Read Grave on Grand Avenue for Free Online Page B

that operates out of a hotel in Little Tokyo. Even though I can manage LA via bike and public transportation, my friends are right—I do need some new wheels. But I’ve never bought a car before. I’ll need some time to research, compare, test-drive. Since my insurance doesn’t cover a temporary replacement for a stolen car, I go for the cheapest option. Economy. And yeah, you get what you pay for, because I get a Hyundai Accent. And get this—it’s Kermit the Frog green. My friends will not be happy.
    Since it’s dinnertime, I park Kermit a couple of blocks away in the lot across from Osaka’s. My phone begins to vibrate in my pocket, and I pull it out and see that Google Alerts is telling me that something has been posted about Eduardo Fuentes/Los Angeles/Disney Hall.
    It’s an article by Nay in the Citrus Squeeze digital edition. I feel sick to my stomach. Surprisingly, the article is fair and factual, or as factual as Nay can be given the lack of information that’s been provided to her. But one quote attributed to an anonymous police source will undoubtedly be linked back to me. She’s included a statement from Fuentes’s daughter, which is pretty damning. The nephew, although he was on the scene, is not mentioned.
    As I enter Osaka’s, I’m relieved that Nay’s not here yet.It’s only Rickie sitting there at our table. He’s stuffing his face with boiled edamame, a bowl overflowing with empty pods in front of him. The edamame are free at Osaka’s, and when money is tight, Rickie takes full advantage.
    I sink in a nearby chair and sigh, my helmet in my lap.
    “Bad day?” he asks, sucking on the end of a soybean pod.
    “Don’t tell Nay, okay?”
    Rickie raises his eyebrows and leans forward. He’s always ready for some juicy gossip. “My lips are sealed.” Yeah, right. I should know better, but I’m desperate to talk to someone.
    “You heard about the thing with that Chinese cellist?”
    “Oh, Xu?”
    Of course, Rickie would keep tabs on beautiful Asian men. And he knows how to pronounce it right.
    “Well, it’s becoming a bit of an international incident.”
    “You mean his dad did kill that Latino gardener?”
    “He’s still alive,” I murmur, feeling so bad for the Fuentes family. I get a familiar pang, the memory of feeling helpless while waiting in that hospital room during Mom’s breast cancer surgery. “Anyway, the PR person came by the police station today.”
    “What for?”
    “She wants Xu’s cello back for tonight’s performance. She says it’s worth five million dollars.”
    A soybean falls from Rickie’s mouth. “Does that come with the cellist?”
    “No, without Xu.”
    “Well, that’s a bloody shame.”
    I do a double take at Rickie’s use of bloody . Is he going Downton Abbey on me?
    “Hey—” Nay walks into the restaurant toward our table.
    Rickie gives Nay the once-over. She’s wearing a silver knit dress and ankle boots with killer heels. (They would definitely kill me.) “Who’s the new guy?” he asks.
    “What?” Nay hangs her purse over one of the empty chairs at our table.
    “Mascara, eyeliner—and are those falsies?”
    “Dude, this girl don’t need no boob enhancements.” Nay sashays her ample cleavage. Yeah, I admit it. I’m a bit jealous.
    “I’m talking about the eyes. False eyelashes. You have a date.”
    “Oh.” Nay blinks three times fast, and I finally notice the black wedges glued to her eyelids. “Well, kind of. It’s with someone who can do it for twenty minutes straight.”
    “Nay!” I exclaim.
    “Girl, can’t you take a joke? I’m talking about that cellist Xu and his playing. I’m going to his concert tonight.”
    “Really?” That thing must have been sold out for months. Plus a ticket would probably set someone back at least a hundred dollars.
    Nay immediately reads my expression. (Yeah, I’m pretty much an open book. I have to work on that if I really want to make homicide detective and interview suspects.)