The Ninja's Blade Page 4

  I stared up at the ceiling, limbs sprawled, chest heaving, as the thoughts I had tried so hard to eradicate flooded into my mind.

  I couldn’t do this alone.

  Chapter Seven

  The first of the many tasks Ma had emailed me to do was to clean the restaurant’s sign that covered the entire front of our building’s second floor. Gung-Gung and Po-Po were coming in from Hong Kong tomorrow and Ma wanted everything to pass inspection—including Wong’s Hong Kong Inn. Baba could have hired someone to take care of the job, but I had long ago convinced him to let me do it. Cleaning the signboard from the roof rather than laddering up from the street provided an opportunity to practice climbing and rope techniques. It also saved Baba a few bucks and made me feel less like a freeloader.

  Many were the times I’d had to get myself out of a sticky situation with only the contents of my backpack, my ingenuity, and my skill—not just the ninja techniques Sensei had taught me, but the techniques he had encouraged me to pick up from other arts, systems, and sports. Such was the method of the modern-day ninja: to adopt, adapt, and apply anything useful with cunning efficiency. Although I could have bought a ready-made harness at my local sporting goods store, knowing how to create a harness from a single rope was far more useful.

  I snapped my carabiner onto the dynamic rope anchored to the roof and backed over the edge. If I fell, the rope had enough give in the fibers to absorb the shock without breaking my back.

  Could I fall?

  Sure.

  Was this needlessly dangerous?

  Of course.

  But was it fun?

  You betcha.

  It was also the least I could do for Baba who fed and housed me for free. Even so, it cost a ridiculous amount to live in Los Angeles. Although Aleisha and Stan kept me on a small retainer for the rescue and protection work I did for the shelter, the bulk of the payment I received came when I finished a job. I supplemented my income by helping Baba’s small-business friends with their internet and social media needs. But even with the red envelope money Ma gave me on special occasions, I didn’t have much of a financial cushion.

  I couldn’t bring myself to charge Aleisha’s Refuge any more than I already did, nor would I ever charge the women and children I chose to help on my own. I did this work to honor my sister, and make amends for not having been there when she needed me most. So, instead of pursuing a career as a private investigator, I lived frugally, tipped generously, and help whomever I wanted. I didn’t have much money, but I had an abundance of wealth.

  I had just cleaned the tail of the first of our twin dragons when Aleisha’s ringtone—the bluesy baseline from Alabama Shakes’ “Hold On”—played in my ear. I tapped my Bluetooth to answer the call. “Hey, Aleisha. What’s up?”

  “We have a problem. Emma’s been taken.”

  “What?”

  I dropped the sponge into the bucket hanging from my belt.

  “The girl you met yesterday? She’s been taken.”

  “From the refuge?” Panic crept into my voice as I imagined armed men invading Aleisha and Stan’s home.

  “No. From her parents’ house in Bel Air. Stan drove her there and some guy nabbed her on the way out.”

  “Is Stan okay?”

  “He’s fine.”

  When she didn’t say more, I imagined the worst: Stan’s sweet face bruised and bloody, paramedics strapping him onto a gurney, loading him into an ambulance, covering his nose and mouth with an oxygen mask. Stan was family to me. If anyone had hurt him….

  I took a breath to calm my nerves. This wasn’t me. I was cool and calculated, not some emotional basket case. At least, I had been before Tran had slithered into my life and left a trail of doubt and death.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Aleisha?”

  “Nothing. Stan’s fine. A bruised ego is all. But—”

  “But, what?”

  “The guy had a…gun.” Her voice cracked as she said the word. “There’s nothing Stan could have done. He’s just angry at himself for not protecting Emma.”

  I understood. I would have been pissed as hell if Emma had been taken or harmed on my watch. Stan felt the same. It would have been a different story if the guy had tried to abduct her from the refuge. Stan kept a twelve-gauge pump action shotgun locked in a gun closet for emergencies. No violent husband, boyfriend, or pimp would have been able to take one of his charges from his home without a fight. But Emma had been taken in sleepy, privileged Bel Air.

