Dim Sum Dead (2 page)

T
he noisy crowd of shoppers seemed to back up and quiet down.

“Are you all right?” Wes went down on one knee and checked my ankle, and I sat down on the pavement beside him.

“A little blood. A cool scar someday. Nothing major.”

Wes picked up the dagger lying there and quickly shut it away in the silver box. Then, he put the silver box and all the tiles he’d unloaded before back in the mah-jongg case drawers and hooked them all shut.

“I was just thinking—” I started.

“You want a doctor to take a look? St. John’s is closest.”

Wes was taking this way too seriously.

“No. It’s okay, Wes. It barely scratched me. I was just thinking that the dagger could be worth something. Do you know anything about Chinese antiques?”

“So you’re okay?” Wes asked. And we both stood up.

“Yes. Fine. Recent tetanus shot. Don’t worry so much,” I said. The shoppers nearest to us had been openly eavesdropping, so I said it again, loudly and with perfect enunciation. “I’m fine.”

They took the hint and went back to their own business.

“But maybe…” I took note of the splotch of red on the bottom of my jeans. “Maybe, I should be getting back to the house.” Our business was located in the bottom floor of my house, and that was where I was headed anyway.

And then something magical happened. My focus abruptly shifted from my ankle to my left hand as something lovely and warm clamped onto me in a tight, hot grasp.

I looked down. A perfectly beautiful, towheaded child of about three was hanging on to me for dear life. The child had simply grabbed on as he looked around the open-air market, his attention fastened to the large Gala apples on the stall beside us. I was astonished. Did children this little really have such strength? Such heat?

Just then, the boy looked up into my eyes. His were a clear and brilliant shade of soft denim blue. I looked down in surprise on his lovely face.

His expression froze. I was not his grown-up. His mother, paying for some purchases a few feet away, must have been the intended target of that tight little hand. He let go of me fast, and the electricity in our connection vanished. I watched him, blond and angelic, as he quickly found his mommy, and she soon felt the warmth of her baby’s hand.

Wesley, missing that little scene, was staring at me. “You look weird, Mad. You sure you’re okay?”

Was I? I was having a strange moment, that’s for sure. But it had nothing to do with the nick to my ankle. So, is that what some women feel about babies? That fierce thrill? I had to wonder.

“Wesley?”

We both turned. The voice belonged to a friend of ours, Jody Silva, a grower with a stand a few steps away.

“You got a minute?” Jody asked. She had come out from behind the stall. She was a young woman who was built on a heavy frame, but a strong one. Her muscles had been developed not on a weight machine but by lifting crates at her family’s farm and loading them into her truck. “We’ve got a lady customer. She bought a case of potatoes for this camp she runs for sick kids. We give her a real good price, but she needs to get the load over to her pickup.”

“Would she like a hand?” Wesley asked, looking up and spotting the customer, standing by her crate of potatoes not far away.

“Could you do her this favor?” Jody asked.

“Of course.” Then Wes turned back to me. “But you need to get home,” he said.

“Why don’t you meet me back at the house,” I said, improvising. “I’ll take care of this stuff.” I waved at the mah-jongg case and the backpack.

“You’ll be all right?” he asked. “With your ankle?”

“Yeah. Right. I’m hobbled.” I smiled at him. “You moron. Go and do a good deed for sick children.”

We gave a little hug, because I’m a hugger, and Wes, after nine years of me, has gotten used to being hugged in public.

I watched him walk off, noticing a few other pairs of eyes following his lean body in his perfectly hanging khaki cargo pants. Well, this is L.A. We watch. Wes picked up the crate with one strong move and then trudged off through the crowd as the thankful woman accompanied him off to some distant parking spot.

I was standing near the corner of Jody’s very large stall, beside her bountiful displays of six types of onions and two types of leeks, in addition to carrots in several astonishing colors.

“Hi, Maddie!” Jody called out. She was now back behind her stall.

A dozen shoppers were looking over the rutabagas and radishes on Jody’s stall. Jody’s sister was down at the other end, weighing tomatoes. A tall man in a hooded sweatshirt stood waiting for Jody’s attention. We both noticed him at the same time. I stepped back and looked down, ready to pick up my crocheted shopping bag, Wesley’s backpack, and the rest of the stuff I’d left at my feet.

