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.”
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