The Ninja Daughter

by Tori Eldridge

He intimidated simply by being.

  If I hadn’t known who he was, I would have guessed him to be a celebrity athlete of some kind, a welterweight boxer perhaps, or maybe a quarterback, or even an actor—God knew there had been enough of them tried in this courthouse.

  I glanced at Mia, still gazing at the view. The giant Dane didn’t fit with either of these men. She had a generic Scandinavian appeal with a curvaceous figure and tremendous height. Even in modest two-inch heels, Mia dwarfed every man in sight.

  I stood at the window, using her for cover as I watched Tran’s reflection. Would he opt for a quick elevator ride, a dramatic descent down the glass stairwell, or a back staircase escape?

  Mia must have felt my energy because she turned to see who was rude enough to invade her privacy. What I saw changed my assumption. She wasn’t annoyed; she was defeated.

  “Sorry about the dismissal.”

  She blinked her sad blue eyes. “I thought it would go to trial.”

  I nodded. “Me, too.”

  She stared up at the sky as if the angle might stop her tears. It didn’t.

  I gave her a moment of privacy and checked on Tran. He and his lawyer had parted ways. Defense Attorney Pike took the glass-encased stairway, where the camera crews could record his grand entrance. Tran did what I would have done: he escaped down the back.

  Down below, Mia’s attorney addressed the reporters.

  “What do you suppose she’s saying?” Mia asked, more to herself than to me.

  “Whatever paints her and the district attorney in a good light. I wouldn’t worry though; she won’t say anything negative about you. She’ll blame the loss on victim-shaming.”

  “And him?”

  Defense Attorney Pike had taken center stage.

  I shook my head. “You don’t want to know.”

  Mia turned away in disgust. “Do I know you?”

  “Nope.”

  “I didn’t think so. But you obviously know me. Then again, who doesn’t, right?”

  I shrugged. “The media hasn’t been fair to you.”

  “Ya think?”

  “I don’t think, I know. I’ve been following your case since the story hit the news.”

  She snorted then heaved a long and frustrated sigh. “So who are you?”

  It was a good question. I thought about which name to give. Lily Wong had done a lousy job saving Kateryna and Ilya. And Rooster, my social media avatar, was dead. It might be time for a new name. I thought of Baba.

  “Call me Dumpling.”

  Mia laughed. “Seriously?” She seemed about to say more but waved it away. “So, Dumpling, what do you want? I mean, no offense, but why are you even talking to me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not too popular anymore.” She made the pronouncement then turned back to the view. The LA basin went on forever, until the buildings shrank to dots and the dots blended into the horizon.

  For a large woman, Mia suddenly seemed very small.

  “That’s why I’m talking to you. You’re alone at a time when you shouldn’t be.”

  “Funny how that worked out.”

  I ignored the attitude. “What about the eyewitness? She’s a friend, right? Why isn’t she here with you? Or your boss from the Siren Club? I would have thought he’d have a vested interest in all this.”

  “I don’t work there anymore.”

  “He fired you? And the protesters don’t have his head on a stick?”

  “They don’t know. And he didn’t fire me. I quit, with three months’ pay.”

  I understood. People were distancing themselves from Mia to avoid the taint of crazy. It made me angry.

  Mia shrugged it off like it didn’t matter. “Did you see where Tran went?”

  “He took the back stairs.”

  She ground her fists into her temples and moaned. “Great. What if he’s waiting for me in the parking lot? What if he comes back to my apartment? It’s not like I can call the cops, right? I mean, what’s to stop him from attacking me again? What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

  Mia wasn’t looking for answers. She needed to vent until all her fears had been expressed and her emotions exhausted. Without a friend to listen, I became the receptacle for her angst. The more she dumped, the more she trusted.

  “That smug bastard can do whatever he likes. The cops aren’t going to help me. And the judge dismissed the restraining order. Everyone thinks I’m a vindictive bitch. Even my friends at the club won’t talk to me.” She choked out another laugh. “Like I’m going to start accusing everyone I know of rape and murder. Give me a fucking break! I’m the victim, and they’re all treating me like a goddamn criminal.” Snot trickled out of her nostrils as she sniffed and gasped herself back into control. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I think I’ll just stay here awhile.”

