The Ninja Daughter

by Tori Eldridge

  She nodded so emphatically it sent her braids into a bobbing frenzy.

  “You know something? You’re a smart cookie. Let me see what I can do for you.”

  “Thank you.” I stepped away to give her some privacy. People worked harder when they felt valued and respected—that’s what Baba always told me—and that applied doubly to people who worked for the government.

  In less than a minute, she waved me back to her desk with a grin and a wink. “Guess what I got for you.”

  Five minutes later, I was walking into Freddy Weintraub’s office.

  His pressed shirt had acquired some wrinkles and sweat stains since I had seen it this morning, but other than that, his appearance had improved considerably. In his own domain, Freddy sparkled with energy and confidence.

  “So what can I do for you, Miss…?”

  “Stevens. Trisha Stevens. I’m writing a paper on the future of LA’s mass transit, and I read that Metro might be building a new line. Could you could explain a bit about that process?”

  Freddy sat a little straighter and puffed out his chest. “I’d be happy to. In fact, you caught me at a good time. We discussed this very project in our PPC meeting this morning.”

  “That’s the Planning and Programming Committee, right?”

  “Yes. Good for you, young lady. Anyway, we’re all very excited about the Copper Line since it will cross social, racial, and economic borders from Chinatown down and across through Cerritos.”

  I nodded approvingly. He had given a similar hype to Shannon.

  “Of course, the line is too long to build all at once, almost forty-five miles, so we’ll build it in sections. The first will go from Union Station to the southern border of Huntington Park, serving the needs of several lower income communities, then—”

  “Wait. Doesn’t the Blue Line already run near there?”

  Freddy tightened his grin. “It does, but there’s a great need for public transportation in the Gateway Cities.” His voice sounded pinched. “Besides, it’s already paid for through Measure R. Once the Technical Advisory Committee approves, we can acquire the necessary properties for subway stations and street-level staging areas. Then we’ll start construction.”

  “You make it sound so simple. But what if the property owners don’t want to sell?”

  “Then the state would force the sale through eminent domain.” He waved his hands to dispel any wrong impression he might have given. “The property owner still gets paid according to fair market value, you understand. It’s all quite equitable. All the nearby properties will benefit. Greater accessibility means higher profits.”

  I kept my expression blank. Higher profits for whom? The old sellers or the new buyers? It seemed to me there were lots of opportunities for someone with inside information and a fluid sense of integrity to score some bucks. “Have you made the offers yet?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “TAC still has to vote.”

  “The Technical Advisory Committee?”

  “Yes. But I expect it to go through.” He forced another grin.

  “You don’t seem pleased.”

  “Sure I am. It has to be done. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “To cross social and economic borders?” I prompted, to which he sighed with relief.

  “Exactly.”

  I backed off and let him ramble about how the proposed Copper Line would travel down Santa Fe Avenue then veer southeast through retail-oriented Cerritos—and all the other nuances he felt important to share. Then, when his enthusiasm had finally exhausted, I put away my pen and offered my hand. “Thank you, Mr. Weintraub. You’ve given me a much better understanding of what’s really going on.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  With my eggplant dress stored in my pack and my limbs free to move again, I tore through downtown gridlock. Traffic didn’t get much worse than four o’clock on Spring Street, but eleven miles on a bike felt the same to me whether traffic flowed or clogged.

  I weaved through honks and hip hop beats, spicy carnations wafting from the nearby flower district, and the mingled stench of urine and exhaust—a sensory overload I was glad to escape. Only when the streets had widened and the buildings lowered did I begin to chew over the day.

  “Chew over” was another of Bestefar’s sayings. It would please him to know I used it, although sexy, exotic killers and eminent domain weren’t the cud he would have chosen for me to chew. He’d also liked to say that a farmer had to make do with the crops God granted him. Was it my fault God had given me a mixed bag of seeds? Yeah. It kinda was.

