The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) (35 page)

I read: The Rosen Foundation.

“Now this.”

A second donor: The Sadie Rosen Foundation.

“I think you’ve been had,” Mike said.

“Okay,” I said, “but how do we know it’s not just something Julius started in her memory?”

“It is. And we don’t, but look,” he said:
click, click
. The screen showed contact information for The Rosen Foundation: Julius Rosen’s address, along with phone, fax, and email information.

“Okay . . .?”

He clicked again. Now the screen showed a Beverly Hills address for The Sadie Rosen Foundation. I didn’t recognize the street. No phone listed, or any other contact information.

“I still don’t . . . “

“So check it.” Mike pulled up Google Earth and tapped. I squinted. There, in slightly fuzzy but recognizable detail, was Julius Rosen’s estate and the surrounding neighborhood. One small house, less than a mile away, had a flashing red star on it.

“There it is. The Sadie Rosen Foundation. Also, the address of one Sadie Rosen.” Mike cocked his head. “Coincidence? We think not!”

A second detour before quality time with my cat and my girl. But I had to go, while I was still standing. Once the jet lag really hit, I might not function properly for days. I threw some protein powder and almond milk into the blender, added a handful of frozen organic cherries, and buzzed it into a shake, which I downed while Mike looked on in horror.

I grabbed my windbreaker from the closet.

I’m sure this is all nothing. False alarms.

I started out the door. A second thought stopped me in my tracks.

What was Julius Rosen afraid of?

I got my Wilson and shoulder holster out of the closet, grabbed my car keys, and left.

A sense of urgency was building in me, for no immediately discernable reason. I jumped in the Shelby and tried to unlock the glove box so I could stash my Wilson. The key jammed. Wrong set of keys.
Great.

I switched to the Toyota. I locked my gun and holster in the glove compartment, and took off for what I hoped would be two quick, uneventful visits to Beverly Hills.

As I drove down Topanga, I hooked on my earpiece and called Heather.

“Hi, Ten,” her voice sang, and I was grinning like a schoolboy. “I was just about to head your way.”

“Hold that thought until later,” I said. “Believe it or not, I have to go out again. Something’s come up.”

“As long as it stays up.” Heather’s voice was husky. I shifted in my seat. This woman certainly knew how to get a rise out of me.

“I’ll call you when I know what’s what. Lots to talk about. I . . . I’ve missed you,” is what I said.
I may be falling in love with you,
is what I didn’t say.

“Me, too. Bye,” she said.

Two seconds later, I got a text from her. F
ORGOT TO TELL YOU.
F
OUND OUT ABOUT THE PATCH.
F
ENTANYL.
M
AJOR PAINKILLER.
M
AJOR
.
XXXOOO

Fentanyl? As Mike would say,
boom
.

The Sadie Rosen Foundation was an unobtrusive bungalow on a side street just off Summitridge, a half mile before Julius Rosen’s high stucco wall began.

I knocked on the door. An elderly woman with pure white hair and a pleasant smile opened it.

“Yes?”

I stared. Despite the passage of six decades, there was no mistaking the curious, open expression, the clear gray eyes. I was looking at Sadie Rosen. My brain tried to grapple with the information.

“Can I help you?” Her eyes clouded over. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to know you?”

“Miss Sadie,” I heard from inside. “Everything all right?”

I swallowed. “Your brother is going to be very happy,” I finally managed.

“Julius? Why?”

“Because he claims he’s been looking for you for sixty years.”

She smiled. “Silly. I had tea with Julius yesterday.”

“Miss Sadie?” A slender middle-aged woman appeared behind Sadie in the doorway. She frowned at me.

Choosing my words carefully, I said I was a private investigator, and that I’d been working for Mr. Rosen. That he’d hired me to track down his sister.

“I am Señora Rodriguez. Miss Sadie’s caregiver. Please, come in.”

I followed her into the living room, my mind skittering. Sadie didn’t move from her spot in the foyer, as if she hadn’t noticed we were no longer there. Señora Rodriguez returned to Sadie, and led her to a chair, where she sat, upright, prim, and a little anxious, like a child waiting to be picked for a game.

“I take Miss Sadie for tea with her brother three times a week,” Señora Rodriguez said. “I know Mr. Rosen is not himself these days, but did he think Sadie was somehow missing?”

