He laughed—a deep throaty sound that invaded my body and vibrated my bones.

I reached for my tea as a business card sailed onto my plate.

“Give me a call if you change your mind.”

I checked the card—gray on black, name and phone, no address.

When I looked up, Tran was halfway to the door.

The woman sitting next to me smiled. “You should call. He’s really good looking.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I will. But it doesn’t hurt to keep the card, right?”

I left her giggling and asked for my check, but Tran had already taken care of it. This had been a monumental mistake. I never should have come inside. I never should have sat at the sushi bar. And I definitely should never have gotten into a pissing contest with a psychopath.

Or was he?

After watching Tran dispatch the Koreans, I had assumed he didn’t feel empathy or remorse. Based on his apartment’s stark furnishings, I had also assumed he was anti-social. But not only had Tran drawn me into conversation when he could have easily ignored me, he had kept talking. Why go to the effort if he didn’t, on some level, crave positive human interaction?

Unless it wasn’t positive at all.

Psychopaths lived to mess with people’s minds. Sparring with me could have been a way to work off the meal and clear his palate.

It reminded me of Bestefar’s cat. The tabby loved to pin mice with one paw while clawing them with the other. Then she’d let them go to hunt again. With each catch and release, the mice became more frantic, more disabled. When I tried to stop her, Bestefar had stilled my hand.

“No, Lily. The cat has her way, and you need to let her have it.”

“But it’s mean,” I had cried.

“Not to her.”

“But—”

“Nope. The cat does us a service. It’s not for us to tell her how to do it.”

Was Tran like Bestefar’s cat? If so, he was in for quite a surprise if he thought I was the mouse.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty

 

 

 

I leaned on the railing and glowered at the kids below as they ran half naked through the plaza fountain. Their carefree joy darkened my already foul mood.

Served me right.

Tran had noticed me. There’d be no slipping under his radar now.

I pulled out my phone and gazed at all the pretty little icons. One, in particular, drew my attention—the floating circle with Daniel’s smiling face.

I opened his texts.

Daniel: I had a great time last night.

Daniel: There’s another restaurant I think you’d love. Friday night?

Daniel: No pressure.

Daniel: PS: You’re a terrific dancer!

Four texts in forty minutes? Guess I was on someone’s mind.

I thought of the sensual grace of Daniel’s body and the surge of heat it had caused in me on that dance floor, and just like that, he was on my mind, as well.

Me: Thanks. You’re no slouch, either!

Daniel: Hey! Great to hear from you.

Wow. Immediate response. Had he been holding his phone waiting for my text?

Daniel: And thanks. Dancing was fun. We should do it again sometime.

It was. But did I want that kind of fun in my life? Look how easily Daniel had diverted my attention. I couldn’t afford the distraction, not with so many women suffering and in need of protection. They had to take priority.

Daniel: You still there?

Me: Yep.

Daniel: Friday? We don’t have to dance. (wink emoji)

Had we entered the emoji stage already?

Me: Can I get back to you tomorrow? I had no idea what I’d be doing in two minutes let alone in two nights.

Daniel: Of course!

Me: Cool. TTYL

Daniel: (thumbs up emoji)

I slid Daniel’s smiling face off the edge of my screen. Dinner and a movie? It sounded unbelievably normal. Like something I would have done in another life.

Something I would have done before losing Rose.

A left swipe brought up boxes of top headlines in politics, entertainment, travel, international, and local news. The teaser in the local news box showed a photo of the Hollywood and Highland Metro Station. I clicked it to see what newsworthy event might have taken place during my disastrous lunch with Tran.

Two hours earlier, the vice mayor from Huntington Park had been interviewed in the subway station beneath me. She wanted a subway in her city and thought the Hollywood and Highland station, with its stylized red metal palm trees and film reel ceilings, did an exemplary job of conveying community culture.

“Huh.”

Earlier this morning, Freddy had told Shannon that the first stage of the new Copper Line would go through Huntington Park. Was this the same Metro line the vice mayor wanted? I studied her overly-cheery face, as if it might answer my question, and noticed someone lurking behind her. It was a man, standing behind a pillar. All I could see of him was the sleeve of a black T-shirt stretched over a muscled shoulder and a well-defined bicep in the exact shade of Tran.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Tran had driven his car, so I knew he wasn’t waiting for a train. Had he come to the Hollywood and Highland to spy on the vice mayor? But if so, why would he care?

I stashed my phone and headed for the escalator. While I didn’t have an answer, I knew where I might find one.

Eleven stops on the Red Line took me downtown to Union Station, the largest railroad passenger terminal west of Chicago. Union Station serviced over one hundred thousand travelers a day, and yet, LA’s traffic problems were second only to our nation’s capital. Go figure.

I blamed Hollywood.

Almost every film or television program shot in Los Angeles glamorized cars and depicted our mass transit as rolling motels for the homeless—not that this wasn’t true, especially on rainy nights. It just wasn’t the whole story. There was a more legitimate reason why our mass transit scored low with public perception: it was a huge pain in the butt.

In a sprawling county like Los Angeles, a single commute could involve multiple transfers, on both trains and buses, and still leave the commuter miles from their destination. Unless they owned a bike. If a commuter were willing to sweat, they could bypass transfers and cut their time in half.

So why did the vice mayor want a new rail line through her city? Because most people did not bike, and like the song said, nobody walked in LA.

Such were my thoughts when a hand brushed against my thigh.

At first, I thought it was a mistake. After all, it was a crowded subway, and since I traveled with my bike, I was forced to stand in the open section opposite the door. Maybe the guy next to me had lost his balance and innocently brushed up against me. Except his palm had crept onto my butt, and the guy had a big ol’ grin on his face.

I brushed off his hand, captured his fingers, and raised him onto his toes with a painful Take Ori wrist lock. With the sleazeball at the Siren Club, I had wrenched the fingers back, driving him to his knees. With this guy, I tucked them under and rose him toward the ceiling. Different direction, same result.

I captured his other hand for good measure and cocked my ear toward his mouth. “I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”

“Let go of my fucking wrist, you bitch.”

I tightened the lock ever so slightly, and asked again.

This time he answered. “I’m sorry, alright? Now let me go.” He was having a hard time keeping his voice quiet and under control.

“You sure you’re sorry? Because I’m not feeling it.” I tightened the lock. “Are you?”

Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Yes. I’m feeling it.”

“Good.” I eased up on the lock but didn’t release him. “Because I want you to remember this the next time you get the urge to cop a feel.” I thought of the would-be rapist at the Siren Club, I thought of Harvey Weinstein, and I thought of every other sexual-harassing sleazebag in the city. Then I cranked his wrist to make sure he was listening. “Women were not put on this Earth for scum like you to paw.”

When he grunted his understanding, I released the lock and watched as he backed away. Lesson in manners delivered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-One

 

 

 

The flow of commuters led me up the stairs to a spacious terminal, where sunlight from above dappled the mosaic sunburst below. Glass doors led to an Aztec-inspired transit plaza, designed to resemble an oasis surrounded by a river of buses, taxis, and cars. I was headed to Metro headquarters, the tan tower at the end of the terracotta-paved road, but first I needed to adjust my appearance.

I always traveled with a change of clothes in my backpack. Today, I had the perfect dress. Its loose style fit easily over my tank top—so I didn’t need somewhere to change—and its length fell well below my bike shorts. The dark eggplant color would have hidden any patterns and colors underneath as would the high neck with long sleeves if I had been wearing a thermal. Best of all, it rolled to the size of a cigar and fit into the pocket of my backpack. I should have worn it to dinner with Ma.

To complete the transformation, I exchanged my running shoes for a pair of flats, wound my hair into a bun, and pinned it with my trusty wooden spike. I wasn’t expecting any trouble, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared. As an added touch, I wrapped my forehead with a purple and black batik scarf and tied it behind my neck. This gave my outfit a more polished look and drew focus like a magnet.

Wear an uncommon article of clothing and everybody notices it. Wear it well and they rarely remember anything else.

Once in the lobby, I smiled at the woman behind the reception desk and introduced myself cheerfully and professionally. “Hi. My name is Trisha. I’m doing a college report on—”

She held up a finger as she listened on the phone. “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am, but there really isn’t anything I can do about a late train.” She shook her head as she spoke, and the braids that jutted from the top of her red and gold hair-wrap jiggled like a spray of wires. “Well, why don’t you submit a complaint through our website. Yes, ma’am. It’s on the same page as the train schedule. That’s right. You have a nice day now.”

The receptionist chuckled as she hung up the phone and smiled at me. “There isn’t really a comment form on that page, but I’d bet you a dollar she’s never looked at that schedule. Now, what can I do for you?”

“My name’s Trisha, and I’m—”

“Writing a college report. Got it. And what do you need from me, honey? Because we have all sorts of information on our website.”

“Oh, I’ve seen it. It’s a beautiful site. I’ve even downloaded the app.”

“Good for you.”

I leaned closer. “But I was hoping to interview someone. You know, someone official? It would give my report more legitimacy.” I gave her a big smile and waited to see if the good student routine would work. When she didn’t respond, I stood up straight and tried a more professional approach. “I’m graduating this winter with a degree in urban planning, and I’d really like to work for Metro. Maybe start with an internship.”

That got her attention.

“You know, honey, I wish more young people would understand the value of starting at the bottom and working their way up. A college degree isn’t a fast pass at Disneyland. You can’t just leapfrog over hardworking people just because you got yourself a neat little certificate with your name on it.”

“So true. That’s why I’ve read everything I can find online, even the meeting agendas. Especially the ones with Mr. Weintraub.”

“You know Mr. Weintraub?”

“The planning supervisor? Anyone interested in a career with Metro should know about him.”

She nodded so emphatically it sent her braids into a bobbing frenzy.

“You know something? You’re a smart cookie. Let me see what I can do for you.”

“Thank you.” I stepped away to give her some privacy. People worked harder when they felt valued and respected—that’s what Baba always told me—and that applied doubly to people who worked for the government.

In less than a minute, she waved me back to her desk with a grin and a wink. “Guess what I got for you.”

Five minutes later, I was walking into Freddy Weintraub’s office.

His pressed shirt had acquired some wrinkles and sweat stains since I had seen it this morning, but other than that, his appearance had improved considerably. In his own domain, Freddy sparkled with energy and confidence.

“So what can I do for you, Miss…?”

“Stevens. Trisha Stevens. I’m writing a paper on the future of LA’s mass transit, and I read that Metro might be building a new line. Could you could explain a bit about that process?”

Freddy sat a little straighter and puffed out his chest. “I’d be happy to. In fact, you caught me at a good time. We discussed this very project in our PPC meeting this morning.”

“That’s the Planning and Programming Committee, right?”

“Yes. Good for you, young lady. Anyway, we’re all very excited about the Copper Line since it will cross social, racial, and economic borders from Chinatown down and across through Cerritos.”

I nodded approvingly. He had given a similar hype to Shannon.

“Of course, the line is too long to build all at once, almost forty-five miles, so we’ll build it in sections. The first will go from Union Station to the southern border of Huntington Park, serving the needs of several lower income communities, then—”

“Wait. Doesn’t the Blue Line already run near there?”

Freddy tightened his grin. “It does, but there’s a great need for public transportation in the Gateway Cities.” His voice sounded pinched. “Besides, it’s already paid for through Measure R. Once the Technical Advisory Committee approves, we can acquire the necessary properties for subway stations and street-level staging areas. Then we’ll start construction.”

“You make it sound so simple. But what if the property owners don’t want to sell?”

“Then the state would force the sale through eminent domain.” He waved his hands to dispel any wrong impression he might have given. “The property owner still gets paid according to fair market value, you understand. It’s all quite equitable. All the nearby properties will benefit. Greater accessibility means higher profits.”

I kept my expression blank. Higher profits for whom? The old sellers or the new buyers? It seemed to me there were lots of opportunities for someone with inside information and a fluid sense of integrity to score some bucks. “Have you made the offers yet?” I asked.

He shook his head. “TAC still has to vote.”

“The Technical Advisory Committee?”

“Yes. But I expect it to go through.” He forced another grin.

“You don’t seem pleased.”

“Sure I am. It has to be done. It’s the right thing to do.”

“To cross social and economic borders?” I prompted, to which he sighed with relief.

“Exactly.”

I backed off and let him ramble about how the proposed Copper Line would travel down Santa Fe Avenue then veer southeast through retail-oriented Cerritos—and all the other nuances he felt important to share. Then, when his enthusiasm had finally exhausted, I put away my pen and offered my hand. “Thank you, Mr. Weintraub. You’ve given me a much better understanding of what’s really going on.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Two

 

 

 

With my eggplant dress stored in my pack and my limbs free to move again, I tore through downtown gridlock. Traffic didn’t get much worse than four o’clock on Spring Street, but eleven miles on a bike felt the same to me whether traffic flowed or clogged.

I weaved through honks and hip hop beats, spicy carnations wafting from the nearby flower district, and the mingled stench of urine and exhaust—a sensory overload I was glad to escape. Only when the streets had widened and the buildings lowered did I begin to chew over the day.