  I stood on the pedals, legs churning with the added force of my weight, and cut through the intersection as yellow turned to red.

  That mixed bag of seeds included two dead wannabe Korean gangsters. Wannabe anythings bugged the heck out of me. Not that I had an issue with deception. How could I? It was the unwillingness to pay the price that offended me. If people didn’t like who they were, they should put in the work and change. Without a cost, status meant nothing.

  I sped through another yellow light.

  What was so special about this Copper Line, and why did everyone I met seem connected to the thing? What was there to hide that would make Planning Supervisor Freddy Weintraub brag, justify, then defend himself to an insignificant college student like Trisha Stevens? And did Freddy really believe the Copper Line was “the right thing to do”?

  I braked to avoid a collision then squeezed between bumpers to ride along the curb.

  My gut told me if I figured out the Metro mystery, I’d know why Mia had been attacked.

  It seemed likely that some corrupt entity had hired Tran to terrorize Mia, but I had a hard time believing that entity could be Freddy. While a planning supervisor had inside information, from what I had seen, Freddy didn’t have the money or the viciousness to capitalize on what he knew. No. It was far more likely that Freddy was a victim.

  But why would anyone care enough about him to threaten his mistress?

  As Metro’s planning supervisor, he probably could have pushed the Copper Line through the Planning and Programming Committee but not through TAC. The Technical Advisory Committee had thirty voting members. Swaying Freddy, no matter how influential he might be, wouldn’t have made enough of a difference.

  Unless he was just one among several key people getting pressured to push the Copper Line forward.

  My phone played a ringtone I never ignored. I tapped my Bluetooth. “What’s up, Aleisha?”

  “Are you anywhere near Leimert Park?”

  “I could be. Why?”

  “Yolanda Burch just called. Benny’s acting up again, and she’s scared.”

  “Did you tell her to get out of there?”

  “Of course I did. But you know how she is. I don’t think she’ll leave.”

  “Yeah, probably not. What’s the address, again?”

  “On Exposition, where it forks into Rodeo Road.”

  “Oh yeah, the gray building on the right.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Okay, I’ll swing by and check on her.”

  “Thanks, Lily. And you be careful now.”

  I ended the call, ducked low on my handlebars, and swerved to the wrong side of Jefferson so I could jump the curb onto Trousdale Parkway—the main pedestrian/bike thoroughfare through USC campus. Then I followed the yellowish brick road to Exposition Boulevard and raced to the Rodeo Road fork. A couple blocks away, I heard a gunshot.

  I sped to the short, gray apartment building, rode up the sidewalk, and braked to a stop. Benny was on the garage-roof patio of the complex, waving a gun and yelling at someone I couldn’t see.

  “Please be Yolanda,” I said as I stashed my bike behind a hedge. If Benny was still yelling at her, it might mean she was still alive. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time a violent man had yelled at his dead wife; I had witnessed some grim situations working for Aleisha.

&nbs
p; I called 911 then pocketed my phone and vaulted onto the wall. A short leap from there to the garage had me clinging to a drainage pipe and peeking over the top through a wooden patio railing.

  I had met Benjamin Burch the year before when Aleisha had asked me to escort Yolanda home after a short stay in the refuge. Benny had promised to reform and had groomed himself to make a good impression. Not so today. Clad only in a sleeveless tee and boxers, Benny looked like the wife-beating thug he was: broad back, hairy legs, and fists the size of my knees. One of those fists hung low at his hip. The other gripped a semi-automatic pistol, which he waved in the air as he shouted accusations of infidelity, nonsensical comments about Six Flags Magic Mountain, and declarations of love.

  Not only was Yolanda still alive, she was armed with a kitchen knife and madder than a cornered cat. This could definitely get ugly. And not just for them. The last time I had interceded in a domestic violence crisis, the woman I had been trying to save had broken a chair over my head.

  I had learned three valuable lessons that day: Never assume a person wanted help. The weakest one in a fight was often the most dangerous. And no one was truly unarmed until they were lying in a morgue.

