The Deepest Cut (18 page)

Vining took a small audio recorder from her pocket and turned it on. “I’m going to record our conversation if that’s okay.” She recorded the date, time, and people present and set the device on Li’s desk.

He grinned. “Back to business.”

“Marvin, tell me what you know about the murder of Abel Es-pinoza, aka Scrappy.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Why did Scrappy paint a death threat to you in your cousin’s building?”

“I honestly wish I knew, Detective. I’m disturbed by that. I used to be China Dog, once upon a time. I don’t allow people to call me that anymore, but people won’t let you forget your past. All I can figure is that Scrappy had a beef with me.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. To my knowledge, everything was fine. Yesterday was a normal work day.”

“Where was Scrappy last working?”

“He was promoting a new apartment building at the corner of Orange Grove and Newcastle.”

“What were his hours?”

“Evening into night.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“He started at seven and went on from there.”

“What time did he go home?”

“Midnight, usually.”

“Midnight? He was advertising apartments. Who rents apartments at midnight?”

Li shrugged. “If that’s what the customer wants, I’m happy to provide it.”

“When’s the last time you saw Scrappy?”

“Last night, around seven-thirty.”

“How long did he work for you?”

“Just over a month, I think.”

“How many other employees do you have?”

“Six.”

“All ex-cons?”

“That’s correct. I’m committed to giving these guys something to do with their time other than gangbanging. There should be a twelve-step program for gangbangers trying to get out of the life. The lifestyle is just as hard to leave behind as an addiction to drugs or alcohol.”

“You’re telling me that these guys who used to have a lot of money in their pockets from selling drugs and had earned street cred from their homeys are happy to wear a clown suit and stand on a street corner holding a big arrow for minimum wage.”

“They earn more than minimum wage. In the industry, they’re known as ‘human directionals.’ It requires more skill than you think. My employees attend H.D. University, where they learn the acrobatics of spinning the arrows over their heads, around their backs, jumping over them. Plus they’re salesmen, like carnival hucksters. They need to know how to interact with people on the street, kids and such.”

“I want to talk to your other employees.”

“I’ll give you a list.”

“Where were you last night between eight and ten?”

“I was shooting pool at the social club I frequent, the China Orchid. I saw several friends there, including the owner, who will vouch for my whereabouts.”

“You were in prison for murder. Tell me about that.”

“I was a tough guy as a kid in San Francisco. When I was nineteen, I was involved in a gang-related shooting at the Golden Lotus restaurant in Chinatown. Six people were murdered: four gang members and a man and his young daughter who were having dinner. Five other people were injured, two seriously, including myself. I got twenty years’ hard time. I was damn lucky that was all I got. When I was released, I was a changed man, and I don’t mean just physically. I’m reformed, and have committed the rest of my life to keeping kids out of gangs, and guns off the street.”

He recited his story with braggadocio. Vining had learned that criminals, similar to fishermen or hunters, never tired of telling about their exploits— the ones who put up a battle, the ones they bagged, the ones that got away.

“Anybody want you dead?”

“I have a lot of enemies with long memories. I can’t count them all. I can’t even remember them all. It’s possible that someone paid Scrappy to paint that tag.”

“What about your cousin Pearl? Does she have any enemies?”

“Probably. She’s in a tough business for a woman and she’s a tough woman. I can’t name any.”

“What’s her background?”

“She grew up on Mainland China. Had a hard life. Worked in a factory. She made her way to Hong Kong. She had to stay there and work for years until she’d paid back the people who’d smuggled her off of the mainland.”

“Doing what?”

“She was a cocktail waitress in a big restaurant there.”

“Was she involved in any sort of criminal activity?”

“No. Not her style.”

“Where did she get money to start her business?”

“She’s very entrepreneurial.”

“Meaning?”

“She worked. She saved. She got wealthy people to invest. She built it, brick by brick.”

“Was she married?”

“No.”

“What about your nephew, Ken? Has he ever been in any sort of trouble?”

“Not to my knowledge. He’s the light of Pearl’s life. He’s a good kid, good student, respectful …”

“Who’s his father?”

“An American businessman living in Hong Kong.”