“Chew over” was another of Bestefar’s sayings. It would please him to know I used it, although sexy, exotic killers and eminent domain weren’t the cud he would have chosen for me to chew. He’d also liked to say that a farmer had to make do with the crops God granted him. Was it my fault God had given me a mixed bag of seeds? Yeah. It kinda was.

I stood on the pedals, legs churning with the added force of my weight, and cut through the intersection as yellow turned to red.

That mixed bag of seeds included two dead wannabe Korean gangsters. Wannabe anythings bugged the heck out of me. Not that I had an issue with deception. How could I? It was the unwillingness to pay the price that offended me. If people didn’t like who they were, they should put in the work and change. Without a cost, status meant nothing.

I sped through another yellow light.

What was so special about this Copper Line, and why did everyone I met seem connected to the thing? What was there to hide that would make Planning Supervisor Freddy Weintraub brag, justify, then defend himself to an insignificant college student like Trisha Stevens? And did Freddy really believe the Copper Line was “the right thing to do”?

I braked to avoid a collision then squeezed between bumpers to ride along the curb.

My gut told me if I figured out the Metro mystery, I’d know why Mia had been attacked.

It seemed likely that some corrupt entity had hired Tran to terrorize Mia, but I had a hard time believing that entity could be Freddy. While a planning supervisor had inside information, from what I had seen, Freddy didn’t have the money or the viciousness to capitalize on what he knew. No. It was far more likely that Freddy was a victim.

But why would anyone care enough about him to threaten his mistress?

As Metro’s planning supervisor, he probably could have pushed the Copper Line through the Planning and Programming Committee but not through TAC. The Technical Advisory Committee had thirty voting members. Swaying Freddy, no matter how influential he might be, wouldn’t have made enough of a difference.

Unless he was just one among several key people getting pressured to push the Copper Line forward.

My phone played a ringtone I never ignored. I tapped my Bluetooth. “What’s up, Aleisha?”

“Are you anywhere near Leimert Park?”

“I could be. Why?”

“Yolanda Burch just called. Benny’s acting up again, and she’s scared.”

“Did you tell her to get out of there?”

“Of course I did. But you know how she is. I don’t think she’ll leave.”

“Yeah, probably not. What’s the address, again?”

“On Exposition, where it forks into Rodeo Road.”

“Oh yeah, the gray building on the right.”

“That’s the one.”

“Okay, I’ll swing by and check on her.”

“Thanks, Lily. And you be careful now.”

I ended the call, ducked low on my handlebars, and swerved to the wrong side of Jefferson so I could jump the curb onto Trousdale Parkway—the main pedestrian/bike thoroughfare through USC campus. Then I followed the yellowish brick road to Exposition Boulevard and raced to the Rodeo Road fork. A couple blocks away, I heard a gunshot.

I sped to the short, gray apartment building, rode up the sidewalk, and braked to a stop. Benny was on the garage-roof patio of the complex, waving a gun and yelling at someone I couldn’t see.

“Please be Yolanda,” I said as I stashed my bike behind a hedge. If Benny was still yelling at her, it might mean she was still alive. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time a violent man had yelled at his dead wife; I had witnessed some grim situations working for Aleisha.

I called 911 then pocketed my phone and vaulted onto the wall. A short leap from there to the garage had me clinging to a drainage pipe and peeking over the top through a wooden patio railing.

I had met Benjamin Burch the year before when Aleisha had asked me to escort Yolanda home after a short stay in the refuge. Benny had promised to reform and had groomed himself to make a good impression. Not so today. Clad only in a sleeveless tee and boxers, Benny looked like the wife-beating thug he was: broad back, hairy legs, and fists the size of my knees. One of those fists hung low at his hip. The other gripped a semi-automatic pistol, which he waved in the air as he shouted accusations of infidelity, nonsensical comments about Six Flags Magic Mountain, and declarations of love.

Not only was Yolanda still alive, she was armed with a kitchen knife and madder than a cornered cat. This could definitely get ugly. And not just for them. The last time I had interceded in a domestic violence crisis, the woman I had been trying to save had broken a chair over my head.

I had learned three valuable lessons that day: Never assume a person wanted help. The weakest one in a fight was often the most dangerous. And no one was truly unarmed until they were lying in a morgue.

I climbed over the railing and landed softly on the deck, positioning myself behind Benny so his bulk would block me from Yolanda’s view. I didn’t want her to see me until I had taken him down. I couldn’t afford a fair fight with an angry man twice my size. If I wanted to come out of this alive, I had to be smart, quick, and silent.

When Benny began his next tirade, I ran and leapt up behind him, coiled for attack. In one clean move, I struck the toes of my shoes into the backs of his knees and arched my fingers over the top of his head to rake his eyes. The dual assault bucked his legs and yanked back his head, causing his hands—and the gun—to raise in the air. Then I landed behind him, my fingers still lodged in his eye sockets, and slammed his head onto the deck.

I removed the pistol from his weakened grip and stepped back to a safer distance.

Benny moaned and rolled onto his side, head lolling, as he tried to push himself from the deck.

“Stay put. Unless you want a hole through that hairy thigh of yours.”

“What the fuck?” he said, seeing me for the first time.

I got that a lot. Bad enough to get brought down by a woman, but one as small as me was downright emasculating.

Yolanda screamed and rushed to his aid.

I adjusted my position so I could cover them both. She still had the knife, and not only did I not want to get stabbed, I didn’t want her bringing a weapon within reach of Benny.

“Take it easy. Calm down and no one will get hurt.” I glared at her husband. “Isn’t that right, Benny?”

He stared at the muzzle, still pointing at his thigh, and nodded.

“Aleisha sent me. She said you needed help. That’s what you told her, right? Benny was acting up?”

Yolanda looked from me to Benny to the city. Police sirens could be heard. I was running out of time. I needed Yolanda firmly on my side before they arrived.

“That’s why I’m here, to help you. This is Benny’s gun, remember? He fired it once, and I stopped him from firing it again.”

Sirens stopped. Car doors slammed. Yolanda nodded and sniffed back her tears, but she still had the knife. Bad enough the cops would see me holding a gun, I didn’t want them worried about her as well.

“Put the knife down, okay? I got this.”

It was too late.

The police barged through the apartment door. Yolanda screamed and dropped the kitchen knife. Benny shouted for help.

I held up my hands and dangled the pistol upside down from the trigger guard and prayed to God that I didn’t get shot.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Three

 

 

I wasn’t arrested, but I sure didn’t get thanked either. Law enforcement took a dim view on civilian intervention, especially when the altercation involved a firearm. Although I understood their position, I also knew this situation could have ended in a body bag. One smiling word of thanks didn’t seem like too much to ask.

So far, this day was proving to be as hazardous as Baba had predicted.

Thinking of him reminded me of food, which made my stomach clench—but not from hunger, from worry. I hadn’t seen Mia since that morning when she confronted Freddy at his house. Had she recovered from the ordeal? Or would I find her at the bottom of a bag of beignets? More importantly, was she still safe?

Tran’s tracker alert would have sounded if he had entered Mia’s neighborhood. I checked it anyway and found him in the valley, a safe distance from her apartment. If I pedaled hard, I could make it to her place in thirty minutes. The six-mile detour would double my distance home, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t rest until I’d seen her.

Mia was standing on her balcony drinking a beer when I rolled up to the curb. She looked down at me and shook her head, as if I was the last person she wanted to see. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d ditched me.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because I haven’t heard from you since yesterday. How can you protect me if you’re not around?”

Mia didn’t know I’d seen Freddy reject her this morning, and I didn’t think she’d appreciate my telling her.

“I may not be with you twenty-four seven,” I said. “But I am keeping tabs—on you and everyone involved. How are you holding up?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m alive. How’s that?”

“All things considered, I’d say pretty damn good.” My attempt at levity failed. “Hang in there, Mia. Things will change. I promise. This is just temporary.”

Mia scoffed and stared into the distance. The setting sun bathed her face in golden light that enhanced both her beauty and her sadness. Then, without another word, she walked back into her apartment.

Although safe and physically sound, Mia’s emotional state bothered me. Depressed people did foolish things, especially when they didn’t think they had options. I’d need to check in on her more often.

Which reminded of Kateryna. I sighed. Apparently my work wasn’t done for the night.

I flipped my bike in the other direction and bolted down the avenue. By now, Kateryna would have brought Ilya home from kindergarten, fixed him a snack, and helped him with whatever projects he’d brought home. His routine with Mommy made him happy. His time with Daddy not so much.

Dmitry’s schedule varied, although by dusk most weekdays he was planted in front of the wide-screen television in their downstairs family room. On good nights, Ilya would color at his daddy’s feet. On bad nights, he would hide in his room while Mommy turned on every light in the house.

Despite my prayers for gentle lighting, the Romanko house blazed as brightly as the Staples Center on Lakers game night: Dmitry was in a dangerous mood.

I shrugged off my backpack and took out my favorite spying jacket. The dark gray blended better with dusky shadows than black would have and the stretchy material allowed me to pass through tight or thorny spots without snagging. I muted my phone and zipped it in a pocket. I’d hate to have the screen light up while I was skulking in the night. Lastly, I retrieved the karambit.

I held it with a forward grip so I could keep the talon-shaped blade folded and ready for quick release. This grip also allowed me to use the knife’s handle as a kubotan to dig into pressure points, stun nerves, and incapacitate muscles. As a bonus, the metal security ring could act as a brass knuckle for my pinky finger.

I loved this knife almost as much as I loved food.

Properly armed and camouflaged, I snuck into the backyard. As before, glass doors were open for ventilation and the screen doors shut against the bugs. Ilya sat on the left side of a U-shaped granite counter, swiveling on a high kitchen stool and engrossed in writing or drawing. Kateryna stood in the center of the U, facing the garden, chopping vegetables for dinner. Dmitry stood at the freezer in the back, filling his tumbler at the ice dispenser, which clattered in the silence.

Of the three, only Dmitry went about his task with confidence. Kateryna and Ilya concealed their movements behind rolled shoulders and hunched spines. Both flinched when Dmitry smacked his ice-filled glass onto the counter.

“They still treat me like a fucking kid.” He poured several jiggers of vodka. “How many deals do I have to make before they show me some respect?”

Kateryna raised her shoulders reflexively.

“What? You agree with them?”

She held still, and I knew from experience that she was straining not to shake her head. Not to engage.

“Of course you do. Your tiny brain cannot fathom what all I do.”

He came up behind her, set his tumbler of vodka on the counter, and trapped her between his arms. Kateryna stared ahead, knife clutched in her hand, as Dmitry pressed against her back. Her eyes widened with fear as he rubbed the side of his face against her temple.

“I don’t hear anything.” He pulled away. “I think your tiny brain has gone to sleep. What do you think?”

Kateryna twitched.

“Yes. I think that’s exactly what it’s doing. Let’s not wake it up.” He grabbed the tumbler, gulped some vodka, then sloshed his glass toward Ilya. “I bet your brain is wide awake, though. Isn’t it, Ilya? Keep studying and you won’t have to attend some shit college like your mother and I did in Ukraine. You can go straight into any American university you want. You won’t even need anyone to pull strings or pay your way if you want to go to American law school.”

He slapped Kateryna’s arm, nearly causing her to chop her fingers. “Isn’t that right? Our son can have anything he wants if he works hard.”

Kateryna put the knife down, then picked it back up.

Good girl. I’d want the knife in my hand, too. I’d seen similar scenarios before and knew how quickly the situation could escalate. It made me want to barge into the house. But Kateryna had made her decision, and unless she changed her mind and asked for my help, it wasn’t my place to fight her battles.

Unless he turned on Ilya. Then God help him.

Kateryna returned to cutting vegetables—sawing rather than chopping in case he knocked her arm. I approved. Dmitry would not catch her unaware again. Ilya, on the other hand, did not even notice his father’s approach.

I tensed for action, eager to bust through the screen door and bash the karambit’s hilt onto the bridge of Dmitry’s ugly snubbed nose. Sensei’s voice whispered in my mind and calmed me down. Patience, Lily-chan. Your moment will come.

I was counting on it.

Dmitry peered over Ilya’s shoulder and scoffed. “What is this? How are you going to make the grades if you waste your time drawing pictures?” He crumpled the paper and tossed it at Kateryna. “Where are those books you’re always buying him? The chubby ones made of cardboard that are supposed to teach children how to read. Shouldn’t he be studying those?”

She didn’t answer.

“Well?”

She mouthed something too quiet for me to hear. Whatever it was, Dmitry didn’t like it.

“See. That’s what I mean. You’re stupid.” He flicked Ilya’s shoulder hard enough to make him flinch. “Go study your books until dinner. Go on.”

Ilya jumped off the stool and hurried out of the room.

Dmitry poured more vodka. “I’m going to watch the game. Call me when the food is ready.”

When he left the kitchen, I stepped into the backyard light and waved until I caught Kateryna’s attention. She froze. I mimed holding a phone to my ear and faded back into the shadows before Dmitry entered the family room. Kateryna would either call or she wouldn’t. At least I had let her know I would be there for her if she changed her mind.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Four

 

 

 

Like most restaurants in downtown Culver City, Wong’s Hong Kong Inn catered to the business crowd. So by the time I wheeled my bike through the back door, the kitchen was deserted except for Uncle and DeAndre. The two of them were always the first to arrive and the last to leave: Uncle because he thought he owned the place. DeAndre because one day he hoped he would.

