Chapter 12
The donuts fail to deescalate the situation. William lets me in, and I present him with the donuts. He still looks upset that I met the nefarious connection.
“Levain Bakery cookies for Vinnie and donuts for me,” he says. “Do I detect a pattern here? Did you give Mr. Nefarious cupcakes?”
“I wish I’d thought of that.” I slip off my shoes in the foyer and follow him into his living room. He puts the box of donuts down on his rectangular dining room table.
And now two dogs bark excitedly around me.
“I didn’t realize you had dogs.” One is a black-and-white border collie, and the other is an Australian shepherd.
“Sora and Pochi. Sit.” He ruffles their fur. His fitted, cashmere V-neck outlines his firm chest and broad shoulders. Focus, Miranda.
Dogs are an even better distraction than donuts. I sit down on the wood floor and pet them. Sora licks my face. William’s apartment gives off a cool, minimalist vibe, at least from this angle. Two blue, abstract paintings hang on the wall behind the TV. That’s a relief. I like his taste in art. A black-and-white photograph of a crowded street in what looks like Tokyo is on another wall. A white couch sits in the living room area, a square coffee table in front of it, a tatami mat to the side. Two sitting cushions lie on the floor opposite. Sliding glass doors lead to a terrace in front of his living/dining area.
“You have a terrace?” A terrace in New York City is next level.
“Yes. How could you have gone to meet criminals in some sketchy part of Brooklyn?” His jaw is tight. “Did you at least tell Officer Johnson?”
I have to crane my neck to see him standing above me.
“I told Tessa to track me on her phone.” Sitting on the floor is not a commanding position. I take a seat at the table and open the donut box. I pick up a pink one with sprinkles and take a bite. It’s best to have a full mouth when called upon for questioning.
Pochi curls up on his dog pad by the couch. Sora rests her chin on my thigh. I pet her again.
“This painting is not worth your physical safety.” He shakes his head and turns away for a moment.
I give a little shiver. That murderous glare when he cursed me. “You heard the police. ‘This is a victimless crime.’ So the thief isn’t going to hurt me. He wants money.”
“And I heard you grumble that you certainly felt like a victim.” He sits next to me.
The man has the hearing of a bat. He probably uses echolocation to move around unlit rooms.
“What now?” he asks.
“What?”
“You’re looking at my ears strangely. I was worried when I couldn’t reach you because I knew you were off meeting them with Edmund.”
Damn. The man can read me. But worried? That almost sounds like he cares. It’s probably not specific to me though. It’s probably part of that Secret Service vibe he has going on—the protect-women-and-children code. Let’s hope I fall in the woman category and not the child one.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m really sorry. Next time, I’ll pick up.”
He snorts. “Thanks for that. Then I can have a remote, play-by-play listening session without being able to do anything.”
“What would you have wanted to do?” I lean closer to him. He doesn’t pull back. My heartbeat skips, and I hold his gaze. Again, I want to run my hands through his straight hair. And then run my fingers over his cheekbones and his lips. Slowly. His gaze seems to be equally intent on me. I feel my face heating up. I smell the sugar of the donut and Sora’s dog scent. My hand curls around the hard wood of my chair. Sora barks.
He looks down at her and scratches her between her ears. The spell is broken. The thing is, I am attracted to him. I like poking holes in that brick wall he’s put up.
He reaches for a donut. A chocolate-covered one. With sprinkles. There’s hope yet.
For what? Even if opposites attract, they don’t last. Take my parents, for example. Two more different people could not be found. My tough, uptight, glamorous mother and my sensitive, emotionally open, complete-mess dad. Which sounds a bit like me and William. Not that he is necessarily tough or uptight, but he is hard to read. And definitely good-looking. I shouldn’t even be thinking about him. It’s probably just the stress of the loss of my painting and the fact that we’re investigating it together, creating camaraderie.
He asks, “Did you learn anything?”
He’s dodged the question.
“No, not really.”