“Does he have a relationship with Ken?”

“Why are you asking these questions? What does this have to do with Scrappy getting murdered in my cousin’s building?”

It had nothing to do with it, but Vining remembered the bright spark in Ken Zhang’s eyes when he mentioned that he and Emily were schoolmates. She let it go.

“Marvin, is there anything else you can remember about Scrappy or his friends or associates that might help us?”

“No, but I’ll call you if I think of anything.” He smiled lasciviously. “I promise.”

Vining recorded a date and time to mark the end of the interview. “Thank you, Marvin.”

“The pleasure was mine.”

“You were going to give me a list of your employees.”

“I have their information in the desk outside.”

In the front part of the store, while Li got the information, Vining saw Auntie Wan tapping flakes into the fish bowl while soothingly talking to the fish.

Vining walked over to her and looked through the glass at the fish.

Auntie Wan said, “Goldfish good luck.”

Vining nodded. She’d had a goldfish when she was a kid. She’d won it at a carnival. It hadn’t lasted too long.

“You know what your problem is?” Auntie Wan put the cap back onto the fish flakes.

Vining was surprised by her boldness. “Uh … No.”

The older woman darted her finger at Vining. “The ghost is hungry. You do not take care of the ghost.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do not feed the ghost. Have you made a place for the ghost in your house?” Auntie Wan tried to paint a picture with her hands. “A place.”

When Vining wasn’t getting what she was trying to convey Auntie Wan spoke to Li in Chinese.

He translated. “She wants to know if you have a shrine in your house for the ghost. Chinese families often have shrines at home to make sure that those in the family who have passed on are well taken care of and don’t come around to give the living grief.”

Vining did not discount Auntie Wan’s assessment. “How do I feed a ghost?”

“Find out what the ghost wants,” Auntie Wan said. “And do it.”

Gathering papers from the desk, Li set them on his lap and rolled his chair to Vining. He handed her the information. “A ghost. That explains a lot.”

Vining looked from Li to his aunt. They were both looking at her earnestly.

“Thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch.” She left.

EIGHTEEN

A
FTER LEAVING VINING AT THE PPD GARAGE, KISSICK GOT ON THE
210 at Walnut Street. From there, he took the 118 west to the 101 north, which would take him nearly all the two hundred miles to Los Osos, the small bayside town that abutted Montaña de Oro State Park. Even though it was past morning drive-time, he had designed his route to circumvent the leg of the 101 through the San Fernando Valley that was always congested, no matter what time of day.

He drove as if on autopilot, his mind replaying the night and morning with Nan. He stirred with the recollection of their urgent and very hot sex on her kitchen floor. Now, only hours later, there was another apparently gang-related murder in Pasadena and he was heading out of town to work a different case without her.
Her
case, as she so strongly argued. He had suspected that she would not warm to Sergeant Early sending him to work the new leads, but had been surprised by both her vitriol and vulnerability.

He thought about the evidence Nan had stolen, the necklaces belonging to Johnna Alwin and Nitro. A small part of him admired her determination and ability to pull it off, just as he had to admire the skill of the better criminals he’d come across. A larger part was appalled that with calm forethought, she’d broken not only the law, but her sworn oath as a police officer.

He slipped his hand inside the pocket of his jacket that was on the passenger seat and took out the satinette bag that held Vining’s own pearl necklace. He slid it from the bag onto his lap and fingered the pearls as if they were worry beads. Funny how she could have worn that necklace to work, suspecting that the man who had attacked her had given it to her, and not have told a soul. Was she hoping the psycho would see her wearing it? What weird neurosis was that?

He tried to put himself into her shoes, to try to understand why she had acted dishonorably in her quest to track down her attacker. He knew that what had happened to her had been life-altering. He knew she’d flatlined for two minutes. He’d never asked her about it, but had always wondered if she’d had a near-death experience. The whole moving toward the white light thing, seeing dead friends and relatives, seemed clichéd, but still he wondered. He’d given her openings to talk about it, but she’d never taken him up on it, so he hadn’t pried. Funny that they could share hopes and fears, secrets and dreams, and open up to each other sexually with abandon, but asking her what had happened when she’d died felt too personal.