I stopped in the shadows of the entryway nook, where my bike and I could blend in with the mops and buckets, and watched the men put the kitchen to bed.

“Anything else?” DeAndre asked as he hung the last of the pots on the wall.

“Go home already. What more I need from you?”

DeAndre smiled as if he had received a compliment, which might have been the case. With Uncle it was hard to tell. “Okay, then. See you tomorrow.”

Uncle grunted and flicked his wrist to shoo DeAndre out of his kitchen, and in the process, launched a handful of dried beans straight at me. They bounced off my helmet as I swung it up to deflect the predicted attack—it paid to remain vigilant in Uncle’s company.

DeAndre, on the other hand, stumbled in surprise as the beans pattered onto the floor. “Damn, girl. I didn’t hear you come in.”

He bent to pick up a garbage bag and saw the beans. “Oh man, I didn’t see these, either.”

“Leave it,” said Uncle.

“You sure?”

“What, you live here now? Go already.”

I nodded. “Go home, DeAndre. Lee will clean up the mess.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Won’t you, Uncle?”

He snorted in response. “You late,” he said, disregarding my comment so completely that I checked the floor just to make sure I hadn’t imagined the beans.

“I love you too, Uncle.”

“Bah! Too much talk of love. Not enough talk about respect.” He nodded at a plastic wrapped plate sitting on the prep counter. “Eat your food.”

I chuckled. Uncle or Baba always made me a plate of extras. Sometimes, they left it on the counter. Other times, I found it in the fridge. Regardless, it was always there.

“I’ll take it upstairs and pop it in the microwave.”

“No need. Tastes good as is. I know. I fix it.”

I laughed. Everything Uncle fixed was good. The moment Baba had tasted Uncle’s sizzling shrimp in that hole-in-the-ground restaurant in Shanghai, he knew he wanted the man cooking in his kitchen. And since working as a secondary chef in a low-level restaurant had barely kept Uncle above poverty, he had jumped at the chance to move to America. Twenty-four years later, Lee Chang had a small house, US citizenship, and a wife.

I smiled. “No microwave. Got it.”

He huffed his assent and collected his jacket to leave. “And turn off light. All the time you waste.”

He walked out the door grumbling in Mandarin about how young people in Shanghai were so much smarter and more respectful than their Los Angeles counterparts. He didn’t mean it. Needling me was an indirect way of showing he cared. The only Chinese person I knew who gave me direct compliments was Gung-Gung. And since he only did that when Ma was close enough to hear, it always felt more like a dig at her than praise for me.

I shook the ill thoughts from my mind. This was not the night to unravel cultural mysteries. Time to put heavy thinking away, mount my bike on the wall, and carry my dinner up the stairs—preferably without alerting Baba, whose sedan was still parked outside.

I tiptoed along the edges of the steps to keep them from creaking. As expected, Baba had left his office door open. If this had been a luckier day, I might have made it to my apartment without him noticing. But today was not a lucky day.

“Bring your dinner in here, why dontcha.”

He hadn’t looked up, so I couldn’t just wave. And after Uncle’s comment about disrespectful youths, I didn’t feel good about fabricating a reason why I couldn’t join him.

“You’re here late,” I said, pausing in the hallway, uncertain whether to accept or decline his invitation.

“Just finishing up some orders.” He glanced at me over the wire rims of his glasses. “And waiting for you.”

Great.

I stared into the shadows behind him as he typed away at his computer. Better to say nothing than to dig myself deeper into trouble. Besides, the sinister backdrop fit my mood.

Baba’s office doubled as storage for the restaurant. Stacked tables and upended chairs. Scrapers and knives protruding from crates. Oddly-shaped equipment hiding in the dark like monsters in a cave. The rumble-tumble from the washer and dryer added to the effect.

I was projecting my darkness onto him. There wasn’t anything sinister about Baba’s tattered brown couch, or his chipped wooden desk, or his creaking leather office chair, and there certainly wasn’t anything sinister about my bear of a father. In fact, the only sinister element in the entire building was me.

And the silence.

He still hadn’t told me why he was waiting, and if I knew my baba, he wouldn’t. He’d simply wait for me to digest the information and make a decision. If I left, I’d prove Uncle right, and would spend the rest of the evening berating myself for my lack of respect. If I stayed, I’d find myself in a conversation I didn’t want to have.

Lose-lose. An apropos end to an unlucky day.

The cushions of Baba’s couch were so worn-down from use they were difficult to sit on without sinking. I perched myself on the edge and set my mixed-plate dinner on the coffee table. When Baba still didn’t turn around, I picked up my chopsticks and ate. The eggplant was soft and yummy and the chili paste cleared my head. It tasted so good I didn’t care if he never turned around. But wouldn’t you know, the moment I stuffed my mouth with a big chunk of deep fried tofu, he swiveled his chair to face me.

I chewed.

He creaked back in his chair and laced his fingers over his belly.

I pinched a floret of broccoli and nibbled at the edges as if I had buckets of time and not an ounce of stress.

A noise escaped Baba’s tightly sealed lips that sounded suspiciously like “Uh-huh,” which could have meant a variety of things, but tonight I was pretty sure meant, “You can’t fool me.”

I put down the sticks. “Okay, spit it out.”

He shrugged. “Just waiting to hear what’s in the way.”

“Of what?”

“You.”

“Why does anything have to be ‘in the way’?” Most of the time I found Baba’s North Dakota idioms charming. Tonight was not one of those times.

“It doesn’t,” he said. “But it is.” He frowned as I gnawed at another piece of broccoli. “You know, you used to be more forthcoming.”

“Oh, right.”

“It’s true. Even when you were hiding your ninja lessons in the park.”

I put down the broccoli. “Wait. What? You knew about that?”

“We both did.”

“Ma knew about that, too? Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t she make me quit?”

He sighed. “Why do you always think she’s against you?”

I shook my head. I had no answer.

“Well, if you guys knew I was keeping secrets, how can you say I used to be more forthcoming?”

“With your feelings. With your fears. You always came to me, Dumpling. You always let me help.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the weary from his eyes. “Ever since your sister—”

“Was murdered,” I interrupted. “Rose was murdered.”

He flinched. My words had struck him deeper than my karambit ever could.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“We all have our own ways of handling grief. Your mother delved deeper into her work, and in many ways, you did the same. But here’s the thing.” He leaned in, rested his elbows on his knees, and peered into my eyes. “I don’t know what your work is.”

We sat that way for an impossibly long time: him in his chair imploring me to answer, me on the couch wishing I could be anywhere else but in that office. But I wasn’t. And if I didn’t want to destroy the dearest relationship I had in the world, I had to speak. I took a breath, gathered my courage, and prayed I wasn’t making an irrevocable mistake.

“What do you want to know?”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Five

 

 

 

Baba knew me well enough to know that too broad of a question would invite an equally broad response, so he took his time formulating his words. When he felt satisfied, he looked me straight in the eyes and said: “Are you endangering your life to protect others?”

Dang, he was good.

I could have hedged on whether or not scaling buildings, spying on assassins, or even disarming guns from wife abusers constituted life-threatening risk, but I couldn’t deny that protecting Kateryna Romanko had almost gotten me killed. There wasn’t anything subjective about a Ukrainian thug trying to cleave my skull with a hatchet. Baba had found the perfect words.

“Yes.”

He exhaled long and slow. “Thank you.” His whisper sounded so much like a prayer that I couldn’t tell if he was speaking to me or to God. “And this began after your sister was killed?”

“Nine months later, but yes.”

During those nine months, I had stopped competing for the UCLA Wushu team, dropped out of college, and dedicated all of my time to training with Sensei. My mission had been to find Rose’s killer, turn him over to the cops, and make him pay—not necessarily in that order. Sensei understood and trained me accordingly. It was a grueling and dangerous process.

“And when you came home with that gash on your head,” Baba said. “It wasn’t from training, was it?”

“No.”

Both my parents had gotten used to my martial arts injuries, but aside from the time I cut my leg twirling Wushu broadswords or the time I miscalculated my Ninjutsu defense against Sensei’s live katana, none of my training injuries bled anywhere near as profusely as that gash. It had taken nine stitches to repair the damage from that criminal’s crowbar.

Baba nodded. “And how do you decide who to help?”

I sighed. “That time, it was a woman getting mugged in front of her house. I just happened to be passing by at the right time.”

I didn’t mention that the woman had been Aleisha Reiner or that I later discovered the house was a refuge for battered women. I didn’t want Baba to track her down.

“These days, I work for a non-profit organization that helps women suffering from domestic violence.” When he peered at me over his glasses I added, “And sometimes I just…help.”

Baba formed a steeple with his fingers and pressed it to his lips. As he hummed, I thought of the women I had rescued from their abusive husbands. I thought of all the good work Aleisha and Stan did at the refuge. And I thought of Rose’s rapist and killer roaming free all those years before I finally found him. How many women had he hurt? How many lives had he destroyed before he preyed on me? Even though I thought I had put an end to him, I couldn’t be sure because his death was never reported. So yeah. There was a strong possibility he was still out there hunting.

“What I do is important, Baba.”

“I don’t doubt it. But we have law enforcement for that.”

I shrugged. “They can’t help everyone.”

It wasn’t that the police didn’t care—they did, fiercely—or that they weren’t competent—LAPD had one of the most skilled departments in the country. But it also had one of the worst personnel-to-population ratios. There was a limit to how much they could do with the inadequate funding they were provided. So while new officers went unhired and existing officers had their salaries frozen, crimes went unsolved, perpetrators slipped into shadows, and deals were made for the greater good. Even when the criminals were caught, it didn’t mean the legal system would—or could—ensure justice.

“I have the skill, grit, and determination to save lives. How can you ask me not to do what I can?”

Whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not, Baba had raised me with this work ethic. Never half measures. Never leave a job for someone else to do when you can do it yourself.

Now it was his turn to sigh. “Okay, then. What can I do to help?”

I smiled. Typical Baba.

His support meant more to me than I could put into words, but when he leaned forward and squeezed my hand, I knew he understood.

“You’ll keep yourself safe, then?”

I nodded while he chewed over a thought or two.

“And if there’s anything I can do to help, you’ll ask? You can promise me that much, can’t you?”

I don’t think I ever loved my father as much as I did in that instant. Even terrified for my safety, with the barest amount of information, he trusted me and had my back.

“I will.”

He exhaled his relief. “Alrighty, then. I guess that’s that.”

We shared an awkward moment of unshed tears with neither of us knowing quite what to do.

“Well,” he said clearing his throat. “I’ve got more work to do before I head on home.”

I smiled without comment, picked up my plate, and walked around the coffee table to kiss his head. The vanilla-blond hair felt silky against my lips.

“I love you, Baba.”

He wrapped an arm around my hips and squeezed me into a hug. “I love you too, Dumpling. Don’t you ever doubt it.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Six

 

 

 

The next morning, I awoke feeling more at peace than I had in years. Although there wasn’t anything Baba could do to help, and while there were bound to be unforeseen consequences from sharing the truth, at least I could stop keeping this secret from my father. I wouldn’t tell him everything—no one deserved to suffer the burdens I had chosen for myself—but from this day forward, I would feel less alone.

I held my ceramic tea mug in my palms, enjoying the warmth. It would be another hot August day, but until the sun crossed overhead enough to shine down on my balcony garden, my apartment remained chilly. I took a sip of the Dragonwell and scrolled through the information on my computer screen.

I had learned quite a bit during yesterday’s meeting with Freddy Weintraub in his office, including the segmented way the Copper Line would be built: first through Huntington Park beneath Santa Fe Avenue, then diagonally through Cerritos, the home of the massive shopping center and industrial park. The project would create new jobs and boost the economy—providing the Technical Advisory Committee voted to proceed.

I pulled up the Metro website to see who, besides Freddy, was on that committee. The thirty voting members were comprised of government officials representing a wide range of public interests. Eight of these were members of the League of California Cities, three were council members, two were mayors, and one was the vice mayor of Huntington Park who had been interviewed at the Hollywood and Highland Metro station just before my infamous lunch with Tran.

Interesting.

The vice mayor had seemed awfully gung-ho about having a Metro line run through her city. Had Tran inspired her enthusiasm? Was that why he was watching her during the interview? Or was he there because he worked for her?

A quick investigation showed nothing suspicious, tragic, or even noteworthy about the woman. The vice mayor was new to her office and, from what I could tell, had very little influence. She seemed to be exactly as she appeared: second in charge for a small city that could use the economic boom a new Metro line would provide.

I returned to the list of committee members, and this time, breezed past low-level officials representing bicyclists, pedestrians, and other ancillary public concerns, and focused on the big guns. I found two who piqued my interest. Both were top-level elected officials who represented communities in the path of the proposed Copper Line. And both had enough power to sway numerous votes.

Evelyn Young was a Chinese-American serving her second term as mayor of Cerritos—the Copper Line’s destination and a city with a significant Asian population, known for its retail and industrial centers. Mayor Young also served as the president of the League of California Cities. And since all eight of those city representatives were on the Technical Advisory Committee, Mayor Young had some serious clout. Nine votes out of thirty. That kind of influence could make Mayor Young a prime target.