“Well, yes,” I said, “that’s why he hired me. But he had me start the search in Germany. Sixty years ago.”

“Oh, dear,” she said.

“Oh, dear?” That was one way of putting it. A small tongue of anger flicked at the edges of my brain.
I thought you were my friend.

A phone rang in the hallway. Señora Rodriguez excused herself and soon was engaged in an emotional rapid-fire exchange in Spanish. Sadie blank-smiled at me. I forced a smile back.

Señora Rodriguez hustled in with the phone. “It is Otilia,” she said. “I told her you were here. Can you talk to her?”

“Otilia?”

Her voice cracked. “Please, she’s very upset.”

Sadie buckled over, stuck her fingers in her ears, and started to rock back and forth.

“
Please.
”

I took the phone and moved into the hallway. Señora Rodriguez crouched next to Sadie and stroked her back.

“Otilia?”

“They trying to kill him.” she said. “
Venga, venga—
they doing bad, bad things to him.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Pero cuidado! Tienen armas.”

No translation necessary.

Well guess what? I was armed, too.

C
HAPTER
23

The guard stepped out of the gatehouse. His dark scar glowed in the moonlight.

“I’d like to see Mr. Rosen,” I said.

“He’s busy right now.”

“Can you at least call him? Tell him I’m here?”

“Don’t need to. He’s busy.” He took a menacing step toward me. I backed my car out of the driveway to think things through. A hundred yards down Summitridge, I pulled my car onto the shoulder and called Bill. He was on his way to Point Dume. I filled him in; my sentences, like my thoughts, choppy and confused.

“It definitely sounds like something strange is going on,” he said. “You want me to try to get someone out there with a warrant?”

“No time.”

He sighed. “I know, and anyway, what would I say? Hey there, judge, my private detective friend got a distress call from a cook. Can we please raid the home of one of the city’s richest philanthropists? I don’t think so.”

“I’m going in there, Bill, one way or the other.”

I could practically hear Bill’s teeth grinding. “Shit. Okay. How about this? I’ll try to send backup, but they can’t go onto the property, not unless there’s cause. You check out the situation, and I’ll tell them to stay just out of range unless and until you need them. But don’t move until they get there, Ten. Deal?”

I said nothing. Bill sighed again.

“Right. Have fun,” he said, code for “Don’t get your ass shot off.”

I checked the action on my Wilson, and slipped it into the shoulder holster. I locked my car, tucked the keys in my back pocket, and trotted to the stucco boundary bordering the Rosen estate. I ran hard along the western face, hugging the wall, as I tried to picture the grounds within. The moon was a filled bowl, the milky light enough to guide my way. Just before I reached the farthest northwest point, my feet crunched on something. I reached down. My fingers found the brown, dried husks of fallen carob beans. I looked up, and saw the overhanging branch of a giant carob tree. Now I knew exactly where I was, and what to do next.

I steadied my breath. Bending my knees, I launched upward and grasped the branch with one hand. My shoulder socket screamed at me and I dropped back to the ground, hard. I tried again. This time both hands grabbed, and I was somehow able to chin-lift close enough to hook my ankles around the branch. I clung upside-down like a giant sloth, catching my breath. Then I swung right side up, and pulled, scraped, and crawled across the bobbing branch, trying to avoid looking down.

I reached the trunk, skin raw from traversing the rough bark. I shimmied and clambered my way through a thick tangle of branches, down to firm ground.

I was in.

I hunkered low and trotted through the grove of leafy sentinels; past the guesthouse, bathed in darkness; past the koi, feigning sleep; past Julius’s round, white Roomful of Wonders, probably wondering, like me, what the hell was going on. I pulled up short. Loud voices, more “drunk loud” than “arguing loud,” sounded from inside Julius’s rumination cottage. The tone was boisterous, the language Spanish. I dropped to the ground and crept around to the back window to take a look.

The gauzy curtain softened a hard scene. Chaco Morales sprawled in Julius’s black and chrome easy chair, thick-bodied, broad-shouldered, a Corona in one hand, a lit Cohiba cigar in the other. Manuel the gardener squatted against the wall across from him, an older, grayer mirror image. Up close, the family resemblance was unmistakable between father and son, though the son, alone, emanated menace, as palpable as poison.

I heard a low moan. I located the source of the sound. What I saw chilled me.

