I switched over to the message app and composed a text to my daughter. She read her e-mails only once or twice a week and I knew that if I wanted to get a message through without delay I needed to text.
I told her that her mother had sent me the photo of her and her horse and that I was proud of her for pursuing riding the way she was. I also said I had heard about the impending move and that I was sorry she’d be so far away but that I understood. I asked her if I could watch her take a lesson on the horse and left it at that. I sent it off into the air and foolishly thought I might get an answer soon after my phone reported the message delivered. But nothing came back.
I was about to compose another text, asking if she got the first, when Kendall suddenly appeared at the open stool next to me. I put the phone in my pocket as I stood up to greet her, successfully avoiding the embarrassment that second text would have brought me.
“Hi,” Kendall said cheerfully.
She had changed clothes at the studio and was wearing blue jeans and a peasant shirt. Her hair was down and she looked great.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m glad you could make it.”
She kissed me on the cheek as she squeezed by me and onto the stool. It was unexpected but nice. I poured her a cup of sake and we toasted and tasted. I watched her face for a negative reaction to the sake but she accepted my selection.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m good. I had a good day. What about you? Kind of a surprise to see you come in the studio tonight.”
“Yeah, well, I need to talk to you about something, but let’s order first.”
We studied the sushi list together and Kendall checked off three different variations on spicy tuna, while I went with California and cucumber rolls. Before the election I had started taking my daughter to Katsuya as her palate grew sophisticated and Wednesday-night pancakes stopped being an attraction. Of course my food interests were stunted compared to hers, and I could never wrap my mind around the idea of uncooked fish. But there were always plenty of other things to eat for the nonadventurous.
Sake was another story. Hot or cold I liked it. I was into my third cup by the time one of the sushi chefs finally leaned over and took our order. I think the quick draw on the drink was in part due to my reason for being there and the conversation I felt obligated to have with Kendall.
“So what’s up?” she said after expertly using a pair of chopsticks to sample the cucumber salad I had previously ordered. “This is like last night—you didn’t have to come all the way out to see me.”
“No, I wanted to see you,” I said. “But I also need to talk to you more about this case with Moya and Marco, the DEA agent.”
She frowned.
“Please don’t tell me I have to go there and talk to that lawyer.”
“No, nothing like that. There’s no depo and I’ll make sure it stays that way. But something else came up today.”
I paused as I still had not formulated how I wanted to approach her with this.
“Well, what is it?” she prompted.
“The case is kind of dicey because of the people involved. You’ve got Moya up there in prison and then you have Marco, the DEA agent, down here, trying to protect himself and his cases. And in the middle of this, you have what happened to Gloria and then my client, who they charged with her killing but I don’t think did it. So a lot of moving parts in this and then this morning I found out that there’s a tracker on my car.”
“What do you mean? What’s a tracker?”
“Like a GPS thing. It means somebody’s tracking me. They know what moves I’m making—at least by car.”
I turned on my stool so I could look at her and directly see how she took this information. I could see the significance of it didn’t register to her.
“I don’t know how long the device has been on there,” I said. “But I went to your house twice yesterday. First with Earl and then last night by myself.”
Now it started to register. I saw the first inkling of fear move into her eyes.
“What does this mean? Somebody’s going to come to my house?”
“No, I don’t think it means that. There’s no reason to panic. But I thought you should know.”
“Who put it there?”
“We’re not a hundred percent sure but we think it was the DEA agent. Marco.”
At this inopportune moment the sushi chef lifted a large leaf-shaped plate over the counter and put it down in front of us. Five sliced rolls were displayed beautifully with pickled ginger and the hot wasabi paste that my daughter called green death. I nodded my thanks to the chef, and Kendall just stared at the food while considering what I just told her.