That’s when it all started. The shoppers who were thronged three deep around Jody’s booth all of a sudden began yelping, swearing. People were being shoved. I was just bending down to pick up the old mah-jongg box when the sudden pushing in the crowd began.

“Hey!” I felt myself begin to trip. I reached out to catch myself. And then, just before I could grab hold of the side of the vegetable cart, a man’s hand shoved me hard, right between the shoulders.

I tumbled down, crashing against the corner of the vegetable
stand, throwing a hand up at the very last second to prevent the sharp wooden rim from poking out an eye. Under the sudden weight, the leg beneath the table buckled. I heard Jody’s voice, now shrill. “Stop that! Get security! Stop him!”

I tried scrambling up to my feet, as the squash and cucumbers toppled down onto me. The sweatshirt man, standing close by, tried to help me up.

“
Maddie!
You okay?” Jody called, her voice full of tension.

Jody’s sister started screaming from the other end of the booth. “I told you. It’s not safe here. The homeless! They’re everywhere in Santa Monica…” She continued rattling on more of the same, as her urban paranoia ratcheted up to a dangerous high.

I looked back to the ground to pick up my things.

Hell.

“Wesley’s case!
Hey!
” I squinted after the form of a short man walking fast as he disappeared into the thick crowd down the lane. “That guy who was pushing—he took off with my stuff!”

“What?” Jody looked in the right direction but it was too late to see him by then. At the top of her lungs, Jody began yelling, “
THIEF! Thief!
”

People nearby stopped talking. Some helpful souls had been righting the tipped produce stand, arranging to fix it to stand level again. Meanwhile, Jody began blowing a highpitched whistle. “They’ll stop him, Maddie,” she said, and shrieked her whistle again.

I didn’t stick around to find out if the law of the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market would work its magic. I took off after the man, who by now had gotten lost in the crowd.

I picked up some speed, cutting to the center of the road, avoiding the stalls and the main clusters of shoppers. I couldn’t see the thief, but there was no place for him to have turned off, yet.

I should have been more careful, more alert. I usually was. I was engulfed by the crowd, now, unable to see two feet in front of me. Damn!

If I hadn’t been caught off-balance like that, I’d surely have been able to keep from falling. I was disgusted. Me, Madeline Bean. Urban warrior. I don’t leave my things just lying around for someone to steal.

I cleared a large group of mommies pushing strollers, balancing large Starbucks cups.
There.
I thought I saw the guy, walking fast, up ahead about twenty yards. Then the crowd closed around him.

It was difficult to dart through the shoppers without accidentally stepping on someone. They were not on the lookout for young women dashing a little too fast for safety. I ran too close to an elderly man and almost smacked into him as he stepped off the curb right into my path.

“Whoa!” I said to the old guy, sweeping my eyes up ahead, near the last place I’d caught a glimpse of the mugger. There he was. And, just as I spotted him, the guy turned his head, checking back. It was the chard guy. Damn. He spotted me spotting him. At once, he took off again, running, turning left at the first street. For a moment, I could even see our damn mah-jongg case in his hand. Creep! And then he disappeared around the corner.

I followed, squeezing between several shoppers, dashing into a clearing, gaining a little. I was almost up to the corner, breathing heavily, running now. I was just picking up some speed, when a large man stepped out directly in front of me. I stopped just short of plowing into him and stepped to the side, but the man moved over and wouldn’t let me pass.

“Excuse me,” I shouted, adrenaline pumping, “I’ve got to—”

“Running isn’t safe in the Market. Better walk.”

I looked up, sputtering. Before me stood a large immovable object—a big guy I’d seen around here for years. I think his wife worked the family bakery stand, but I’d never seen this guy do much of anything.

“Did you see that man who just ran by here?” I shouted. “He stole my box. Let me go.”

“Look,” the fat man said, reaching a log of an arm out to hold my shoulder. “I’m just saying, someone could get hurt with you running…”

I pulled away from him. More time lost.

