The elevator doors close behind us. The hum of descent fills the small space.
"Judge Li was fair," she says quietly. "Thorough." A beat. "Judge Brown too."
"We will find who did it."
Her reflection meets mine in the polished doors. She doesn't respond.
The wind cuts through the canyon of glass towers, sharp enough that she pulls her coat tighter. I guide her left at Bush Street with my hand at the small of her back. She doesn't resist the direction change.
"You haven't eaten."
"Neither have you."
Two blocks down, the noren curtains hang in the narrow entrance, indigo and white, barely visible unless you are looking for them. I am.
The hostess straightens when we walk through. "Irasshaimase, Tanaka-san."
"Futari desu."
She bows, gesturing toward the corner booth. Dark wood worn smooth from years of use, minimal décor, narrow window filtering midday light.
I position Angelina with her back to the wall and take the seat facing the door.
The hostess returns with menus, but I wave them off. "Miso shiru futatsu to, edamame, sorekara bento futatsu onegaishimasu."
"You ordered for me."
"You would have ordered the smallest thing on the menu and called it sufficient."
Her eyes narrow. "You don't know that."
"You had half a protein bar for breakfast and called it lunch yesterday. You had coffee for dinner the day before that."
She opens her mouth. Closes it. The look she gives me could strip paint, but she doesn't argue.
"You ordered in Japanese," she says, turning a page of the menu she no longer needs. "At a restaurant with an English menu."
"The chef is from Sapporo. He appreciates it."
"And the fact that I can't verify what you actually ordered is incidental."
"I ordered you the spicy miso. You will like it."
Okay, I really like this part
"Confidence." She sets the menu down. "From the man who has five escape routes planned for a third-grader's school pickup."
"The fourth goes through the Presidio."
"That is the same as the Golden Gate Park route."
"It is not. It bypasses the—" I stop. Her eyebrows are slightly raised. The corners of her mouth haven't moved but her eyes are doing the work her lips won't. "You're making fun of me."
"I am evaluating your methodology."
"You're enjoying this."
"A little." The edamame arrives. She picks up a pod, splits it open cleanly. "Five routes. For a third-grader."