The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) (7 page)

I put my mouth close to Bill’s ear. “I’m pretty sure that’s the name of a film Marv was trying to produce,” I murmured. “
Loving Hagar
.”

“Oh. Great,” Bill muttered. “That’s just great.”

“Anyway, none of this matters now.” Arlene’s voice was dull.

“It matters if we’re to find out how your husband died. Who or what might be responsible . . . “ Bill answered.

“No. No, detective. That’s not important.”

I could almost hear Bill’s mental teeth grinding in frustration. Ever the diplomat, though, he said, “What is important, then, Arlene?”

Arlene picked at a loose thread on her cardigan. “How Marv lost his way,” she said. “How he got to a point in his life where somebody needed to kill him. How the sweet devout goofball salesman I married came to die a lonely, angry crook with too many enemies to count.” Her words hung in the air like storm clouds, fat with rain.

“I’m tired,” she said, the tears spilling over. “I have people coming, friends, from my temple, and my daughter will be home any minute. Can you leave me alone now?”

Bill hesitated. “Sorry, one last question.”

Her voice shook with exhaustion. “What is it?”

“You said
crook
a moment ago. Was your husband involved with criminals in some way?”

Now it was Bill’s turn to receive a long look, this time from the weary wife’s eyes. Arlene’s smile was bitter. “You must be joking, detective,” she said. “He was a
movie producer
.”

C
HAPTER
6

As we stepped outside the house, a chorus of strident voices accosted Bill. “Detective Bohannon? Detective! Bill! Over here, Detective!” A fresh gaggle of photographers and news reporters had landed on the sidewalk in front of the Rudolphs’ lawn, no doubt hoping for a saleable glimpse of wifely grief.

They are vultures,
I thought.
Carrion-eaters. Useless, hateful creatures.
My hands tightened into fists.
I’d like to . . .

I caught myself mid-surge: righteous indignation is the straightest route I know toward blind ignorance and away from any possibility of insight.

Vultures, too, have their place in this world. They recycle rot, rot the rest of us help create.

Bill said, “How the hell did they find me here?” His phone beeped notice of an incoming text message. He checked his screen.

“Shit. I’m due at the airport right now. Martha’s parents land in half an hour.” He pushed through the media mass, tossing off “No comments,” jumped in his Taurus, and took off. A couple cars sped after him, and I smiled, imagining them tailing Bill all the way to the airport, praying for a scoop. Well, if any journalists actually made it there, Bill’s German mother-in-law would soon make schnitzel out of them.

The remaining reporters looked at me hopefully, but I didn’t register as anyone important, and they resumed their vigil on the house. As I walked to my car, I noticed the black Impala, parked a block and a half further ahead. I continued on foot, until I was next to it. A light-skinned African American slumped in the driver’s seat. Something pinged in my brain. I looked more closely. It was the photographer, the one from x17 who’d gotten into the dust-up with Marv. Clancy Williams, fast asleep. His front seat was crammed full of disturbingly familiar items: a laptop computer, empty fast food containers, crushed coffee cups, a pair of binoculars, and a digital camera with a huge telephoto lens. If I didn’t know differently, I’d have assumed he was a fellow PI, staking out Marv’s house.

In the back seat, I noted a banged-up boogie board, a well-thumbed catalog for high-end digital equipment, and a glossy trade magazine,
American Cinematographer
.

I tapped on the glass. He startled awake. We met eyes—his were bleary and suspicious. He lowered the window.

“Clancy Williams?” I said. He nodded, even warier. “My name is Tenzing Norbu. I’m a PI. Can we talk?”

He was momentarily distracted by another news van pulling up in front of the Rudolph house. He shrugged. “Why not,” he said. “I’ve obviously fucked up any chance at a grieving widow shot.”

Strike one, Clancy,
I thought. One count of felon-ious insensitivity.

He cleared off the front seat, transferring the trash and equipment to the back, and released the door locks. I climbed inside. The car smelled faintly of fried potatoes and sweat.

I handed Clancy my business card. Mike had printed up a box of them for me after my Marv job, and I had taken to carrying some around, in anticipation of my actually getting licensed sometime this decade. Clancy studied my card, and I studied him. He was a good-looking fellow, despite the dark smudges of fatigue under his eyes. Early to mid-thirties, muscular, light brown skin, fine-featured, with a halo of curly black hair. When he looked up, I saw his eyes were hazel flecked with green.