Or a prime suspect.

I snorted at the thought: Evelyn Young looked more like one of my socialite aunties than a criminal mastermind. I couldn’t imagine her taking an extra tea cake let alone hiring someone like J Tran to swindle people out of their money—and it always came down to money. No. It was far more likely that she was a victim.

I dug further and discovered that the mayor’s goddaughter, Julie Stanton, had recently died in a hiking accident in the Santa Monica Mountains. According to the reports, Julie had ventured off the Mishe Mokwa Trail, the ground had given way, and the twenty-year-old woman had fallen fifty feet into a ravine.

If I hadn’t known about Mia, Tran, Freddy, and Metro, I would have written it off as an unfortunate accident, just as the detectives had done. After all, Julie wasn’t actually a relative, and there had been no cause to think the mayor was being blackmailed or pressured.

However, once I added Julie’s accident to Mia’s attack, it seemed a little fishy: Evelyn Young and Freddy Weintraub both held key voting positions on Metro’s Technical Advisory Committee, both had spouses and children to protect, both had bad things happen to non-family members who were close to them.

Was this the link?

Had Tran killed Julie Stanton and terrorized Mia Mikkelsen as a warning?

After witnessing the brutal efficiency with which Tran had executed those Korean punks, the theory seemed plausible.

But two incidents of possible coercion did not constitute a pattern. So I checked into the other influential voting member who had caught my attention: Henrique Vasquez, council member for District 14.

Henrique Vasquez had served on the LA city council for the last seven years. He was a native of East LA, had married his high school sweetheart, and had three young sons. Rumor had it that the charismatic politician planned to run for mayor with a distant eye on the governorship, which, unbelievable as it seemed to me, would make him the first Mexican-American California governor since Romualdo Pacheco in 1875. But, of course, his political trajectory wouldn’t stop there. Vasquez for president!

As a viable Latin-American presidential candidate, the campaign money would pile up so quick Henrique would need one of Bestefar’s tractors to shovel it to the bank.

And if power and ambition weren’t enough, Vasquez was also a strong supporter of rail expansion. I knew this because he mentioned it in every interview I found. Union Station sat smack-dab in the middle of his downtown district; The Copper Line would be a major win.

The councilman had a motive and possible means. But that didn’t prove he had hired Tran to sway the votes that would get the Copper Line approved. In fact, his influence and ambition would have also made him the perfect target. I searched the Internet for recent tragedies or trouble involving someone Vasquez might have cared about—someone close enough to matter yet distant enough to avoid causing suspicion—like Mayor Young’s goddaughter or Freddy Weintraub’s mistress.

Nothing.

I sipped my tea. Cold. Just like this trail. The only thing I felt certain of was that Metro was key and Shannon Weintraub had nothing to do with the attack on Mia Mikkelsen. Other than that, I was as blind as a cow in a blizzard.

How was I going to find my way when answers kept getting buried beneath more questions? Chief among them: if Evelyn and Henrique all had something significant to gain from the Copper Line, why would Tran need to pressure them? Wouldn’t they vote the way he wanted anyway?

And what about Freddy? Why had he sounded so conflicted about building what he supposedly wanted to build? Were there better uses for the remainder of the Measure R funds? Were there better plans on the table?

And what about the Korean punks I had watched Tran assassinate? What—if anything—did they have anything to do with this Metro business?

I downed the rest of my cold tea and shut off the computer.

I needed to step away from the problem, clear my mind, and sweat out my frustrations. Time for a hike to Sandstone Peak: maybe Evelyn Young’s goddaughter had left me a clue.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Seven

 

 

 

The trailhead to Sandstone Peak offered two choices: the vertical climb to the summit or the more scenic six-and-a-half-mile loop via the Mishe Mokwa Trail. Julie Stanton had apparently opted for the scenic route, which, according to her obituary, had been her favorite local hike. I had taken it over a dozen times and understood the attraction.

The Mishe Mokwa Trail passed through every terrain California could offer—meandering desert paths, cozy wooded canopies, red rock cliffs, lush valleys—with stunning views of the Malibu Lake and the Pacific Ocean as it culminated at the tallest peak in the Santa Monica Mountains. If I had to pick the last hike of my life, I might have chosen this one.

But Julie Stanton hadn’t been offered a choice. According to the news article, she had ventured too close to the edge and either slipped or had fallen when the rocks gave way.

I didn’t buy it.

Julie didn’t strike me as a careless person. Her Instagram account recorded a life of moderate but sensible adventure without a single Darwin Award selfie—no handstands on a rooftop for this gal—just an outdoorsy young woman who should have lived long enough to take her grandkids on hikes through the hills she loved.

Should have, but hadn’t.

And I wanted—no, I needed—to know why.

From the landmarks I had spotted in the news article’s photo, Julie had fallen closer to the summit end of the looping trail. I’d get there faster if I took the steep shortcut to the top and worked my way down and around.

I scrambled up the giant railroad ties, embedded to form steps in the eroding sandstone, and up the rocky grooves of the mountainside. Near the top, where the trail forked, I descended the back of the peak via the looping Mishe Mokwa Trail. A mile later, I spotted the landmark.

I had stopped at this lookout point the last time I hiked the trail and could easily understand why Julie had done the same. The sheer drop into the ravine made the distant peaks and valleys all the more dramatic. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied, I would have taken the time to properly enjoy it. Instead, I scanned the ground for clues.

Too many weeks had passed to find shoe prints marking the dirt in an elaborate dance of death—as Westley and Inigo Montoya had done in one of my favorite movies, The Princess Bride—but I did hope to find something the police had missed embedded in the soil or caught in the cracks of a rock. Maybe even Julie’s missing cellphone.

No such luck. I moved closer to the edge.

The bluff angled slightly up then cut almost straight down. It looked scary but stable: no crumbling rocks, no changes in geologic color or striation that might suggest a recent break, not even exposed roots or rocks on which to trip. Everything about the lookout appeared to be secure.

So how had she fallen?

I peered into the ravine. There was a ledge about fifteen feet below where Julie could have hit before she smashed onto the rocks at the bottom. Although it didn’t have the width to stop her fall, the scrub brush might have snagged her clothes, or her phone.

Only one way to find out.

If anyone had seen me scoot backwards on my belly and slide over the edge of the cliff, they would have called for Search and Rescue. And by the time I had climbed down to the scruff-covered ledge, I almost wished they had.

This was nuts.

While the ledge felt secure and the ragweed and chaparral appeared to be lodged deep into the cracks, I was still suspended over a fifty-foot drop with barely enough room to park my butt. If I slipped, I might be able to slow my descent by grabbing at plants and rocks, but ultimately, I would tumble down the rocky face and onto the crags below—stranded, broken, or dead.

I was starting to feel like one of those Darwin Award candidates I had so recently maligned. But hey, I had come this far, might as well make the most of it.

I searched the brush and crevasses for some vestige of Julie’s passing, anything to suggest she might have hit the ledge on her way down. Nothing. I crawled out and peered over the edge. If I found something out of reach, I could at least photograph it.

That’s when I saw the glint of metal in a nest of purple sage—three feet down and a foot away from my ledge.

I crawled back to safety and thumped my forehead on my knees. “Don’t do it, Lily. Don’t be stupid.” But no matter how emphatically I grumbled, I knew I wouldn’t listen. There was no way I could leave what appeared to be Julie Stanton’s missing cellphone lying in a bush when there was a possibility, albeit suicidal, that I could reach it.

I lifted my face and searched for signs of hikers. “Anyone up there?” I yelled. “Get your video ready. You’re going to want to capture this.” I shook my head and muttered, “It might go viral.” Then I took off my hiking shoes and socks and proceeded to do something ridiculously stupid.

Ever since I was a child, I liked to pick things up with my toes—tissues, pencils, paperback books. I became so adept at it, Baba used to claim I was part chimpanzee. Then, after watching a video of an armless girl who used her feet as hands, I became obsessed with writing the way she did. It drove Ma crazy to watch me pick up pens and scrawl my name, but I didn’t care. I stuck with it until my signature looked good enough to fool my teachers. Then I lost interest.

Hopefully, I hadn’t lost the skill.

With my feet bare and my toes wriggling free, I rolled onto my stomach and scooted backwards across the rocky, scruffy ledge. Thorns snagged my clothes and scratched my thighs. I let them. If I stopped now, I wouldn’t start again. So I kept scooting and scratching until my legs extended over the ravine like flagpoles off a building. When I reached the tipping point of my balance, I grabbed hold of what I hoped was a deeply rooted plant and gave myself one last chance to abandon this foolishness and do something sensible like ride down the mountain into cell range where I could call the sheriff’s department.

I thumped my forehead in the dirt and blew dust in my face as I exhaled. Realizing that the case was closed and no one would care but me, I stopped talking to the ants, shook the dirt off my forehead, and inched backwards.

“Please, God, don’t let me fall. Ma will kill me.”

A sharp rock dug under the base of my rib cage, making it hard to breathe. Too bad. I had already aligned my body with the cellphone. If I shifted my ribs to a more comfortable spot, I might not be able to find the phone. Or worse. I might kick it out of the sage brush.

“Come on, monkey toes,” I grunted. “Mama needs a new phone.”

When I touched something unnaturally smooth, I knew I had found it. I braced the phone with the top of one foot and grabbed it with the toes of the other, and after a few tense moments and one serious cramp, had it secured.

I flexed my arms and pulled, scraping my chest and stomach across the rocks as I dragged the dead weight of my legs behind me. And when the manzanita ripped from the crack, I jammed my elbows into the gravel to keep from sliding. If I had been able to separate my legs, I could have brought up a knee and levered my way over the top with ease. However, since I needed both feet to hold the phone, I had to inchworm my way onto the ledge with core strength and grit.

I flopped onto my back, muscles drained of strength, phone safe between my toes, and stared at the clouds.

When I had caught my breath again, I put on my socks and shoes and pocketed the phone, taking care to face the screen safely against my thigh. It had a protective case, but after everything I’d risked to retrieve the thing, I didn’t want to take the chance of it getting scraped. I had a cliff to climb.

The distance should have seemed shorter with me standing on the ledge—it didn’t. It looked impossibly far, and from this angle, as smooth as glass.

And woefully familiar.

I had been here before. My dream about Tran—this ledge, this cliff—wondering what to do next. But this wasn’t a dream; nor would Tran be waiting at the summit to tell me why he had invaded my thoughts and tormented me with doubt. I wasn’t lying in my bed, struggling with my subconscious; I was standing on a rock in the Santa Monica Mountains over a fifty-foot drop. If I fell, Farmor’s quilt wouldn’t be there to catch me. There would be pain and injury or death.

It didn’t get more real than that.

I shoved my dream-memory away and climbed. As I did, finger and toe holds appeared as if by magic, accompanied by images: Ma opening the front door to a pair of somber policemen, Baba crying at his wok, Uncle leaving a plate of chow fun on my grave. I couldn’t break their hearts. Pinch by pinch, I made my way up the unforgiving face until I sprawled, heaving and twitching, on the summit.

I crawled away from the edge and planted myself on a boulder to take in the view. Back at my apartment when I had fried my brain on the Copper Line puzzle, I had hoped physical exertion would clear my mind. It damn near cleared it for good.

Once again, I thought of Tran.

He was in my life for a reason—I was fairly certain of that—but why? Why would my higher-self intentionally attract someone who shattered my calm, disrupted my center, and caused me to question whether or not I was inherently good?

Scary question.

In my dream, when I had reached the top of the cliff, Tran had been gone. At the time, I had interpreted the symbolism as struggle, frustration, or futility. Now, Tran’s absence symbolized something more profound.

Perhaps there was no Tran and me.

Perhaps there was—and always had been—only me.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Eight

 

 

 

I sped down the steep, winding road with only occasional touches to the handbrakes. Leaning into the curves, I quickly outpaced the car behind me and would probably overtake any vehicles in front of me before I made it to Pacific Coast Highway—provided I didn’t skid on gravel or smash into an oncoming truck. If every second presented an opportunity to train, then riding a bike down Yerba Buena Road offered twelve hundred of them.

All I had to do was stay alive long enough to reap the benefits.

One might think I had taken enough risks this morning to last me the week, but then, that person wouldn’t have known me. High-speed biking attuned my mind and body to the moment in an active meditation that calmed my emotions and alleviated my stress. Like training with Sensei or practicing Parkour in the city, it required my full attention. At these speeds, if an approaching vehicle hogged my side of the road, I wouldn’t have time to think, I’d only have time to act.

Which is exactly what happened when the FedEx van appeared.

At the first glimpse of white and green, I held to the cliff-side of the road for a second longer than I normally would have before cutting across the apex of the turn. The slight delay allowed me to pass alongside the stunned FedEx driver’s window—instead of splatting on his windshield—and continue on my way with hardly a flutter to my heart.

