I started to ask then decided to heed Bestefar’s favorite saying: Don’t borrow trouble.
Besides, I had a love triangle to consider.
Had Mia’s desperation turned her into a homewrecker? Had Freddy hired Tran to scare her away? And what about Shannon? What kind of woman reacted so calmly to catching her husband in front of her own house with a voluptuous young blond? Didn’t she care? Or was she vindictive enough to terrorize her husband’s mistress?
Before I could come to any conclusions, a car door slammed—inside the kitchen.
“What was that?” asked Baba, jabbing his wok spoon at the phone I had left on the counter. The screen had lit up with a map of Hollywood: Tran’s GPS tracker had triggered an alarm.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
For the sake of speed, I called for a ride. My driver this afternoon was an athletic redhead named Kansas who worked as an intern for an architectural firm and had an uncanny resemblance to Joseph Gordon-Levitt, the star of one of my favorite box office bombs about a thrill-seeking bike messenger in New York.
“Have you seen Premium Rush?”
The randomness of my question threw her for all of two seconds before she smiled. “Were you the other one?”
I unstrapped the Merida from her car’s bike rack and glanced at the entrance to the entertainment complex. The Hollywood and Highland’s design drew from the Babylon set of DW Griffith’s 1916 epic film, Intolerance, and had a grand staircase leading to a coliseum of trendy shops, mammoth slab archways etched with hieroglyphs and griffins, and stone pachyderms perched atop the towering pillars.
“You know, if they had set the story in Los Angeles,” I said, “they could have raced across the Hollywood Walk of Fame, up those stairs, and skidded through the plaza’s sidewalk fountain.”
Kansas chuckled. “And straight to the casting couch.”
The fiberglass daybed had sat at the end of The Road to Hollywood—a mosaic path with anonymous quotes from Hollywood celebrities about how they got their start in the business. The artist had ended the path with a sobering, poignant, and, at the time, amusing symbol.
“Yeah,” I said. “The entertainment industry isn’t quite as entertaining as it used to be.”
“No shit.”
We shared a laugh. I would have gladly hung out with Kansas, whose taste in movies, sense of humor, and social opinions clearly gelled with my own. However, since Tran had already been at the Hollywood and Highland for fifty minutes, I needed to hurry. Once I secured my bike and helmet, I bolted through the coliseum like a shopper on Christmas Eve.
I found Tran on the top level in a Japanese restaurant, sitting near the back of the sushi bar. I walked past him and rounded the corner, then took the last seat at the bar, kitty-corner from Tran, against the wall by the emergency exit. From there, I could watch him diagonally across the sushi station and escape quickly if things went south.
I ordered a yellowtail roll, huddled over my phone, and pretended to text while Tran ate a plate of octopus sushi and salmon roe. Exotic choices. Anyone who looked the way he did, ate tako and ikura, and knew how to write in Korean, must have some sort of Asian in the mix. Hopefully not from Hong Kong. Tran and I already shared a fondness for knives, sushi, and secrecy; Hong Kong kinship would put me over the edge.
“You should try this,” he said, shaking me from my reverie and making me realize, much to my dismay, that I had been staring.
So much for ninja surveillance.
I forced a smile as he raised his seaweed-wrapped sushi and angled it to display the bright orange salmon eggs. “I’ve eaten ikura many times, thank you.” I meant it to sound condescending, but he took it as acceptance and requested an order for me. “That wasn’t necessary.”
“Not for you, maybe. But I couldn’t eat this in good conscience while watching you eat that.”
I scoffed. “Really? Because you don’t strike me as someone plagued by his conscience.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Gosh, I don’t know.” I nodded toward the sushi chef preparing me food I had not requested. “Maybe because you do whatever you like?”
I picked up my phone and resumed typing. Maybe if I ignored him, he’d leave me alone.
“Who are you texting so furiously?”
I set down the phone and popped a segment of yellowtail roll in my mouth. Once again, he had disrupted my center. I needed a moment to calm my mind and keep from saying anything foolish. Instead, I swallowed the rice and fixed him with a withering glare. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Tran raised a peaked brow. “That would be interesting.”
My pulse raced. Interesting?
Sensei had warned me not to use obvious tactics against sophisticated opponents. What was I doing sparring with Tran? I didn’t know what it was about this guy that scrambled my brain, but I needed to get over it quick. Because if I kept messing up, Tran would do a lot worse than slam me on a mat. So when the chef placed the ikura in front of me, I lifted the pretty package with my chopsticks, gave Tran an insincere grin of thanks, and popped the entire piece in my mouth.
I nearly choked; not from the taste—I loved ikura—but from the volume of rice, nori, and exploding fish eggs. One of these days, I was going to ask Sensei how women in Japan dealt with this issue. Smaller pieces? Secret chewing techniques? Whatever it was, I wanted to know. Meanwhile, as I gagged behind a napkin, Tran pressed his advantage.
“My name’s J. What’s yours?”
“K.”
The lie blurted from my lips, like a call and response. Tran had used honesty as a ploy to prompt the same from me, but I hadn’t fallen for it. The kunoichi was back in control.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” asked Tran.
“Already did.”
Tran ignored the lie. “Then how about dinner?”
Excuse me?
Had I dropped into an alternate universe where killers shot dinner invitations instead of bullets?
“Look. I’m flattered and all, but I don’t date guys like you.”
His head tipped with interest. “And who are guys like me?”
“Muddled culture, narcissistic ideology, fluid sense of morality. How am I doing?”
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 recept
ion 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.”
The Ninja Daughter Page 14