The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (17 page)

After waiting several minutes, I slipped out of my car and sidled past the cactus to the back of the enclosure, to double-check if there was any other mode of entry, as well as take care of my urgent need to pee. I noted a large dumpster and a Toyota Tercel hatchback from another decade, its dented hood and passenger door sporting different shades of blue.

After marking a ficus tree like a territorial dog, I was able to think again. I stepped from behind the twisted gray-green trunk and froze as a red pickup truck pulled into the narrow dirt-lined alley paralleling the rear of the enclosure. The truck parked behind the Toyota. A thin man in a security guard’s all-purpose navy blue uniform, complete with epaulets, emblems, and gun, climbed out of the pickup. He tugged on his holster and crossed the alley to the fence. Like magic, a batch of chain link opened inward, and I realized there was indeed a small, padlocked gate back here, camouflaged by overlapping fence slats.

As I watched, a second uniformed and armed guard, as thick as this guy was thin, let him in. My binoculars offered up a brief glimpse of a third warehouse within the enclosure, as well as a small metal shack, the perfect size for a guardhouse. The small gate closed. After five minutes, it reopened, and the heavy guy exited, yawning. He climbed into the rundown Tercel, and soon man and car huffed away.

I checked my watch. It was 8
P.M.
Shift change. I waited, and sure enough, the thin guard stepped out of the guardhouse and took a long, careful meander around the grounds before returning to his tiny quarters. Still no sign of Goodhue.

I returned to my car and settled in for what I assumed would be a long night of sitting and watching, punctuated by a few location changes and drive-bys, to avoid suspicion. My stomach grumbled. I ate a stale protein bar I found tucked in the back of the glove compartment.

I leaned against the headrest and waited.

Two hours passed, and I had just allowed myself a quick catnap, the kind you take with one ear cocked and one eye open, when the faint
beep-beep-beep
of a reversing truck alerted me to a change. I scrambled upright. A large semi was backing out of the lot, a sidelifter loaded with two movable containers and equipped with a pair of hydraulic-powered cranes. Its cab and trailer executed a complex reverse three-point turn, straightened out, and drove right past me. I ducked below the driver’s line of sight, but I could clearly make out the writing as the truck rolled by—“GTG Services: We Bring Clean to You,” printed on both containers and the passenger door of the semi.

The truck might as well have been printed with giant question marks. I decided to follow.

I’d started this adventure with a full tank of gas. Two-and-a-half hours later, the semi pulled into a second warehouse facility, equally well-enclosed, equally well-protected, only this one was all the way in fucking San Diego, just off the last possible exit before Tijuana. The Corolla was driving on fumes, and I was hungry enough to eat its fraying upholstery.

For the second time tonight, I peed on a tree that didn’t belong to me. For the second time, I rolled silently around the perimeter of an enclosed storage warehouse set in an industrial park, with another huge, three-limbed cactus standing guard at one corner. But this time, when I rounded the empty block to the front entrance, a black Hummer was waiting for me, head lowered, revving its engine like a giant bull.

The fear-fueled flight response was immediate. As I wrenched the wheel, executing a crazy, screeching U-turn, both rear passenger windows exploded. My car had just taken a through-and-through meant for my skull. Hunching as low as possible, I jammed hard on the accelerator, very grateful for the darkness. I wove back and forth on the deserted road, the little Toyota’s engine revved up to a high-pitched shriek, as several more shots whanged off my back fender. I was bleating with fear, definitely the goat of goats, as the Hummer closed the gap. I almost wept with relief when I caught sight of a well-lit 24-hour gas station up ahead. Sure enough, the Hummer stopped giving chase. It sat for a minute on the road, then turned around and drove off, like a slavering dog that has made its point.

I ran inside the 24-hour Stop and Shop and spent 20 nervous minutes surveying shelves of junk food with one eye on the window. The Hummer didn’t reappear, and finally I filled my car’s tank with gas and left, armed with beef jerky, vinegar-flavored potato chips, and a can of root beer. I would have bought actual beer, but I was too paranoid to put anything into my system that might soften the razor-edge of attentiveness honed by the Hummer. I might need it again tonight.

