The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) (19 page)

Everything was moving along smoothly. Too smoothly for comfort. I’d better deposit my check today, in case, as Mike liked to say, it all went pear-shaped.

Meanwhile, I needed Mike to help me with a deeper background check on Zigo. But Mike was out of commission. I could call it a day.

Or . . .

I could find out more about Thunder’s mysterious biker-cop, the one asking the same questions about Marv as I was. I pulled out the card of the supposed cop and called the number. It went directly to voice mail, not even a voice message. I hung up. Then I Googled Raul Martinez. There was an artist, a boxer, and a former mayor, none of whom fit my needs.

Think, Tenzing. Think.

I called Thunder.

“T-Bird Tattoos.”

“Thunder, it’s Tenzing.”

“Yo, change your mind on the dragon?”

“Not yet. Listen, I have a question for you. When did your friend get in his motorcycle accident? The one you and that biker cop both knew? The one that went to court?”

“Shit. Let me think. I’d just opened up my own shop, so it must have been . . . seven? No. Eight years ago. June, because I’d invited him to my open house, and he had to be in court instead. So yeah, the first week in June.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Daniel Morales, but we’ve lost touch. I have no idea how to reach him.”

“Don’t need to. You are amazing.”

“That’s what they say,” Thunder answered, and hung up.

I got back on the Google-express, cast my net, and after a few false starts, pulled up a June 2004
L.A. Times
squib on an accident between a BMW and a Harley, ridden by a Daniel Morales. I followed the trail up to and including a wrongful injury lawsuit, and finally landed on Morales’s defense lawyer, one Charles Montoya, Esquire. One more click, and I was on his web site. Charles Montoya, founder and owner of the Law Offices of Charles Raul Montoya & Associates, specializing in, wait for it, personal injury lawsuits involving motorcycle accidents. His nickname? The Low-riding Lawyer. He used the word
aggressive
to describe himself, as in: “I am an aggressive lawyer who likes getting results.”

Charlie Montoya was the proud father of four girls, and the proud rider of an S&S custom Harley. I clicked on the link to contact his office. Interestingly, it connected me to the Internet equivalent of “no such number.” Next, I called the telephone number listed on the site. This time, I received the actual message, “The number you have reached is not in service and there is no new number.” I noticed he also had a Law Biker blog. I clicked on that link. His last entry had been about four years ago. Since then, silence.

He’d disappeared. Or maybe just changed identities. His picture was prominently displayed on the top of his blog. He was a middle-aged Latino, trim beard and moustache, in a suit, tie, and wraparound sunglasses. One bulging arm rested on his S&S custom twin.
Nice guns.

I called Thunder again.

“You in love with me or something? Because I’m already taken.”

“I’m e-mailing you a picture. Can you look at it please?”

I sent him the Montoya link.

“Folks, we have a winner!” Thunder announced. “That’s him. That’s the dude who came by here.”

Finally, I was getting somewhere, though when I thought about it further, I had no idea where that somewhere might actually be. I could call Bill and run things by him, or I could take the riskier but perhaps more direct route to some answers.

I called the “Raul Martinez” number a second time.

Beep.

“My name is Tenzing Norbu. I’m a private investigator, and I’m calling regarding the recent death of Marv Rudolph. I have reason to believe you are involved.” I left my cell number. That should stir things up.

I like getting results as well.

I checked my e-mail and immediately zoomed in on one from Heather. She had sent me something under the somewhat ominous subject: Retreat.
Who’s retreating?
The knot in my stomach was instantaneous. I almost opened the e-mail, then stopped. This called for emotional reinforcement.

“Tank? Where are you, buddy?”

I checked all his usual napping locations. Finally, in the bedroom, I saw a blue-black nose and a fine set of silver whiskers poking out from under the bed. I reached with both arms and hauled close an armload of fur.

“Sorry, guy, but I need you. I’m probably overreacting, but I might be getting dumped.”

He protested slightly, but I placated him with a cat treat, before settling in front of the computer, his comforting weight sprawled across my lap. I opened Heather’s e-mail, braced for a gentle brush-off.

It was anything but.

“Hi, Ten. Happy Halloween. Really enjoyed our picnic last night. A fellow intern just sent me the following re: a one-day retreat this Friday. He said there are still spaces available, and asked if I would like to go. I thought of you, natch. Want to join me? H.”

