She took a swig of beer. “Well, isn’t that just peachy?”
I ignored the comment and leaned over the railing to check the yard. “I heard something about a boot print?”
“Yeah, next to the gate. But they said it wasn’t his.” Mia snorted her opinion of that likelihood, finished off her beer, and pointed to mine. “You gonna drink this?”
“Go ahead.” The last thing I needed was alcohol. “It might not have been his boot, but I’d say whoever attacked you climbed up from that gate.”
“Oh, it was his boot, all right. I could feel the hard soles of them digging into the sides of my legs while he tried to strangle me with my own fucking nightgown.”
“And you’re sure it was Tran?”
Mia glared. “I’m sure.”
“And I’m just asking, remember?”
“Sorry. I’m tired of being called a liar.”
“I get it.”
I sat on the chair next to her and took off my glasses so I could rub the tired from my eyes. Then I pulled out the wooden spike that held my hair in place. There wasn’t any need to perpetuate my paralegal image, and the tight bun was giving me a headache. I shook the hair down my back. It added to the heat of an already hot day, but I didn’t care: the relief felt wonderful.
“So, Dumpling…you never did tell me that story. What’s your deal?”
I shrugged. “Just someone trying to help.”
“Someone who knows how to break into a second-story apartment? I don’t think so.”
She deserved an answer, but since I didn’t know which to give, I pulled a Joe Friday and stuck to the facts. “I’ve been following your case ever since the attack hit the news. I came down to the courthouse to see if it would go to trial.”
“But why would you care?”
I paused. Should I tell her about my dead sister? Not much of a selling point. Or maybe I should tell her about the signs—the article I saw in Kateryna’s bedroom and the first case of the first SMG notice first thing in the morning. Or I could just come clean and tell her I needed a pro bono win to make up for my professional failure.
Yeah. Maybe not.
“You’re a woman who needs help,” I said. “Isn’t that enough?”
“No. It isn’t. I let you into my car and my apartment because I was scared, but now that I’m home, I’m starting to worry more about you than him. So if I’m going to trust you, I need more than ‘You’re a woman who needs help.’”
There was steel in Mia’s gaze that hadn’t been there before. She demanded the truth.
“I lost someone to violence,” I said, “If I’d been there, I could have stopped it.”
“What makes you think you can stop whatever’s happening to me?”
“Training, experience…sheer force of will? I don’t have a résumé for this sort thing. But I guarantee you’ll be safer with me than without.”
She thought about that for a moment, took a swig of my beer, then shrugged. “Okay. What have I got to lose?
I gave her a long, hard stare. “Unfortunately, quite a lot.”
Chapter Twelve
The best way to help Mia was to learn more about Tran. So I caught the Metro Rapid Bus Line to Culver City, transferred onto the C-1, and ran the last block home. It took me forty-five minutes—only ten minutes longer than it would have taken me to drive and park.
And Ma wondered why I used mass transit.
Once I got back to my place, I changed into biking clothes and called a friend at the DMV. Aleisha had hired me to talk some sense into the woman’s violent ex-boyfriend. He got the message, and the woman continued to show her gratitude. I pocketed the address and headed for the Valley. If Tran wanted to hide where he lived, he could have used a P.O. box for his driver’s license address like I did. So either he had nothing to hide, or he believed nothing could be found. I wondered which.
An hour and a half later, I found myself on a quaint street with welcoming paths and storybook houses. Except for Tran’s. No wild roses for him; just an unremarkable ranch house and a barren rock garden.
The property next to Tran’s offered the perfect opportunity to stash my bike. Their front yard overflowed with a tangle of twisted junipers, honeysuckle shrubs, and unruly bougainvillea. Inlaid stones cut a winding path to the front door, adding several feet to the distance and giving the approach a lost-in-the-woods vibe. There was even a wooden plaque with an etched warning to “stay on the path.” They even had the requisite gnome.