Julius slumped on the white easy chair, now elongated into a chaise longue. His head lolled, and behind his glasses, his eyes were empty plates. Dr. Alvarado knelt next to him. She was checking his pulse, her medical sports bag of tricks opened next to her. Bronco Portreras stood guard. Pretty Boy wasn’t so pretty tonight—he had a fat lip and a pretty good shiner going. He also had a Sig Sauer P2xx tucked in his belt. No sign of Otilia or Señor Beefy.

Doctor Alvarado lifted Julius’s arm and let go. It flopped like a wet towel. She said something, and everyone laughed, everyone except for Julius. The joke was on him, but he was too far gone to get it.

I melted back into the shadows. Julius was out of it, sure, but as far as I could tell he was in no imminent danger. I trotted over to the main house, avoiding the gravel path, and headed for the kitchen. I checked the outside door. The knob turned. It was unlocked, a huge piece of luck. I moved to the kitchen window. Light poured out, giving me temporary cover. I peered inside. Otilia stood next to the stove, arms wrapped tightly around her chest. Her lips moved.
Not alone, then.
I couldn’t quite hear her, but I could read the twist of her mouth. She was disgusted by something. I ducked back into darkness to think. By all counts, there was one of me, and four to five of them, not counting Otilia and Julius, and counting Señor Beefy, wherever he was. Not a good ratio, and that’s disregarding the firearms.

How close is help?

I pulled out my cell phone to call Bill. No service. Not even half a bar. They must be using a cell-signal blocker.

Get out of there, Ten. Be smart.

I turned the knob and slipped in the door with barely a whisper of sound. Otilia’s voice was rattling nonstop in high-velocity Spanish. The undertone of desperate pleading tugged at my gut—and made up my mind. I fingered the safety off the Wilson and banged straight through the nook into the kitchen.

“
Cuidado
, Señor Ten!” Otilia pointed. I spun right, sighting my Wilson. Sure enough, Señor Beefy was reaching for a shotgun, resting against one wall.

I flicked my barrel at his chest. “Easy,” I said. “Move away from there.” I motioned with my chin, and he moved about ten feet away. I grabbed the rifle and laid it on the floor in the pantry area, out of reach.

Keeping my gun sighted on Beefy’s broad chest, I returned to him, reached down, and removed a .22 popper out of his ankle holster. It must have looked like a toy in his massive hand. He crossed his arms and glowered, his equally massive biceps bulging.

I set the .22 on the kitchen table. Otilia met my eyes. “These men, they bad,” she said. “They making Señor Julius sick. They making him do things that he no want to do.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Beefy hissed.

Otilia shot him a look of blind rage. “¡
El puerco moron!
” She snatched up a pair of kitchen shears and lunged across the room.

“Otilia, no!” I said.

Otilia stopped, her body trembling. But she didn’t let go of the shears. The words tumbled out of her: “Ever since they come, Señor Julius, he get worse. And that doctor?” She bit off the words. “
Bruja!
Witch! She here for his money, like everyone else.”

She raised the shears and edged closer to Beefy. “And always they coming in my kitchen telling me to make things. Telling. Señor Julius always
asking
!”

Height-wise, the little woman barely reached Beefy’s chest. The brandished shears waved back and forth in the general vicinity of his crotch. One snip, and he was a soprano. But before that happened, he would snap her neck in two like a twig. I had to get her away from him.

“Otilia,
por favor
,” I said. “I am asking nicely, see? Please put them down.” She glanced at me, taking her eyes off Beefy for a moment. That’s when he made his move.

His arms shot out. He yanked Otilia into a bear hug that whooshed the wind right out of her. He transferred her to one arm, lifting her until her feet dangled. I sighted my gun at Beefy, but big as he was, he kept moving Otilia back and forth, using her writhing body as a shield. He grappled for her shears. Otilia let out a piercing shriek, twisted an arm loose, and rammed the shears point-first into his forearm. He bellowed like a wounded bull, swinging her to one side like a doll, but he didn’t drop her. So I dropped him.

I shot him in the meat of his left thigh. He crumpled, howling. Between his roars and Otilia’s screeches, I didn’t hear anything else. Until I did.

“Don’t move, asshole,” a familiar voice said.

Bronco Portreras jabbed the cold shaft of his Sig Sauer into the small of my back.