As I started the drive, I opened the beef jerky and popped one strip into my mouth. It tasted exactly the way it looked—like highly seasoned, desiccated animal flesh. As I slowly chewed, though, I tasted something else behind the processed hide. I tasted the fear and helplessness of a trapped animal that has given up its life, flavors that were now lodged in my own body, after the recent spate of attacks. I spat the half-chewed mouthful into my hand and threw it out the window.

Maybe my brief romance with meat was officially over. Maybe no one else need ever know.

The rest of the drive home was uneventful. I pulled into my driveway just after 3
A.M.
I did a brief walkaround of my car, stumbling with exhaustion as I checked out the damage. The back seat was littered with kernels of shattered glass, the left fender had a big tear in it, and the entire right flank was pocked with bullet holes. I laid my hand on the damaged sheet metal and shuddered. This car had been my partner longer even than Bill. It had kept me safe, and tonight it had probably saved my life. But these wounds felt irreparable, psychically if not in reality. Time to buy a new old car.

I trudged into the house. Tank ran to me yowling. I knelt down, but he stalked away a few feet and glared. Like Heather, he was furious now that he knew I was safe.

I checked my office messages and had three, plus a hang-up.

The first was from Cielo, but she didn’t leave a message. The second was from Melissa, her voice shy. “Ten? Hi, Ten. It’s me, Melissa. Where are you? I miss you. Are you ever coming for a visit with your cat?” Next, from Carlos: “Hey, just wondering if … you know … It’s just that Sofia’s still gone, and I was hoping you might have found something out.” And finally, Mrs. O’Malley: “Mac is wondering if you have anything further to report on that matter you discussed. He heard from your mutual friend, and she’s very concerned at the lack of progress.”

Four calls and at least three needed something from me, something I couldn’t give at the moment.

I fed Tank quickly and silently, before readying myself for bed. I tumbled under the covers and shifted from stomach to back, my body itching. I’d washed my face and brushed my teeth, but dejection coated my skin, and disappointment lodged at the back of my throat. I’d made some kind of connection between the Hummer and Goodhue, but what did it mean? Could I rule anything out, really? Exhaustion acted like an accelerant on this flicker of self-doubt. Instead of breaths, I started counting the long parade of hours I’d spent so far, trying to learn something of value with this case that would lead me to Clara Fuentes and coming away empty-handed. She was still out there somewhere, waiting for someone to rescue her, and I was the wrong man for the job. Like my poor car, I was badly damaged goods.

Go to sleep, Tenzing. All will be well. Go to sleep.

C
HAPTER
11

Tank kneaded me awake, his claws mostly retracted. That proof of forgiveness, combined with sleep and the warm spill of sunshine pouring in my bedroom window, eased my mood considerably.

Before I could change my mind, I put in a call to Clunkers for Cops, an LAPD non-profit organization that provides financial assistance to widows and orphans of fallen officers. The cheerful gal at the other end promised to have a tow truck there within the hour.

I made a pot of coffee and moved to the deck to assess. As I sipped from my mug, I could still feel the lingering traces of disappointment from the night before. I doubt if anybody likes running away with their tail between their legs. I certainly didn’t.

My cell phone buzzed, and I saw it was Clancy.

“Clancy! How’s it going?”

“Going okay,” he said. “Still no movement on your van, but several others took off first thing this morning. They were gone a few hours. Now they’re back.”

“Are you cool staying there for now?”

“No worries. The wife and kid are at her mother’s this week. I still got some food, and I got my iPod all set up. I’m learning Spanish, did I tell you?”

“Smart.”

“
Gracias, amigo
.”

I did a few stretching exercises on the deck as I went over what I’d learned. Not only was Mark Goodhue involved with my client Bets, but he was up to his eyeballs in everything else pertaining to my world at the moment. The question was, why? Was McMurtry ignorant, or behind all of this? If not, who was? I had a hard time picturing Goodhue as the chief honcho here. He was well groomed, but there was that hint of weakness in his eyes, the soft corners of his mouth, and the prissy crease of his suit trousers. I didn’t think he had the stones to be behind an operation this vast.