I snaked my bike through the shrubs to the narrow channel that ran along the house. I barely had room to park, stretch, and guzzle a liter of water. Fifteen miles and the steep grade through Benedict Canyon made for thirsty work. Still, it felt good to work off the tension. Sensei had taught me breathing techniques to release extra energy, but I had yet to master them. Physical exertion, however, always worked; it just took longer.
I shrugged off my slim backpack and dug out a hand towel. Whoever had said men sweat and women glowed had never met me. My tank top had darkened from light gray to near-black, and my face was a sweaty mess. I carried a change of clothes in my pack, along with a brush and some tools for the trade, but I didn’t change. Women habitually wore tanks and shorts in a valley neighborhood like this. No one would notice me.
Just to be sure, and because I hadn’t seen any signs of life through the gnome house’s front windows, I decided to approach Tran’s house from the privacy of their backyard. Unfortunately, this involved traversing another maze of brambles and thorns.
Tran’s yard looked quite different. It had a pepper tree bordering the back of a kidney-shaped pool and one saguaro cactus. That was it. No brambles. No cover. I climbed the fence and landed as quietly as I could on the pebbles. No signs of life. Not even the chirp of a parakeet. I sighed with relief. I had already noted the absence of water bowls and dog feces, so I didn’t expect any barking. But if Tran didn’t have a guard dog, he would likely have a security system.
I crept behind a built-in barbecue and scoped the place through the glass doors of the main room. Ranch-style houses were shallow and long, so I had a clear shot across his living room to the front door. As expected, I saw a telltale code box on the wall. Although a friend had begun teaching me the basics of alarm-disarmament, I wasn’t ready to trust my skills. I’d have to stay outside.
From what I could see, Tran kept his home neat to the point of stark. No rugs softened the hardwood floors and not a single painting adorned the taupe walls. His living room furniture had square lines and tight cushions. None of it looked inviting or trendy; nor did it look cheap. Tran had not found these items in a discount store. The same applied to the furniture in the adjacent dining area. Everything I saw had an austere kind of elegance that defied category but implied an Asian influence.
His place wasn’t like mine, with panel screens and ornate chests. And he certainly didn’t have a dojo in the middle of his living room. Even so, the feeling persisted—J Tran’s ancestry lived in the spaces in between.
I wondered about his ethnicity. Tran was a common Vietnamese surname. However, it could have been adapted from Chen or Tan. So even if his family had come from Vietnam, they might have been Chinese. And that didn’t discount some Japanese or Korean blood added to the mix. He also had an unusual combination of wide and angular features with high cheekbones and a dark complexion that could easily have come from a Polynesian, African, Native American, or Middle Eastern ancestry.
When I looked at the empty spaces of his home, I saw place markers for the tokens and symbols of a possible heritage. Corners remained barren where most people would have put a standing lamp, a display cabinet, or an indoor tree. Walls that begged for a couch or chest had nothing. Tables that could have displayed framed photographs or a vase of flowers didn’t. This wasn’t minimalist. It was calculated. As I looked around, my imagination filled in the blanks.
The far corner of the room would have been a perfect spot f
or a Buddhist altar and would have explained the round cushion that sat alone on the floor. Why else would Tran have placed it there, separate from the seating area, if not for prayer or meditation? Track lights pointed at a blank wall in specific directions as if to light a collection of missing art. Tribal masks? Calligraphy scrolls? Certainly something other than a wall of taupe paint. And what about the shiny table? Who polished a table until it gleamed and didn’t use it to display something precious? I might have been projecting my own inclinations onto him, but to me, J Tran revealed more about himself by what he hid than what he showed.
Since I couldn’t break into his house without setting off the alarm and nothing more could be gained by snooping through windows, I turned my thoughts to the other reason for my visit—surveillance. I had intended to place a spy cam in a central location, but after seeing my target’s fastidious nature, I changed my mind. A man like Tran would detect the slightest deviation.
I shook away my budding admiration. While Tran had some professional qualities I could appreciate, that didn’t make him someone to admire; nor did his sex appeal make him less of a scum.