I slowed my speed by half as I neared the bottom of the mountain and turned into the parking lot of Neptune’s Net. The Malibu fish fry was a popular stop among bikers, surfers, and anyone traveling up this rural stretch of highway on their way to Santa Barbara. Technically, the property sat on the Ventura side of the county line, but since it occupied one of the last few buildable lots before the mountains met the sea, it scored a Malibu address and area code. It just didn’t fit what most people thought of as the Malibu vibe.

The general misconception was that Malibu was Beverly Hills with surf—ritzy shops, gated mansions, expensive cars. Although the exclusive beach town had all of those things, it also had mobile homes parked on vacant lots, farmers selling fresh produce out of vans, and motorcycle clubs vrooming up the highway. And while there were tons of expansive horse properties and obscenely expensive celebrity compounds closer to Los Angeles, this far up the coast where the distance between mountain and sea gradually reduced to the width of a two-lane highway, life was a bit more laid back. Folks who lived out here valued star-filled night skies, raccoons staring at them through windows, and hiking trails that began at their front doors. They didn’t care about easy commutes or the social life that accompanied it.

If my life had gone a different way, I would have enjoyed living out here.

I locked my Merida next to a pristine Harley Davidson Fat Boy and found an empty picnic table on the front patio. Then I took out my phone and checked the bars. Cell reception was notoriously spotty out here, so I wasn’t surprised to find only two bars. Hopefully, it would be enough to text for a rideshare. Seconds later, and much to my surprise, I had confirmation from Kansas—the same woman who had driven me to the Hollywood and Highland Entertainment. She would pick me up in five minutes.

I put my phone aside and brought out the one I had risked my life to retrieve. Did it belong to Julie Stanton? I sure as heck hoped so. Unfortunately, I’d have to wait to find out. Although the hard case and clear plastic screen had protected the phone from impact, fog, and dew, none of these things could keep it charged. In the meantime, I used my own phone to check on Tran.

His tracer dot showed him traveling east on the 101 toward Downtown LA. Was he off to Metro headquarters or city hall to pressure another TAC member? If so, maybe I could get there in time to record him in action.

I looked at the highway, hoping to see Kansas’s familiar olive-green SUV driving up from town, and instead, saw it pull a U-turn from the beach across the street. No wonder she could get to the boonies so fast: she was already here.

She hopped out of her car and grinned at me with that same brow-arching smirk I remembered. “Hey, Lily. What’s up?” Beach humidity and wind had turned her red hair into a wild mess.

“Didn’t expect to get you again.”

She nodded to the beach across the street. “Surfing.”

“I figured. Especially when I saw the Malibu U.”

Kansas laughed. “Caught that, huh? Anyway, there aren’t many women drivers with bike racks, so the odds of getting me again aren’t as slim as you might think.”

She had a point. Less than fourteen percent of rideshare drivers in Los Angeles were women. I patronized this app because they attracted a higher percentage. They also provided profile photos and allowed passengers to customize ride requests. Since I promoted safe and empowering opportunities for women, and since I was rarely without the Merida, I normally requested female drivers with bike racks. Although if I was in a hurry, I’d take a space alien on a hovercraft if it could reach me the fastest.

“What’s so funny?” Kansas asked as we settled into the car.

“Nothing. Just thinking about some of the crazy people I’ve met through rideshares—presently company not included, of course.”

“I should hope not.” Every time she laughed, her mouth opened wide and her eyes disappeared, like a laughing emoji. While Kansas might not be crazy, she was easily becoming the most fascinating driver I had met.

“So what’s the story behind your name?”

“My college roommate gave it to me because I’m from Wichita. And since my real name’s Petunia—yeah, go ahead and snicker—I decided to keep it. I mean, who wants to go through life with a name like that? Not that there’s anything wrong with being named after a flower,” she added before I could take offense. “But Petunia? Come on.”

I waved it away. “Hey, I don’t blame you. Names are important. They have to resonate.”

“Right? Although, you don’t really strike me as a Lily.”

I held out my dirt-caked arms and scraped hands. “What? I don’t look like a delicate flower?”

“Not even close.”

I chuckled. “All the women on my mom’s side of the family are named after flowers, but my dad calls me Dumpling.”

She burst out laughing. I joined her. Dumplings were plump and soft. I was lean and hard. Taken out of context, the name didn’t seem any more appropriate than Lily. However, what the doughy packages and I had in common were the secrets we hid.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirty-Nine

 

 

 

Not only did I enjoy Kansas’ company, her cellphone charger worked perfectly with Julie Stanton’s phone.

As I wandered through Julie’s apps, I found icons for all the major social media sites, including two for dating. The last was particularly illuminating. From her profile, I learned that Julie had just landed an assistant manager position at a trendy discount clothing store, had recently cut her long blond hair into a bouncing bob, was thrilled to announce that she was halfway to her goal of losing thirty pounds by the end of the year. Also, she enjoyed long walks on the beach, ocean sunsets, and mango margaritas. No joke. The only thing missing was a cutesy photo of her cuddling a puppy.

Why would a young, attractive, intelligent woman like Julie Stanton feel she had to peddle herself online for a date? It boggled my mind. To make matters worse, she only got one response: a guy who went by the name T-Rex and used the Jurassic dinosaur as a profile photo.

T-Rex: Are we still on for Saturday?

Julie: Absolutely! (Smiley face.)

T-Rex: Excellent. Meet me at the Yerba Buena trailhead. 9 a.m.

Julie: OKAY! (Laughing face. Smiling sun. Thumbs up.) I can’t wait to meet you! (Blushing smiley face.)

T-Rex: See you tomorrow.

I looked over at Kansas. “Ever used one of those online dating sites?”

She gave me an incredulous look. “Uh, no. Why? Are you thinking of giving it a try?”

“Nope. Just reading a text from a friend who’s about to go on a blind date.”

“With a guy she met online? Kind of risky, don’t you think?”

“You have no idea.”

Kansas grunted. “Well, I hope she’s gonna meet the guy somewhere with lots of people.”

I stared at Julie’s blushing smiling face emoji and sighed. “If only.”

As Kansas negotiated traffic, I opened Julie’s photo gallery in the hopes of finding a picture of T-Rex, who I assumed to be J Tran. While he wouldn’t have allowed her to photograph him, she might have snapped a shot of him on the sly.

If I could prove that Tran had been with Julie on the Mishe Mokwa Trail the day she had died, I’d be on my way to making the connection between Julie Stanton’s murder and the TAC vote for Metro’s Copper Line. On the other hand, if I found a photo of Julie happily hiking with some guy wearing a T-Rex T-shirt, I could let go of this theory and explore another direction. Either way, I hoped Julie’s gallery would lead me closer to the truth.

Appearing from most recent to oldest, the first image I saw was of twigs and leaves. The second was a useless blur of rocks. The third showed a botched attempt at a selfie. The fourth was taken in motion—probably while Julie was switching her camera from the front to rear lens. And the final picture in the collection—which actually was the first one taken—showed a perfectly framed shot of the view.

Looking at the series again in chronologic order, I saw a mini-story of a girl taking a shot of the view, switching the viewpoint of her camera lens to take a selfie, getting it set up, and dropping her camera over the edge. If this had been the case, Julie could have fallen while trying to catch her phone.

But if T-Rex was with her, why take a selfie at all?

Unless Julie had invited him to join her for a selfie and gotten pushed off the cliff. The phone could have slipped from her hand, hit the ledge, snapped the blurry photo of the rocks, then landed with another photo-snapping thump in the sage.

Although both scenarios seemed plausible, the question remained: had Julie Stanton been alone on that mountain or had someone else been with her?

When I scrolled back to the blurry shot of the trail, something dark and out of place caught my eye. I zoomed in. The corner of the frame had captured the outer edge of a black boot. Not a hiking boot. A soft-soled boot. The kind purchased from expensive European stores aimed at athletes with deep pockets and discerning tastes. The kind used for treading quietly through a Koreatown parking lot.

I smiled and turned off the phone: I had found my connection.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Forty

 

 

 

Come on, Mia, pick up.

My imagination flitted from one tragedy to the next with every unanswered ring. Mia sprawled on the floor, mouth foaming from an overdose. Mia scraped off the sidewalk, her lifeless body zipped into a bag. Mia—

“What’s wrong?” Kansas asked. “You look kinda tense.”

“Nothing,” I said, and called again.

Mia answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“I was taking a shower. Is that okay with you?”

I sighed with relief. Snark and hygiene—Mia had improved.

“Of course.”

“I’m dripping on the floor. What do you want?”

“To give you an update. I’ve connected Tran to a possible conspiracy. I think he might have attacked you to send a message to someone involved.”

“Who?”

“I’d rather not say at the moment, but if I’m right, Tran won’t be coming back for you.”

I didn’t mention Freddy. Knowing Mia, she’d barge into his office, make a scene, and put them both in danger. Besides, Freddy had a family; the less she thought of him the better.

“What if you’re wrong?” she asked.

“Then I’ll deal with him. In the meantime, stay vigilant. I’ll call you when I know more.”

“Sure, take your time. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

I ended the call before Mia’s sarcasm made me regret she was safe.

“Feel better?” Kansas asked.

“Getting there.”

I chose the next contact in my recent call list and closed my eyes as I pressed the green button.

“Hey,” Daniel answered. “I was hoping to hear from you. Are we on for tomorrow night?”

“Still not sure.”

“About the night or the date?”

Truthful answer? Both. But since a kunoichi faces her fears I said, “The night. I’ve got some things going on, and I’m not sure they’ll be done by then.”

“Would they be done by Saturday night?”

I laughed. “They might.”

“All right then. I’ll pencil you in for Saturday.”

I smiled. “I’ll do the same.” We hung up with a promise to touch base the next day.

Kansas smirked. “Now I know you’re feeling better.”

“Mind your own business.”

“My car. My business.”

“Good to be queen.”

“Damn right.”

Queen Kansas turned up the tunes.

 

It took her two hours to drive forty-five miles. If we had left Malibu an hour later, it would have taken three. Thursdays weren’t as miserable as Fridays, when everyone cut their workday short, but rush hour in LA was never fun. Downtown was the worst.

We had been heading to the last place Tran’s GPS tracker had stopped: three blocks from a familiar address.

“Can you drop me at city hall?”

Kansas smiled. “Do we have another cheating politician?”

“Probably, but I don’t think that’s what I’m after.”

She nodded toward the tracker app on my phone. “You a PI?”

I shrugged. “Something like that.” I liked this woman. She paid attention, had common sense, and a good sense of humor. “Mind if I request you the next time I call for a ride?”

“Go for it. Just give me some notice so I can get in your area. If I’m free, I’ll accept. If not…” She shrugged. “You know how it is.”

“I do, and I will.”

“Cool. And call if you ever want a hiking or biking buddy. I’m always up for a new adventure.”

We exchanged cellphone numbers, promised to keep in touch, and headed in our separate directions.

The garage under the city hall building was reserved for elected officials, government employees, and savvy bicyclists. Tran’s locator placed his car in the visitor’s lot several long blocks away. Even if he knew where he was going, thirty minutes would not have been enough time to travel from the parking lot to city hall and through the mausoleum-inspired building to find whomever he needed to see. So if my assumptions were correct, Tran was still here. But he might not be for long.

I sped to the rear of the first parking level, chained my bike behind a pillar, then bolted for the elevator and stairs that connected the three parking levels below me to the twenty-eight floors of government offices above. The fourth floor of City Hall housed all of the district offices, including those for Councilman Henrique Vasquez. If Tran had come to pressure a vote, I figured that’s where he’d go.

I bypassed the elevator and took the stairs. I’d have some explaining to do if I ran into Tran, but what the heck? Compared to the risks I had already taken this day, a chance meeting in a stairwell barely registered as a blip on my danger radar. Besides, I would likely hear his approach and have ample time to race down the stairs or bolt out the nearest door.

As it turned out, the acoustics worked better than I had expected.

The moment I stepped into the cement stairwell, I heard a man’s angry voice echoing up from one of the parking levels below. It didn’t sound like Tran, but that didn’t mean the man’s anger wasn’t directed at him. Besides, the angry man sounded Hispanic, arrogant, and professional. Councilman Henrique Vasquez?

“I don’t know what you expected, but I’m not someone you can dick around. I have the ear of the highest levels of government. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” He literally wheezed with anger. “When I call, they pick up the fucking phone, take what I fucking give, and do whatever the fuck I want.” With every sentence, he sounded less like a political power broker and more like an East LA thug.

I crept down the next landing and crouched low before peeking around the corner. If anyone glanced up the stairs, I didn’t want my face at the expected height.

The man doing the yelling was standing near the stairway exit. The recipient of his tirade was hidden around the bend. Could it be Tran? Possibly. But the angry, wheezing politician was, without a doubt, Vasquez.

I backed out of sight and took out my cellphone. If something violent was about to occur or something incriminating about to be said, I wanted it captured on video. I pressed record and snuck the phone around the corner while Vasquez continued his diatribe.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do. I tell you what to do. Are you listening to me? Because I know a dozen guys like you, and every one of them would chew you up and spit you out.”

The recipient didn’t respond, but if it was Tran, the councilman could be wheezing his last breath. When the silence continued, I started to worry. What if Tran had slit the councilman’s throat? What if Vasquez was bleeding out on the stairs? I leaned forward to see, but stopped when I heard the garage door clank against a wall and Vasquez deliver his parting words. “Don’t ever come here again. You got that? I’m done with this bullshit. And I’m done with you.”