I opened the attachment. It was an invitation to any and all individuals connected to any and all aspects of law enforcement to attend a one-day silent meditation retreat on “Fierce Compassion,” where like-minded people would somehow mutely explore the balance between upholding the law and achieving inner peace.

It sounded like a total nightmare.

I looked up the organization sponsoring the retreat. It was a little meditation center tucked in the Elysian Valley, between Griffith Park, Dodger Stadium, and the 5 Freeway. The head monk, Niem Kelsang Dechong, was a Westerner who grew up in Northern California and spent a number of years studying Buddhism in France with his teacher, Chocktrul Pema Dorje Rinpoche. I knew nothing about either man, but my resistance was immediate—and immense.

To make matters worse, if I understood things correctly, the visiting retreat leader was a woman, a Buddhist nun-in-training and an ex-cop.

I reread Heather’s e-mail and zeroed in on a couple suspicious items, namely,
fellow intern
and the pronoun
he,
as in “
He
said there are still spaces available.” I’ll bet. Whoever this intern was,
he
had designs on Heather.

But a daylong silent retreat at some random monastery in Echo Park, listening to Buddhist newcomers telling me how to meditate? How to relax while doing my job?

“What do you think, Tank? Is she worth it?” Tank was the wrong cat to ask. He believes a Persian Blue should be more than enough company for any sentient being.

I e-mailed Heather back. “Thanks. Looks interesting. I’ll call you later. T.” Neutral, and it bought me time to think up a valid excuse, if necessary.

I poured myself an iced green tea and downed a small container of macaroni and cheese, zapped in the microwave. Not my finest gourmet meal, but I was distracted by thoughts of Heather and her mystery suitor.

I walked to the end of the driveway to pick up my mail and clear my mind. The afternoon sun shone through the waving trees, dappling the road with shimmering coins of gold. I pulled out a thick packet from the insurance company. I opened it, and fist-pumped the air. For a small fortune, they were willing to cover me. Finally, my glacial path to respectability could move forward. I was officially a private investigator. More important, I could legally carry again. Next indicated action? Deposit Julius Rosen’s check, so I could pay the outrageous premium. If I hurried, I’d make it to the bank before 6
P.M
. And as long as I was out, maybe I’d check on the meditation center and see if that helped with the decision.

I filled Tank’s bowl and hustled into the bedroom to grab a fleece from the closet. I paused. Technically, I was almost insured. Technically, I had my permit to conceal. I unlocked the gun safe and took out the blue nylon Wilson Combat carrying case. I unzipped it. My custom .38 Supergrade gleamed, its burnished cocobolo wood grip and stainless steel barrel nestled in a form-fitted bed of foam. My palm itched to hold the handgun again, shaped perfectly to the contours of my hand. I so wanted to take it with me.

“Soon,” I murmured. I locked the case back in the safe, alongside my Halo automatic knife. If I was going to do a recon of a Buddhist monastery, I shouldn’t be carrying. Why invite bad karma?

C
HAPTER
14

I felt good. My checking account was now $25,000 healthier, less a couple grand in cash. I took the Stadium Way exit off the 5, turned right onto Riverside Drive, left onto Altman Street, another quick right onto Altman Place, and parked. I half remembered the general area. Bill’s ongoing mission had been to find new and ingenious ways to get us to Dodger Stadium for games. He’d recently boycotted the team, a combination of disgust at the vicious beating of a Giants fan by some thugs on opening day, and rage at the owner who let it happen on his watch because he was too busy divorcing his wife and living off the team’s revenue to take care of little things like parking lot security. For the rest of the year they’d upped security, but it was too little and way too late. Happily, that season of baseball disappointments was over. But I’d noticed a suspicious build-up of traffic around the stadium freeway exits, so some kind of event was going on. Maybe a Dodger fans protest march.

I locked the Toyota, double-checked the address, and strolled up the block about 300 yards to Kelton Way, a small side street on the right. The neighborhood was peaceful, a little suburban oasis not too far from the L.A. River. I slowed as I neared a two-story clapboard structure with a peaked roof at the end of the street. A small bell hung over the front door, below it a sign declaring this to be the Sweet Spirit Buddhist Meditation Center. A garbage truck ground its gears somewhere nearby, followed by the beeping and whining of mechanical arms grasping and dumping trash. The truck moved on, its noisy engine fading.

