White Ginger (27 page)

The elevator doors opened to an uncharacteristically silent apartment. Absent was the noise and commotion of a twelve-year-old and the rattling of pots in preparation for dinner—the sounds a family makes.

Bai often complained about the noise, bemoaning the lack of serenity in the tumultuous house. In retrospect, she'd gladly have traded the oppressive silence to have her family back. Solitude might be chosen. Loneliness was simply endured.

She stepped out of the elevator and made her way to her bedroom in the back of the apartment. She changed into a robe of indigo blue with a golden dragon embroidered on the back. The silk felt cool and slick against her bare skin. Her gun went into the pocket of her robe, where the weight of the Beretta Compact pulled at the material. She wasn't willing to give up the cold comfort of the firearm in the empty house.

Her bare feet led her to the kitchen, where the wine fridge offered up a cold bottle of pinot grigio—compensation for a really rotten day. Grabbing the bottle and a crystal goblet from the cupboard, she headed for the living room. Her glass and bottle found a place on the coffee table within easy reach as she tucked her feet beneath her to settle on the leather sofa. She picked up the bottle and poured a glass, stopping to watch as moisture beaded on the delicate crystal.

The first glass of wine rapidly vanished. She poured another and raised the cool, damp glass to press it against her forehead while trying to mentally reconcile herself to the notion someone wanted her dead. The exercise proved difficult. She was pouring a third glass to encourage the process when the phone rang. It was a blocked number.

“Hello?”

“Bai, it's Martin, downstairs. We got some crazy
seigwailo
down here who says he works for you. He put up a pretty good fight. I'm guessing he's up to no good, but I thought I better check with you before we take care of him.”

Seigwailo
refers to a male foreigner, a white guy. Her thoughts immediately turned to John Race. She wondered if he'd be foolish enough to track her down in Chinatown. If Martin “took care” of him, he might never be seen again.

“What does he look like?” she asked.

Martin spoke in Cantonese. He asked one of his men to turn over the
gwailo,
the foreigner, so he could see his face. She wondered why the intruder needed someone to roll him over.

“Blond guy, blue eyes, about six foot one or two, good build. A tough sucker. He didn't go down easy. Hang on. Here's his wallet,” Martin said, pausing. “Name's Jonathon Milford Race. They don't get much whiter than this guy.”

Bai closed her eyes and shook her head in dismay. Robert had been right about it being a bad day that might never end.

“Bring him up, Martin. I'm releasing the elevator. I want to see him.”

“You sure, Bai?”

She was already walking toward the elevator to release the lift with her thumbprint. “I'm sure. Bring him up.”

She waited in the foyer while the elevator traveled to the ground floor then came back up. When the doors opened, Race was being held up by two of
Sun Yee On's
enforcers. He seemed to be semiconscious. His hands were tied together in front of him with a plastic tie. His eyes tried to focus on Bai while his knees wobbled precariously.

“What did you do to him?” she asked.

He looked as if he'd been caught in a stampede and trampled. His clothes were rumpled and dirty from being rolled on the ground. A red lump was visible on his cheek. She didn't see any blood.

“We hit him a couple of times,” admitted Martin, shrugging off the comment. “This guy broke Jimmy Fong's arm, Bai. He's lucky we didn't kill him.”

“Protecting you,” Race mumbled, seeming to momentarily focus on her.

She smiled in response.

“And how do you think that's going so far?” she asked.

She doubted his lucidity. His eyes rolled and then seemed to stop and gaze at her.

“Not so good,” he muttered.

He moved his head around, ostensibly to see what worked and what didn't.

“Cut him loose, Martin, and bring him into the living room.”

“You sure that's a good idea?”

Martin worked for Jason. If anything happened to Bai on his watch, Jason would, in all likelihood, kill him. He had good reason to be cautious.

“He works for me. I hired him today. I should have told you, but I didn't think he'd be showing up here tonight. I didn't realize what an eager beaver I had on my hands.”

Martin didn't look happy with the situation. His brow furrowed with concern, but he whipped out a flicker knife and cut the plastic bonds restraining Race. He motioned with his hand, and the two enforcers carried Race into the living room where they deposited him on the couch.

“I'll call you if I need you, Martin,” Bai said.

He looked at Race and then at Bai. “I don't think this is a good idea. I don't think I should leave you alone with this
gwailo
.”

“Don't worry about Jason. I'll let him know what's going on.”

“I still don't like it. Anything happens, it's my ass on the line.”

She'd known Martin most of her life. She'd gone to school with his younger sister. He was family.

She tapped her pocket. “I have my gun, Martin. You don't have to worry.”

Unhappy, he looked at her, then at Race.

“I still don't like it,” he stated, before turning to leave, taking his two men with him.

Bai listened to the elevator dropping to the ground floor as she surveyed Race. He gingerly explored the back of his head with his fingertips and seemed to be coming around. His tongue rolled around in his mouth as he checked his teeth to see if any were missing.

“Ouch!” he said, obviously finding what he was looking for. He looked up at her. “Could I bother you for some ice?”

“Let me take a look,” she said.

She moved to stand over him, so she could see the back of his head. There was a big lump but no blood. She cupped his chin and turned his head back and forth to inspect the damage. He had plenty of scrapes and bruises, but she couldn't see anything that would require stitches.

“Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“You smell really good,” he mumbled.

She looked down to see that his eyes were focused on the opening of her robe.

“I'll take that as a ‘no.'” She released his chin to take a step back.

“Don't stop now. I was just beginning to feel better.” He winced with pain as he spoke.

