Fatally Haunted Page 2

  “So do you have any inside knowledge on the Jewel Orchid gang?”

  Thavary swallowed her irritation. “Just ’cause I was born in Cambodia doesn’t mean I’m an expert in Cambodian gangs.”

  “You get offended too easy, you know that?”

  A bead of sweat ran down Thavary’s neck, cold on her hot spine. Urrieta was right, but admitting it would lead to a conversation about her past, about her escape, about the refugee camp. And then the part she couldn’t bear to think about, about the ones that didn’t make it. “What about you? You’re Mexican. Do you know anything about the Els-Els?”

  Urrieta sat up straight, raised his hand, and declaimed in a gravelly deadpan that exactly mimicked their sergeant’s: “The Jewel Orchid gang and the Els-Els each control different parts of Anaheim street. Both want to control all of it. Big fight brewing.”

  Thavary smiled. “Well, now that Jewel Orchid has lost its leader, maybe they will disband.”

  “Unless whoever killed the old leader plans to take over.”

  The CB radio crackled. “Thavary. Officer Keo. Can you hear me?”

  “That’s my foster mother.” Thavary grabbed the mike. “Moms, you know you aren’t supposed to use Dad’s police scanner.”

  “I need your help, Thavary! They’re taking my car!” Her foster-mother’s radio-tinny voice choked with rage.

  “You at the center, Moms?”

  “Yes, Thavary, please!”

  Thavary started the lightbar flashing and did a U-turn.

  Urrieta turned on the siren. “Can you give us a description, ma’am? How many?”

  “They’re all kids! Cambos, all of them! They’re going to wreck my car, then what will I do?”

  “We’ll be right there.”

  The rec center vaguely resembled a bunker, set in an earth-mound covered with mottled grass. The sun setting into the smog turned the sky behind the center a fiery orange and red.

  Thavary slowed and turned her head from side to side, peering at the parked cars.

  There. Mom’s old gas guzzler. When I pass my first eval, I’m getting her a new one.

  A teenager jimmied the door. Smaller kids kept watch.

  A heavy feeling spread from her chest to her belly. It was true. All the kids were Khmer.

  She and Urrieta jumped out of the cruiser. Thavary chased the one who’d jimmied the door, reached out, and grabbed his shoulder. He wasn’t a big kid, but she was just below the minimal five-foot departmental height requirement—waived in her case because they were desperate for Khmer cops.

  And the kid could fight. As soon as she grabbed him he whirled around and stabbed at her with the screwdriver.

  Thavary blocked the weapon. The kid stepped away expertly, then turned back and slashed at her leg.

  He was younger than she’d thought at first. But he had a knowingness to the arch of his eyebrows, craftiness in the light in his eyes, a feral hunger in his crooked teeth.

  Thavary stiffened her fingers and struck him right in the eyeballs.

  The kid reflexively reached up to protect himself, but didn’t drop the screwdriver.

  Thavary swept her boot under his feet. The kid went down.

  She kicked away the screwdriver. Cuffed him.

  Urrieta came running back.

  “They must have hiding places around here.” He grabbed the kid by his shirt collar and hauled him to his feet. “Well, young man, we’re taking you straight to jail.”

  The kid ignored Urrieta. He kept his eyes on Thavary and spoke in Khmer. “There are a lot of hungry ghosts following you.”

  Thavary’s breathing slowed. Sound receded, except for a rushing in her ears. Everything dimmed, except for the kid’s wide, defiant face and coiled energy. His words brought something back to her. The smell of motorcycle exhaust, the dopplering effect of motorbikes passing by. A market. The shade umbrellas overhead. The shallow woven baskets. The piles of produce. Banana clusters piled high. Her grandmother’s hand on her shoulder, guiding her through the crowd, stopping to gossip. The vendor had crooked teeth and said, ghosts follow him.

  “What’d he say?” Urrieta’s voice snapped her out of it.

  “Kid stuff.” Thavary guided the kid into the back of the patrol car and locked him in. Urrieta took the wheel so Thavary could focus on their suspect. “What’s your name?”

