Chapter One

Thursday, September 1, 2022

“So much blood. I didn’t think there’d be so much blood.” Kinji Abe shook his head, unable to turn his eyes away from the sidewalk slathered in thick, gelatinous goo. Under the dim streetlight the black plasma seemed to suck the last bit of light from the sky. Kinji blinked, but even behind his eyelids, all he saw was blood.

“What’s that, old man?” Gamaliel looked up from his squatting position next to the body.

Kinji stirred slowly at the sound of Gamaliel’s voice and turned to look at him but could not bring himself to answer. The shock had rendered him speechless.

“Come on, let’s get you back to the house. There’s nothing we can do for him now.” Gamaliel stood and reached out to turn the octogenarian away from the scene.

“Frank’s dead,” Kinji said. “I can’t believe Frank’s dead.”

“I know. Neither can I, but the cops are on their way. Maybe they’ll be able to figure out what happened.” Gamaliel steered Kinji through the small crowd that had started to gather. He guided him around the corner store to his house next door. Kinji let Gamaliel help him inside. For the first time in forever, Kinji felt his full eighty-three years. No. Older. So old. Everything ached and exhaustion swept over him. So tired. He breathed in deeply, precipitating a yawn. But how could he sleep? Surely the death of Frank Vásquez would not let him sleep. Maybe he’d just rest his eyes for a few minutes. He ambled to his worn recliner and fell into it, waving a hand in dismissal.

“I’m okay, son. Go be with your cousin. He shouldn’t be alone out there.” Kinji reached for the throw blanket on the back of his chair. “Here. Take this and cover him.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. Gamaliel took the blanket and headed back out. Kinji knew he’d come back to check on him later. He was a good boy. Frank, not so much. But no one deserves to die that way, bleeding out on the sidewalk. Kinji shook his head and leaned back in the chair, his hands going to the growing tightness in his chest. A tear escaped his right eye. How could it have come to this? Kinji squeezed his eyes shut, slowly relaxing his eyelids, exhaustion and sleep overtaking him.

* * *

Gamaliel approached the body tentatively, still in a daze. He shook the blanket open to extend it over his cousin when a police officer he hadn’t seen shouted for him to stop and get away from the body. He was the first officer on the scene and was tying yellow tape to Mrs. Barba’s chain-link fence, trying to establish a perimeter, telling people to back away. Gamaliel froze next to the body. He held the blanket up to his chest, unsure what to do.

“I said, get away! Move!”

Gamaliel took hesitant side steps away from the body.

“He’s my cousin,” he said.

“Okay. Stand over there and don’t go anywhere,” the officer said, pointing to the fence where he’d tied the yellow tape. He wrapped it around a signpost at the curb. Gamaliel walked around the body and the signpost and then sank to the sidewalk, still holding Kinji’s blanket to his chest, his back against the fence. Mrs. Barba wouldn’t be happy about this scene if she were in town. She kept her sidewalk and curb as clean as old Mrs. Ito used to when Gamaliel was little. He and Frank knew not to litter in front of either house. No, Mrs. Barba would not be happy at all.

Gamaliel stared at his cousin. He looked like he did when he slept on his stomach. He’d done that since he was a kid, one leg straight and the other bent at the hip and knee, one arm bent under his head and the other nearly tucked under his chest. Kinji was right—there was so much blood. Gamaliel had tried feeling for a pulse but found none. Another LAPD SUV arrived, its headlights lighting up the body in an eerie glow. The blood went from matte to shimmering. Gamaliel blinked at it and looked at his cousin more closely. Frank’s hands were bloody, one with an index finger at attention. He’d probably tried stemming the blood with his hands.

Everything after that was a blur of shouted questions. Was that blood on his hands? On his pants? On his shoes too? How’d it get there? What had he done? He remembered he’d tried feeling for a pulse. But now, his own pulse raced enough to trigger a warning from his smartwatch, the only luxury he allowed himself other than his phone and camera. He stared at the red letters indicating something about a heart rate above a hundred beats per minute after more than ten minutes of inactivity. He’d been told not to move, and he’d obeyed, but now an officer with a pockmarked face rested a hand on his gun holster and ordered him to stand, drop the blanket, and face the fence, hands behind his head. Another officer patted him down, handcuffed him, and had him sit again. He couldn’t bring himself to answer any questions.

“Fine,” the acne officer said. “You’ll talk to Homicide.”

Gamaliel startled at that. He was having trouble thinking straight, and now he felt the blood drain from his face. His mouth went dry. It was a good thing he was up against the fence because he might have face-planted otherwise. How had he gotten himself into this mess? How had Frank gotten him into this mess? His mom had conditioned Gamaliel to avoid the police at all costs. She’d given him “the talk” about his immigration status one day when he was little and had tried to take candy from the Abe Grocery.

“They’ll turn you over to La Migra and they’ll send you back to Mexico because we don’t have papers,” she’d warned. Most kids his age were afraid of El Cucuy, the boogeyman who hid under children’s beds. Growing up, Gamaliel was much more afraid of La Migra. And now, here he was in handcuffs, detained by the LAPD, who could turn him over to the green-uniformed agents.

By the time detectives arrived, a larger crowd had formed and had followed instructions to move farther back. His wrists and shoulders ached, but Gamaliel was more concerned about his mom seeing him like this. Good thing tonight was one of her church nights. He worried he needed to check on Kinji. The old man seemed to have a hard time with Frank’s death, and it wouldn’t help if they took Gamaliel into custody. But he hadn’t done anything. He’d been on his way back from photographing a protest at Mariachi Plaza. He’d whizzed by the spot on his bike and had seen what he thought was a homeless man on the sidewalk. After storing his bike, he’d run his camera and backpack up to the apartment he shared with his mom above the store. He’d seen Kinji sitting on his porch and had told him he was going to see about the homeless man because they didn’t want him panhandling near the store—maybe give him some food and water and send him on his way. When he’d discovered it was Frank, he’d felt for a pulse and, feeling none, had run back to alert Kinji while tapping out 911 on his cell phone. They’d both returned to the body together, Gamaliel on hold.

But now, two detectives directed a forensic technician to take swabs from Gamaliel’s hands, pants, and shoes, and take photos as well. He had recovered enough from the shock to know he was in trouble. He tried to explain that he’d found the body, that he’d bent down to feel for a pulse, that he’d been away at a protest. No, maybe he should stop mentioning the protest.

“Get a lawyer, ese!” someone shouted from a porch across the street. The veterano cholos, former gang members, had a front-row seat to the spectacle. Other onlookers had moved farther down the street when detectives arrived. When he drew laughter from his friends, the guy repeated his suggestion. He made a good point.

“I want to speak with an attorney,” Gamaliel said.

“You aren’t even under arrest yet,” the Latino detective said.

“I want a lawyer,” Gamaliel tried again.

“Fine,” an Asian detective said. He helped him up and walked him to a black, unmarked sedan that cried out “undercover police car.”

“You can answer questions at the station, then,” the Latino cop said. The other detective read him his Miranda rights. He was under arrest, after all.

“Mijo!” Gamaliel’s mom shouted for her son from the other side of the yellow tape.

“Llámale a Jesse!” her son shouted back before feeling a hand on his head as he got into the cops’ car. His mom would know to call his friend Jesse Ávila for help.