I backed up and spun around off the curb, but before I could take off down the road, I was intercepted again. This time, by another man. Only this man was sitting on a bicycle—a young, good-looking man wearing shorts, with the kind of thigh muscles that could make a heart flutter. Not that I notice these things. I was now looking at a sworn officer in the Santa Monica Police Department Third Street Bicycle Patrol. His badge read, “Stubb.”

Officer Stubb pulled to a stop beside me. “Your name Maddie?”

“Madeline Bean, how…?”

“They gave a description,” Stubb explained.

“What?”

“Your long braid. Your gray jeans. Your great…” Stubb stopped the description at the point of embarrassing himself. “One of the vendors reported the theft. We’ve got our guys out on bikes, but there are a lot of people here at the Market today. We’ve got to take it slow.”

“I just saw the jerk,” I said, frustrated as hell. “He went there, off to the left. We’ve got to move fast.”

“We’re on it,” Stubb said, resisting my command to move fast or even budge. “I’ve got two officers on that part of the Market. They’ll get the guy. It’s hard to run through a place like this without attracting attention.”

“They’ve just got to find him,” I said, more to myself, and took another quick glance at Stubb.

I knew about the Santa Monica cops on wheels. They were a PR guy’s dream: seventeen hunky officers selected for their interpersonal skills and riding ability. They were highly visible—a comfort to any nervous sightseers about to leave their tourist dollars in the beach city that was also known for its homeless “element.”

But I was freaking out, just standing around, doing nothing. I looked up and read concern in the nice brown eyes of young Officer Stubb.

“Sorry,” I said. “I have got to get that box back to my partner. I’d better go out there and look for it.”

“Miss Bean,” Stubb explained calmly, “agility, maneuverability,
and knowledge of the area permit our Bike Patrol to be more effective. All of us ride specially equipped police bicycles. Believe me, bikes rule.”

“I’m sure they do.” They must make the guys memorize this stuff. “But—”

“Our team’s response is fast yet silent. If that guy is still in the area, we’ll find him.”

“Okay,” I said, giving up. “Okay.”

I’m not a big fan of cops, really. I don’t like it when someone tells me to cool it. But then, Officer Stubb wanted to calm the nerves of a crime victim, as I’m sure he was instructed to in Bike Cop School. So, I had better show him that my nerves were freaking calm. Or he’d never leave.

“What did he take?” Stubb asked. “Your purse?”

“He stole my friend’s mah-jongg set.”

Stubb looked at me with concern. “March on? What is that?”

“Can’t you call someone? Radio someone? Please. I can probably give you a better description of the guy. He was short, maybe five-five, and had black hair, dark eyes. He was wearing a tan jacket and gray pants. He was shopping for Swiss chard.”

The seconds were speeding away. I was going to scream.

Just then, Officer Stubb’s radio sputtered. “Be right with you, there, Madeline,” he said to me, and he picked up his radio from his belt.

I could hear the other officer informing Stubb that there was no sign of the assailant. No one matching the description of the suspect, as given by vendor, was on foot, running. They would continue their search.

Terrific.
Like maybe about five years ago
the suspect had been running on foot. By now, he had surely jumped into some waiting getaway Honda Civic or whatever. He was probably tooling his way up Wilshire by now, for all the effectiveness of the fast yet silent Bike Patrol.

Stubb said something and there was a bit of conversation I didn’t follow as I felt my pulse slow down and my breathing get more regular. Ah, hell.

Officer Stubb looked back at me, and said, “Sorry about
that. Why don’t I just go down the street there”—he gestured to the left—“and maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Sure.”

“So, what is it I’m looking for? The stolen property?”

“Mah-jongg tiles. It’s a game. They were in an antique Chinese chest about this big.” I made a halfhearted gesture showing him about eighteen inches high and twelve inches around. “It’s an old wooden box with brass hooks and latches. My friend left it with me for a minute, and then this bizarre little man shoved me down and grabbed it.”

“Okay, then. I’ll check it out.”

Young, huge Officer Stubb had the decency to look rather pink about the face as he wheeled his bike around in the proper direction. He spoke into his radio once again. Perhaps he was finally calling in some megawheels backup, like a patrol car, to head the guy off. But I wasn’t counting on it. After all, I’d only lost a “march on” set. This wasn’t grand theft, auto.

But what was I going to tell Wesley?