The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) (23 page)

I smiled. “No. Not crazy. The monks used to talk about that kind of thing all the time.”

“Really?”

“Really.” My mind drifted back to a dusty classroom and the slightly rank scent of yak butter candles. “My teachers liked to say, ‘You
are
time and space. There’s no “I” over here and time-space over there. It’s all one thing, and you’re it.’”

Her smile was uncertain. “So, which reality is real?”

“Neither. Or both. You get to choose.”

“But . . . but we can’t just make it all up as we go, can we?”

“Sometimes I think we can,” I said. “It sounds complicated, but in a weird way it keeps life simple.”

“Simple,” she said. “There’s a concept. How does that work?”

I laughed. “Well, sometimes—and understand, I’m talking here about me on a good day—but sometimes, if my angle on time and space feels all wrong, I just change the angle. We think we’re stuck in fixed positions. But the Buddha says nothing inside or out is static. Everything’s always in motion, and guess what? You and I are part of that everything.”

“That’s actually how you see the world?”

“Yes.” Heat flooded my face. I’d been caught with some of my deepest beliefs exposed. With my father, such exposure usually led directly to an ice-cold shame-dunk.

“What’s wrong?” Heather again read something from my face.

I told her. She reached for my hand. “Thank you for explaining,” she said. “It makes me feel closer to you. And by the way, I love how you see the world.”

I decided then and there to make my life more complicated. I leaned forward and touched my lips to hers. Her mouth was soft and welcoming, as earthy and tart as the faint taste of wine that still clung to her lips.

We walked inside, our arms around each other. Tank padded into the kitchen to greet me and stopped short, his green eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Heather turned to me, but before she could comment on my cat, I gently shushed her. I pried open the pint of lavender ice cream, which had softened slightly, and used her forefinger to dip up a mouthful.

“Go on,” I whispered. “Let him lick it off. You’ll be his friend for life.”

She walked close to Tank and knelt, her ice creamed finger outstretched. Tank studied Heather with some suspicion, but curiosity as to her offering won out. He took a few dainty steps forward, stretched out his neck, and lapped off the sweet treat. Then he did a little happy-shiver and strolled back to the bedroom, looking at us once over his shoulder as if to say “Coming?”

Heather and I smiled at each other.

“Heather,” I said. “I’d really like you to stay.” Blood accelerated through my arteries. I wondered if she could see the skin at my throat pulse. “But I kind of made a promise to myself to be more mindful in matters of the heart. To take things slowly.”

Her smile was mischievous. “Fancy that,” she said. “Me, too,” and brushed my lips with hers. The kiss was gentle, but the current reached all the way to my toes.

I discovered something with Heather that night, a new, big truth: The only thing sexier than making love with a beautiful woman for the first time is making everything-but with a beautiful woman for the first time.

C
HAPTER
16

I stood on the deck, breathing in the early morning smells of the canyon—the minty bite of eucalyptus, the faint hint of sea and salt. A lone bird warbled in the distance as a light, fresh breeze feathered my cheeks. Heather had left at dawn, after a hurried mug of my best Sumatra. She had an early autopsy to attend at the USC hospital, but I was guessing she was glad for the excuse to slip away. Our physical connection had been intense, more intense than I, at least, had expected. Both of us had woken up shy. But I didn’t feel any regret, and if her warm kiss and promise to call me later meant anything, she didn’t either. I considered that huge progress, at least on my part. I inhaled deeply, released a long, full out-breath, and went inside for a second cup of dark-roasted ambrosia. Maybe I’d finally have time to check out the contents of the Robinsgrove’s trash bags before Bill got here. Surely they held a clue to Marv’s demise.

But my fax machine began to buzz and chirp from my office area. Zigo’s first regiment of information had arrived. A series of pages marched end to end out of the machine and into the tray. When the whirring stopped, I riffled through, counting five pages in all.

The first three pages were typewritten, that is to say, hammered out on an actual typewriter; faint, spidery script, old-fashioned and neatly looped, filled the final two pieces of paper, indicating a personal hand from long ago. As for the actual contents, I was stumped. Zigo had neglected to mention his information was coming in the motherland’s mother tongue, and they don’t teach German in Dharamshala.

“Hey, Tank,” I called into the bedroom, and tried out the only two words I knew. “Spreck-en-zee Doitch?”