“So you put yourself in danger for nothing?”
This criticism is more in line with what I expected.
“I wasn’t in danger. I do know self-defense.”
“Really? It was a friendly chat?”
“Well, not exactly.” Sora gives up on getting any donut crumbs and pads over to her dog bed.
“How unfriendly was it?”
“There were moments of tension,” I say. “He was an extremely muscular guy. I wonder if whoever plotted this held a casting audition and chose the most muscular beefcake they could find.”
“You think this was a setup?” William asks.
“He had a fake mustache. Officer Johnson also said this didn’t seem professional.”
William looks at me, surprised. “You’re sure about the mustache?”
“I’m sure.”
“What do you deduce from that? Do you think Uncle Tony’s colleagues are involved?”
“No,” I say, surprised. I hadn’t thought of Tony’s colleagues at all. Even though the disguise had been well applied. “If I think it over, one time the guy looked at Edmund like he was looking for instructions, although Edmund did look surprised when the guy grabbed the briefcase. The whole escapade makes me think it’s Edmund who stole the paintings. Or orchestrated their theft. Edmund is involved. That’s one of the reasons I went. Because if I spend time with him, he’ll reveal something.”
“Maybe he just looked at him as the person who first contacted him.”
“That too. But there was something else there.” I don’t expect William to believe me.
“Okay, let’s say it’s Edmund,” William says. “He did give your sister a package. Did your sister help him, maybe unknowingly?”
“And she did tell him that I said she shouldn’t marry him. That may be enough of a motive if we’re thinking it’s personal. But it’s not like Annabelle and I are that close—and he knows that. He knows she wouldn’t follow my opinion blindly. It’s still her decision.”
“But this gives him a convenient excuse to blame you instead of facing the fact that she’s not interested.”
“That’s true. And I’m not entirely sure Edmund is the most rational person.”
“You haven’t set up an assignation with the actual art ring now where you hand over the money and they hand over the paintings?” William asks.
“No, because I thought it was a con and refused to pay for any more information. And I didn’t feel that safe.” I describe the fight over the briefcase.
“Edmund didn’t run to tackle the guy?”
“No.”
William shakes his head. “But you’re okay?”
I nod.
“If it is Edmund, how can we prove it?” he asks. “Should we order in dinner? Then at least we can eat while we discuss the case.”
“I’ll set the table while you finish up your work.”
“My office is in the back,” he says. “In the spare bedroom.”
He calls a Thai place and places an order for delivery, then takes me to the kitchen, a separate room off a hallway leading from the living room, and shows me where the dishes are. When he disappears to the back, I slip into the bathroom across from the kitchen.
Should I set the coffee table or the dining table? The coffee table is more romantic—we would be sitting on the floor next to each other. But maybe he would think that was weird. Plus, I’d rather face the windows. I set the dining table and light the candles on the table. I then walk over to the sliding doors to check out his terrace. It’s about twenty feet by thirteen feet. He has an outdoor ping-pong table. Another side to William is revealed.
The doorbell rings, and the video intercom shows the delivery guy. I step out, leaving the door unlocked, and take the elevator down to pick up our food. I hand him my credit card, but he says it’s already been paid for.
Back in the apartment, I take off my shoes, put the food on the table, and pad over in my socks to William’s office. The door is open. I knock anyway.
He looks up. “Let me save this.”
William is sitting at a desk with two screens. Above him are shelves with books and folders. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase takes up the other side. I check out his books. Many are accounting texts, but in the bookshelf near me are thrillers and mysteries and even some manga comics. I pick one out. It’s in Japanese.
“My dad always brought those back from his trips to Japan. They helped me improve my Japanese. I learned basic written Japanese when I was in elementary school in Tokyo.” He stands next to me at the bookcase.
“What did your dad do?”
“He worked for Sony as an executive, and then he met my mom and asked to be relocated here permanently,” William says. “We still did a few rotations in Japan, which was good for me and my sister for learning Japanese and seeing family.”