He was a hybrid, just like me.

“Tenzing Norbu. What is that? Korean or something?”

Strike two.

“Tibetan,” I said.

Light flooded his features, evaporating the tiredness. He looked like a totally different person. “Tibet! Fuck, man, I’d sell my left nut to shoot there. I pretty much nailed a gig assistant-DP-ing a documentary about Tibet straight out of Alabama State. I mean for real, it was a lock.” His face fell. “But there was no green in it. None. Had to turn it down.” He shook his head. “Nope, this is me now. Chasing people down, exposing their shit, so other people can feed on it.”

I had never been this close to a vulture before. I wasn’t passing up the chance learn more. “Why do it, if that’s how you feel?”

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one. I shook my head. “This is one of the few recession-proof jobs left, you know? People will give up their car payments before they give up the gossip. Why do I do it? Two words:
Student. Loans
. Lady Gaga and Madonna in a lip lock? Miley Cyrus sucking on a bong? Fifty grand. Boom. Freedom! I am one big money shot away from getting out from under.” He lit his cigarette and cracked his window, dangling his hand outside, where the smoke spiraled into the blue sky. “Or I was, until I walked into that piece-of-shit firestorm called Marvin Rudolph. My agency dropped me, none of the others will touch me, and all my contacts have completely dried up. Even the other paps treat me like I’ve got herpes.” He stubbed out his cigarette. He’d hardly taken a puff.

“Trying to quit,” he said, at my look. “I got a little girl now. Meanwhile, the competition keeps getting worse. Ever since Rupert Murdoch’s people got nailed, we’ve been swamped by European scumbags willing to do whatever it takes to claw their way in. Used to be, you could make six, even eight K a month. Now?” He shook his head. “Jesus, listen to me. Whining like a baby. So. What’s your story?”

“I’m a private investigator,” I said, leaving out the “licensed” part. “I did a job for Marv Rudolph a while back. Right now I’m helping a friend investigate his death.” Enough truth to satisfy, I hoped.

“That’s cool,” he said. “Listen, man, I didn’t mean to sound so harsh about Marv. I feel for his wife, a-right? She seemed like a nice lady, the few times I saw them together. But that dude? He was nothing but bad news. So, yeah, I mean, I came straight here soon as I read he’d bought it. I already knew where he lived, a-right? I wasn’t going to harass Mrs. Rudolph or anything. I was just hoping for a ‘human interest’ shot, before the others showed up. Make a few bucks, ahead of the herd.”

I nodded. I now had my own herd of 30,000 private dicks to compete with.

“Truth, dawg? My heart isn’t in this anymore. I just want to pay off my loans, so I can maybe start doing some good in the world with my camera. Make my wife and kid proud of me.”

I couldn’t believe it. I was starting to relate to this guy. A hairline fracture weakened my rock-hard prejudice against paparazzi, and a crazy idea snuck inside. My scalp tingled, a sure sign I should pay attention.

“Listen, Clancy,” I said. “I’m just getting started in my business, you know? And the thing is, I could use another set of eyes.”

“Doing what?”

“Doing what you already do. Watching. Noticing. Taking pictures, even. I can’t pay you, not right now, but in my experience, these things have a way of working themselves out in the long run.”

He shook his head. “Naw, man. I already got a long line of people pissed off at me for what I do.”

“It’s not what you’re doing that’s the problem, Clancy. It’s what you’re doing it for.”

Clancy thought this over. He shrugged. Pocketed my card.

“Whatever. I’m sick of my life. Maybe this’ll change things up.”

I smiled as I got out of his car. “Where I come from, it’s called karma. And as for things changing? Guaranteed, my friend. Guaranteed.”

I took Sunset all the way to the ocean, turned right on Pacific Coast Highway, and pulled into one of the Santa Monica parking lots bordering the public beach. I had an old set of cut-offs and running shoes in the back for just such moments. I was starving—somehow I had completely missed lunch—but a run sounded even better than food. My muscles were twitching from a day of enforced inactivity.

