I stopped at the curb, took out my phone, and silenced the alert, which brought up a map of Central Los Angeles. Tran’s GPS marker showed him approaching just north of my route. I braced the phone against my handlebars and rode. If I hurried, maybe I’d discover what business J Tran had in Koreatown.
I found his car parked across the street from the Robert F. Kennedy Community Schools, a massive cement-walled complex that encompassed twenty-four acres and six independent public schools, kindergarten through twelfth grade. The whole complex, including the walled-and fenced-in soccer fields, had been built over a partially subterranean parking structure. Since Tran had parked on the downhill side, the top seven or eight feet of this was visible through the chain-link fence, providing me a view into the garage like the windows of a house.
Directional lights, anchored high above, cast shadows down the wall and onto the street. Normally, I avoided such dark pockets. Tonight, I searched for the darkest spot I could find.
After chaining my bike and helmet to the fence, I took the karambit from my backpack and moved it into my right pant pocket. Then I switched my cellphone to mute and put it in the left pocket. Feeling sufficiently equipped, I slipped back into the straps of my pack. I was just about to cross the street to check out Tran’s car when I heard voices echoing in the garage. Since the rest of the street looked deserted, I decided to investigate. And when I saw the broken lock on the service gate, I did so with care.
The voices sounded male, drunk, and Korean. I dropped down to the cement floor and made my way along the wall. The voices echoed from deeper in the garage, but I didn’t want to cross empty spaces if I could avoid it. Besides, the perimeter offered good sight-lines, which was how I spotted him.
Tran was standing behind a pillar with his back to me, looking in the direction of the voices. He wore a fitted jacket, matching slacks, and soft-soled boots all in the same charcoal gray. His wavy brow hair hung in a ponytail at the center of his square shoulders. He looked dressed for a night on the town or a meeting with important clients, not lurking in a garage.
What about these guys had captured his attention?
To answer that question, I needed a better view.
A sedan parked in one of the interior lanes provided the perfect vantage point, but I’d have to cross thirty feet of open space to reach it. I got my chance when one of the men yelled something in Korean that made the other guy laugh.
I sprinted for the sedan, staying on the balls of my feet and keeping my knees bent to lessen the impact and reduce the sound. As long as Tran’s focus stayed on the men and they continued to make a racket, I’d make it. I jumped the last five feet just in case, redirecting my forward momentum into a crouch, and remained coiled for action. After several seconds of quiet, I lowered my cheek to the cement and peered beneath the undercarriage. Tran hadn’t moved.
I inched my way to the front of the car where I could look in the direction of the voices. The men were definitely Korean, too old for students, too young for teachers. One was bald with tattoos climbing up from the collar of a green and yellow bowling shirt. The other had spiked black hair and muscles straining against a sleeveless black tee. Both wore baggy pants and high-top sneakers and stood in front of a bright green Hyundai decked out for street racing with spoilers, drag radials, and shiny chrome. No doubt I’d find the requisite nitrous oxide system and a turbocharged engine under the hood.
The guy with the tats and bowling shirt punched the muscle guy in the arm. “That’s fucking hilarious, man. It just blew up? For real?”
Muscles shoved him back and laughed. “Fuckin NOS exploded. Peeled the skin right off his face.”
“No shit?”
They laughed so hard they didn’t see Tran as he left the pillar and began walking in their direction. He could have been a teacher on his way to his car, that’s how little attention he paid the street racers. For all I knew, that might actually be the case. What did I really know about J Tran aside from what had been disclosed on television, what I had seen while watching him in the courthouse, and what I had deduced from the spaces in his home? Precious little. Still, he didn’t move like any teacher I had known, not even Sensei. He glided in an unnatural and predatory way, with only a minimum of movement in his hips and arms.
I took out my phone and snapped some shots of the Koreans. The light wasn’t great, but the images should come out clear enough. The tats on the back of the bald guy’s neck might give me a clue as to which gang or racing club these losers might belong to and why Tran might be interested in them. If he even was interested. Now that he was on the move, he didn’t so much as glance at the Koreans, not until Tat—as I now thought of the tattooed punk—took notice of him. Then he stopped.
“Check out this bink fool. What you doin’ in K-Town, boy? You get lost? There ain’t no South Central, Chinktown shit here. You in the wrong place.”
Apparently, Tat didn’t embrace Tran as one of his own. In fact, from the epithets he was slinging, he seemed to think Tran was of African-Chinese descent. Was he right? I didn’t have time to consider it because the Koreans had shifted, giving me a clear view of their faces and the ink on Tat’s throat and arms. I snapped more shots to examine later.
Muscles slapped his buddy. “Maybe he’s East LA. That it, homie? You all dressed up for your mamacita? ’Cause you ain’t gettin’ no Korean pussy here, I can tell you that.”
“Whatever the fuck he is, he don’t belong in our hood.”
“Got that right.” Muscles whacked Tat on the arm, this time hard enough to rock him, inciting an angry barrage of Korean. They were so involved in their argument that neither paid attention to Tran.