Garbage.
The little lost thought that had been bugging me for days finally surfaced. I grabbed my iPhone, logged onto the Bureau of Sanitation website, and entered the address for the Robinsgrove. Hunh. Nothing came up. I made a call, and after a few frustrating runarounds, discovered a private firm did their pick-ups there on Wednesdays. I still had time. I called Clancy.

“
Yo, Clancy here . . .
“ Yeah yeah yeah, wassup. I’d call him again later.

The area settled into silence once again. The setting sun bathed the little center in pink and gold. The whole thing felt like a set-up, a tease from the universe:
Bliss lives here.
Their spacious fenced-in garden boasted a large stone Buddha set between winding footpaths, all leading to a second structure further back, this one long and flat. A few pairs of shoes lined the entrance: a meditation hall, I was guessing.

I paused. Was it my imagination, or did the quiet here have a denser quality than elsewhere, like an atmospheric version of “heavy water”? A sapphire hummingbird dipped its beak in a little feeder hanging from the branch of a small olive tree next to the fence. The air was fresh and still. Now the harsh cough of a two-cylinder motorcycle cut through the silence. I smiled. Like it or not, this was an urban environment, and I suspected its members had to develop a strong ongoing practice of accepting noise. But there was something deeply familiar about the stillness. I resonated with it. I had been raised in it, and I felt its pull.

I heard voices. I turned. A young Caucasian monk with a shaved head and orange robe strolled out of the center, laughing and chatting with a middle-aged woman in jeans. They hugged briefly. He went back inside, and she started to walk in my direction. Time to go. I scurried past her, head lowered, avoiding eye contact.
What are you resisting?

I turned the corner. As I approached my car, my detective-antennae quivered. At first, I thought maybe I’d gotten another ticket, but the piece of paper under my wiper was the wrong size and shape. I pulled it out.

It was a grainy, black-and-white photocopy of my image, taken from a distance. I couldn’t tell where or when. My face was circled, with an X scored right through the middle of my forehead.

I was fairly confident this was not the work of the monk.

I looked around. Altman Place was empty of pedestrians. I jumped in the Toyota, cursing my reverse pride—at the last minute I’d decided to take the modest Toyota instead of my brash Mustang. If any practicing Buddhists saw me get out of my car, I’d wanted to appear suitably humble.

I started the car, my mind clicking through options, which were meager. I was unarmed, and my ride was a broken down pony. I pulled onto Riverside, debating my next move, when I saw something in my rear-view mirror that caused my belly muscles to cramp. A big black and orange Harley was closing fast on me from behind. I pressed hard on my gas pedal to put some distance between us, but he accelerated right along with me, closing to about a hundred yards. The rider was wearing a minimalist helmet with a little pointed top, faux Nazi headgear from the 1940s. Ridiculous. I couldn’t make out his face behind the goggles and bandanna. He was close enough now for the snarl of his big twin engine to dominate.

There was no way I was taking this chase back onto the freeway. As soon as we got into high-speed pursuit territory, we were playing with lives, and not just our own. I had to win with my brains, if possible.

I pulled a hard left onto North Broadway and another quick turn onto Bishops Road. For a brief second, the Harley shot up beside my Toyota. I glanced over. The rider jutted his chin toward the shoulder, as in “pull over.” My calculation went something like this: Do I really want to pull over for a guy in a Nazi helmet riding my tail in an unfriendly fashion? My inner Security Council took about a tenth of a second to come up with a unanimous “Heck no.” I took a hard right onto Stadium Way, which seemed a better bet than doing close range battle with a mystery hog.

I sped around the outer rim of Elysian Park. Where was the traffic? Where was all this new security I’d heard so much about? A couple potholes sent shockwaves up my spine. I looked back. The Harley was wallowing around a curve, right behind me. Up ahead I spotted the juncture where Stadium Way crossed Elysian Park Boulevard. Finally. Three fat lines of vehicles were slowly working their way toward the entrance booths. I broke every rule in my good-driver book, cutting in front of SUVs and pick-up trucks, swerving across three solid lines to the farthest lane. Drivers laid on their horns, and I didn’t blame them one bit, but the Harley was now at least seven cars back, stuck in the thick of the traffic, very visible, and therefore very vulnerable. I tossed 20 bucks to the parking attendant, with mental apologies to Bill, who thought the parking fees were highway robbery. My brain scarcely had time to register the fact that the guy in the booth was wearing a clown nose and a multicolored wig, when he said, “Enjoy the monster rally. Happy Halloween.”