City of Dragons by Kelli Stanley

in a tarnished silver frame gleamed dully by the entrance door, perched on a mahogany hall tree more expensive than the rooming house. She ran her gloved finger across the rich red brown. No dust.
    The handsome young man stared proudly and fiercely into the camera. The clothes were her father’s generation. Maybe Eddie’s grandfather. She searched the taut, high cheekbones for a resemblance, and though Eddie had been a good-looking kid, the pride had transformed into something less, the ferocity into something more.
    She set the frame back in place and looked around. Four rooms, all in a row at the top of the stair landing. Four boarders or more, depending on how many people slept in each room. She wondered if the Takahashis paid the rent or collected it. And whether Eddie’s work for Filipino Charlie had helped.
    A creak signaled a settlement had been reached. She smoothed down the tweed. The old lady who let her in was climbing down the stairs. Two other people, a man in his dotage and a woman thirty years younger, hovered behind her.
    Miranda’s eyes accidentally met those of the younger woman, and she blinked, almost flinching. The last time she’d looked into them had been two days ago. When Eddie was dying on Sacramento Street.
    Eddie’s father was stooped, crooked, bald. A cane kept him propped in a semi-upright position. His rheumy-red eyes dragged from the floor to peer at Miranda. No sign of greeting or grief.
    The woman behind him was a different story. Sadness. Rage. And fear—just like Eddie.
    The old lady with the tatty kimono spoke first.
    “Mr. Takahashi. Mrs. Takahashi. You talk, you talk down here.”
    No upstairs invitation then. Must’ve been part of the settlement.
    “Thank you. I’ll be brief.”
    She wanted to ask who the hell the lady in the robe was. She focused on Mrs. Takahashi instead. The wife kept still, behind her husband.
    “My name is Miranda Corbie. I was with your son when he died.”
    Eddie’s mother was a pretty woman, early fifties, with a few gray hairs fluttering around a soft, round placid face, worn at the edges by mourning. She wore a floppy black dress about eight years out of date and glasses that made her look dowdier than her figure suggested. Her eyes shifted around Miranda, cautious, not looking at her directly.
    “Yes, Miss Corbie. The police explained who you are. We appreciate that you tried to find help for our son.”
    The old lady in the kimono was following Miranda like a watchdog. Miranda looked first at Mrs. Takahashi, then the old lady, flicked a glance at the husband. He was staring ahead, at nothing. Or maybe he saw something no one else did.
    “I’m sorry. I’m doing everything I can to help bring your son some justice.”
    The old lady suddenly let loose a volume of Japanese. Mrs. Takahashi replied sharply until her husband rasped out a monosyllable. So he could hear, or at least speak. All three turned back to face Miranda.
    Eddie’s mother spoke slowly. “You understand we cannot pay you. We did not ask you to search—”
    “Of course. There’s no question of payment. This is pro bono —free—for the sake of your son.”
    Mrs. Takahashi stopped clutching her hands so tightly. The old kimono lady knew what free meant but didn’t quite believe it.
    “But—but why, Miss Corbie? You didn’t know him.”
    “I don’t know, to be honest. It doesn’t matter, shouldn’t matter to you. The point is to find out who killed Eddie. And I don’t need your money, but I do need your help.”
    Another stream of Japanese. The father didn’t say anything this time. The two women seemed to be disagreeing. Eddie’s mother finally uttered one sharp syllable, and the old lady backed down.
    Mrs. Takahashi offered a hesitant smile, smoothing her dress with her hands. “I’m sorry, Miss Corbie. My husband’s sister doesn’t speak English as well as she understands it. Would you like to come into the kitchen, please? It will be more comfortable for all