  “Where’s he now?”

  “On his way to your restaurant. He wants you to come and talk to Emma’s neighbor. Says the kid ratted her out.”

  A car honked below. Stan was standing in the street, straightening his back after having reached through his open window. He cupped his hand to his mouth. “Did Aleisha call you?”

  I pointed at my ear. “Got her right here.”

  Aleisha groaned at my shout.

  “Sorry about that. Stan’s here.”

  “I figured.”

  “I’ll keep you informed.”

  “Yes, please. And Lily—” Her voice hitched with emotion. “Give him a hug from me?” Stan was the love of her life. The idea of someone pointing a gun at him had unnerved her.

  “Will do.” I tapped my Bluetooth to end the call and waved down at Stan. “Be down in ten.”

  He flashed a thumbs up and got back into the car as I scrambled up to the roof. A gun pulled on Stan? Emma abducted? Ma’s list of chores would have to wait.

  Chapter Eight

  “That was quick,” Stan said, as I sank into the passenger seat, dropped my slim-profile cycling pack at my feet, and shut the door. His voice sounded stronger than he looked.

  “So, uh…what happened?”

  He shook his head and started the car.

  I gave him a few blocks then tried again. “Look, whatever went down, it wasn’t your fault.”

  He shook his head. “I had a simple job to do—drive Emma to her parents. That’s it. The worst I expected to happen was to have them slam the door in her face. It never occurred to me to worry about a kid.”

  “What kid?”

  “Her neighbor from across the street. Nice looking guy. Clean cut. White trousers, navy polo. The kind of kid who plays tennis and joins the debate team.”

  I knew the type—except at my high school, they also led the Chinese Student Association and studied Cantonese on Saturdays.

  “So, what happened?’

  Stan shrugged. “I was waiting in the car when he comes up and asks about Emma. Said he hadn’t seen her recently and wondered if she was going to come back out so he could catch up with her. When I said she might be a while, he said, ‘Cool,’ and headed back into his own house.

  “As he walked away, he took out his phone and made a call. Thirty minutes later, a Latino guy drives up in a muscle car, makes a U-turn, and parks in front of the kid’s house. I didn’t think anything of it because—why should I? Then the gates to Emma’s house swing open and out she comes looking kinda upset. I don’t think it went too well with her folks.

  “Anyway, she was on her way to my car, when the guy gets out of his car and leans against the door, arms crossed, looking like God’s gift to women. She stopped and stared at him for a really long time. ‘You alright, Em?’ I asked. She just nodded. Well, I wasn’t having any of that. But when I got out of my car, the punk pulls a gun and points it in my face. A gun. In Bel Air.”

  Stan shook his head and sighed. “I should have known something like this could happen. I should have been prepared.”

  “How? By packing your shotgun in the back seat? Kind of illegal, not to mention dangerous.”

  “No. I never would have done that. But I could have done something besides stand there and let him take her.” He hammered his fist on the steering wheel. “You would have known what to do. You would have been more aware.”

  I placed a comforting hand on Stan’
s arm. “Don’t beat yourself up. No one could have guessed this would happen, including me. And as for awareness?” I snorted. “Mine’s so muddled with suspicion I don’t know what I’m seeing anymore. I probably would have attacked the guy on sight.”

  “See?”

  “Except, with my luck, he would have turned out to be Emma’s uncle.”

  We rode the rest of the way in silence, each lost in our own self-incriminations, until we hit Sunset Boulevard and followed its winding path to a residential street lined by trees. North Bentley Avenue led up a slight grade into a storybook neighborhood where the only vehicles parked on the street belonged to gardeners, plumbers, or maids.

  “Emma grew up here?”

  Stan nodded. “Not too shabby.”