I sent Mike a text, letting him know Goodhue was probably one of the G’s in GTG. Mike was no doubt fast asleep, but later today he’d be all over this fact. I needed to call Bill next, to fill him in on my second armed attack in as many days, though hopefully this one was far enough from his jurisdiction to remain off the LAPD grid for now. I certainly didn’t need any more reporters ringing my doorbell, any more gorgeous, sloe-eyed, curvaceous …

As if on cue, my cell phone buzzed. When I saw it was Heather, my face flooded with heat, caught fantasizing. Her words quickly eradicated my embarrassment.

“Ten, a Juanita Doe just came in. Definite homicide. Autopsy’s pending. They’re still trying to ID her.”

“Where’s the body?’

“One-one-oh-four,” she said, referring to the building at the county coroner’s office where autopsies take place.

“I’m on my way,” I said.

I raced around the house, my heart pained, but also eager to know if this was Clara. As I ran to the Shelby, a tow truck pulled up, ready to haul my mortally wounded Toyota to its next incarnation. They attached the chain and raised the carcass until it was balanced on its rear tires, then drove away, towing the battered vehicle behind them.

I offered thanks to my Corolla for its service:
May you serve well into the future, even if only as parts.
Something prickled at the nape of my neck, gone before I could catch it, as my monkey mind next wondered:
If a Toyota leads a good life, does it come back as a Lexus?

I made a brief but essential stop en route downtown and arrived at the county coroner’s bearing a peace offering. Heather met me in the parking lot. Even in scrubs, she glowed. I handed over a nonfat vanilla soy latte, and we shared the bittersweet smile linked to better times. The first time I’d exchanged any actual words with Heather was in this very lot, and the second time, I’d tried to woo her with this very drink.

She glanced around before giving me a quick kiss on the lips.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said.

“Well, don’t thank me too much. Bhatnager just informed us that only those directly involved in the investigation can see the body until we get an ID.”

Bhatnager was the Chief Medical Examiner, and Heather’s boss. My face fell.

“But I can tell you this. It’s a Hispanic female, medium height and weight, twenty-eight to thirty-five years old.”

Not Clara then. I was conflicted—half relieved, half disappointed. Conflicted was my normal state so far in this Tibetan year of contradictions.

“Anything else you can tell me? Was she cut up?”

“No.” She lowered her voice. “Shot in the back of the head. Although her tongue was missing.”

So this was an old-school hit and probably about snitching. Which led to my next question.

“Was she wearing a uniform of any sort? Like a maid might wear?”

Heather shook her head. “No. Jeans. Why?”

“Just curious,” I said. This was proving to be a complete dead end.

“There was one odd thing, though. I found some weird grain in her pocket.”

“Grain?”

“Yeah, you know, like millet and stuff.”

My heart picked up speed.

“Could it be birdseed?”

Heather’s face lit up. “Ten, you’re a genius! That’s exactly what it is. Birdseed!”

“I know who she is,” I said. “And I know who can identify her.”

I gave Heather Carlos’s number and told her to break the news gently—that his heart was involved. We stood outside for a few more minutes, as she finished her coffee. She crumpled the cup. The gap of silence slowly expanded into a yawning crevasse between us.

“Ten—” she started, at the same moment I said, “Want to meet for a drink later?”

“I can’t,” she said. “I have plans.”

I’ll bet.

“Doing what?”

“Nothing,” she said, her skin flushing. “Just, I’d rather not say right now, okay?” Heather’s phone pinged. She glanced down. “Bhatnager. I’ll call you later tonight. I promise.” Another quick peck, this one on the cheek, and she was gone.

The sun beat down on me, its touch harsh.

Don’t do it.

I reached for my phone.

Don’t.

I found the number I’d entered yesterday morning and pressed it. Maybe she wouldn’t answer.

She picked up before the second ring. “I wondered how long it would take before you called.” Cielo’s voice was playful and light.

“How did you know I would call? Am I that predictable?”

“Yes,” she said. “So I’m done with work for the day. Want to play?”

I drove with my brain turned firmly off. Twenty minutes later, Cielo admitted me to her Santa Monica apartment, a location disturbingly close to Heather’s condominium. She was wrapped up tight in a white terry-cloth robe, drying her hair with a towel. She smelled like night-blooming jasmine. Her toenails were painted an edible tangerine. In her bare feet, she was a few inches shorter than me. That made me happy.