The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (2 page)

Only in my case, I wasn’t sure the grieving had even started.

I’d returned from Dharamshala in December a changed man, with a new label to add to my growing arsenal of personal identifications: Tenzing Norbu, ex-Tibetan lama, ex-LAPD cop, licensed private investigator—and now, orphan.

My father was dead, his body gone. I had been able to sit with him, chant with him, to the end. I helped prepare his remains and transfer them to the ceremonial palanquin. I helped carry his corpse to the hastily constructed “fire house,” helped place him inside the cremation
stupa
, close it up, whitewash it, and decorate it with bright swabs of paint and brilliant prayer flags. I had joined my best friends, Lama Yeshe and Lama Lobsang, in reciting prayers and performing rituals. I participated in the grand and strangely moving Buddhist ceremony of praise, release, and incineration. I watched my father ignite and transform into a tower of flames. I observed the lamas break open the fire house to retrieve his burned relics, and watched the ritual master—my old tutor Lama Sonam, bent with age himself—sift through Apa’s ashes for significant signs.

My father was dead, his body gone. Before I left Dharamshala, I met with Lama Sonam privately, so he could share with me the evidence left in the remains: evidence, he assured me, that proved my father was a highly realized man. With shining eyes, Lama Sonam spoke of the special orb-like formation, associated with a refined mind, discovered in my father’s bone fragments and the small footprint, pressed into the sand mandala created for the ceremony, that faced southwest, indicating where my father would be reborn. Other proof I saw with my own eyes: the rainbow that arched across the sky the hour he left his body; the weird pliability of his shrunken bones and muscles—untouched by
rigor mortis
after death—that allowed the monastery’s resident healer, Lama Tashi, to manipulate my father’s limbs into lotus position before his cremation. All of us witnessed the dark smoke from the incineration rising straight up in the air and hovering there in an unwavering column, while all around it the prayer flags snapped and swayed. It was as if in one final, stubborn act my father’s smoldering residue ignored the laws of nature, choosing instead to aim for his own higher purpose. (Now,
that
was the father I knew.) Whether any of these things made Apa a venerated being, I couldn’t say. I was certainly not the right person to ask.

My father was dead, his body gone. We had made our peace. But there were still some things I hadn’t dared ask him before he left his body, and he hadn’t chosen to disclose. I didn’t push; a man deserves his privacy. But I had yet to completely dispel the smoky darkness his passing left in my heart. The secrets imbedded there.

The sun was finally up. Tank bolted from my arms and darted inside. Either his stomach or his bladder was making its needs known. Come to think of it …

I stepped off the deck for a quick pee, promised my own growling stomach I would make it very happy, very soon, then returned to the kitchen to deal with the rest of my essential morning tasks. Namely: feed cat, feed cat, and feed cat.

Back in the bedroom, I tried to change into my jeans and T-shirt quietly, but Heather hears like a hawk sees.

“Where’re you off to?” Her voice was muffled with sleep, and sounded slightly irritated. I crossed to the bed and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Framed with a tangle of blonde hair, her face glowed in the pale light, ridiculously flawless.

“Sorry. Work. Remember? I told you last night. I have another appointment with Mac Gannon. And you have no right to look like this on five hours of sleep.”

Heather’s lips formed a little pout. “Oh, right. Your new best friend. Some people get to have all the fun.” She licked her index finger and touched the back of my hand, making a sound like hot oil hitting a skillet:
Sssttt!
“Hotshot. Okay then. Have fun. Keep me posted.”

As was often the case with Heather these days, I couldn’t tell if she was fine with me going, upset, or somewhere in between. As was often the case with me these days, I chose not to investigate.

Heather and I weren’t living together yet, but we probably spent four nights a week sharing a bed. Weekdays, I went to her condominium in Santa Monica. Weekends, she stayed with me. But our full schedules meant we rarely had time to really talk or better yet, not talk and just be.

Time to get ready. I ran a brush over my cropped lawn of black hair. Not much more I could do there. This being Mac Gannon, I made a last-minute decision to swank up a little and grabbed the black cashmere blazer Heather had given me for my 31st birthday. I decided not to accessorize, however. My Wilson Combat Supergrade would remain locked in the closet safe for the time being. The only imminent danger at the moment was the result of my rampant imagination.

“Heather?”