  The kid shrugged.

  Thavary switched to Khmer. “Well, here’s what I know about you.” She glanced at Urrieta, but he kept his eyes on the road. He was letting her do this her way.

  “I know that stealing cars is something kids do as part of a gang initiation.”

  The kid wrinkled his nose.

  She risked another guess. “And I know that you are trying to get initiated into the Jewel Orchid gang.”

  The boy’s head swerved towards her, but he caught himself and went back to looking out the window.

  “What I can’t figure out is why. You know the head of the Jewel Orchid gang was killed yesterday, right?”

  He knew. “Doesn’t matter. We got a new leader now. Younger. Better.”

  Thavary went still. This thing was bigger than she’d thought. “Even more reason to steer clear of the gang. So why don’t you tell me where you live, and we can take you home?”

  The kid remained silent.

  Thavary switched to English. “Those are your choices, kid. Jail or home. You pick.”

  “Keo, you cuffed him.” Urrieta slowed down for a red light. “We gotta take him to the precinct now. We have to book him.”

  Thavary kept her eyes on the kid. “Tell me where you live, or I have to let my partner take you to jail.”

  The kid finally spoke. “My name is Penleu.”

  Urrieta led the way up the walk toward the front door of the tidy ranch house. Thavary followed him, pushing Penleu ahead.

  “What’s that about?” Urrieta indicated the two wooden structures atop thin poles on the lawn with his chin. “Weird-looking bird houses.”

  “They’re altars.” Altars loaded with fresh fruit and large dumplings. Sticks of incense burned from small pots.

  The hungry ghosts had to be fed.

  Thavary rang the doorbell with her elbow, keeping a firm grip on the kid. The door was opened by a thin, middle-aged Cambodian man with hard lines around his full lips. When he saw Urrieta, he started to close the door again.

  “Pa!”

  The kid broke free from Thavary, ran to the man, and wrapped his thin arms around him. The man bent down. He was well muscled under his white shirt, just old enough that his hair was starting to thin and recede, but young enough that it was still black.

  He had a muttered conversation in Khmer with the boy, too low for Thavary to hear, that ended with the boy saying, “It’s not my fault.”

  The man looked up. When his eyes met Thavary’s they went wide and his mouth fell slack. He patted his son on the back. “Go, go inside.”

  The boy took a last look at the police officers, his face flushed, and stomped off.

  The man turned back to Thavary, smiling now, his back straight, his hand out to shake, American style. Thin lines snaked up from his jaw. Scars.

  Urrieta shook his hand. “I’m Officer Urrieta, sir. And this is Officer Keo. You need to watch your boy more closely, sir. He was getting into trouble.”

  “I am very thankful that you brought him back to me, Officers.” The man answered him in English, but his eyes never left Thavary’s. To her he spoke in Khmer. “Please tell me, what kind of trouble?”

  Thavary hesitated. There seemed to be no sign of the boy’s mother. Was he raising his boy alone?

  Their radios crackled. When she didn’t move, Urrieta said, “I’ll get that. You tell him.”

  Thavary waited until her partner was well out of earshot. “I know this is difficult.”

  The man put his hand on her arm. Thavary froze.

  He removed his hand, but spoke
in Khmer. “Please. Just tell me.”

  “He was stealing a car. With a group of kids.”

  The man’s gaze dropped down. His shoulders curved in toward his chest.

  “We suspect it was part of a gang initiation.”

  The man went rigid. He clenched his hands into fists.

  “I’m sorry. I know this is hard to hear.”

  When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “It’s possible that what you say is true. Ever since he lost his mother—”

  He looked at her, his eyes soft with tears, a contrast to his sharply contoured, scarred face.

  She’d seen so many faces like that. Strong faces, overcome. Faces she longed to have back. Faces she didn’t want to remember.

  “Officer Keo.” Urrieta called to her from the cruiser, the CB still in his hand.

  Thavary turned toward her partner.

