probably didn’t suffer. They believe she was already dead, shot to death. I promise you, if you wish, I’ll find out who did this and have him punished. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

There was a stunned silence for a few seconds, then the mother threw her head back and began to wail. It went on and on. Jack Liffey sat quietly. Eventually she seemed to freeze up and sat in silence with her mouth wide open.

“There will be no five blossoms,” the husband said dully.

Even now, he needed to explain, to be a professor. He told Jack Liffey that the five blossoms were marrying, having a son, being respected in a moral life, having a loving grandson, and dying peacefully in your sleep after a long, honorable life. In this reckoning, Sabine would not acquire a single blossom.

Nor will I, Jack Liffey thought. But I value daughters.

Mr. Roh met his eyes. “Beliefs are deep, sir, even if you feel you have no religious impulses. There will be no eternity now in my family.”

The wail came again, and then the woman leapt to her feet and ran out of the room. “I’ll go away now so you can comfort her,” Jack Liffey said.

The man shook his head. “It’s best to let her grieve. Mr. Liffey, can my wife, can we, touch—I mean
physically
touch—any part of Sabine? Please don’t dismiss this request. It’s important that we touch her remains.”

“I’ll arrange it, sir,” Jack Liffey said. “And I’ll find out who killed her.”

“How old are you, sir?” the man asked.

“Sixty-four,” Jack Liffey said.

“Do you fear becoming much older, like me?”

“I fear not becoming older much more.”

*

Maeve was sitting on a stool, studying a still life that just wouldn’t come together, when her contemplation was interrupted by a small knock on her door. Her spirits rose. Bunny.

“Come! I want—” She choked it off the instant she saw it wasn’t Bunny. A short brown man stood in the door like a djinn. He had a face like old leather and an ambiguous smile, but instead of the flowing robes she’d have expected, he wore chinos and a polo shirt. He carried a tiny green umbrella over his bald head against the pouring rain. Maeve knew immediately it was Swami Muni.