Sex appeal? What was I thinking? I definitely did not need a spy camera focused on this guy’s house. Besides, watching him in this sterile environment would drive me nuts. Much better to track where he went.
I hurried across the patio to the other side of the house and followed a narrow walkway up to the front. From there, I scaled the wall and landed behind a pair of trash cans. I rolled one of them under a small window and climbed on top to have a peek.
Since I hadn’t seen or heard anyone in the house, I didn’t expect to find a car in the garage. However, I did expect to see something: if not the motorcycle his attorney claimed he didn’t own, then at least some storage boxes, tools, or exercise equipment. All Tran’s garage had was more empty space.
I hopped off the trash can and checked the front yard for a realtor’s sign. Nope. He didn’t appear to be selling. Maybe he had just moved in and the rest of his stuff hadn’t arrived. Or maybe he had a compulsion for neatness, or an aversion to material possessions, or maybe he didn’t live here at all. Whatever the deal, I found it mighty peculiar.
I shrugged off my backpack and sat against the wall behind the cans. I had time to wait. It would give me a chance to check my messages and see if Debbie had managed to embed the celebrity tweet in her hairdressing blog.
I snorted.
If I hadn’t taken down the surveillance camera I had hidden in Kateryna’s yard, I could have done something truly important and checked on Ilya. The last time I had seen him, his sweet face was tensed like a frightened bunny with nowhere to go. While I respected Kateryna’s decision to stay with her wife-beating husband, it didn’t stop me from worrying about her son.
“Let it go, Lily. There’s nothing you can do.” I took out my phone and pretended not to look for Kateryna’s name in the missed calls and found three from my father. I hit redial. “Hey, Baba. What’s up?”
“Well, Dumpling dear, I just wanted to make sure you were coming to dinner tonight. You hadn’t replied to any of your mother’s emails. She’s concerned, dontcha know.”
I hadn’t even opened them. Dinner? No wonder she sent five. “Of course. I’m on my way.”
“Uh-huh. I figured as much, but I just wanted to check.”
“Got it covered. But thanks for calling.”
Baba chuckled. “Your mother hired a caterer for the evening.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. French cuisine. Dinner’s at seven, but she’s planning cocktails at six.”
Holy crap! I checked the time: five thirty. “Sounds great. I’ll see you soon.”
I ended the call and tapped the phone against my forehead. How could I be so stupid? I was just about to sprint to my bike when I heard the garage door opening. Tran had returned. I did the math: thirty miles from Van Nuys to Arcadia would take three hours by bike, two hours by Metro rail, or forty-five minutes by car. Even if I yanked Tran out of his BMW, stole it, and drove now, I’d be at least fifteen minutes late. Five more minutes wouldn’t make a difference.
I took out the tracker. I had made my decision.
As Tran paused in the driveway, waiting for the garage door to raise, I shouldered my backpack. No matter what happened in the next thirty seconds, I would need to run, either for my bike or for my life; I wouldn’t have time to collect any possessions.
When the car rolled forward, I fell in behind and attached the GPS tracker under the bumper behind the wheel well. If the car had moved just a little slower, I could have darted away before it stopped. Instead, I got trapped on the side of the car. If I ran, the sensor would trigger, the door would stop, and I’d get caught. If I hid until he entered the house, I’d have to open the garage door to escape, and he’d know someone had been there. Since neither option appealed, I dove above the sensor lights at the floor of the garage and rolled onto the driveway.
I half expected gunfire to riddle the metal and tear into my flesh before the garage door finally closed, but that didn’t happen. Nor did it reopen as I hauled ass to the gnome house next door. In fact, the only thing I heard was the sound of my own breathing and the crunch of brambles under my shoes.
Did I feel silly? You betcha. But just to be sure, I strapped on my helmet and ran the Merida through the junipers, jumped on the moving bike, and raced up the street.
Better to be foolish than dead.