“Mmm.”

“You speak Spanish, right?”

“Enough to get by.”

“What does ayúdame mean?”

She met my eyes; hers were a little troubled.

“Ayúdame means
Help me.
”

A small chill snaked up my spine. I shrugged it off. So someone was asking for help—it was probably my own troubled psyche.

“I’ll call you later,” I said. “If you go out, don’t forget to—”

“Reset the Guard-on. Got it.” She rolled away and buried her head in the pillow. Okay, upset. But hopefully not the kind of upset a few hours of deep sleep wouldn’t make right.

I hustled out the kitchen door, passing a contented Tank nose-deep in a bowl of canned mixed grill. The air was still chilly, and I pulled on my blazer. Now I was warm but also uncomfortable, sideswiped by a cascade of unpleasant thoughts about the night Heather had given me the jacket. There’d been tension in the air the whole evening, and the off-center feeling still lingered, as if captured in the seams of the garment. My mind started to scamper down a familiar misery tunnel. I yanked it back like restraining a leashed dog. Whatever my girlfriend problems were, there was no way I could solve them right now. I hurried over to my loaner car, a smart little Tesla Model S. It was Sunday morning. I was apparently a hotshot. I had people to see, places to go.

Secrets to keep.

C
HAPTER
2

I was really zipping down Topanga Canyon. The Tesla was cruising at 70 miles per hour with an unnerving absence of engine noise. These all-electric sports cars are deceptively meek-looking, considering the power they contain—like that proverbial soft-spoken guy next door who harbors a cache of AK-47s under his bed and winds up unleashing a firestorm at the local mall.

I whizzed past the Buddha wall, where a hand-stenciled mural of the seated Sakyamuni has watched over Topanga Canyon Boulevard for decades. The delicate painted icon, one hand cupping a bright blue earth in place of the usual begging bowl, seemed to raise his eyebrow at me. I checked my speedometer. Whoa, pushing 80. I eased off the accelerator.

My Mustang was getting a weekend overhaul at the shop in Santa Monica, and I’d decided on an impulse to cross the street, slip the salesman a little cash incentive, and request a weekend “test-drive” of this merry little Tesla. I told the dealership I drove a lot for my work, which was the truth, and might be in the market for this car, which wasn’t. A silver Tesla Model S is almost as unusual as a bright yellow ’65 Shelby Mustang 350, and just as terrible a choice for surveillance. No, my next “work” car, and hopefully not for a while, would probably be another secondhand, drab Toyota, the only elegant thing about it the smoked glass finish I would give its windows.

So far, so good: the main canyon artery, often clogged, was almost empty. The high hum from the electric motor created a jaunty duet with the whistling wind. Within minutes, I pulled into Pat’s Topanga Grill, my mouth already watering.

With its rustic wood-slatted siding, the building looked more like a saloon than a coffee shop, although this saloon was flanked by asphalt on one side and California sycamores on the other. A pair of matching wooden sharks, nose-to-nose on the swinging double-door entrance, hinted further at Pat’s unique take on dining decor. Inside, designer surfboards floated overhead, and local artwork, most notably Pat’s, crowded the walls. As always, my eye went to the resurrected road sign hung near the kitchen area: “Topanga,” the reflective letters proclaimed, and underneath, “pop 3342 elev 720.” The population had probably tripled by now—which still made my community barely a hamlet by L.A. standards. I assumed the elevation hadn’t changed.

I nodded to Pat, his mustache drooping under bristling brows as he stood guard by the kitchen. I received a gruff nod in return and considered that a triumph. Something about him reminded me of my childhood nemesis at the monastery, the grim kitchen monk, Lama Dorje. Both men had an uncanny way of knowing exactly when somebody was about to do something wrong and would pounce on hapless perps with an eagerness that bordered on glee. Luckily, I didn’t have mandatory kitchen duty as part of my life anymore, though Tank might disagree.

I circumvented a couple of shaggy dogs and helped myself to a cup of excellent fresh-brewed coffee. I claimed a small, rickety wooden table for two in the corner, leaving the long counter and bigger tables free. The local brunch crowd would start drifting in soon, some grabbing seats outside facing the trees, where their welcomed dogs could explore, others lugging their fat Sunday papers indoors for spreading out and passing around. Topanga residents considered Pat’s the next best thing to home sweet home, a place you could gather and chill for hours. But woe to the city visitor who arrived here expecting and demanding fast, courteous service. I’d seen more than one of them scurry off unfed after being politely ignored, if not publicly humiliated, by the man himself.