“He moved here for love?” I ask. “And they’re still happy?”
“Yes. I like it when I hear them laughing together. Not that they don’t argue sometimes.”
I nod. Uncle Tony once cited William’s parents as a successful example of the opposites-attract trope. “I’ve always wanted to read a manga cartoon in English.” I put it back.
He pulls out a different book. “Here’s one.”
I take it, and we walk to the dining table, me following him. It suddenly feels less comfortable between us—if it ever felt comfortable. He stops and gestures for me to sit first. I swallow. We are about to eat dinner together, and it’s late at night.
I sit, placing my manga cartoon off to the side. He seems to note the candles; his lips curve slightly. He sits across from me. Without talking, we both busy ourselves opening the cartons and dishes. William gives me two of the fried dumplings while he takes the other two. He pours some of the soy sauce on his plate and then places the little, plastic container between us. He opens the peanut sauce for the chicken satay appetizer. I ordered sweet-and-sour chicken, so I spoon some rice in my bowl and add the mix of chicken, peppers, and pineapple on top.
“Do you want some pad Thai?” he asks. “Or is this like peanut MMs and you don’t share dishes?”
“I share dishes. I’d love some.” I offer him some of my dish.
“It worries me that you felt like the guy might hit you.” He frowns.
“It worries me too,” I say. “Stealing my painting feels like a pretty fundamental blow. Getting beat up isn’t going to destroy my art career, unless he hurts my hand.”
“It could destroy your livelihood—you couldn’t sing or waitress.”
“That’s true. But it’s not like I can’t defend myself,” I say. “I’ve taken self-defense classes. Because I bartend late at night, I thought I should be prepared.”
Our glances meet. He’s got his very skeptical look on his face.
“I’ll show you after dinner,” I say. “But we should put some pillows on the floor here so you don’t get hurt.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve been training in karate for many years.”
“Excellent,” I say. “You’ll be a challenge. But I think the guy just had a tantrum after I tackled him. I don’t think violence was intended, especially because that would have put Edmund on the spot to join me in fighting or look like a wimp. And as demonstrated, Edmund is not the physical type.”
“You think it’s Edmund over Vinnie?” he asks.
“If it’s personal, I think it’s Edmund and he paid an actor to act as an informant so I’d be out a thousand dollars. And maybe he paid Vinnie to take the paintings out. And then Vinnie was going to give him the paintings when Edmund came up, but we were there. The tracking app shows those paintings going to Vinnie’s galleries. If those two packages were his personal paintings, they should have gone to his home, not his gallery. I think Vinnie took them to his gallery so he can give them to Edmund without suspicion, as if it’s another art sale. Edmund could have paid Vinnie more than the commission from selling the Kimimoto. Vinnie has two houses. A lot of upkeep. And an image to maintain to compete in the New York City art world. If he gets cash for the paintings, he can pay his contractors in cash, laundering the money.”
“Did you tell Officer Johnson about a Staten Island art ring?” he asks.
“Yeah, he’s never heard of anything like that. He said he’d check into it, but he also agreed the fake mustache was a no-go. Not to mention even meeting in person. He said people don’t need to meet in person anymore. It’s all texts and wired money. We should check Vinnie’s gallery and see if those wrapped packages are our paintings.”
“You mean break into his gallery?”
“You’re going all legal on me.” I take a bite of my food. “We should go during business hours and accidentally go into the storage room instead of the bathroom. The doors are next to each other.”
“You’re not doing that without me.”
“Are you willing to do it?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
“Yes, because otherwise, you’ll do it anyway without me. And there’s something off there.”
“But not enough for Officer Johnson to get a warrant.”
“When?”
“Saturday morning? I’m singing tomorrow night, and I’m working tomorrow,” I say. “You should come to the concert and talk to Rex’s girlfriend. She might reveal something if she’s had a bit to drink.” I don’t think it’s Rex, but I’m not entirely neutral. Plus, William can see me singing. I’m not above using my rock-star vibe to attract him.
