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“Not really, though he is good.”
I furrow my brow. “Why are you interested in it then? Bragging rights?”
“I’m helping out law enforcement.”
Now that makes even less sense to me.
“The FBI is always interested in recovering stolen art,” Rafe explains. “They have something theJing Sanwants. Now I have something they want. Or I will, once you guys cough up the Morelli.”
A server wheels a cart with lunch to us. There’s salad, soup and brightly colored sashimi. But every time I consider what might happen if we don’t figure out the painting, I lose my appetite.
“I can have the chef make something else if you aren’t into Japanese food,” Rafe tells me.
“I don’t know if I am,” I reply. “In my neighborhood, you don’t come across a lot of Japanese food. A lot of carts with hot dogs or tamales, but no sushi.”
Also, my impression of Japanese food is that it’s more expensive.
Rafe removes his chopsticks from the napkins. “It can be an acquired taste. Growing up, my family refused to touch anything Japanese.”
“Because of what happened in Nanjing?”
“It wasn’t just Nanjing. My grandparents spent all of World War Two running away from the Japanese Army.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been awful.”
He pours me a glass of water from a pitcher. “Enough about my family. Tell me about yours.”
“I don’t know a lot about my family or its history. I guess we’re your standard American mutts, a mix of things.”
“Where’s your mother now? Does she live in the Bay Area?”
I don’t want to talk about my family. I figure the less Rafe knows, the better.
“She, um, lives in Arizona. Phoenix.”
Rafe gives me a deadly stare. “You don’t have to answer my questions if you don’t want to, but you will not lie to me. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
I’m not sure why I added the “sir.” Must be because everyone else here is so deferential to the guy. And because his gaze rattles me all the time.
A corner of his lips curl into a half smile. “Good. Now eat something. You’re too skinny.”
I pick at the salad. “Doesn’t seem like you can get very fat on this stuff.”
“You prefer a hamburger and fries?”
“To be honest...”
Rafe waves for the server to come over and tells him, “Have the chef make a burger and fries and bring it out with the tuna.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I protest, “especially if the chef has already gone through the trouble of making the fancy tuna thing.”
“My chef is happy to do what I want.”
The server departs to deliver the orders.
“Must be nice to have people do what you want,” I say with a touch of envy.