I changed in the car. A smattering of bike riders, roller bladers, and power-walking parents with strollers navigated the pedestrian pathway in both directions. I decided to run on the sand. I started off with a slow jog down to the water’s edge and turned north, toward the pier. The setting sun glinted on the slow-breaking waves, and pelicans circled, occasionally making a vertical dive to snag a wriggling snack.

I thought about the day as I ran: Arlene, nursing her grief; Clancy, postponing his dreams. And me, dancing around my own job-related fears.
What if the insurance company turns me down? What if it doesn’t, and I can’t afford the premiums? What if I never get hired again?

I picked up the pace. As I glanced ahead, I saw a tall blonde woman in the distance, walking toward me. Her hand was tucked in the arm of an even taller blond man. She tipped her head back and laughed, her teeth so white they flashed in the afternoon light. The couple stopped, kissed, and started to walk again.

Heather.

What did you think, Tenzing? Did you actually think you could be with a woman like her?

My feet pounded the sand.

Too smart. Too beautiful. Too smart. Too beautiful.
My mind chanted to the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground.
Loser. Loser. Loser.
Sweat dripped between my shoulder blades. I was closing the gap between us quickly, but I couldn’t bear the idea of turning around. She’d know I was just trying to avoid her. So I kept running, closer and closer, focusing my eyes on the damp sand in front of me. At the last minute, I looked as I passed her, passed the perfectly pleasant-looking blonde woman who was not Heather, not even close to being Heather, unless you were me, once again distorting reality so it would fit a negative mindset.

I don’t need any outside enemies. I have a perfectly good one residing right between my ears.

I ran another mile or so. Stripping off my T-shirt and shoes, I ploughed into the icy ocean and windmilled through the waves like a maniac. For the next ten minutes I churned back and forth, parallel to the beach. One good thing about swimming in ice water is you don’t spend much time thinking about anything else. I charged back out, gasping from the frigid bite of saltwater on my skin. A lone surfer in a full wetsuit, bobbing on his board, hooted at my lunacy. The shock of cold was bracing. As I pulled on my shirt and shoes, a wind kicked up and I broke into a sprint, feeling its welcome force helping from behind. I poured it on, exhilarating in the feeling of lungs and heart working together at high speed. I came to rest, panting, on the sand near the parking lot, and stretched out my thrumming muscles.

I strolled back to my car a new man.

I exchanged wet clothes for dry ones, using the Mustang’s passenger door for cover. I felt so much better as I drove up Topanga Canyon that I decided to practice changing my mental channel as well, to one that played more positive tunes. I envisioned myself with a ridiculously high-paying PI job, working for someone I respected. I pictured myself doing such good work that my phone started ringing off the hook with clients. Then I pictured myself enjoying a really good meal at a romantic restaurant with the lovely Heather, wine and dessert included, and nary a blink at the tab.

I pulled my Mustang into the carport, gave its marigold coat a quick once-over with a chamois to remove any sea salt, and strolled up the path to my house.

Tank was on his favorite cushion, busily licking his fur, the perfect self-cleaning oven.

“Hello, my friend. Miss me?” I said. “I missed you.” Tank’s green eyes narrowed with pleasure, as he got to work on his paws.

I grabbed an apple and moved onto the deck. A warm furry body, soft and alive, rubbed up against my ankles, and I felt a wave of happiness as I stood and munched. Soon I would step back inside, fill Tank’s bowl, treat myself to a nice long meditation, cook up some brown rice and stir-fry, and settle into bed with my Kindle and my cat. I allowed myself one more thought. Maybe, just maybe, everything was pretty fine, just the way it was.

Tank lived that way. Why not me?

C
HAPTER
7

Mike’s text had come in around 6
A.M.
I try not to look at my phone until I’ve stretched and meditated, and it was almost two hours later when I checked my messages and called him back.

“Dude. You’re insane.” Mike’s voice was more of a croak. “I said I was going to bed, to call me late this afternoon.”

“If you slept at night like a normal person I wouldn’t have to wake you up,” I said. “So what did you find?”

I heard groans, and a lighter, female voice murmuring in the background. Mike and his girlfriend were still co-habiting happily together, after almost a year. Tricia was a graduate student, and quite the night owl as well. I’d recently asked him what their secret was. “She’s the only person I’ve ever met who’s smarter than me,” he’d admitted. “No offense, boss. Plus, she’s hot, and she laughs at my jokes.” I’d filed the conversation away for future consideration.