“Why is she going to want to talk to me?” He picks up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks.
“Why not?”
“Well, she’s got a boyfriend.”
“I’m not saying you should seduce her. I’m saying you should talk to her,” I say. “Anyway, you’re better-looking than Rex …”
William darts a glance at me and blushes.
“You are. It’s just that Rex can sing, and when he sings a love ballad directed straight at you, it’s hard to resist.”
“Is she going to talk to me when Rex is on stage singing?”
“Approach her when I’m singing. She’ll be flattered that an attractive guy is hitting on her. She’ll probably want to make Rex jealous. It’s tough being the girlfriend of the lead guitarist of a band, what with all those girls throwing themselves at him.”
“Was it tough for you?”
“Yes. I don’t like sharing.” I describe what she looks like to him. “He usually dedicates the first song to her and spotlights her.”
“I’m going to feel like a slime hitting on her after that.”
“You’re not hitting on her,” I say. “There’s no need to go that far. Just ask her some questions. You can pretend you’re a fan of the band. She’s our inside key to Rex. And then you should meet me backstage in my dressing room. I’m the only one who uses the women’s dressing room after a performance. Ling and Ayanna meet friends in the crowd and don’t have to change. We can debrief there where Rex can’t see us. Rex always joins the crowd to be with his adoring fans.” I wear vintage dresses to perform, spoils of my expertise at shopping in secondhand shops.
His glance meets mine and he nods. “Okay.” He takes a sip of his water. “If you’re only painting dark and depressing subjects, are the band’s songs dark or depressing?”
“Usually, the melody is kind of upbeat and poppy. But the lyrics can be raw. Or so we hope.”
“Will you be able to perform?”
“I have to.” I text him a backstage pass.
We finish dinner, and William clears our dishes. The candle on the table sputters and strengthens.
We move the tatami mat and pillows to the open space in front of the sliding doors.
“Okay, let’s see it,” he says.
He stands and I face him, assessing him. He’s tall with broad shoulders, and even though he’s lean, I know he’s all muscle.
He advances.
“Stop right there.” My voice comes out shakier than I’d like.
I back up. The first rule is to create distance.
He lunges, pushing me up against the wall of his apartment by my shoulders. He’s trying to do it gently. He grabs me by the neck. His grip around my neck is not that tight; he’s going easy on me.
I give out a nervous chuckle.
“It’s not a laughing matter.” He tightens his grip.
Focus.
I scrunch up my shoulders, giving him less room, and grab one of his arms, holding it tight against my chest. With my other hand, I pull one of his fingers from my neck. I need just one finger bending backward to create enough pain.
“Aargh.” He releases me immediately.
We both breathe heavily. I try to get my wind back.
I stand still, poised for battle, feet hip-distance apart.
“I’d break it if you were an attacker,” I say. “I could have also kicked you in the balls. You were exposed there.”
He steps back, and he has a slight smile, a grudging sign of respect. “I stand corrected. You can defend yourself.”
We’re still close though, and the air pulses between us.
“Jiu-jitsu for women self-defense,” I say. “Want me to show you what I can do if you grab me from behind?”
He nods warily. “Is this where I’ll get hurt?”
I stand with my back to him, the pillows behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I gesture that he should stand right behind me. He comes up close behind me. I can feel the heat of his body.
“Okay, grab me around the waist.”
He grabs me around the waist. I duck down quickly and reach between my legs for his leg. I grab his leg tightly and pull—but not too much because I don’t want him to hit his head.
A muffled exclamation escapes as he tries to regain his balance.
“Okay, okay,” he says. I stop pulling, but we’re off-balance. Falling, he takes me down with him, cushioning my fall.
His body encircles mine, and suddenly, everything feels very different. His body is all hot and hard muscle, and we’re both sweating.
I tilt my head and look back at him. “So admit it, I can defend myself.”
