The First Rule of Ten (25 page)

She caught me staring.

“Jerry liked to sculpt between acting jobs,” she said. “He hated to be idle.” She gave me a quick tour of the house. Our first stop was a small room packed full of
Star Trek
memorabilia, from cookie jars to bobble heads. I never knew a spaceship, much less pointy ears, could fit on so many household goods. Following that, she ushered me in and out of two bedrooms, and a large study. She pointed out several more of his sculptures, lovingly describing them in detail—a garish, grinning
commedia dell’arte
mask of flat cow bone; a mobile of two twirling dancers, teased out of antelope ribs; a magnificent eagle, wings spread, carved from a camel’s femur. The house was a mausoleum of abandoned bone, reconfigured as art.

If I were a camel femur, I could think of a lot worse ways to be reincarnated.

We soon sat facing each other on high-backed velvet chairs, in front of a fireplace big enough to roast one of Barsotti’s pigs. A small, beautifully carved treasure chest sat on the mantel, another of Jerry’s works, I was quite sure.

“Now,” Mrs. Cook said. “What do you need to know?”

I hesitated. “This could be painful to talk about.”

“Mr. Norbu, what’s painful is knowing something’s very suspicious about your husband’s death, and having no one else believe you. I know he had prostate cancer, but he was in remission. The laetrile was working. His father and mother both lived well into their nineties, for goodness’ sake!”

“Can you describe to me exactly what happened?”

The events were so familiar. The visit from Florio. The signed contract. The promise of money.

“Mr. Florio seemed so certain about the royalties.”

Mrs. Cook sighed. “And then, when he came back with the check …”

“He came back?”

“Yes, a few months later, with a check for two thousand dollars, and a dear little gift basket of local wines and cheeses. Jerry and I celebrated our good fortune that night.” Her voice grew bitter. “The next day, my husband was dead.”

I glanced at my watch. I did not want to be late for Florio Sr.

Then I caught myself. This woman was in pain. Florio could wait
.
I reached over and touched the back of her hand.

“I lost my mother very suddenly. The death of a loved one is never easy,” I said. “But when it’s sudden, the pain is that much more acute, isn’t it?”

She squeezed my hand. We sat together in silence for a few minutes.

“What am I thinking,” Mrs. Cook exclaimed. “I never even offered you something to drink!”

“Thank you, but I should get going,” I smiled. We both stood. “I am curious, though. Have you received any more money from TFJ?”

She shook her head. “Not one penny.”

I met her eyes.

“One last question and I apologize for this one. Would you consider making your husband’s body available for an autopsy?”

Her eyes filled. She walked over to the mantel. She reached for the carved wooden chest and turned, hugging it close.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s too late. This is what Jerry wanted. To be here at home, with me.”

I took Sunset south, hopped on the Pacific Coast Highway, then jumped onto the 10 to the 110 South. I kept one eye on the road and the other in my rear-view mirror for traffic cops. The traffic was pretty light, for once. I put in my little white earbuds and called Julie.

“Guess where I’m going,” I said.

“Dharamshala, to visit your father.”

“Very funny. I’m invited for drinks at the Jonathan Club.”

“Is that good?”

“That’s very good. The drinks are free, and the club, I’ll have you know, is extremely exclusive.”

“All righty then. I was going to offer to cook at your place tonight, but I guess you just vaulted out of my league.”

I laughed. “Please come. The keys are under the front mat, and Tank will be thrilled to have you to himself for as long as possible. I’ll be back around seven.”

“Good,” she said. “As you must have figured out, Detective, I’m hoping to seduce you.”

Actually I hadn’t figured out any such thing. This particular detective was notoriously poor at detecting the obvious, when it came to women.

“Sounds perfect,” I said. “What are we having for dessert?”

“Don’t push your luck, Norbu.”

I exited at 6th, hung a left, and drove past the front entrance to the club. I took a moment to glance up at the elegant brick facade. Part Italian Renaissance, part Parisian folly, the building managed to feel opulent without being decadent. The navy blue awning, cupped over the entrance, was marked with a discreet shield bearing the initials JC in angular white. It reminded me of a cattle-brand.

I turned into the underground garage. A parking valet was at my side in an instant.