“Serves you right for peeping. I'll get the ice. You stay put.”

“If you want to put some whiskey over that ice, I won't complain. And I wasn't peeping. I was closely guarding your person. I take my job seriously.”

She returned with an ice bag and a tumbler full of whiskey. He put out one hand to accept the drink. She placed the ice bag in his other hand, and he pressed it gingerly against the back of his head.

“Who were those guys?” he asked.

“They're triad enforcers. I should have warned you. I'm under their protection while in Chinatown. I didn't get a chance earlier today to go over all of the details with you. I'm more than a little surprised to see you here tonight.”

“I got to thinking you might need protection. I should have called, but I didn't plan on bothering you. I was just going to walk the neighborhood and make sure everything was all right. I saw this guy in the alley and decided to have a word with him.” He looked at her and grimaced. “Things went downhill pretty fast from there.”

“You're lucky to be alive,” she said, taking a seat across from him.

As she picked up her glass of wine, she studied him. He returned her stare.

“I like the robe.” He smiled then winced, the happy expression obviously causing him pain.

“Yes, it's a nice robe. Now that we have that settled, I'd like to know what really brought you here.”

He raised his glass slowly and took a long drink before speaking.

“I came because I was worried.” He looked uncomfortable, his mouth turning down into a frown. “I can't explain it, and I know it sounds stupid—I was afraid for you.” He looked confused. “I really wanted to make sure you were all right tonight, especially after telling me this afternoon that someone was trying to kill you. I'm not generally this impetuous.”

She shook her head at him. “Men can be so strange. You came all the way over here to protect poor, defenseless, little me?”

He had the decency to look sheepish. “I have to admit it sounded better in my head than when you said it just now.”

“I'm calling you a cab,” she said, getting up to find a phone. She arranged for a cab then called Martin to let him know she was sending Race down in the elevator. Martin sounded relieved.

She walked him to the entry and pushed the button for the elevator. When she turned back to face him, he pulled her into him and kissed her, hard, wrapping his arms around her. She was surprised but didn't fight him. His lips felt nice. His arms wrapping her felt comforting. She kissed him back then slowly pushed him away. He let go and took a step back to look at her.

He looked confused, flustered. His face turned red with embarrassment. “I don't know what's gotten into me.”

“Are you sure you're all right?” she asked. “You took a pretty good hit on the head.”

“I don't know. I'm sorry about the kiss. It just happened. Am I fired?”

“No.” Her voice sounded husky. “I think we can safely say we've cemented a good working relationship. Go home and get a good night's rest. We have a busy day tomorrow. We're going to be looking over an unfinished subdivision in the town of Folsom. Lee and I will stop by your place and pick you up sometime after eight tomorrow morning. You're at the address listed on your resume, right?”

“Yes, I'm still on Lombard Street.” He stepped reluctantly back into the elevator. “If you need anything, Bai, call me.”

She pushed the button on the elevator to shut the door, sending him to the ground floor. She couldn't help but smile at his boyish behavior but then stopped to soberly consider the ramifications of getting involved with him. An old saying returned to niggle at her conscience, “Do not employ handsome servants.”

She was acquiring a new appreciation for its meaning.

 

A little after eight the next morning, Bai raised her hand to knock on Lee's door. Before she could drop her arm, the door opened. Dark circles rimmed Lee's eyes. He shuffled out of the doorway to walk beside her as she silently turned to make her way toward the garage.

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

“Not much. How about you?”

“Not much.” She looked at him tiredly. “Fear is a powerful stimulant.”

She walked into the garage and flicked the switch next to the entry. Bare overhead bulbs snapped on. The lighted space held three cars with room for a fourth.

“I spoke to Elizabeth last night,” Bai said. “I asked if we could borrow her Beamer.”

The black sedan had been sitting, undisturbed, for more than a year. Elizabeth had stubbornly refused to accept the gift from her son. Jason had stubbornly refused to accept its return. Pigheadedness, apparently, was an inherited trait.

Lee grunted in amusement. “Did she even remember she owned a car?”

“She suggested I keep it. She said she doesn't have any use for a car.”

“Or for the son who gave it to her.”

He walked around to the trunk of the sedan where he disconnected the tender, a device that kept the battery charged. She opened the driver's door to find the key in the center console. She slipped the fob into the ignition slot and pushed the start button. The car started without hesitation as Lee settled into the passenger seat next to her. A button next to the rearview mirror opened the garage door.

She backed the car into the alley and waited while the garage door closed. The odometer read thirty-one miles. A melding of plastic out-gassing and light machine oil imbued the air with new car smell. Stiff, pristine leather seats cradled them. As she slipped the car into first gear, she turned to smile at Lee, and laid scratch, the wheels spinning as she exited the alley.

Driving past the now-familiar sentries, Lee waved. A black sedan pulled out to tail the Beamer as it headed toward the Russian Hill district where Race lived. As expected, when she turned right on California Street to leave Chinatown, the shadowing car pulled to the curb.

She spoke to Lee, watching in her rearview mirror as the black sedan made a U-turn. “You talked to Robert last night?”

“Yeah, the police didn't keep him long. They don't consider him a suspect in Park's murder. I guess they don't think he has the stomach for it.” A small deprecating smile played across his lips. “He's expecting your call this afternoon.”

She didn't acknowledge his attempt at humor. She wasn't in the mood for jokes. “Let's hope we have good news for him. His business partner's missing, and his receptionist is dead.” She turned to look at Lee. “Don't make life harder for him.”