Tank’s silent retort was interrupted by the familiar clunk of Bill’s cop shoes, crossing the deck to my kitchen door. Just like that, my morning ease evaporated.

Bill stepped inside, a half smile on his face. “Was that the good doctor’s car I passed driving up here?”

“Maybe.”

“She makes house calls?”

“Maybe.”

“Can I tell Martha?”

“Not on your life.”

He chuckled, and I felt like I might survive this conversation after all.

I poured him a coffee, choosing the black-and-white mug he’d given me for my last birthday—he’d snagged it from the county coroner’s odd little homicide-related gift shop. At the time, we had shared a good laugh over the skeletal Sherlock, pipe clamped between exposed jawbones.

Bill blew across the rim, sipped, and grunted with appreciation. We stood awkwardly in the kitchen.

“Let’s sit outside,” I said.

We sat facing the ocean, hidden under a blanket of early morning mist.

“It’s so quiet here,” Bill said. “I’ve forgotten what that’s like.” He sighed. “Ten . . . “

“No, let me go first,” I interrupted. “I need to say some things before I lose my nerve.” I breathed through the knot of fear, a hardened ball in my belly. “I realized something, after we hung up yesterday.” I swallowed. “Bill, part of me hasn’t wanted you to succeed, not without me. I wanted this change, but I’ve also been afraid. Afraid of failing. Afraid that leaving our partnership might mean losing our friendship, losing your respect. I think I’ve been overcompensating. Acting out. Completely disregarding your wishes. I’m very sorry.” I checked Bill for a reaction. Wait, was he . . . ? “Why are you
laughing
?”

“I’m laughing, because you just stole all my lines, asshole. Not wanting you to do well without me? Check. Overcompensating? Check. Afraid of losing your friendship and respect? Double-check, with a cherry on top. And as for failing? How about doing it on prime time, in front of the entire world?” Bill set his mug down and turned to face me.

“The truth is, this fucking case has been biting my ass from the get-go. I pride myself on making quick sense of things, but nothing about Marv Rudolph’s death does. Sully and Mack are next to useless, and now I’ve got four more homicides crowding my desk at work, an irritated boss, and a fed-up, overwhelmed mother of twins at home. But you know what really grassed me when I woke up this morning? Why I’m maybe the bigger jerk? When the captain suggested I call you for help, did I thank him? No. Inside, I cursed him. What’s worse, I blamed you. And why? Because I didn’t want to need you. But I do need you, Ten, and that’s the God’s honest truth. This is my first homicide as a D-Three, and I am royally screwing it up, all by myself. Talk about ego.” Bill shook his head. “So please tell me you’ve been the cowboy I know and love. Please tell me you’ve been working this bastard behind my back and have come up with something more than my fucking zippity-doo-dah-day.”

I patted Bill’s knee. “Friend,” I said, “you know this cowboy well.”

We moved inside and sat across from each other at the kitchen table, home to so many late night case reviews in our past. It was still too early for beer, so I made a fresh pot of coffee, and toasted two thick slices of farmer’s market corn bread. Using my notes as a memory aid, I told Bill about sitting shivah, Harper’s venomous glare, and my kitchen-knife reconnoiter. The visit to the T-Bird tattoo parlor and Thunder’s interactions with Marv. I handed him copies of my research on Marv’s past and Clancy’s telephoto shots of Tovah Fields-with-an-
s
, driving away from the Robinsgrove. I passed over the exed-out surveillance photo of me, and described Pretty Boy and the wild stadium chase. I even owned up to my Halloween night fiasco with the teenagers.

Bill listened intently, stopping to jot in his little notebook from time to time. Finally, I talked about Raul Martinez. I showed Bill the fake identification card and retraced the thinking that led me to finding Charles Raul Montoya, aka the Low-riding Lawyer, our Getty meeting, and Raul’s threats.

To my surprise, Bill shrugged off that part of the conversation. “Creeps say that sort of shit about me and the family on a daily basis. Forget about it. What’s more interesting to me is, this Charles, or Raul, or whatever the hell he calls himself, rings a bell. You say he rides a Harley?”

“Yup.”

“Hunh. There was this guy, back when I was still on patrol. He got his start doing slip-and-falls, kind of a joke around town with his shiny suit and his chopper. Then a few years back he gets this young gang-banger off scot-free—a Mexican, someone connected to someone else much bigger in the gang world. Big big, I mean. Anyway, he gets the creep off. Next thing you know, he slips and falls off the face of the earth himself.”