  “Would it make you feel safer if I walked you to your car?”

  She sniffed. “It might.” The realization made her laugh. “Isn’t that pathetic?”

  “Not at all. Tell you what, if you like, I could even drive home with you, check out your place, make sure he’s not around.”

  That’s when she gave me the look.

  Not the one that said: Are you a psycho-stalker planning on torturing and killing me in my own home? That would have been intelligent. No. Mia gave me the other look, the one that took in my sex and small stature and discounted me. I tried not to feel insulted.

  I held out my empty hands and shrugged. “Just offering.”

  She back-pedaled so fast I thought she’d fall off her two-inch heels. “I’m sorry. Of course. You’re just being nice. And I’m feeling bitchy.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Look. I don’t mean to be ungrateful or anything, but I still don’t get why you want to help.”

  I took a breath. Mia’s question was bigger than she imagined.

  “Forget I asked,” she said, letting me off the hook. “Beggars can’t be choosers, right? But do me a favor, will you? If he tries to kill me again, could you at least get a good look at his face?”

  I laughed. “Mia, if J Tran tries to kill you, getting a look at his face will be the least I do.”

  Chapter Ten

  Mia glared as if I had run over her dog—twice.

  “I thought you were going to walk me to my car.” Her voice trembled.

  “I will. But first I want to check out the garage. Okay? But don’t worry, when you come out of the elevator, I’ll be there.” She didn’t believe me, but I continued as if she did. “Don’t acknowledge me. Just walk to your car, get in, and lock the doors. Then I want you to check your emails.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Because I want you to have a logical reason to wait. When I feel it’s safe, I’ll get in, and we can go.”

  “And if it’s not? If something happens?”

  “Then drive to the nearest police station.” I held up my hand. “I know. They don’t need to believe what you say, but you do need to go on record as having said it.” I waited for her nod of acceptance. “One more thing, where are you parked?”

  Armed with a description and location of Mia’s car, I headed for the back stairs. On the way, I pulled out my cellphone. It was a backup that I had bought a year ago just in case some Ukrainian asshole crushed mine beneath his disco boot—okay, maybe not that exact scenario, but something equally unexpected. I also grabbed an empty soda cup that had been left on the rim of a trash can—it couldn’t hurt to have another prop. I had a phone, a drink, an over-stuffed satchel, and black-rimmed glasses that kept slipping down my nose.

  When I entered the garage, I looked like an over-burdened, unobservant paralegal, scrolling through her phone. In actuality, I had positioned the screen in front of my face so I could scan the garage.

  Several cars drove through the aisles. One woman
in a parked car checked her appearance in the sun visor mirror. Five people exited the elevator and split in different directions. And one fit-looking couple left their Jeep and headed for the stairs I had just come down.

  No sign of Tran.

  Mia drove a bright red Ford Focus, so it was easy to find. I was glad to see an affordable compact, well within my paralegal’s budget, parked next to her on the passenger side. When I got there, I put the cup on the roof and dug into my satchel as though I were hunting for keys. I wasn’t. I just wanted time to check the interior of Mia’s car, which appeared to be empty.

  I feigned dropping my keys and looked underneath. No sign of feet.

  I grabbed the drink off the roof and headed for the elevator.

  This time, I had my phone in the satchel and the strap positioned securely on my shoulder. Anyone watching me would have already made their assumptions. I wanted freedom of movement in case things went bad.

  Every garage in Los Angeles had a trashcan near the elevator. The courthouse was no exception. As I approached with my cup, the bell chimed and the doors opened. I saw Mia but pointedly ignored her. Instead, I dumped my drink in the can and let my gaze roam aimlessly around the lot. Not only did that give me the appearance of bored disinterest, it helped me keep a soft focus. I noticed more when I wasn’t searching for something specific. There was a life lesson in that, but now wasn’t the time to consider it.