They didn’t see the slim blade that shot from Tran’s palm or the way he held it invisibly against his leg. They didn’t watch as he glided forward on bent knees and supple feet with terrifyingly beautiful grace. They were too full with themselves to see any of it.
I took a breath to shout a warning, but it was too late. In the instant between my comprehension of the situation and my vocal chords’ ability to formulate a sound, Tran had struck.
The muscled man’s back arched in pain and shuddered as Tran withdrew the slim blade and stabbed two more times in quick succession. The Korean’s bodybuilder strength was of no use to him now as he crumpled to the ground whimpering. I watched, stunned by the sudden violence, while Tran cruised by as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just punctured god knew what organs and sentenced a young man to a slow and excruciating death. Three quick steps later, the punk’s tattooed friend reached behind his back, presumably for a weapon. But if he had a gun stashed in his waistband, Tran slit his throat before he ever touched it.
Death took its time.
Blood spurt through Tat’s clutching fingers and rained down on his fallen buddy’s face. Neither victim concerned himself with the other. Their worlds had shrunk to emptying veins and ragged breaths. And while they died, Tran wiped his blade with a cloth taken from his jacket pocket, like a professor cleaning his spectacles. His indifference to the dying men unnerved me almost more than the violence. He hadn’t even checked for witnesses. He just folded the bloodied cloth and replaced it with care.
What kind of person did that?
I eased behind the sedan. Soon, Tran would check his surroundings. He wouldn’t take kindly to a witness. But having hid from his view, I had also eliminated my ability to see. All I had left was sound. I wanted to bolt but didn’t dare. Every scenario that raced through my mind ended with me dead and Tran wiping his stiletto over my corpse.
I had to get my fear under control.
I took one slow, centering breath and focused on the facts. The garage was too quiet for me to chance peering under the car because, although my backpack hugged my shoulders, the slightest movement could shuffle the contents. I could, however, arm myself with a weapon more lethal than a cellphone. I eased the karambit out of my pocket and rested my thumb on the quick-release sw
itch. With the slightest twitch of my thumb, the hooked blade would spring.
I waited, poised for action, and listened for any hint of Tran’s location. I thought I heard a scuff of rubber and the rhythmic pad of steps, but it might have been the thumping of my own heart. Sensei had been teaching me how to focus my hearing beyond my body’s perimeter. I had yet to master the skill. As far as I knew, Tran could be standing on the other side of the car, ready to pounce. All I heard was my fear.
I took another slow, centering breath. The more relaxed I remained, the quicker I’d move and the more intuitively I would respond. I prayed that my thousands of grueling training hours and ninja intuition would suffice.
After endless seconds, during which Tran could have attacked a dozen times, I finally heard the scrape of metal against gravel behind me where I had entered the garage. I sagged with relief but continued to listen until I heard the rumble of an engine turning over. Even then, I waited until the car noise had receded before coming out of hiding to scan the garage.
No Tran. Just me and two dead Koreans.
Time to go. If anyone saw me, they’d assume I had witnessed the attack, or worse, committed the crime. I had to get out of there, but I also needed to get a closer look at the scene.
Tran had painted some kind of design on the Hyundai—and it looked as if he’d done it in blood.
Chapter Fifteen
I lowered the quilt onto my nose and cracked open an eye. Gentle morning light shone through the carvings of my antique screen. I smiled and fluttered back to sleep. Or I tried. Someone was knocking on my door in short, persistent bursts. No more dreams for me. Too bad. I had a vague sense they might have been pleasant for a change.
“Coming,” I said, and padded to the door in bare feet and an over-sized tee. If Baba—because who else could it be?—wanted me out of bed, he’d have to take me as I was.
I opened the door. Sure enough, there he stood with a serving tray and a smile.
“Hey, Baba. Everything okay?”
“Yep.” He raised the tray. “You didn’t eat much last night.”
I opened the door wider and motioned him inside. “Maybe I’m not fond of French cuisine.”
“Uh-huh.”
He wasn’t buying the story, and I was too sleepy to sell it. Besides, I had more urgent concerns. The lacquer serving tray was a harbinger for prying conversations. In the five and a half years I had lived above the restaurant, Baba had only brought me breakfast three times: my first morning in the apartment, the morning after a horrible fight with Ma, and the morning after I had been attacked by Rose’s murderer—although how he had intuited that last event remained a mystery to me. Each time, Baba had carried his offering on the black and gold lacquer tray. I knew it was silly, but every time I saw the thing, I felt nervous and defensive.
“Not like you to leave chocolate soufflé unfinished.”
He had me there. Normally, I’d finish mine and then polish off his. If I didn’t exercise as much as I did, I’d weigh two hundred pounds. As it was, Ma gave me flack about my weight.
I put a hand against my belly and sucked it in tighter. In my saner moments, I recognized the absurdity of checking for flab. I had less than sixteen percent body fat and my abs were ridged like corrugated steel. But when did logic have anything to do with self-image?
I glared at the lacquer tray. The damn thing had brought Ma with it. How was I supposed to eat with her specter hovering over my shoulder? Are you sure you want to eat that, Lily? Just thinking of her made me feel like a spud in a sack.