“Beautiful ’Stang,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to drive one of these.”

’
Stang
? I handed him the keys, and hoped that the Jonathan Club was as meticulous vetting its parking attendants as it was its membership. As I suspected, high-end Beemers, Mercedes, and Cadillacs were strategically placed in the prime front slots. I was gratified to see the attendant slide my Mustang right in the middle of them.

I walked through a glass door, down a short hallway, and through a second set of doors, glass and wood this time. A concierge sat at a table to my right.

His suit put my outfit to shame.

He gave me a covert once-over. I stood up straighter. I might not have the bone structure, coat, and teeth of a purebred, but I at least hoped to meet the minimum standards.

“Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?” he sniffed.

“Tenzing Norbu, here to meet Mr. Thomas Florio,” I said. “Senior.”

“Of course. Mr. Florio is expecting you.” He ushered me through the foyer and into the lobby, which was spectacular. Muted rugs covered highly polished pink marble flooring, and the hand-painted ceiling was a work of art in itself. I felt like I had stepped into my own private Taj Mahal, Greco-Roman style.

“Mr. Florio is in the Library,” the concierge murmured. Gliding silently, he led me past display cases of antique porcelain and landscapes by artists I was sure I’d seen in one of my art books, to a wide marble staircase covered in red and gold carpeting. We ascended, crossed a second foyer, and climbed a few steps to a small mezzanine. I barely had time to register the artwork when up we went again, to a beautifully appointed hallway, lined with still more landscapes. We stopped midway, at a huge pair of ornate wooden doors.

“The Town Club Library,” my guide announced. He opened the heavy wooden doors, and I stepped into a secret world of hushed opulence. Wall-to-wall flooring echoed the downstairs in a repeating pattern of rose and gold florets. A row of columns marked smaller private sitting areas. A painting of a man in a scarlet robe and cap pinned me with stern eyes, pegging me as an interloper of uncertain beliefs.

My guide turned left, but I paused to scan the spacious room. I might never get this close to a museum-quality world again. Lots of columns, sculptures, busts, and ornamental vases. Lots of portraits of hoary men staring into the distance, calculating their net worth. I felt completely intimidated, which was probably the point.

“He’s in the stacks,” the concierge said, and led me between two enormous cloisonné urns, one black, one red: possibly the final resting place of expired associates who couldn’t bear to give up their membership.

This was the “book” part of the Library. The shelves were full of them, floor to ceiling. Maybe six or seven thousand print volumes, and not a Kindle or iPad in sight.

Directly across from us was a large fireplace under a magnificent carved wooden mantel. Two leather wingbacks flanked the hearth. A distinguished gray-haired man sat in one, reading a leather-bound book. He gave a little wave. The concierge left us, melting into the background and out the door.

My chest was reminding me I needed to breathe. I was strangely nervous as I made my way to Thomas Florio, Sr., stepping around an Old World globe set in a four-legged wooden frame. It was tipped on its axis, just like me.

Florio was compact, very fit for a man in his 70s, with a full head of wavy hair combed back on both sides and crested over the top. His black suit and pearl-gray tie were somber, but a vivid red pocket square added a waggish dash of color. An old-fashioned leather briefcase rested on the floor next to him. He set his book aside and slowly climbed to his feet. He reached out a slim hand.

“Mr. Norbu. I’m Thomas Florio. Good of you to come.”

“Please call me Ten. It’s short for Tenzing.”

“Thank you, Tenzing. Ten. No doubt you’re of Tibetan heritage?”

“More of a hybrid, actually. My father is Tibetan, my mother was born in America, but moved to Paris before I was born.” I changed course. “Beautiful place,” I said, gesturing to the elegant decor.

“Yes, I find it very pleasant. So pleasant, in fact, that I’ve come here almost every afternoon for twenty years.”

He moved to the globe and set it spinning with one slender finger. “As I’m sure you know, most of the world first heard the name Tenzing when Sir Edmund Hilary and his Sherpa climbing partner, Tenzing Norgay, summited Mount Everest back in 1953.”

I told him my father had the good fortune of actually meeting Tenzing Norgay once, when I was just a child.

“Good for him,” he said. “So, then. Tibetan-American-Parisian—you come from unusual stock.”

