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 plas
tic 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 tr
ussed 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?”
The Ninja Daughter Page 20