I listened as the councilman’s dress shoes clacked on the cement. Then the stairwell door slammed shut. Had Tran followed? If so, I hadn’t heard his steps. But with those soft-soled boots, Tran could be walking up the stairs toward me, and I wouldn’t hear him.

Time to go.

I pocketed the phone and hurried up the stairs. This time, my floating feet sounded dreadfully loud. If Tran was listening for sounds of a witness, he’d certainly hear me.

I fell back into the Futae Ibuki breathing pattern. In-out-out. In-out. In-in-out. The pattern focused my mind and kept my breaths even and quiet, allowing me to move more efficiently. When I arrived at the next landing, where the stairs made their turn, I paused to peek around the wall.

Tran.

I yanked back before he could see me and considered my options. If I sprinted up the stairs, he would hear it and pick up the pace. If I continued to move quietly, he would maintain his present speed. Either way, he would catch up with me before I reached the next landing. Either way, I’d have to fight on precarious footing against someone who had more reach, more muscle, and possibly more skill. Either way, my chances of survival were slim.

And this was assuming Tran didn’t just pull me down the stairs and let the cement do the work.

But if going up was not a good plan, neither was going down. Whether I charged, jumped, or attacked with more deliberation, my lighter weight would work against me. The best I could hope for was both of us falling down the stairs together—and I was pretty sure his body would fare better than mine.

All of this flashed through my mind in seconds. Unless I wanted to have a conversation with Tran on the landing of a deserted stairwell—and I most certainly did not—I needed to act.

I listened carefully to the soft pad of his boots then sank into an Ichimonji stance with my weight loaded on the back leg. Then, when he was just steps away, I launched a fully committed Zenpo Keri stomp kick to the spot where his footfalls told me he would appear. My force against his upward momentum stopped us both, and for a moment, I couldn’t tell who had won. Both of us struggled for balance—me on one foot and Tran with his arms out like a tightrope walker. Then our eyes met, and he gasped in surprise. The inhalation rocked him beyond the tipping point, and he tumbled down the stairs.

I grabbed the edge of the wall to keep from falling after him, so I didn’t see if his spine cracked on the edges of the steps or if his arms broke beneath his weight. But I did hear the awful thump when he landed at the bottom.

Should I check on him? Call an ambulance? Leave before someone saw me? Every option pulled me in a different direction, and in so doing, rooted me into place. Then I heard him moan and my decision was made: Tran could take care of himself.

I ran up the stairs and shoved open the metal door, not caring when it crashed against the wall. The time for stealth had passed. As far as I knew, Tran had regained his strength and was following close behind. And when the door crashed open a second time, I feared the worst.

I sprinted across the garage, weaving between cars—parked and moving—until I reached the pillar that hid my bike. While I hadn’t seen a gun, it didn’t mean Tran didn’t have one holstered under his jacket. I had to get out of this garage before he turned it into a shooting gallery.

I grabbed my bicycle chain and helmet, not bothering to fasten either, and ran the Merida into the flow of traffic, hopped on while it was in motion, and sped for the exit ramp. I didn’t stop until city hall was out of sight and I had found a safe haven for me to stop and make sense of what I had witnessed.

I leaned the bike against a wall and waited for my heart to stop racing.

Tran had done something to make Henrique Vasquez very angry, but apparently not scared. So either the councilman was a foolishly arrogant victim or a dissatisfied employer.

I played the video and listened carefully to his choice of words: “You don’t get to tell me what to do. I tell you what to do. Are you listening to me? Because I know a dozen guys like you, and every one of them would chew you up and spit you out.”

Did Vasquez intend to hire one of those “dozen guys” to do what Tran had failed to do? Or was there more to this picture than I could see? Because at this point, the wheezing councilman sounded an awful lot like Cigarette Smoking Man.

I shook my head. This wasn’t a television show. It might not even be a conspiracy. All I knew for certain was that a new Metro line passing through the councilman’s district would make a powerful talking point in his bid for Mayor of Los Angeles.

Henrique Vasquez had a motive for hiring Tran. If he could get the most influential TAC members to vote his way, he’d get a shiny new Copper Line he could ride all the way to the governorship.

But did he have the means?

LA city council members received the highest annual salary of any city council in the nation. However, $178,000 didn’t count for much in Los Angeles, not after taxes, and not when supporting a family. Even with all the perks of the office, Vasquez would need to make a whole lot more than that in order to maintain his big shot image and still have enough left to hire an assassin.

Unless someone else was paying the tab.

I put away the phone and dug my fists into my aching hips. This case had turned into a royal pain in my ass, and I didn’t just mean figuratively—my glutes were killing me. After biking up and down Yerba Buena, clinging for my life on that godforsaken cliff, and my narrow escape from Tran, I didn’t have energy left to puzzle out this Metro business.

I needed more information. I need to talk with someone who understood the world of finance and the ways in which it could flow undetected. I needed my mother.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Forty-One

 

 

 

“Lily. You look lovely,” Ma said, her tone tinged with surprise.

I tried not to feel offended and consoled myself with the success. Ma was pleased. Score one for the home team.

I had changed out of my grimy hiking clothes into the same outfit I had worn to meet Freddy Weintraub, minus the headscarf. Although the rayon dress had felt a bit breezy during my bike ride from the Arcadia Metro station to my parents’ home, I had made it work. Practicality didn’t matter. For this encounter, I needed to look feminine and respectable—the perfect Asian daughter.

“Thanks, Ma. You look lovely, too.” No surprise. She looked as classic as ever in her ivory silk blouse and pencil skirt, a striking backdrop for the imperial jade Sì Xiàng bracelet she always wore on her wrist.

We exchanged cheek-kisses. While I could have used my house key and gone straight to her office, I always rang the bell. I think Ma appreciated the opportunity to school her emotions. I know I did. Besides, this house stopped feeling like a home to me when Rose died. It held too much sorrow, anger, and painful memories of sweeter times. Ringing the doorbell helped me feel like a visitor, which, in turn, kept the emotions at a distance.

Ma closed the door, breaking my train of thought and sealing in the cool air. “Would you like some tea?”

“Sure. That’d be great.” My voice echoed off the walls and balconies. The two-story entry was long and wide enough for two nine-year-old girls to do six consecutive front walkovers. I knew, because my friend and I had tried the tumbling trick after Wushu practice and caught holy hell in the process.

“Is something funny?”

I shrugged. “Just remembering those walkovers.”

“Aiya. You’re not planning to do that again. Are you?”

“You kidding? And risk your wrath? I don’t think so.”

Ma chuckled and walked ahead. I could have sworn I heard her say, “Good.”

Our house was shaped like a horseshoe, with an office and family room on the left, a dining room and formal parlor on the right, and an enormous chef’s kitchen across the back. A sweeping staircase led upstairs to five bedrooms tucked behind a long balcony sitting area.

Back in the early nineties, when California real estate crashed, Ma had arranged for Gung-Gung to buy the seven-thousand-square-foot house at fifty cents on the dollar. Since then, the value had octupled, elevating the property value to well over three million dollars. Supposedly, Gung-Gung had given the house to Ma as a wedding present, except that he neglected to sign over the deed. So in actuality, the house belonged to Hong Kong International Finance. As long as my mother represented the interests of HKIF and its clients, both in Hong Kong and the United States, her home was secure. I had no idea what would happen if she ever quit. Gung-Gung had a fickle disposition.

When we reached the kitchen, Ma turned on the electric water kettle and brought out a canister of tea. “Jīn Xuan okay?”

I nodded. Jīn Xuan meant Golden Daylily. It was one of my favorite teas. I pulled out a stool and took a seat at the counter. “How could I not like an oolong named after me?”

“Ha! You just like it because it tastes like milk.”

I laughed. She had a point. When Rose and I were little, Jīn Xuān—also known as milk oolong—was the only tea we would drink. I remember us climbing onto these high bone-colored stools and leaning across the pearly granite counter to watch Ma pour. We’d press our tiny hands around the ceramic cups and let the sweetly scented steam warm our faces. Even now, drinking milk oolong felt like a warm hug.

“Do you ever have this when I’m not around?”

“Not really. I keep it for you because I know you like it.”

As I watched her spoon tea leaves into the mesh basket of a cast-iron pot, I wondered how many other acts of kindness my mother did on my behalf that I never had taken time to notice. Maybe Baba was right, I had created an antagonist where none existed. I shrugged the thought away. The answer was bound to be uncomfortably layered. I’d have better luck deciphering it during meditation than while sitting in her kitchen.

Ma raised her perfectly plucked brows. “So? To what do I owe this visit?”

She poured the heated water into the teapot and placed two matching ceramic cups beside it. The tiger motifs were not lost on me—Ma was fortifying herself for hard negotiations.

“I need some information about political campaign financing and real estate investment.”

She laughed, relief mixed with incredulity. No doubt she had expected one of our infamous mother-daughter quarrels, not a discussion about business. When her posture relaxed, I realized how tense she had been and how at ease she now felt. Once again, I wondered how much of our problems were caused by me.

“Why the sudden interest?”

I shrugged. “Daniel was talking about things I didn’t understand, and I don’t like feeling ignorant.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth. My mind had glazed over more than a few times during dinner at République as Daniel had rambled about his and his father’s real estate deals. But I hadn’t felt ignorant. I just hadn’t cared. If the conversation had come on the heels of today’s discovery, I would have paid more attention.

Ma turned the teacups until the Tigers aligned perfectly. “Then the date went well.” She tossed out the comment as though it meant nothing and she wasn’t secretly jumping for joy. “Well enough to have another?”

“I’m considering it.”

Ma smiled and poured the tea.

“Well, I don’t know much about campaign financing in this country except that the government requires all contributions to be made accessible to the public and that there are limits. I’m sure the information is easy to find. I’ve just never had the need to know. None of our US clients contribute to politicians, or if they do, they don’t do it through us. And as for our Hong Kong clients…” She chuckled softly. “Well, Hong Kong politics are too complicated to discuss in one afternoon.”

I nodded, remembering some of her past phone conversations with Gung-Gung. “What about real estate investment?”

“Aiya. You have to narrow down the question. What exactly do you want to know?”

I sipped my tea. I hardly knew where to begin. So I decided to start with the basics. “How long would it take for a commercial property to go up in value?”

She pursed her red lips. “Are we talking about natural inflation or an event of some kind?”

“An event. Like a new Metro line in the neighborhood. How long after the announcement would property values escalate? How quickly could you sell and make a profit?”

She hummed and tapped her red lacquered nails on the granite. “The real question isn’t how much you could get by selling the property but how much you could get a bank to loan you based on the upcoming value of the property. For something like a Metro line, which would bring in new commerce, the perceived value would spike with the announcement.”

“Even before it was built?”

“Sure. Government agencies don’t make announcements like that until the various stages have been approved and the project has been funded. Otherwise, the announcements would be about meetings and propositions. But you’re talking about a green light announcement, correct?”

“I guess. I’m just trying to figure out how an investor could make some quick money.”

Ma frowned. “Is Daniel investing in something like this?”

“Uh, no. At least, I don’t think so. He was just talking about some of the ways investors capitalize on major changes in infrastructure. To tell you the truth, I didn’t understand half of what he was saying.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s complicated.” She leaned in. “It’s like this. An investor would have to see the trend well in advance and acquire the property before anyone realized its potential. And for that, he’d want a long escrow.”

I nodded. I had heard Ma speak of this many times. “That’s a holding account, right? Where the buyer puts down a deposit to secure the property while he does his due diligence?”

“Very good, Lily. And yes, there are always contingencies.”

“Like making sure there are no liens on the property or that the building isn’t going to slide into a sink hole the moment he takes possession.”

“Well, maybe not so dramatic as that, but yes. There are many things to check. With commercial real estate, due diligence could take anywhere from a week to three years, depending on the complexity of the deal.”

I smiled. Now we were getting somewhere.

“And while the funds are in this holding account, the seller is committed to the sale, right?”

Ma nodded. “Until the contingency removal date. Then the buyer either releases his contingencies and goes through with the sale, or he backs out of the deal and the seller can put his property back on the market.”

“But what if the buyer needs more time but still wants the property?”

“Ah.” Her dark eyes twinkled and a mischievous grin bloomed on her face. “In that case, he would need to release the contingencies and hope he can raise the balance before the final sale date. If he can, good for him. If he can’t, he not only loses the property, he forfeits the escrow money.”

I laughed. Not at her words, but at the delight she took in saying them. “Sounds kind of risky.”

“Not if he knows he can close the deal. But if he has to borrow the funds?” She held out her hands and jiggled her head, reminding me of those bobble-headed cats in Little Tokyo. “Very risky.”

I couldn’t believe how much fun she was having talking about escrows and theoretical investments, as if we were gossiping about the latest Hong Kong movie stars. Who knew? Maybe next visit I’d ask her about retirement funds.