He turns his head to face mine. Our glances meet, and there’s a flicker of awareness. He is attracted to me. We’re both just holding, suspended in the moment. I’m lost in his brown eyes. My stomach flutters. His warm breath brushes my cheek. His lips are close. Should I kiss him?
Our hands touch, and I want to curl my fingers around his.
His hands slide back to rest on my waist, burning a hole through my clothes.
And then it’s as if a curtain comes down. He pulls away.
“I’m impressed.” He removes his hands from my waist. He rolls so that he’s on his back and he gets up. And I feel the lack of him. I swallow.
The problem is that I don’t view walls as impenetrable. I’ve taught myself to view them as a challenge. I am willing to run into them and try to jump over them as hurdles. And so, that mischievous, naughty side of me is saying, “So you think you can put up a wall?” It doesn’t want to play nice. I give it a stern talking-to. This wall is electrified and has barbed wire on top. It’s like we are in the demilitarized zone between South Korea and North Korea, and any sparks must be quickly doused before they create a conflagration and we mess up our uncles’ peace.
I walk over to the table and drink some water from my glass to give me some time to pull myself together.
“I take a refresher course, every once in a while, so my muscle memory doesn’t forget.”
“Have you ever had to use it?” His eyes look concerned, and I feel all gooey again. This is not good.
“Once, someone pressed up against me as I was going to get stock from the back room of the bar, but I turned around so quickly and put my hand up, taking a position, that he got scared and ran off.” I change the subject because he’s looking even more worried now. He’s frowning and staring at me. “Let’s call Uncle Tony and Takashi and see if they can go on Saturday morning. They can keep the gallery assistant occupied while we check out the storage room.”
Uncle Tony says that the gallery is closed this Saturday because Vinnie and his assistant are away for an art show. He’ll follow up with Vinnie to see when the gallery will be open again.
I hang up the phone. William blows out the candle on the table. I should leave.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I actually do have to get some work done.” William is back to being formal.
I can take a hint. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Thanks for dessert,” he says.
“Sometimes dessert before dinner is a good thing,” I say.
“Sometimes.” He glances at me intently, but with that half smile. “But usually it’s better to wait.”
I pet both Sora and Pochi and leave. I take a deep breath as I ride the elevator down.
I don’t think we were talking only about dessert back there. Does that mean he’s waiting? That there’s still a chance? He could have said that he doesn’t believe in eating dessert before dinner.
I check my phone for the nearest Citi Bike. The night air is cool, and there’s a breeze from the Hudson when I cross the streets. He’s attracted to me. I know that. Do I want a relationship? If it’s not likely to work out, we will have to see each other for years at Uncle Tony’s. I could be okay with that. I stay friends with my exes. But he doesn’t. Or at least not if he was in love with them. I don’t particularly relish being the ex he could stay friends with because he wasn’t in love with me. If it’s just that I’m attracted to him, I shouldn’t act on it. But there is something more—like we understand each other. A warmth fills me.
He’s definitely holding back, though, so he doesn’t seem to feel enough.
I unlock a Citi Bike, pull it with some force out of the rack, and place my manga book in the flat basket.
He’s not willing to take that risk, which means I’m the one who is at risk of heartbreak.
As I pedal home up the bike pathway, I remember when Peter would whip up a painting in a night and then the teacher would rave over his work. I would have spent weeks working on my painting and get a far more muted acknowledgment. I was happy for him but also ashamed that I was jealous. And now I’m ashamed that I’m annoyed that William doesn’t like me more.
The traffic light ahead turns red. I stop. I should be grateful for his rational judgment that we’re better off not acting on our attraction. An electric bike whizzes past me, running the red light. I keep one foot on the ground, one foot resting against the hard, metal pedal, ready to push off. The red light holds steady. I should laud him for his self-control—if I can flatter myself that it is self-control.
The walk light for the pedestrians on the other side of the street blinks, warning that it will soon change.
I’m okay with waiting for now. I should be sure there’s something more between us before acting on my desire—given the consequences.