  I climbed over the railing and landed softly on the deck, positioning myself behind Benny so his bulk would block me from Yolanda’s view. I didn’t want her to see me until I had taken him down. I couldn’t afford a fair fight with an angry man twice my size. If I wanted to come out of this alive, I had to be smart, quick, and silent.

  When Benny began his next tirade, I ran and leapt up behind him, coiled for attack. In one clean move, I struck the toes of my shoes into the backs of his knees and arched my fingers over the top of his head to rake his eyes. The dual assault bucked his legs and yanked back his head, causing his hands—and the gun—to raise in the air. Then I landed behind him, my fingers still lodged in his eye sockets, and slammed his head onto the deck.

  I removed the pistol from his weakened grip and stepped back to a safer distance.

  Benny moaned and rolled onto his side, head lolling, as he tried to push himself from the deck.

  “Stay put. Unless you want a hole through that hairy thigh of yours.”

  “What the fuck?” he said, seeing me for the first time.

  I got that a lot. Bad enough to get brought down by a woman, but one as small as me was downright emasculating.

  Yolanda screamed and rushed to his aid.

  I adjusted my position so I could cover them both. She still had the knife, and not only did I not want to get stabbed, I didn’t want her bringing a weapon within reach of Benny.

  “Take it easy. Calm down and no one will get hurt.” I glared at her husband. “Isn’t that right, Benny?”

  He stared at the muzzle, still pointing at his thigh, and nodded.

  “Aleisha sent me. She said you needed help. That’s what you told her, right? Benny was acting up?”

  Yolanda looked from me to Benny to the city. Police sirens could be heard. I was running out of time. I needed Yolanda firmly on my side before they arrived.

  “That’s why I’m here, to help you. This is Benny’s gun, remember? He fired it once, and I stopped him from firing it again.”

  Sirens stopped. Car doors slammed. Yolanda nodded and sniffed back her tears, but she still had the knife. Bad enough the cops would see me holding a gun, I didn’t want them worried about her as well.

  “Put the knife down, okay? I got this.”

  It was too late.

  The police barged through the apartment door. Yolanda screamed and dropped the kitchen knife. Benny shouted for help.

  I held up my hands and dangled the pistol upside down from the trigger guard and prayed to God that I didn’t get shot.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I wasn’t arrested, but I sure didn’t get thanked either. Law enforcement took a dim view on civilian intervention, especially when the altercation involved a firearm. Although I understood their position, I also knew this situation could have ended in a body bag. One smiling word of thanks didn’t seem like too much to ask.

  So far, this day was proving to be as hazardous as Baba had predicted.

  Thinking of him reminded me of food, which made my stomach clench—but not from hunger, from worry. I hadn’t seen Mia since that morning when she confronted Freddy at his house. Had she recovered from the ordeal? Or would I find her at the bottom of a bag of beignets? More importantly, was she still safe?

  Tran’s tracker alert would have sounded if he had entered Mia’s neighborhood. I checked it anyway and found him in the valley, a safe distance from her apartment. If I pedaled hard, I could make it to her place in thirty minutes. The six-mile detour would double my distance home, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t rest until I’d seen her.

  Mia was standing on her balcony drinking a beer when I rolled up to the curb. She looked down at me and shook her head, as if I was the last person she wanted to see. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d ditched me.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because I haven’t heard from you since yesterday. How can you protect me if you’re not around?”

  Mia didn’t know I’d seen Freddy reject her this morning, and I didn’t think she’d appreciate my telling her.

  “I may not be with you twenty-four seven,” I said. “But I am keeping tabs—on you and everyone involved. How are you holding up?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m alive. How’s that?”

  “All things considered, I’d say pretty damn good.” My attempt at levity failed. “Hang in there, Mia. Things will change. I promise. This is just temporary.”