Chapter Thirteen
Ma looked like she’’d bitten into a thousand-year-old egg. Not a good sign. Her smooth almond skin was puckered from her lacquered lips to her plucked brows. Then, as if catching herself in dangerous wrinkle-promoting behavior, she relaxed, and Violet Wong became Cover Girl perfect once again. “Good of you to join us, Lily.”
“Sorry. The driver got held up in traffic.”
“Driver? You’re pushing a bicycle.”
I looked down at the Merida. After bolting out of Tran’s neighborhood, I had ordered a rideshare on Ventura Boulevard. Normally, one would have come within five minutes in such a populated area, however, I had needed a vehicle with a bike rack. The wait had slowed my departure by another ten minutes, making me fifty-five minutes late. Much as I hated to admit it, Ma had good reason to be angry.
“I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. Are we celebrating something special? Baba said you hired a caterer. Wait. Is this a party? Is that why you came to the door, to warn me?”
I shut my mouth before my babbling could reach epic proportions and waited for her to answer. In the meantime, I schooled my features into an expression of contrition and did my best not to slouch as Ma appraised my appearance. She didn’t do anything so overt as panning down and up my black track suit. She used peripheral vision. I knew because I had spent years emulating the action. It was harder than it seemed. Her inspection took no more than a couple of seconds, but given a choice, I would have taken another hour with the Ukrainian, especially if it would have spared me the impending argument.
Ma’s brows lifted and fell with her sigh. “We are not having a party, I just wanted to give your father a break from cooking. And I came to the door because I wanted to know why you were late. But now that I see your state of dress and that bicycle you insist on riding, your tardiness is not only clear, it is predictable. Honestly, Lily, everyone in Los Angeles owns a car. Why don’t you?”
I shook my head. The question had been asked and answered more times than I could remember. “If I had it, I’d use it. And since I don’t need it, I don’t want it.” I held up a hand to forestall an argument. “Besides, most of the time, I can get a rideshare faster than I can get to a parked car. And traffic is the same no matter who’s driving.”
Her sigh could have blown out a candle. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
I opened my eyes wide but said nothing. Since when was my presence all that mattered? I thought about ask
ing then changed my mind when I saw Baba amble out the door.
“There’s my Dumpling. I told you she’d make it.”
I managed to squeak out a hello before he squeezed me into a hug.
“You feel hot. Do you have a fever?”
“Uh, no.” I looked around as if he should be able to see the heat radiating from the driveway. “It’s ninety degrees.”
Ma tilted her head. “You might have felt more comfortable in a dress.” There was something odd about the way she delivered this bit of criticism, as though she was disappointed yet trying to avoid a quarrel. Something was going on. That’s when I noticed how nice they both looked.
Ma always dressed impeccably, but today she looked even more elegant than usual. She had on a sleeveless cheongsam-style cocktail dress that fit snuggly enough to show curves and a flat tummy while still looking classy. Instead of having slits up the sides, the stunning purple dress fell just below the knee where it drew attention to graceful calves, tiny ankles, and heeled pumps of the same rich color. Her silky black hair had been bound into an artful chignon and secured with a purple and green cloisonné fan. The green of her hairpin matched her dark imperial jade earrings, cut in marquis cabochons with platinum and diamond accents, just like her wedding ring. The only other jewelry she wore was a jade bracelet divided into rounded segments and connected by platinum links. Of all her jewelry, the Sì Xiàng bracelet was the dearest.
My grandfather had given it to her before she came to the United States to attend college. He wanted her to remember her heritage and to feel that she would always have the Sì Xiàng—mythical creatures from the four celestial divisions—to watch over her when he could not. Each jade segment had been carved to resemble one of the four guardians: Azure Dragon of the East, Vermilion Bird of the South, White Tiger of the West, and Black Tortoise of the North. Together, they represented the Sì Xiàng. While each of the mythical creatures had its own color, all of Ma’s had been carved from the same dark green imperial jade.
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