Bill sat back, pulling on his lower lip. I smiled. I knew that gesture. Bill was hatching a plan.

“I’ll put a trace on Tovah Fields right away. Even Sully ought to be able to handle that. As for this other thing, I need a little time to figure out the angle of attack. It’s beginning to smell gang-connected. Or maybe bigger. You by any chance remember the name of the kid that lawyer got off?”

I checked my notes.

“Morales. Daniel Morales.”

“Fuck me. I knew it.”

“What? Cartel?”

“You might say that. You ever heard of Chaco Morales? Started out a player in Mexico’s casino trade, before he set his sights north. He’s smart, ruthless, and everywhere—drugs, restaurants, casinos, you name it. He’s up there with Joaquin ‘El Chapo’ Guzmán. Chaco’s known for taking care of his own—hiring from within, setting relatives up, getting them out of jail, paying any legal and medical bills. It’s all about family members, and Chaco’s got a shitload of them. He’s somewhat of a legend. His nickname’s El Gato—on account of his nine lives. He’s survived two assassination hits by organized crime. And rumor has it that once, when he was cornered by two Sinaloa bad boys, he just disappeared into thin air.” Bill frowned. “What the hell was Marv Rudolph doing anywhere near Chaco Morales?”

“Hard to know,” I said. “But in L.A., where’s there’s money, there’s usually dirty money. And like Arlene Rudolph said, Marv was a movie producer.”

“In any case,” Bill said, “we’ve got to tread lightly here. When you’re in cartel territory, you’re not just dealing with DEA and the Feebs, you’re dealing with Homeland Security, ATF, and God knows what else. I’ll make some calls. See who has fingers in which pies. Jesus, what a clusterfuck.”

“Glad it’s not mine,” I said.

“Ten, you’re on a roll here,” Bill said. “You want to piss me off all over again?”

“Maybe you should tell me to go fuck myself. I’ve got a nice streak going.”

“Don’t tempt me, kiddo.”

We grinned at each other. He stood up and stretched. “Okay, Cowboy, I’ll catch you later, after I clear some fences of my own. Speaking of, I want you to resist, I repeat, resist the temptation to ride solo into gang territory, okay? Now that I’ve got you back on my team, I don’t want to lose you in a shoot-out.”

“Hasn’t crossed my mind,” I said. And it hadn’t. There was such a heavy undercover police presence involved in L.A.’s gangland, I was as likely to be shot by a cop as a banger.

“Here.” Bill passed over a manila envelope. “Preliminary autopsy report, for what it’s worth. Load of crap.”

“That reminds me,” I said, “as long as I’m confessing . . . “

Bill went very still.

“I might have done a little garbage cover the other evening, at Robinsgrove, just before the trash pick-up.”

“Might?”

“Well, maybe more than might.”

A smile played around Bill’s lips. “How much garbage we talking about?”

“Let’s just say there’s enough stashed in my carport to fill a small Humvee.”

Bill grinned. “In that case, my son, you can skip the Hail Marys and go straight to dumpster-diving.” He made a sign of the cross over my forehead. “I absolve you of your sins. And happy hunting.”

I walked Bill out to his car. “How’s the other job going?” he asked. “The paying one?”

“Slowly,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who speaks German, would you?”

Bill stared. “Ten, for someone so smart, you can be remarkably thick sometimes.”

I said nothing.

“You’ve met my wife, Martha? Raised-in-Germany Martha?”

I did the mental equivalent of slapping my forehead with my palm.

“Give her a call,” he said. “Please. She’d kill for a little adult conversation right about now.”

I walked inside and did just that.

“Bohannon house of horrors,” Martha answered. “Morticia speaking.” The high-pitched, background squeals told me that Maude and Lola were riding the crest of an energy wave.

“It’s me. Ten.”

“Lola, don’t put that up your sister’s nose!” Martha sighed. “Sorry, Ten, I’m dealing with the aftereffects of too much sugar. Thing One and Thing Two somehow found the hidden stash of Halloween candy. I thought Bill was coming to you?”

“Came and went,” I said. “This call’s for you.” I explained what I needed. “How’s your German these days?”

“Sharp,” she said. “Especially after three solid days of my mother barraging the girls with
danke’s
and
bitte’s
—she’s convinced she can make them fluent in a week.”