  He wasn’t kidding. The median price for these estates had to be ten or twelve million, easy.

  “What did Mom and Pop do to afford all this?” I asked.

  “Patty Hughes modeled in New York. Bill Hughes owns a car dealership.”

  I nodded. Nothing unusual. Kids ran away from home for all sorts of reasons. Money didn’t guarantee they’d stay, and it didn’t guarantee they’d be found. Police and sheriff deputies would keep an eye out, sure, but they wouldn’t do much more than that. And if they located the runaway, they wouldn’t necessarily take them home. California had strong child protection laws. All a teenager had to do was request to be taken to a shelter and inquiries would begin. Bottom line? It wasn’t against the law to run away from home.

  “What’s Emma’s story?”

  Stan shrugged. “The usual, I guess—drugs, boys, bad choices.”

  He pulled in front of a lovely estate with a long driveway and an iron gate. “That’s Emma’s house.” He pointed across the street. “That’s the kid’s.”

  The kid lived in a modest two-story home with a big lawn, tall ironwood trees, and a two-ended driveway that curved in front. It was no where near as impressive as the estate owned by Emma’s parents, but it was still pretty dang sweet. Although, in this neighborhood, the difference between an un-gated eight-million-dollar house and a fifteen-mill estate was significant. Did the kid have it in for Emma?

  “You said he acted like her friend?”

  “Did when he spoke to me. But the coward was hiding in the house by the time she came out.”

  I smiled. “Maybe I can coax him back into the open.” I exited the car and walked around to Stan’s open window. “Pull around to his side of the street and park behind that pickup. I’m going to pay our boy a visit.”

  The kid who answered the door wore the same navy polo and white pants Stan had described. He had enough height to look down his nose at me. Something told me this kid looked down his nose at just about everyone.

  “Hey. I’m Lily. Do you know who owns that truck?”

  He glanced up the road then back at me, checking out my body as if trying to decide if a girl in muscle tee and cargo shorts was hot enough to waste five minutes of his time. “No. Why?”

  I walked backward and held out my hands as if I didn’t care whether he followed me or not. “It was circling the block before it parked. The guy’s been staring at your house for the last half hour. Thought you’d want to know is all.” I turned around and headed across his lawn.

  “Wait. What?”

  I glanced back. “And there’s a crowbar on the front seat.”

  That got his attention.

  He followed me down the walkway. “It’s my house. I’ll take care of him.”

  I shrugged. “Why do you think I knocked on your door?”

  He hurried past me to take the lead—big man on the block. I knew guys like him, apathetic about everything until someone was watching. When we reached the truck, I waited for him to look in the window then snagged his arm in a rear shoulder lock and pinned him against the car.

  “What the fuck?” he said, gasping in pain.

  I cranked his arm. “Watch your language.”

  “Crazy bitch. You’re going to break it.”

  I knocked his feet apart, which made him drop and jolted his arm further into the lock. “The last guy who called me a crazy bitch didn’t live to regret it.” When he stopped struggling, I whispered in his ear. “Where’s Emma?”

  “Fuck if I know.”

  I cranked his arm.

  “Okay, okay. Just stop, all right? I don’t know where she is.”

  “But you know who took her because my friend watched you make the call.”

  He groaned in pain. “All right. I called him. Is that what you want to hear? So what? It’s her own fault—damn crackhead.”

  I paused. So Emma was an addict. She hadn’t seemed high when I met her the day before, but that would only have made her cravings stronger. Maybe she had agreed to talk to her parents so she could score drugs through her neighbor.

  “You called her dealer?”

  “No. Her pimp. And before you break my arm, it wasn’t my idea for her to start hooking. She did that on her own. Again, not my fault.”

  Stan came up beside me. “Did he tell you where she is?”

  “Not yet. But we’re getting there. Aren’t we—” I shoved the kid’s wrist higher up his back. “What’s your name?”

  “None of your—”

  I cranked it higher.

