Alice stood in the doorway. She glanced at the blue-and-white squad car idling at the curb, her face tight with unease like she wasn't sure she trusted them.
"It'll only be a little while. I'm just following up on a lead," Gordon said, slinging on his coat.
"I don't want to lose you, Jim."
There was a weight in her voice, the kind that comes from holding something back. That she still worried meant something. She still cared. He brushed her cheek with his fingers, then kissed it softly.
"I promise everything will be fine," he said.
Outside, Bullock sat in the driver's seat, chatting with the officers. He tossed a wave to Alice. "I'll keep an eye on him, don't worry."
She offered a cautious smile.
Bullock stuck the magnetic light to the the rooftop and sped off. He took corners hard, shifting gears with impatience, weaving through traffic until they hit the freeway.
Gordon gripped the overhead handle. Rain blurred the view. The wipers dragged in rhythm. He thought of Alice and the kids, questioning if it was smart to leave. Wondering, if he should've made that call to Nebraska. He pushed the thoughts aside and exhaled.
"Which building did she live in?" he asked.
"Longan," Bullock said.
From the Brown highway, Gordon spotted the five concrete towers in the distance. Bullock's erratic driving made them feel farther away. He distracted himself by working the case over in his mind, but it kept unraveling. Two victims at first, now a third. Maybe.
He didn't like where it was going, but he'd follow it there anyway.
They exited into Uptown, slid past Main, and cut through Little Saigon. Bullock parked a few blocks out, and they walked the rest.
Longan stood at the eastern end of Little Saigon. Inside, the lobby was quiet. An old man sat in a wooden chair, sipping tea and reading. Gordon raised an eyebrow. It was the same as the last building. Another old man. He filed it away.
They took the elevator to the fifth floor. The doors opened to faint traces of cooking and the sounds of low murmurs behind closed doors. Their heavy footsteps echoed down the hall until they stopped at the door 541.
Bullock knocked, gently this time.
The door opened a crack. An old woman peered out, face lined, hair pinned in a neat bun.
"Ms. Fumiko Nakamura?" Gordon asked.
She studied them a moment.
"Shit, we didn't ask Fritzy if the old bird speaks English," Bullock muttered.
"This old bird does," she said, her Eastside accent flat and dry. "Who you with?"
"Homicide. 52nd Precinct," Gordon said. "Following up on a missing persons report you filed."
"Homicide?" She frowned then opened the door without another word.
A purple wool coat hung on the rack. They placed theirs beside hers and moved down the hall. The apartment layout was similar to Annh's grandparents, only this was a one-bedroom, one-bath. A small dining table in the kitchen held a half-eaten plate of chicken and rice.
The living room was sparse: a chair, a coffee table, a small couch, and beside it, a waist-high bookcase. On top sat a framed photo of a Marine, a folded flag, and a candle flickering between them. Gordon's eyes lingered on the image and the flag. A quiet reminder of how quickly it could all end.
Bullock nudged him and gestured toward the couch. They sat. She clicked off the TV and settled into the chair.
"Well?" she asked.
"You reported your neighbor, Sophea Chea?"
"Yes. She went missing six months ago."
"You told Officer Fritz you saw her Friday, and she didn't show up to work Monday?"
"She was a receptionist at a clinic. They said she never came in. We always had dinner Fridays. She came by, we ate, but she never made it to work. Must've gone missing that weekend."
"Any family?" Gordon asked.
"Her mother died a few years ago. Pancreatic cancer. Sophea was quiet. Kind. After her mom passed, I gave her flowers. A few weeks later, she asked if we could share dinner sometimes. Said she got lonely. Fridays became routine."
"She ever talk about going out? Bars, friends?" Gordon asked.
"She had coworkers, but most had kids. They'd do lunch sometimes. That was it. She kept to herself."
"What music did she like?" Bullock asked.
A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Billy Idol. Killing Joke. Misfits. She'd play them for me. Reminded me of my son. He had that same spark. I gave her some of his records—The Sonics, The Ramones. She said they had a raw sound." The smile faded. Her eyes wandered back to living room. She clasped her hands. "What's this all about?"
Gordon leaned forward. "Her background and disappearance match two other cases."
"They're dead?"
He nodded.
She inhaled, then stood, walked to the bookcase, and rested her hand on the folded flag. Gordon looked away. Bullock didn't.
"I still hoped maybe she just ran off. But she's not the type."
"You know where her things ended up?" Gordon asked. "Anything left behind?"
"Landlord sold most of it. I kept a few things." She disappeared into a the bedroom. A moment later, she returned with a cardboard box full of books and photos.
"I kept what I thought she might've wanted." She set it on the coffee table.
They sifted through the books and photographs. One showed a man on a jungle porch, a boy in his lap.
"Her father and brother. Killed in Cambodia," she said.
"Khmer Rouge?" Gordon asked.
"No. NVA. Sophea and her mother fled in '75."
Bullock tapped Gordon and held up a red cloth-bound journal, he flipped the pages. Each filled with Khmer script. A few photos slipped out, falling onto the carpet.
"You read this?" Bullock asked.
"My parents were Japanese. I don't speak Khmer."
Gordon carefully picked up the photos. Two Polaroids—one showed Sophea on a white sheet, posed casually. The second caught his eye.
Carved into a polished wooden surface of a headboard was an intricate symbol of circles and crosses. It was crudely cut and at least a foot in length. A hand, most likely Sophea's, delicate and thin pressed down on a mattress.
"Mind if we take these?" said Gordon still glancing at the photos.
"If it helps, take the box."
Bullock placed the journal back inside. They stood, and Gordon caught one last glance at the photo of the Marine in uniform. He reached into his coat, trying to ground himself, thinking of Alice again. Then he pulled out a card and offered it.
"If you remember anything else, please call."
She took it with a simple nod.
As Bullock lifted the box, he paused. "Why our precinct? Officer Fritz said Saigon wasn't helping, but why come to us?"
She looked between them, thinking, before saying, "It wasn't just yours. I went to the others too."
"But you hit precincts in South B., right? Why?" Bullock pressed.
"What's it matter?"
Bullock set the box down. Gordon touched his arm, worried he'd escalate. But Bullock just rested his hands on his belt, thinking.
"You heard he lingers there, right?" he asked.
She looked at him, said nothing.
"Figured maybe he'd hear. Maybe he'd do something."
Nakamura leaned back in her chair and said no more.
They left the apartment and walked the hall in silence. Gordon turned over the new leads. Another victim, another link. Beside him, Bullock brooded, clearly wrestling something familiar. Something Gordon suspected he already knew.