“But that’s not the only risk, right? I mean, if the buyer bets on Metro and Metro decides not to build the new subway—”

“Not necessarily,” she said. “It depends on the timing.” Ma steeped more tea as she cheerfully explained about asset-based lending and speculation. “The potential is huge. But investing borrowed money against risky ventures is like hiding from a typhoon in a house made of sticks.” She snorted her opinion of that. “The investor could lose everything.”

This sounded like a motive.

“For what?” she asked.

I looked up in surprise. I must have spoken my thoughts out loud. But having made the mistake, I couldn’t just ignore it. Ma would expect an answer.

“For murder,” I said, and when her brows arched in surprise, I added, “You know, like in a TV show?”

She chuckled at what she assumed was a joke. “Well, needless to say, Gung-Gung and I don’t promote that kind of behavior with our clients.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

We exchanged a wink and a giggle. Then Ma brought out a bag of gourmet potato chips and poured the whole thing into a giant bowl. Had we entered another dimension where my elegant mother ate greasy potato chips? We must have, because otherwise this could not be happening.

“Close your mouth, Lily. It’s unbecoming to gape.” She pinched a chip with her red lacquered nails and pushed the bowl in my direction. “Do you want some or not?”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Forty-Two

 

 

 

I woke up the next morning sprawled on the couch with the television on, a young William Shatner calling for Scotty to beam him up from a barren planet. His communicator looked hilariously like Uncle’s ancient flip phone. I aimed the remote and clicked. Captain Kirk dissolved into particles. I relished the power. It was a good way to begin the day.

After a long, hot shower to ease my aches, I dressed in an outfit for all occasions—a Lycra blend polo, pants, jacket, and a pair of black soft-soled boots not unlike Tran’s. Regardless of where I went or what I needed to do once I got there, this kunoichi would be prepared.

Kunoichi. Who would have thought I’d become a female ninja?

I snorted. Apparently, my parents.

I still couldn’t believe they had known—that Ma had known. And all this time I had been so certain she would have forbidden it. Boy, was I wrong. Not only had she allowed me to train in the park, unsupervised, with a man, she had allowed her Chinese daughter to study a Japanese art. I could hardly wrap my brain around that notion. Even at twelve years old, I had felt the underlying mistrust Ma and her relatives in Hong Kong had for the Japanese. They didn’t share the kinship most Americans assumed they would feel. Heck, Hong Kongers didn’t even like being identified as Chinese, let alone grouped together with other Asian ethnicities.

I fixed myself a cup of tea and sat down at my desk, taking care to place the teacup a couple inches away from my pen. Peas can’t touch the carrots, Mama. They don’t get along. What a silly girl I had been. Although, didn’t I still do the same thing now? No one in my life knew anyone else. Knew of, perhaps, but not knew. Not really. They won’t get along, Mama. Or would they? Now that Baba knew about my secret life, maybe should I introduce him to Aleisha and Stan. Invite them over for Sunday dinner in Arcadia….

Yeah—maybe I’d wait on that one.

I deleted a bunch of emails and bypassed the SMG notices alerting me of new trials and arrests. I had enough to deal with on Mia’s case, I didn’t need to borrow trouble. What I needed was information on Henrique Vasquez. Whoever was funding the councilman’s mayoral campaign sat at the top of my suspect list. I closed my email and opened up a search to follow the money.

At least, that was the plan.

The councilman hadn’t officially declared his candidacy. And since he hadn’t declared, any contributions he might have accumulated hadn’t yet appeared on the Ethics Commission website. Which also meant there was no money trail for me to follow.

I typed in “dirty politics” plus “Henrique Vasquez Metro”.

I found a crop of articles and videos. It took a while to sort through the chaff, but I finally found a kernel of something interesting—glowing praise from Hardington, the CEO of a major discount retail chain. Why was this interesting? Because the retail chain had four stores in District 14, one in Huntington Park, and two in Cerritos.

Sure enough, when I checked the city council website, I found all sorts of generous contributions from Hardington to Vasquez for past elections and current projects—more than enough to hire someone like Tran.

I shook my head. I needed more than dirty politics and conspiracy theories if I was going to take this to the district attorney. She and I had a history. If I didn’t bring her solid evidence, she’d toss me and my creative theories to the curb. And since I didn’t have the time, skill, or resources to check for embezzlement, I’d have to find my evidence down another track.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Forty-Three

 

 

 

I found the glorified boxcar that housed Magnum Realtors—a one-story building with reddish-brown paint and metal window frames—across the street from a four-track railway junction. It was perfect. Any realtor who worked in this rundown firm would be hungry for business and unlikely to question my story or ask for credentials.

I opened the door. A string of sleigh bells chimed. A man in his forties with an ’80s Wham vibe glanced up from his burrito. He wiped his mouth with hairy knuckles and stood to offer his hand.

“Welcome to Magnum Realtors.” Plural, as if his wasn’t the only desk in the office. “The name’s Ed Baker. What can I do for you today?”

Desperation dripped from him like sweat, which might have explained the armpit stains on his periwinkle shirt. Someone should tell this guy to stick to dark colors. I glanced at his hand. At the burrito. And back to his hand.

“Breakfast,” he said by way of explanation, then crumpled the foil and shoved the decimated mess to the side of his desk. “You know how it is. Busy, busy. Gotta eat when I can.” He wiped his hand on his pink trousers and offered it again.

This time I accepted, freezing my face into a grin to hide my disgust. “Trisha Stevens. It’s nice to meet you Mr. Baker.”

“Trisha Stevens,” he said, repeating the same alias I had given Freddy while crushing my hand in his grip. What was it with men who felt so insecure they needed to lord their strength over women? Did they think it impressed us? News flash: it did not. Two seconds later, without realizing how close he had come to an emergency room visit, Ed Baker released my hand and smiled. “Please, have a seat.”

The maroon chair he offered matched his own and clashed horrendously with the seafoam leisure jacket he had draped across its back. I sat on its edge so as not to touch any more than necessary.

Baker, on the other hand, plopped into his seat and leaned back until the hinges creaked in protest. “So, are you looking to buy or sell?” He held out his stubby fingers as he said this then laced them together on his belly. Apparently, having displayed his enthusiasm and manliness, it was now time to demonstrate an exaggerated sense of ease, as if he didn’t need my business to pay this month’s electricity bill.

I gave him another cheek-hurting grin. “Buy. I represent an international financing firm based in Hong Kong, and I’m looking for property in Huntington Park—commercial, under-valued, potential for growth, that sort of thing.”

His eyes grew wide. “Well then, you’ve come to the right place.”

I smiled. “That’s what I hoped.”

“Do you have anything particular in mind? Strip malls, car washes, apartments?”

“Actually, I was hoping you could give me a feel for what’s been selling.”

“Recent sales? Hold on a sec.” He typed a few commands on his keyboard and turned the monitor around for me to see. The screen showed a map of the city’s grid, sprinkled with red location bubbles. Each one had a dollar symbol and the first few digits of an amount that would likely expand into more detailed information when clicked.

The city of Huntington Park had an odd shape that reminded me of an old-fashioned steam engine, with the body on the left and a cow catcher dangling in the front on the right. According to Freddy Weintraub, the Copper Line would be built beneath Santa Fe Avenue, one of the five main roads that ran down the city. So naturally, that was where I expected to see most of the sales. I was wrong. The majority of red markers ran down Pacific Boulevard, eight blocks to the east.

“What’s so popular about this street?” I asked, turning the computer display halfway between us so he could see.

Baker cocked his head. “It’s our main commercial thoroughfare. You didn’t know that? All the big stores are on Pacific. Although it might also have something to do with the Metro hoopla a while back.”

“Really. What hoopla was that?”

The realtor shrugged and glanced at his unfinished breakfast. “Oh, it didn’t last long. Just enough to cause a fuss and get some investors excited about a new subway. But then Metro changed their plans. No sense paying attention until they nail it down. Who knows where they’re going to build the damn thing. Or when. Or if. You know how it is with government-funded projects.”

I nodded. I knew a lot more than that, including why Ed Baker should have been paying more attention.

He gestured to the screen. “Several of those Pacific properties are back on the market. I can get you a good price if you think your clients would be interested.”

I examined the grid of streets. While Santa Fe Avenue ran due south from Union Station, an existing Metro line already ran through Watts just half a mile to the west. The Copper Line would have serviced more people if they had stuck with the original on Pacific Boulevard.

I leaned toward Baker. “Do you have a map of the properties for sale now?”

He perked up like a pup at dinnertime. “In Huntington Park? Sure thing.” He typed some more and hit enter. A new map appeared.

I pointed to the three red dots on Santa Fe Avenue. Each were cheaper than the properties on Pacific Boulevard, and each occupied a corner lot on one of the three major intersections: Slauson, Gage, and Florence. I could almost hear the conductor’s voice announcing the stations: Slauson Street, Huntington Park. Next stop, Gage.

“What’s the status of these three properties?”

Baker checked the first dot and frowned. “Sorry. It looks like the Slauson property is off the market. Let me try the one on Gage.” He clicked the next red bubble. “Hmm. That’s strange. Hold on a sec.” He tried the one on Florence. “Well, I’ll be damned. Something must be wrong with my service. Either that or all of these properties went off the market in the last couple of days.”

Now it was my turn to perk up. “Does that mean they’re in escrow?”

He shrugged. “Could be.”

“Well, is there any way to tell?”

“Only if Magnum Realtors had made the deal. And even then, it wouldn’t be ethical for me to divulge any information.”

“Oh sure, I know that. I only asked in case the owners pulled it off the market or it fell out of escrow, in which case a savvy realtor might be able to get me a good deal.” I waited for him to catch on. When he didn’t, I gave him a conspiratorial wink.

“Oh,” he said, finally catching my meaning. “You know, I could call the owners and find out if the properties are still available.”

I pointed my finger at him as if he were the smartest man I had ever met. Then I let him get on with his calls while I pondered the implications of the red dots.

What if the mysterious entity who had hired J Tran wasn’t trying to pressure TAC members to vote in favor of the Copper Line? What if that entity wanted the subway built under Santa Fe Avenue, where the properties were cheaper? According to Freddy, The Copper Line would eventually travel through thirty miles of real estate. There could be dozens of properties in escrow along that route whose value would spike with the announcement.

“The properties on Slauson and Florence are in escrow, and the owner of the Gage property is Korean and didn’t speak English. Or at least, he forgot how when I asked if he still wanted to sell.”

“Korean?” I thought about the young punks Tran had murdered.

Baker shrugged. “Something like that. Not Chinese, though.” He held out his hands so I wouldn’t be offended. “I can tell the difference.”

I scrunched my nose and forced a smile. “I’m sure you can. Were the other owners willing to talk?”

“They were when I told them I had an interested buyer. Neither of them seemed to trust the attorney who poached them from their original brokers. Slimy bastard—”

“Wait a minute. Same attorney for both deals?”

“Uh-huh. Son of a bitch approached them directly, lured them with buyers, and snagged them from the broker the day his listing ran out.”

“So the same person is buying both properties?”

He sighed as if I had missed the point of his indignation. “Not necessarily. The attorney could have lots of clients.”

“But why did the owners even mention him? Weren’t they afraid you’d mess up their deals?”

He grunted. “I think they were more concerned the deal might be bogus. They both wanted to know if I had heard of him, which I hadn’t, and I know every agent from Huntington to South Gate.” He slapped the table for emphasis then tapped his computer screen. “So, you want me to pursue it?”

I stood. “Not at the moment. Sounds kind of messy. But if I change my mind, I know where to find you.”

He spread his arms to encompass his office. “Magnum Realtors.” Then he flexed one of his arms. “The big guns of real estate.”

I smiled and wagged my finger, pretending, once again, to be impressed with his cleverness.

He pointed to the stack of business cards. “Give me a call if you want to buy.” Then he unwrapped his burrito. Now that I was no longer a serious prospect, he wanted me out of his office so he could eat in peace. I couldn’t blame him. I wanted me out of there as well.

“By the way,” I said, taking a card. “Who’s the attorney? He sounds like someone I want to avoid.”

The realtor paused mid-bite. “Good idea. Slimy bastard. Name’s Dmitry Romanko.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Forty-Four

 

 

 

Dmitry Romanko.

That was a name I had not expected to hear. Although, when I thought back to the newspaper article about Mia that I had seen in Kateryna’s bedroom, the connection made sense. Of course Dmitry would have a vested interest in what happened with Tran’s preliminary trial. I just hadn’t known it at the time, which was why—when I had seen the SMG notice about that same prelim—I had taken it as a celestial sign for me to get involved. It had never occurred to me that Dmitry Romanko might have something to do with the attack on Mia Mikkelsen.

Which reminded me—time to check in.

Me: How’s it going?

Mia: Nowhere. My ass hasn’t left the couch.

I laughed and sent Mia a thumbs up.

I pocketed my phone and considered the Mexican food shack in front of me: Paco’s Tacos, the likely origin of Ed Baker’s captivating breakfast burrito. I hadn’t eaten anything since the char siu bao I had snuck out of Baba’s steamer; and that was hours ago. I needed brain food.

The taco shack was a cheery place with orange plastic table cloths, bright yellow and turquoise chairs, and the requisite paintings of Jesus and Mother Mary. It had a small, well-organized kitchen and a diminutive chef wearing a neat white apron and a yellow tee. Baba would have approved.