  “Marc. My name’s Marc, alright?”

  I leaned forward so he could see my nod of approval. “And?”

  “I told you, I don’t—”

  “Uh-uh. Don’t backtrack. We’re already on a first name basis: I’m Lily, this is Stan, and you’re Marc.” I increased the pressure. “What’s the pimp’s name?”

  “Manolo. That’s all I know. He came looking for Emma a couple weeks ago, saw my mom watering the roses, asked her if she’d seen Emma. My freaking mom. She calls me out to talk to him, and I’m like, ‘This ain’t cool, man. You can’t just come around my crib and—’”

  “Your crib?”

  “Whatever. The point is, he threatens to screw things up with my dealer, and that really ain’t cool. I mean, it’s not my fault Emma couldn’t handle her shit. I did her a solid. She’s the one who fell for a freaking pimp.”

  I released his arm and spun him around so I could see his face. “What are you talking about?”

  Marc leaned against the car and tried to look cool despite the fact that Stan and I were blocking his escape. “She got hooked on coke and started hanging with some bad people. Then she meets Manolo and gets all dreamy. Manolo this, Manolo that. Chicks, man.” He looks at Stan. “Am I right?”

  When he didn’t get a response, he shrugged and turned back to me. “Anyway, soon after that, her dreamboat asks her to sleep with some guy—you know, to help him out of a jam. I was like, ‘No. Don’t do it. You’ll ruin your life.’ Shit like that. But did she listen? No. So again—not my fault.”

  I shoved my palm into his sternum and pinned him against the car. “Say it’s not your fault one more time, and I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Rough me up some more?” He looked up the street and studied Stan’s Volvo. “You got a simple license plate, man. Easy to remember. And, oh, did I forget to mention my dad’s a lawyer?”

  He knocked my hand off his chest and made a great show of smoothing the wrinkles out of his polo. “I’ve said all I’m going to say. It’s time for you to drive off in your shit car and get out of my hood.”

  I didn’t stop him but nor did I move. I was so angry that even the smallest action on my part could easily turn into an assault. If it had just been me, I might have taken the chance. But I couldn’t risk Stan getting sued by this punk’s dad.

  “When did she run away from home?” I asked.

  “Spring break, last March. Her folks did the whole missing persons thing, but you know how that goes. Seventeen-year-old runaway in Los Angeles? Take a number.”

  He inched forward, stared down his straight white nose, and grinned. “We done here? Because I ha
ve homework to do.”

  I clasped my hands to keep my fists from flying and let him pass. “What about the pimp?” I asked as nicely as I could manage. “Could you at least tell me where I might find him?”

  Marc stopped on the sidewalk and turned. I was fairly certain he was going to flip us off. Instead, he shook his head sadly, as if deep down inside he might actually care.

  “The Blade,” he said.

  “Which one?”

  “L.B. Boulevard. But it won’t matter if you find Manolo. Emma’s sunk too low to save.”

  Chapter Nine

  “You sure about this?” Stan asked, as I got out of the car. “Aleisha grew up in Compton. It can be a dangerous place.”

  Which was exactly the reason I didn’t want him along. The Blade was a nasty stretch of Long Beach Boulevard notorious for sex trafficking. There were other “tracks” or “blades” in Los Angeles, but Marc had specifically said Long Beach Boulevard, and that stretch was in Compton, south of Rosecrans and north of Alondra. With all the neighborhood side streets and commercial parking lots, I’d be better off on foot where I could run, fight, or hide. At least then, I’d be alone and not saddled with a conspicuous, well-meaning, middle-aged white man driving a Volvo.

  I shut the door and leaned in through the open window. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

  Stan shook his head. “I don’t like it. And you know Aleisha’s going to like it even less.”

  I shrugged. “Nothing says you have to tell her.”

  “Ha. You try keeping a secret from that woman.”

  I smirked. If only he knew how many secrets I still kept from them both.