I could feel him waiting for me to reciprocate. Normally I’m not one for prolonged small talk, but I was on his turf. I also sensed this was some sort of an audition, and if I was to pass, I needed to adapt to the social rituals of this select tribe.

“And you, sir? What is your background?”

Florio smiled. He took his seat and gestured to the matching leather chair across from him. “Sit, please, Ten!”

I sat, glancing at the spine of the book Florio was reading. I smiled to myself. It was
The Prince,
by Machiavelli, the famous Renaissance guide to attaining political power. Perfect.

He laced his fingers and settled back in his chair. “My grandfather emigrated from Italy almost a century ago.

He established himself in the banking business, inspired by the great success of a distant cousin, A. P. Giannini.”

Florio’s eyes lasered in on mine, assessing my reaction. Giannini. Oh, man, I knew that name. Mike’s face popped in my head. I took my best shot.

“He founded … Bank of America?”

Florio nodded, pleased. “That’s right. Amadeo Giannini was in fact a revolutionary, the first man to create a bank for the masses. Before him, banks were only for the wealthy. My grandfather and father followed his lead, although on a much more modest scale. But times have changed, and banking is no longer what it was. In my era, I have found it necessary to diversify into other areas.”

I was dying to ask what other areas, but we were getting along so swimmingly, I decided to wait. “Sounds like quite an immigrant success story. I’m trying to be one of those myself.”

“And from what I hear, doing a fine job of it. A stellar member of law enforcement, and now an entrepreneur of sorts.”

Okay. Enough. I was starting to go into sugar shock with all this sweet talk.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Florio?”

“Thomas, please.”

“Thomas.”

“Let’s repair to the Tap Room, shall we?”

Fine by me.

The Tap Room was a pedigreed drinker’s dream. The polished bar, lined with studded black leather barstools, was 50 feet long. The authentic assortment of colossal Old World beer steins displayed above it made my ale-swigging soul swell with anticipation. The walls here were lined with black-and-white photographs of past luminaries, interspersed with the only bow to modernity I had seen, several flat-screen televisions. They were tuned to different channels, broadcasting the breaking news of politics, finance, and sports to people who moved money accordingly.

We sat in leather club chairs at a table in the corner, under leaded glass windows. A waiter materialized to take our orders: for me, locally brewed India pale ale on tap, for Thomas Sr., something with a fancy Italian name I didn’t quite catch.

Thomas Sr. exchanged nods with a few businessmen across the room. A pair of women in power suits glanced our way before returning to their conversation.

The waiter set a tall stein of straw-colored ale in front of me, and two small snifters of thick amber liquid before Mr. Florio. He raised one glass to mine.

“Amaretto,” he said. “A custom I inherited from my grandfather.” We clinked glasses, and I took a long, happy draw. The icy-cold ale cut through the road dust on my tongue. I sighed with pleasure. Nothing like good beer, on tap, for free.

Florio drained his liqueur, and set his first glass down. “Here is my concern,” he said. “During your conversation with my son, you mentioned something about Mr. Barsotti. Specifically, that Mr. Barsotti had a girlfriend. Did my son hear that correctly?”

“Yes, he heard it correctly.”

He frowned. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said.

“If you don’t mind my asking, why is this of any interest to you?”

“Do you have any children, Mr. Norbu?”

I shook my head.

Florio took a small sip from his second glass. He stared off into the middle distance, then returned his gaze to me. His voice was firm. “Mr. Barsotti is married to my daughter. He is my son-in-law.”

Looks like I stepped right into the middle of an old-school family muddle. I could almost feel the quicksand sucking at my feet.

Florio’s mouth flattened into a horizontal crease of distaste. “Can you give me the details, please?”

I described the horse-riding blonde, the SUV, and the subsequent stakeout at the condo—everything but the girl’s name. Florio’s eyes held mine throughout, without flinching.

“Permit me a few moments to digest this information,” he said. He closed his eyes and sank back in his chair. Suddenly he seemed frail and diminished; the worry lines on his forehead and around his mouth deepened, bathed in the ocher light of an antique lamp on the table.

He firmed up his shoulders and the lines smoothed. When he opened his eyes, they were steely, and for the first time I sensed iron beneath the velvet voice.