“Hola, señorita. What can I get for you?”

Paco, or so I assumed, continued dicing as I examined the menu board above his head. My stomach growled. It all looked good, but I settled on the carne asada platter, a tamale—I couldn’t get enough of those—and a horchata. Then I sat down at the window table to consider the new development.

What was Kateryna’s husband doing in Mia Mikkelsen’s mystery?

If Dmitry Romanko was brokering a deal to buy property on Santa Fe Boulevard, did that mean he was working for the same person who had hired J Tran to threaten the TAC voters? Could that person be Councilman Vasquez or the CEO who was pouring money into the councilman’s mayoral campaign? Or was the councilman just another victim like Freddy Weintraub and Mayor Young?

I took out my phone. I had done a cursory Internet search for tragedies connected to Vasquez, but I hadn’t delved deeper because of the way he had spoken to Tran in the garage stairwell. His arrogant fury had made him seem more like a political thug than a vulnerable family man. This time, I looked more closely and found mention of a murder.

Magdalena Chavira, a forty-year-old elementary school teacher, had driven to Downey to buy an antique coffee table and never made it home. A cyclist found her body two days later in an alley. The reporter called it “A Craigslist Purchase Gone Bad”, and at the bottom of the article, buried in the last paragraph where no one would notice, had added that “Magdalena Chavira was the college sweetheart of Councilman Henrique Vasquez.”

I sat back in the chair. This wasn’t a political conspiracy to groom a future Mexican-American governor or perhaps even a distant POTUS. This was a real estate scheme.

I thought back to the way Vasquez had yelled at Tran in the stairwell: “I know a dozen guys like you, and every one of them would chew you up and spit you out.” I had assumed Vasquez was threatening to replace Tran with another enforcer. Now it seemed as if he had been threatening to hire thugs to keep Tran away from him. “Don’t ever come here again. You got that? I’m done with this bullshit. And I’m done with you.”

It made sense. Vasquez had a wife and three sons, just as Mayor Evelyn Young had a husband and a daughter, and Freddy Weintraub had a wife, a daughter, and a baby. All three of these key TAC voting members had suffered a tragedy—or in Freddy’s case, an attempted tragedy—that was close enough to send a message but not so close that it would raise suspicions with law enforcement. I shook my head. Vasquez had not been angry with Tran for botching the job, he had been angry with him for threatening his family.

Paco interrupted my theorizing with a tray of succulent steak, a tamale, extra tortillas rolled in foil, and a golden-tinted glass brimming with sweetened rice milk. “Anything else?”

“No, gracias. This will do.”

“Bien. I’ll be in the kitchen if you want some dessert. I’m frying up some churros.”

I laughed. No matter the restaurant, all good chefs were the same—they loved to feed people who loved to eat. I took a bite of the steak and sighed. Maybe Paco would adopt me.

The door opened as a couple of new customers arrived. Paco hurried to greet them, wiping his hands on his spotless apron before gesturing to his signboard menu. “Hola, amigos, what can I get for you?”

I left him to his business and dug into the tamale. The sweet corncake tasted so good I almost didn’t hear the response.

“A dozen tacos and all the cash you’ve got in that register. Me comprendes, papi?”

The instructions were delivered casually and quietly, as if the robber expected them to be obeyed without a fuss. From the acquiescing tone of Paco’s assurance, I assumed they would.

I pretended to eat, searching the window for a reflection that would show me what was happening behind and to the right of my chair. There were two men, one black, the other Latino, and neither much taller than Paco—which put the robbers between five foot five and five foot eight. Both looked under thirty years old and in athletic condition, wore baggy jeans, wife-beater tanks, and open bowling shirts. Neither had facial hair. Both wore their dark hair cropped close to the scalp. I had seen enough to chase them through the streets, but if they changed clothes or stood separately, I couldn’t have identified them in a lineup. More importantly, I couldn’t see if they were armed.

And then I did.

The Latino robber on the right raised the gun and angled it down at Paco. “You want me to pop you in the head? Hurry up with that money.”

“And the tacos,” said his buddy. “Don’t forget the tacos, man. I’m hungry.”

“Right. And throw in some churros, too.”

He lowered the gun and leaned on the counter. Only one of them was armed. Neither of them paid attention to me as I pondered what, if anything, to do. If I stayed out of it and let the robbery run its course, Paco would lose his money. If I interfered and things went wrong, Paco could lose his life. Then again, Paco could do something—either on purpose or accidentally—that escalated the situation. Or the gunman could squeeze too hard and shoot him by accident. There were too many variables, and most of them deadly.

Two robbers, one gun, one me—I needed a weapon.

I found it perched in the corner by the door.

Keeping my knees bent and my head at the same level, I eased out of the chair. The robbers still had their backs to me, seemingly unconcerned. Once again, my diminutive size and fairer sex had played to my advantage. I just needed my luck to hold out long enough to take six very careful steps.

I lunged into the last step and reached for the broom. If the robbers turned now, I’d either have to start sweeping and hoped they believed it or attack. Fortunately for me, they were far too interested in bullying Paco.

I moved closer. As I transferred my weight toward the robbers, I slid the handle of the staff behind me into Gedan no Kamae. Poised in this fighting stance, with the bristles of the broom in front of me and the wooden handle trailing behind, I now had the ability to strike them both in quick succession from a surprising distance.

When the robber on the right raised his pistol and aimed it at Paco’s forehead, I knew the moment had arrived.

“Ándale, papi, we don’t have all day.”

I took him at his word.

I lunged forward and snapped the handle of the broom up along my leg and struck the gunman’s wrist. The pistol flew out of his hand, sailed over his head, and landed safely on the far side of the room. Then, as the disarmed robber yelped and clutched his wrist, I snapped the handle across the other robber’s face.

Two strikes in two seconds.

Now to finish the job.

As the disarmed robber turned to attack me, I circled the broom and wedged the bristle end of the staff under his armpit, and hurled him into his buddy with a Ganseki Nage throw. If I had done this technique on Sensei, he would have rolled effortlessly to his feet. Not so with these bozos. They crashed into each other and landed in a tangled heap.

I dug the wooden tip of the broom into the spine of one guy and pinned him on top of his buddy while Paco raced around the counter, raining insults. At least, that’s what I thought he was doing. The little man was speaking so fast, I couldn’t decipher a word of his Spanish until he said policía.

“Did you call them already?” I asked, jamming the wooden tip harder onto the robber’s spine to stop his squirming.

“Sí, naturalmente. I called them as soon as you knocked that cholo on his trasero.” Paco’s excitement had him mixing languages, but the message was clear: I had to go.

“Do you have a rope, cord, zip ties?”

“Sí, zip ties.”

“Good. Get them.”

The robbers struggled to break free, so I rapped them both on the head. Hard. Then Paco and I trussed them, wrists to ankles, on their bellies like twin presents for the LAPD.

“Look, Paco, I gotta go. These guys shouldn’t give you any trouble. But if they do, just whack them with a skillet.”

“Don’t listen to her, papi. We’ll come back and mess you up.”

“Oh really?” I dropped my knee onto the big-talker’s spine and yanked his head as far back as it would go. “Take a good look at my face, because if you ever come here again, it will be the last one you see.” I slid my knee off his spine and ground it into his kidney. “Comprendes?”

I shoved his face into the tile, not caring whether or not he answered. He had gotten the message, but just in case, I took his wallet, pulled out his license, and dropped it on the floor next to his nose. “Family neighborhood, huh? Don’t make me visit.”

I stood up and shook off my anger like a wet dog. People like Paco, who made an honest living by feeding and caring for others, represented the heart and soul of my city. He didn’t deserve to be robbed and threatened by a couple of thugs.

I turned to Paco. “You going to be okay if I go?”

He nodded then disappeared around the counter. I went to collect my backpack, pinched a strip of carne asada off my plate, but left the rest. While it pained me to leave good food uneaten, I didn’t want to talk to the cops.

I had just opened the door when Paco tapped me on the shoulder. “Señorita.” He handed me a paper bag filled with a several foil-wrapped bundles. “Tamales for life. Anytime you come, I will feed you. Whatever you want.”

I took the bag and hugged it to my chest. The corncakes felt as warm as his heart. “Muchas gracias.”

He followed me outside. “What is your name, señorita?”

I shrugged. “My friends call me Dumpling.”

He laughed. “It’s a good name. Hasta luego, Dumpling. See you soon, I hope.”

“Count on it. Oh, and, Paco, those guys won’t be telling anyone they got hogtied by a girl, so just blame it on a good Samaritan. Okay?”

“Claro que sí.” He winked and went back inside to guard his captives.

The cops arrived five minutes later. I watched their squad car speed by as I finished my third tamale against the wall of a vacant lot. My new friend had a gift for cooking, and I had meant what I said about returning soon.

In the meantime, I had a puzzle to solve that now included a new piece—Dmitry Romanko. And if Romanko was involved, so was the LA Ukrainian mob.

I dropped the tamale in the bag. This new revelation had stolen my appetite. Not only did the mob employ Romanko, I knew they had paid for him to come to California and attend law school. Where? Irvine University, College of Law, Cerritos, California.

I was starting to hate that city.

The Copper Line, Mayor Young, Dmitry Romanko—everything came back to Cerritos. And if I wasn’t mistaken, even Romanko’s law office sat on its border. It all fit except for Tran.

Why would the Ukrainians hire an outsider when they had enforcers of their own?

I thought of Mr. Disco, who had strung me up and beaten me with that knotted rope. He wouldn’t have had the skill or finesse to pressure high-profile officials without botching up the job. Could the same be true for the rest of the mob enforcers?

I tossed the bag in a Dumpster and hopped on my bike. Time to find out.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Forty-Five

 

 

 

The fifteen-mile bike ride from Paco’s Tacos to the law office of Dmitry Romanko took me through some serious ugly, misrepresented by charming names like Fruitland, Maywood, and the Mid San Gabriel River Trail. The “trail” part was especially deceptive.

A few years back, I had ridden the full twenty-eight-mile route from mountain to ocean through lush parks and wilderness. This three-mile stretch down the edge of Norwalk to Cerritos consisted of a cement aqueduct, mounds of dirt, transmission towers, and an asphalt bike path. And that wasn’t the worst of it. After leaving the southbound trail, I had to cut due east through Asian, Filipino, and Mexican gang territories, plus an underworld of transnational crime syndicates. It was a miracle I made it from one side of the U-shaped Cerritos to the other without getting caught in a drive-by shooting.

Of course, this part of LA County wasn’t all bad. Cerritos had much to praise: art, industry, beauty. And sprinkled into the crime and ugliness were homes, schools, and legitimate businesses of people from all cultures who raised kids and led good lives.

Typical Los Angeles.

Angelenos didn’t melt together into a pot; we sparkled with individuality—sometimes dangerously, sometimes ridiculously, but always proudly—as if that quality alone defined our collective identity. We weren’t an exotic stew; we were dot art. When you stood back and took in the whole, you could see a cohesive picture. But when you stepped in close, all you saw were millions of isolated bits. A tiny fraction of those bits belonged to the Ukrainian crime family, and one of those was Dmitry Romanko.

His office address led me to an industrial park with nondescript gray buildings set on a communal asphalt lot. I found his building in the back with ample parking and a loading dock for delivery trucks.

Why would a lawyer need a loading dock?

He wouldn’t. But the mob might.

I locked my bike and gear behind the wall of Romanko’s plumbing company neighbor, pocketed my phone, and clipped the karambit to my waistband. To my knowledge, Romanko had never seen me, so I could always claim I was lost and looking for the plumber. If that didn’t work, I’d do what ninja did best: I’d improvise.

The interior of Romanko’s building was stark and white, not what I expected from a law office. The entry hall went straight back about twenty-five feet and culminated in a heavy steel door with a small security window. Both were latched shut. Based on the modest square footage of the entry and the massive size of the building, I figured the real purpose of this business lay beyond the steel door. All they wanted me to see was Romanko’s opulent law office, showcased behind a wall of glass.

Instead of modern furniture that would have matched the sterile entry hall, Romanko’s office had been decorated like a gentleman’s den with heavy leather chairs, a brass-studded couch, plush rugs, and polished hardwood floors. His giant L-shaped desk, cabinets, and the coffee table in the sitting area were all made from rosewood with accent items in brass and ceramic. The office décor was so perfect it could have been a showroom display. Or perhaps it was simply for show.

With no one in sight, I decided to find out.

I proceeded into the office, using the Shinobi-Ashi method of walking to keep my steps quiet enough to hear any movement from the steel door in the back of the building or the glass door in the front. Touching first with my pinkie toe and rolling inward and down through the rest of my foot, I was able to lessen the creaks.

It also kept my mind alert.

Intense focus on movement and breath amplified all of my senses and allowed me to take in more information than I might not normally have noticed—like the way Romanko’s real estate license and law school diploma hung on the left wall, perfectly centered between a photo of him in a UC Irvine cap in gown and a business portrait of him in a suit and tie. The rest of the walls featured land and seascapes in perfectly coordinated colors. In fact, the only item out of alignment and of a discordant color was the yellow legal pad on his desk. Naturally, I went to look.