Murder on Bamboo Lane Read Free

is becoming one. It all started with our former mayor, a cyclist himself, who broke his elbow after falling off his bike when a taxi abruptly pulled in front of him. Nowadays, in downtown alone, the major thoroughfares—including Main, Spring, Olive and Grand—all have dedicated bike lanes. Bicyclists even take over Downtown LA a few days a year, like for our CicLAvia—a riff on carless events that apparently started in Latin America—or for professional races, in which hundreds of riders burn the asphalt at thirty miles an hour.
    What Jorge is telling us is basic. We’ve heard it all before: Go out and speak to our contacts with bike messenger companies. Hold more bike safety workshops, and make sure that they are offered in other languages besides English. It’s toward the end of our shift, so no one really seems to be listening. I’m thinking about the truant citations I still need to file. Twenty-one of them—kids who, for the most part, I’ve dealt with before. Hardly anyone else in the LAPD or even the school district police district issues truant tickets anymore. The principal of the local school publicly rails against criminalizing truant students but privately asks me to go after them because attendance has been dropping. And where there’s no students, there’s no money.
    The one I’m most disappointed to see ditching school is Ramon, a good kid I know from my ex-boyfriend Benjamin’s tutoring program. He’s had a tough life—his father is dead and his mother is in jail. Even so, it’s only now, under his aunt’s care, that he’s been living in the same place for more than one year.
    Ramon and I are both dog lovers, maybe the only thing we have in common. I have Shippo, the fattest white Chihuahua mix in the world, and when Ramon’s not in school, he’s usually out walking with his beautiful pit bull, Romeo. When I asked him about Romeo today, though, his face fell. Something’s happened to Romeo that Ramon didn’t want to talk about. No Romeo equals no conversation.
    The meeting finally ends, and we all get out of our seats. All of us, that is, except me. Someone is blocking my way.
    “So, Rush.” Mac, who holds a clipboard, is working with our assistant watch commander on assignments for special-events patrols. Tomorrow begins the Chinese New Year parade festivities, and I prepare myself for the lousy assignment I’m going to be given.
    “Yes?” My back stiffens. For the past three festivals, I’ve had to circle porta-potties, and I know that a line of twenty-five porta-potties has been installed on North Broadway on the edge of Chinatown.
    “For the parade, I have you just east of North Broadway, by the park.”
    I let out a small sigh of annoyance, then think,
Oh my God, did I really just do that?
    “What, you have a problem?”
    “No,” I say. I have no idea why Mac’s assigned to the bicycle unit. I had heard from Harrington that Mac was on the fast track for a promotion until something went wrong. He doesn’t like it here, that’s for sure. But why does he have to take it out on me?
    Sergeant Tim Cherniss, who
is
my supervisor, comes around, saving me from Mac. He asks how my day went, and I show him the flyer with Jenny’s face. “I know her,” I tell him. “I’d see her on campus when I was going to PPW.” I’m aware that Mac is still standing next to me. Doesn’t he have more assignments to give out to other people? “That contact e-mail address? It’s my friend’s.”
    “Well, see if a missing-person report was filed. That’s about the most you can do,” Tim says. “A lot of times they’re on the run from their families, boyfriends, creditors. Sometimes they just want a fresh start. As you know, being missing is not a crime.”
    I nod my head. “Yes, I’m sure she’ll turn up,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound sure at all.
    • • •
    “Mac’s really messing with my head.” I take another swig of my Sapporo. The bottle’s lip feels cool