When she’d returned to work after the ambush, she’d seemed more tightly wound, more easily hitting both high and low notes. Their recently renewed sexual relationship was more intense than when they had first been a couple two years ago, as if she was grabbing for all the gusto she could. Not that he was complaining. Nan
was
different. Only time would tell if the change was permanent.

It was good that he was working on her attempted murder case without her, but it put him in a difficult spot. He decided to be circumspect in what he told her. He’d dole out enough information to satisfy her, but nothing that would prompt her to roar off on her own. To lie, cheat, and steal.

His heart was heavy.

More than an hour had passed before he realized it and he was already passing through Ventura and breathing the cool ocean air. The sight of the Pacific never failed to cheer him.

Today, the ocean was calm, its color a deep blue. The hue changed with the weather, season, and time of day. The ocean was alive. The sky was clear and the horizon was sharp. Seeing that straight line
where ocean met sky always cleared the clutter from his head. It assured him that there were straight lines in life, unambiguous and true. The city was all noise, crowds, asphalt, and exhaust, and it was only getting worse. While he knew that the ocean was changing too, the variations were not visible to his eye and so it seemed eternal. A refuge for his soul.

The land however was changing at an ever-increasing rate as real estate development and people pushed farther across the remaining farms and ranches and into the rolling hillsides.

Nature still did a fine job reminding people of the transience of material possessions and of life itself. South of Santa Barbara, he passed the tiny community of La Conchita nestled at the base of a giant bluff across the freeway from the ocean. It was nothing more than a couple of streets with a few dozen pastel-colored houses decorated with abalone-shell garlands and wood carvings of pelicans. In 2005, after weeks of heavy rains, ten residents of the three hundred died when tons of water-soaked earth slid down the hill and buried them. Beyond a deep ravine in the face of the bluff, little physical evidence of the tragedy remained.

Nothing about California stayed in one place. Nothing stayed the same. Human emotions included. Fickleness was not exclusive to the Golden State, yet perhaps something about the ever-changing landscape here gave it permission to roam free.

At Gaviota, a town just north of Santa Barbara, the freeway entered a picturesque stone tunnel cut into a rocky hillside. After that, the road turned inland and he witnessed another recent intrusion upon the gently rolling hills: acres of wine grapevines. Grapes were better than shopping malls, he supposed, but he missed the natural, golden hills. Some of the hillsides were scraped bare in preparation for installation of irrigation systems and planting. The bare earth looked as jarring as a teenager’s white scalp after having fallen victim to a frat party prank involving barber’s shears.

He looked at his watch and saw he was early for his meeting with California State Park Ranger Zeke Denver, who had worked with Mar-ilu Feathers. He happily realized he had time for lunch at a joint he loved. He drove past the exit to Los Osos and continued on to San Luis
Obispo, passing more mission bells on rook-shaped poles that marked the historic El Camino Real.

In San Luis Obispo, he cut off onto the Morro Bay exit and Highway 1 and entered his favorite stretch of the drive. Cattle still grazed the hills. West of the highway was a picturesque chain of volcanic plug domes, outcrops created by lava flows from now-extinct volcanoes that dramatically jutted from the chaparral. More than thirty-five of them stretched in a relatively straight line from San Luis Obispo to Morro Bay. The seven most prominent ones are called the Seven Sisters and each has a name. Morro Rock, the “Gibraltar of the West,” a 577-foot-tall, crown-shaped dome at the end of a sandspit, is the most famous. When Spanish explorer Juan Cabrillo discovered it in 1542, he named it “Morro” because it resembled a Moorish turban.

He entered Morro Bay, the working man’s Carmel, and stayed on the highway.

The city of 11,000 had not yet fallen victim to the gentrification that was running rampant through Pasadena, gobbling up asphalt parking lots and low-level buildings in a rush to maximize population per square foot. The streets of Morro Bay’s commercial district were still lined with modest storefront businesses and free public parking lots. The power plant blighted the view. Built in the 1950s, before the existence of the California Coastal Commission, the three 450-foot cement stacks north of the pier were usually cropped out of publicity photos.