  “Please, we must talk.” The man’s voice was anguished. “Please, I need your help. My boy. My boy needs your help.”

  “Just a moment, sir.” She walked over to Urrieta.

  “We got a noise complaint.”

  “Where?”

  “Just a few blocks from here.”

  “Could you take it? I just need another minute with him.”

  Urrieta looked at the boy’s father, still standing in the doorway. “Keo, you’re a rookie. Still on probation. I’m not supposed to leave you.”

  “I’m a Cambo, like him.” Thavary hated that term, but everyone in the department used it, so she went along with it. “Might be better if I talk to him alone.”

  Urrieta shrugged, his hands in the air. “Okay.”

  Thavary walked back to the boy’s father. She heard Urrieta slam the car door shut. The tires spun in the driveway gravel.

  “So, what I was trying to say, Mr.—”

  “Nam, Narith Nam. Won’t you come in and have tea, and we can discuss it?”

  She stepped inside. There were shoes placed neatly on a mat by the door. The boy’s shoes. His father’s shoes. No women’s shoes.

  Thavary hesitated. She looked around at the house, listening intently, her back straight, her hand on her belt near her gun.

  Furniture in the house was sparse. There were a few western-style chairs in the living room, but they were pushed against the wall. A low table centered on a large mat. A few pillows around it for seating.

  “Please, come in. I will make tea.”

  Narith waved her in, then slipped into a room off to the side. Thavary followed him.

  Her tread was loud on the kitchen linoleum. Narith glanced down at her heavy police shoes, his lips in a straight line, but didn’t say anything.

  Thavary went back to the front door and stood on the mat. She was on duty. She couldn’t remove her shoes.

  Narith was still clinking around in the kitchen. She could see into the living room, where one wall was awash with color. An altar. But unlike the spirit altars outside, which were designed to placate hungry ghosts, this was a shrine to the Buddha.

  Something about it made her want to get closer.

  She pulled off her boots and padded into the living room until she came face to face with the statue. A glittering silk banner served as a backdrop. Pink and white statues of the bodhisattvas circled the Buddha, bowls of camellias and miniature roses and carnations at their feet. There was a bowl of water and a plate of food.

  The statue of the Buddha was a simple wood carving, much damaged and scratched but re-varnished. One hand had broken off, but had been carefully repaired.

  She put her hands together and bowed her head over her fingertips. She closed her eyes. The scented candles competed with the sandalwood to perfume the room.

  She followed the trail of incense to another shrine, long ago. She was little, holding on to her mother’s skirt, shuffling into a temple heavy with incense and candle smoke. The statue in the shrine was the same Buddha, just bigger.

  She closed her eyes tighter, trying to stay with the memory, trying to hold onto that glimpse of her mother.

  “Here is our tea.”

  Narith held out a tray with teacups and teapot, but when he saw her face his smile faded. “Is everything all right?”

  He set the tray down on the coffee table, then handed her a paper napkin from the tray.

  Thavary accepted the napkin and dried her eyes, feeling foolish. She sat down on the floor. “Let me.”

  Narith sat on the floor across from her. He let her pour, not speaking.

  “Mr. Nam, how old is your son?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “And his mother?”

  “He has a shrine to her in his room.”

  “She didn’t make it out?”

  Narith sipped his tea. “No. How about you? Did you lose…anyone, during that time?”

  Now it was Thavary’s turn to sip her tea. Even without closing her eyes, she could see the Khmer Rouge soldiers from her hiding place, see her home aflame, hear the screams of her family within. The screams that were always with her.

  She set down her cup. “Everyone.”

  She looked back at the Buddha, the delicate crack along its wrist so carefully repaired.

  “Mr. Nam, where we came from was not a good place for children. America is definitely better. But no place is perfectly safe.”

  Narith nodded. “You said something about a gang initiation.”

  “Mr. Nam, your son was trying to steal a car. There were other kids with him, but he was the one trying to get the door open, the others were just watching. This behavior is typical of a gang initiation ritual.”