“Does she think that little of me?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Ma. Why did she invite Daniel Kwok to dinner? Does she think I can’t get a guy on my own?”
“Nope. She’s afraid you’ll sell yourself short.”
I snorted. “Really.”
He raised the tray. “You want some breakfast? Hate to throw it to the hogs.”
Whatever he had hidden under the cover smelled delicious and elicited a loud response from my belly. I stuffed my suspicions and focused on what was in front of me: food from a thoughtful father. That was it. No harbinger, no critical specter, no ulterior motive. Just food and tea.
“Sure. Give me a sec, okay?”
He nodded and headed to the front of the apartment while I went to the bathroom to splash some water on my face and take care of other morning necessities. When I emerged, I found my breakfast laid out on the patio table.
My stomach growled. “What you got there?”
“Jook with minced pork, ginger, scallions, and some Darjeeling tea.”
“Yum.”
I adored the soupy rice porridge, known in most parts of Southeast Asia as congee. Its bland taste provided a comforting base for sweet, savory, or umami flavors and just about any ingredient you wanted to add. Minced pork, ginger, and scallions were my favorite. With the plethora of Chinese dialects and transliterations, jook—a Cantonese word, commonly used in Hong Kong—could get a little confusing. But whether you called it congee, báizhōu, or zhōu—the pinyin transliteration of Mandarin—or you called it by the Cantonese name and spelled it as jūk or jook, the end result was always delicious.
I leaned over the bowl and inhaled the scent.
“Don’t let it get cold.”
“You’re not having any?”
“Already ate.”
I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess—at six?”
He shrugged. “Old habits.”
I took a bite of the rice porridge and sighed in ecstasy. Jook was comfort food, and after what I had witnessed in K-Town last night, I could use some comfort.
“How come you never fix biscuits and gravy?”
“Why would I?”
“Isn’t that what you ate for breakfast growing up?”
Baba laughed. “A very small part, dontcha know. I also had stacks of pancakes, slabs of ham, a rasher of bacon, and at least five eggs. And don’t forget the heavy cream in the coffee. But all of that came after milking the cows and mucking the stalls. By six o’clock, my brothers and I were plenty hungry.”
I slurped the last bit of jook from the bowl and sat back while Baba poured tea into small clay cups. I picked mine up and held it in both hands, enjoying the warmth.
“If I ate everything you and your brothers did, I’d be as fat as a blimp.”
He winked. “And your mama would never forgive me.”
“There is that.” I sipped the tea. “But seriously, why don’t you ever fix me North Dakota comfort food? Why is it always Chinese?”
“I can fix you biscuits and gravy if you like.”
“That’s not the point. You absorbed Ma’s culture. But what about your own? You even had us call you baba, like Ma calls Gung-Gung, instead of papa like you call your own dad. Why didn’t you pass any of your Norwegian heritage on to Rose and me?”
“Ah, Dumpling dear. You know the answer to that.”
“You were trying to appease Gung-Gung.”
“I stole his daughter.”
“You didn’t steal her. She fell in love with you. And why wouldn’t she?” I reached for his meaty hand. “Sometimes I think you’re too good for her.”
He squeezed my fingers gently. “Thank you, but it’s not true. You’re too close to her to see who she really is. And after your sister passed away—well, it’s taken a toll on her.”
“It’s taken a toll on all of us.”
“I know. But she’s a mother. There’s a difference.” He held up a hand to forestall any argument. “My point is that you’ve never had a chance to know her as I did. Your mother is a complicated woman who cares deeply about family and honor. She’s also a passionate person with sharp intellect and deep emotions.” I must have looked incredulous because he continued. “It’s true. Sometimes these qualities live together peaceably, and other times—”
“Like when she told her family about you?”
He nod
ded. “They create conflict.”
“But you gave up everything.”
He patted my hand and poured more tea. “I gave up very little. I’ve always had a roaming nature, and North Dakota is—how should I say—closely knit. If I hadn’t met your mother, I probably would have traveled the world.”
“See, that’s what I mean.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t need to travel after I met Vi. Everything about her was exotic and exciting.” He chuckled. “Although it might have been fun to explore my Viking roots. Who knows, I might have made a good raider back in the day.”
“No way. You would have been a farmer.”
He gave me a mischievous wink. “Oh, I don’t know. There’s something to be said for pillaging countries with beautiful women.”
“Baba!”
“Anyway, my culture, if you can even call it that, felt bland compared to your mother’s.”
He caressed the Yixing teapot with fingers more suited for a plow than a tiny work of clay. The handle barely offered room for his thumb and index finger, but he managed to pick it up with confidence and grace. I watched him fill my cup before using the other pot to fill his own. Even in this gesture of courtesy, Baba followed Ma’s customs. I tapped my fingers on the table in thanks.
“That doesn’t explain why you gave us her family name. I mean, we weren’t even sons. What good did it do?”
He shrugged. “Lily Knudsen? Why would I saddle my daughter with a name like that? Nope. It felt right to give you a Chinese last name. And if we ever had a son, everyone in the family would be the same.”
The Ninja Daughter Page 8