  Mia scoffed and stared into the distance. The setting sun bathed her face in golden light that enhanced both her beauty and her sadness. Then, without another word, she walked back into her apartment.

  Although safe and physically sound, Mia’s emotional state bothered me. Depressed people did foolish things, especially when they didn’t think they had options. I’d need to check in on her more often.

  Which reminded of Kateryna. I sighed. Apparently my work wasn’t done for the night.

  I flipped my bike in the other direction and bolted down the avenue. By now, Kateryna would have brought Ilya home from kindergarten, fixed him a snack, and helped him with whatever projects he’d brought home. His routine with Mommy made him happy. His time with Daddy not so much.

  Dmitry’s schedule varied, although by dusk most weekdays he was planted in front of the wide-screen television in their downstairs family room. On good nights, Ilya would color at his daddy’s feet. On bad nights, he would hide in his room while Mommy turned on every light in the house.

  Despite my prayers for gentle lighting, the Romanko house blazed as brightly as the Staples Center on Lakers game night: Dmitry was in a dangerous mood.

  I shrugged off my backpack and took out my favorite spying jacket. The dark gray blended better with dusky shadows than black would have and the stretchy material allowed me to pass through tight or thorny spots without snagging. I muted my phone and zipped it in a pocket. I’d hate to have the screen light up while I was skulking in the night. Lastly, I retrieved the karambit.

  I held it with a forward grip so I could keep the talon-shaped blade folded and ready for quick release. This grip also allowed me to use the knife’s handle as a kubotan to dig into pressure points, stun nerves, and incapacitate muscles. As a bonus, the metal security ring could act as a brass knuckle for my pinky finger.

  I loved this knife almost as much as I loved food.

  Properly armed and camouflaged, I snuck into the backyard. As before, glass doors were open for ventilation and the screen doors shut against the bugs. Ilya sat on the left side of a U-shaped granite counter, swiveling on a high kitchen stool and engrossed in writing or drawing. Kateryna stood in the center of the U, facing the garden, chopping vegetables for dinner. Dmitry stood at the freezer in the back, fillin
g his tumbler at the ice dispenser, which clattered in the silence.

  Of the three, only Dmitry went about his task with confidence. Kateryna and Ilya concealed their movements behind rolled shoulders and hunched spines. Both flinched when Dmitry smacked his ice-filled glass onto the counter.

  “They still treat me like a fucking kid.” He poured several jiggers of vodka. “How many deals do I have to make before they show me some respect?”

  Kateryna raised her shoulders reflexively.

  “What? You agree with them?”

  She held still, and I knew from experience that she was straining not to shake her head. Not to engage.

  “Of course you do. Your tiny brain cannot fathom what all I do.”

  He came up behind her, set his tumbler of vodka on the counter, and trapped her between his arms. Kateryna stared ahead, knife clutched in her hand, as Dmitry pressed against her back. Her eyes widened with fear as he rubbed the side of his face against her temple.

  “I don’t hear anything.” He pulled away. “I think your tiny brain has gone to sleep. What do you think?”

  Kateryna twitched.

  “Yes. I think that’s exactly what it’s doing. Let’s not wake it up.” He grabbed the tumbler, gulped some vodka, then sloshed his glass toward Ilya. “I bet your brain is wide awake, though. Isn’t it, Ilya? Keep studying and you won’t have to attend some shit college like your mother and I did in Ukraine. You can go straight into any American university you want. You won’t even need anyone to pull strings or pay your way if you want to go to American law school.”

  He slapped Kateryna’s arm, nearly causing her to chop her fingers. “Isn’t that right? Our son can have anything he wants if he works hard.”

  Kateryna put the knife down, then picked it back up.

  Good girl. I’d want the knife in my hand, too. I’d seen similar scenarios before and knew how quickly the situation could escalate. It made me want to barge into the house. But Kateryna had made her decision, and unless she changed her mind and asked for my help, it wasn’t my place to fight her battles.