  Narith put down his teacup and rubbed his hands.

  “You will have to watch him very carefully. The gang wants him. They will keep after him.”

  Now it was Narith who looked over at the shrine.

  “How can I watch him? Usually I’m at the store.” He smiled proudly. “Hen-Heng grocery. You should come. Best Khmer grocery in Long Beach.”

  Thavary smiled. “I’ll do that.” She took a card out of her pocket and slid it toward him. It was her foster-mother’s card for the rec center. “Take him to visit the rec center. They have many programs there, lots of fun things for kids to do after school.”

  Narith looked at the card, but didn’t pick it up. “Too many Mexicans. My boy is not so big.”

  “It’s not only Mexicans. All kinds of people go to the rec center. Mexicans, Khmer, white people—”

  “Barangs.” He spit out the Khmer word for foreigner as if it were a sour tasting olive.

  Thavary switched to English. “This is their country. Here, we are the barangs.”

  The doorbell rang. Thavary jumped up. “That’s probably my partner.”

  “Don’t forget.”

  Thavary was already at the door, trying to force her feet back into her police boots. Narith followed her, fumbling in a pocket. Now he held something out to her.

  “What’s that?”

  “A gift. For you.” He held out a small Buddha, an exact copy of the large and battered one on his altar. “So you remember.” Narith Nam switched back to Khmer.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Remember what?”

  “We are the barangs. You and me.”

  Thavary slipped the figurine into her pocket. “Promise me you’ll check out the rec center.”

  Narith picked up the business card. “If you promise you will come to my store.” He pressed his hands together as if in prayer, held them in front of his face, and bowed slightly, the card still between his fingers.

  Thavary hesitated. The Sampeah was a gesture of respect. As a police officer, she didn’t need to do it.

  But he reminded her so much of the ones she’d lost.

  She sampeahed back to him.

  Over the next few days, visiting the grocery store was pretty much all she thought about. But whenever she found herself nearby, she turned and went the other way.

 
She and Urrieta were parked in a beach parking lot, overlooking the concourse that led down to the Queen Mary.

  “So, we have to plan what we’re going to say at this school talk.” Urrieta spooned some potato salad into his mouth.

  It took Thavary a minute to answer, as her mouth was full of the chile con queso Urrieta’s mother had packed for their lunch. “Gangs. How to spot them. How to resist.”

  “Those kids know more about that than we do.” Urrieta sipped his drink.

  “You don’t get it. The most important thing is that they see us. A Mexican and a Cambo, each with our own gun, and guess what, we aren’t using our guns to shoot each other.” Thavary grabbed up what was left of the potato salad before Urrieta could finish it.

  “Hey!” Urrieta wouldn’t let go.

  “Calling three-boy-seven. Two-Forty-Five at a grocery on Anaheim Street. Calling three-boy-seven.”

  “That’s us.” Urrieta started the engine.

  Thavary hit the flashing lights. Two-forty-five meant an assault with a deadly weapon.

  Urrieta peeled out of the parking lot and headed toward Anaheim Street. He swerved up in front of the grocery and jumped out of the car, his gun drawn.

  Thavary turned off the engine, put the keys in her pocket, and followed him, her gun also drawn.

  The store was narrow, but numerous grocery shelves had been crammed into the small space. Green coconuts, plastic packages of dips and bottles of sauces, and packages of Tvako, a spicy sausage Thavary had longed for when she was at the refugee camp, were all over the floor.

  Two Long Beach police officers Thavary recognized but had never spoken to were already in the store, one in front of the counter, one bent down behind it. The back door to the store was open, showing the way they’d come in.

  “You,” one of the officers called to her. “Come see if you can understand him.”

  Urrieta kept his gun drawn. He looked behind the door and went down each aisle.

  Thavary holstered her gun and went behind the counter.

  A man was half-sitting, half-lying behind the counter, two blood blooms on his torso, a baseball bat in his hands. There was blood on the bat, but Thavary was pretty sure it was his own. Had he tried to defend himself against robbers with guns with a bat?