  When Mia moved, I followed at a distance close enough to intercept a knife attack, stop an abduction, or possibly shove her to cover if I spotted a gun. If Tran used a sniper rifle, she’d be screwed. But short of that, I had everything under control.

  When Mia got to her car, she did exactly as I had instructed: she locked the doors and scrolled through her phone. No one seemed to care. Then I noticed a car backing out of a parking space a few lanes away. Nothing unusual in that, except the vehicle was a Mustang GT. Drivers of muscle cars liked to flex their power, especially in parking garages where their rubber tires could squeal against polished cement. So why wasn’t this guy expressing his inner Vin Diesel?

  I slowed my pace until I had stopped behind Mia’s car—feigned digging for her keys and not paying attention to whomever she might be inconveniencing. The GT stopped as well. Not a good sign. I looked around, as if suddenly aware that I might get run over. During that brief scan, I checked on the driver. The tinted window obscured his face. I offered a vague, apologetic wave and stepped back toward Mia’s driver’s-side door, eliminating any clear shot the driver might have had.

  Could I have gone on the offense and confronted the guy? Sure. But if this was Tran, I didn’t want him to know Mia had someone watching over her. I also didn’t want to blow my cover in case I needed to follow him later. So instead, I brought out my phone and pretended to answer a call, which gave me a reason to wait and an excuse for adjusting my position. People rarely stood still while on the phone. I used that tendency to shield Mia, conceal my face, and check on the GT—which is why I saw the door open.

  The man exited in a hurry and headed for his trunk. I still couldn’t tell if he was Tran because he kept his body stooped and hidden behind his driver’s side door; nor could I see if he held anything in his hands or what he might eventually pull from his trunk.

  Too many variables. Too much unknown.

  I dropped the phone into my satchel and looped the leather strap around my wrist. Armed with a swingable weapon, I charged. When I glimpsed wheat-colored hair, I realized my mistake. With a tilt of my wrist, I guided the whirling satchel over the man’s head and allowed the force of the arc pulled me off balance.

  He rushed to my aid, reaching out a hand to help me off the cement. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  I twittered with feigned embarrassment and waved away his proffered hand. “I’m fine. Really.” I struggled to my feet in a most inelegant fashion. “I must have slipped on grease.” I repositioned my glasses, searched the dry cement for the culprit, and finding nothing to blame, offered a goofy smile. “Guess I’m just clumsy.”

  The guy chuckled. Not only was he not Tran, he was as clueless as a college movie frat boy, the kind who downed Jell-O shots, scored easy hookups—and drove muscle cars. Even if I hadn’t been dressed as a mousy paralegal, a guy like him wouldn’t have been interested in a woman like me, as evidenced by the way he turned to shut his trunk without so much as a glance down my blouse.

  “Just be careful, all right?” he said with a smirk. “You might hurt someone.” His tone sounded so patronizing he might as well have patted me on the head.

  I laughed it off and added a couple of snorts for good measure.

  “Who, me?” I shook away the ridiculous notion and headed back toward Mia’s car, grateful for the guy’s condescending dismissal. Had he been a tad smarter or mildly observant, I would have had a lot of explaining to do. Regardless, I still felt good about my decision to attack. If the frat boy really had been Tran with a gun, I wouldn’t have had time to react, and Mia and I would be another LA shooting statistic. So when I got into the passenger seat and the frat boy gunned his GT—as I had expected him to do from the start—and peeled off with a squeal of rubber so loud Paul Walker could have heard it in racecar Heaven, I smiled.

  Mia cringed. “I hate that sound.”

  “Really?” I watched the GT speed around the corner. “I find it kind of comforting.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Mia tossed her bag and sweater on the bleached-wood table near the front door and strode across the Mexican tiles. “You want something to drink?” She disappeared into the kitchen before I could answer and came back with two opened bottles of Corona. “I don’t know about you, but I need something stronger than a Coke.”