I leaned back in my chair, content. In a few hours, some skinny guitarist, barely awake and still scratching his balls, would set up a mike and start strumming and singing ’60s hits, which qualified as brunch entertainment. I would be long gone by then.

I’d been introduced to Pat’s years ago by one of its most celebrated regulars, Zimmy Backus, an ex-rocker of some fame himself. Zimmy and I were deep in real estate negotiations at the time. I was a rookie cop on a limited budget and desperate to rent Zimmy’s beautiful Zen-like Topanga Canyon getaway. Zimmy was in the throes of a bad divorce from a Japanese wild woman who’d left him for a bass player with a bigger coke habit than both of them combined. For some reason, Zimmy decided almost immediately he liked me, so he gave me a good deal. A fellow vegetarian, he’d hauled me to Pat’s and treated us both to his usual, a Veggie Club sandwich. We toasted our long-term rental agreement with thick chocolate malts.

I bought the house from Zimmy six years later. By then I had graduated to LAPD Detective I, Burglary/Homicide, so my income was bordering on respectable. Plus, my late mother’s trust had come through, and I could finally afford the down payment. Zimmy and I had returned to his favorite eatery for one final soy bacon blowout. It was the only time I’ve ever seen Pat get a little misty.

I closed my eyes, picturing Zimmy’s scruffy smile, and sent him some loving-kindness:
May you be safe and protected. May you be healthy and strong. May you live with ease. May you be free.

I’d taken a break from Pat’s for a while—couldn’t afford the long waits, and there are only so many veggie burritos you can stomach—but lately I’d made a point of coming here a lot. I liked the total absence of LAPD cops, for one. For another, I had never brought Heather here. She didn’t even know Pat’s Topanga Grill existed.

My favorite grumpy waitress, Patrice, her left eyebrow sprouting a freshly planted row of studs, swung by with her pencil and pad.

“The usual?”

I smiled. “What else?”

She wheeled away, and my smile faded. There wasn’t anything usual about my “usual.”

It was too warm inside for the cashmere blazer, and I slipped it off with a feeling of relief. Heather had made a huge effort for my birthday. She’d booked us “our” table at “our” place, the Inn of the Seventh Ray, and had preordered an exquisite, six-course vegan taster menu, wine pairings included. She’d turned heads crossing the outdoor courtyard in her red silk dress and glossy high-heeled boots. But Heather doesn’t miss much, and she could tell I wasn’t all there. I’d unwrapped and put on the cashmere blazer, smiling hard. It itched a little around the collar, but I resisted scratching. The silence grew. So did the tension.

Heather had drained her wineglass and set it down with a clunk.

“Is it your father?”

“Is what my father?”

“You know. Ten, when you left for India, we were fine. More than fine. Amazing. But ever since you got back …”

“I’m just tired,” I said. “Work’s been nonstop, in case you haven’t noticed.”

She stood up.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Heather …” But it was too late. She’d fled to the restroom. She did that a lot. When she got back, I could tell from her puffy, red-rimmed eyes that she’d been crying, though she reassured me she hadn’t and she understood and everything was fine.

Everything wasn’t fine, and we both knew it. But how could I put into words what I could barely feel? Everything seemed up for reinterpretation somehow: what I did, what I thought, how I felt.

Who I was with.

In the heady days after we’d pledged to be spiritual and romantic partners, Heather and I had floated through time in a bliss-bubble of early love and mutual infatuation. We barely ate and slept even less. We sat together, morning and evening, in deep meditation, which often led to a more physical version of linking up, and called or texted incessantly in the hours between. When Heather dropped me off at LAX on my way to India to spend time with my ill father, we reassured each other the separation would only make us stronger. I left love-struck. I was gone for six weeks. I returned a stranger.

We never could seem to find our earlier rhythm. I had expected to be gone for only two weeks, but I was wrong. Communication had been spotty—and unsatisfactory. The time difference alone made staying connected a challenge. And now that Heather had finally been hired full-time as a deputy medical examiner for the county coroner’s office, she was on call 24/7. I myself had returned to a long list of new clients clamoring for my help.