  I wandered toward the bedroom, encouraging her to leave mine on the coffee table. The only drink I wanted before noon was tea. And not the generic Lipton’s that I’d no doubt find in her cupboard; I meant honest-to-god tea. I chuckled as I thought about Baba. Sometimes, nothing said it better than one of his North Dakota expressions. Honest-to-god. Period. End of story—the list went on and on. See about was another. I’d definitely have to see about a cup of Dragonwell after I left Mia’s.

  I shook my head. The lack of sleep was taking a toll. I felt punchy, which of course made me think about yesterday’s beating. Punchy. Beating. I snorted back a laugh and covered it with a succession of coughs.

  Mia came to the doorway, beer in hand. “Are you okay?”

  “Yep. I’m fine.” I needed to get my errant mind under control, so I focused on the decorative white bars on the window. Nothing amusing about them. Urban Los Angeles had turned security bars into a fashion statement. Too bad it hadn’t been more effective. “Just the one bedroom?”

  “Yeah, I live alone. No roommates.”

  “What about your friend who interrupted the attack?”

  Mia shook her head. “We were plastered. She didn’t want to drive home.”

  “Huh. I’m surprised that didn’t come up in the prelim.”

  “Oh, it did. Pike painted us both like a couple of drunks.”

  I snorted in disgust but didn’t comment. We didn’t have time to dive down that rabbit hole, I had an apartment to assess.

  Mia lived in a second-story unit of a Spanish-style fourplex in the moderately upscale Fairfax District. The street was well lit, the windows secured, she had reason to feel safe. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Almost a year.”

  I nodded—long enough to grow complacent. “No burglaries in the neighborhood?”

  “None that I know of.”

  When I returned to the living room, Mia had plopped herself onto the couch, kicked off her sandals, and propped her feet on the table. I opened the balcony doors. “He came through here?”

  “That’s the theory. Nice, huh? Just my luck to get stalked by Spider-Man.”

  The balcony extended a few feet beyond the exterior walls of the building
and hung over the lower unit’s picture window. Wavy horizontal iron bars covered the front and sides of the balcony box and anchored into decorative stucco corner pieces. The combination was reasonably attractive and offered a bit of privacy without affecting the view, but no amount of style could keep this place from feeling like a prison. At least, not to me. Did Mia feel the same? Perhaps on a subliminal level she did because the balcony furniture had a thin layer of dust as if she hadn’t used it in a while. I checked the floor. The path from the corner to the door seemed a little cleaner than the area around it. Could it have been brushed with the sole of a motorcycle boot? Very likely.

  “Any other theories?” I asked.

  “That he came in through the front door.”

  “Wasn’t it locked?”

  Mia gave me another one of her looks.

  I held out my hands in peace. “Just asking.”

  “Sorry. Let’s just say that there was some question as to whether or not I let him in.”

  “Oh.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Okay.” I held out my hands again. The gesture was becoming redundant. Mia had her offense-o-meter on a hair trigger. I couldn’t blame her. Unless, of course, Pike was right about her being an obsessed nut case. I didn’t want to consider that possibility. Not yet.

  I searched the balcony for the easiest access with the least street visibility. The landlord kept the landscaping trimmed neatly and the branches of the coral tree sufficiently distanced. No opportunity there. Jumping from a neighboring structure or climbing down from the roof would have been too visible and needlessly risky. That left the side yard. A rain gutter ran along the bottom of the balcony then angled down on the building. I pointed to a gate. “He probably climbed up from there.”

  “What about the spikes?”

  “If his soles were hard enough, he could have stood on them with no problem. And if not, he would just need enough space between them for the toe of his boot.”

  “So much for security.”

  I shrugged. “Spikes on walls and gates are mostly a visual deterrent. They won’t stop a determined climber.” I didn’t mention that I knew this from experience. “Aluminum gutters are generally too flimsy to hold a man’s weight, but if you look closely, you can see that this one is bracketed to the wall just below the base of the balcony. That makes it more likely to stay attached, especially for the short amount of time that Tran would have needed to reach the lip of the balcony floor.”