The First Rule of Ten
Read The First Rule of Ten Online
Authors: Gay Hendricks and Tinker Lindsay
PRAISE FOR
THE FIRST RULE OF TEN
“Awareness and adventure go hand-in-hand in this wow
of a whodunnit. It’s got plenty of surprising plot twists,
but even better, it’s rich with insight into the complexity
of human relationships and being alive in this
modern-day world. What could be better?”
— Geneen Roth,
author of
Women, Food and God
“
Talk about a ‘perfect Ten!’ Savvy, sharp, and spiritual,
Tenzing Norbu is one of the most compelling detectives
I’ve encountered on the page. And
The First Rule of Ten
is a great introduction—a complicated, involving story
that combines cults, crime, and Buddhist
teachings to great effect.”
—
Alison Gaylin,
Edgar-nominated author of
Hide Your Eyes, Heartless,
and
You Kill Me
“
Now this is a detective for the 21st century! Who could
resist a former Buddhist monk who lives by the dharma,
drives a vintage yellow Mustang, eats five-star vegan
PB&J’s, and enjoys a close relationship with a sentient
being named Tank—a blue Persian of a certain size?
On the other hand, his relationships with beings of the
human persuasion aren’t nearly so smooth. Which is
great for a P.I.—no one messes with Ten—but lousy for
romance. Tenzing Norbu is wholly original and very, very
real—a great addition to detective fiction.
The First Rule of Ten
has really got me hooked!”
—
Julie Smith,
author of the Skip Langdon series
Copyright © 2012 by Gay Hendricks
Published and distributed in the United States by:
Hay House, Inc.:
www.hayhouse.com
•
Published and distributed in Australia by:
Hay House Australia Pty. Ltd.:
www.hayhouse.com.au
•
Published
and distributed in the United Kingdom by:
Hay House UK, Ltd.:
www.hayhouse.co.uk
•
Published and distributed in the Republic
of South Africa by:
Hay House SA (Pty), Ltd.:
www.hayhouse.co.za
•
Distributed in Canada by:
Raincoast:
www.raincoast.com
•
Published in India by:
Hay House Publishers India:
www.hayhouse.co.in
Cover design:
Charles McStravick •
Interior design:
Pam Homan
Photo of Gay Hendricks:
Mikki Willis
Photo of Tinker Lindsay:
Cameron Keys
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use—other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews—without prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. The use of actual events or locales, and persons living or deceased, is strictly for artistic/literary reasons only.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hendricks, Gay.
The first rule of ten / Gay Hendricks and Tinker Lindsay. – 1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tenzing Norbu Mystery.”
ISBN 978-1-4019-3776-8 (tradepaper : alk. paper)
I. Lindsay, Tinker. II. Title.
PS3608.E5296F57 2012
813’.6–dc23
2011039773
Tradepaper ISBN:
978-1-4019-3776-8
Digital ISBN:
978-1-4019-3777-5
15 14 13 12 4 3 2 1
1st edition, January 2012
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Topanga Canyon, Calif.
Jan. 12, Year of the Iron Tiger
Lama Yeshe and Lama Lobsang
Dorje Yidam Monastery
Dharamshala, India
Venerable Brothers,
Last Friday night, I tasted one of life’s sweet little experiences.
Saturday, I got shot.
It makes me wonder if I have a low tolerance for things going well in my world.
Or maybe I just need to be more mindful of what’s going on, both outside and in.
This may come as a surprise to you, but I’ve decided to put some rules back into my life—just not the scriptural kind I was so good at rebelling against back when I lived in the monastery. These are life-rules, drawn from my own experience, regardless of whether it’s humbling, exhilarating, or painful. Rule Number One is this: If you’re open to learning, you get your life-lessons delivered as gently as the tickle of a feather. But if you’re defensive, if you stubbornly persist in being right instead of learning the lesson at hand, if you stop paying attention to the tickles, the nudges, the clues—boom! Sledgehammer. Or in this case, the mangled slug of a .45 automatic.
The truth is, the pain caused by the bullet-graze was insignificant compared to the deep ache of uncertainty provoked by my brush with death. I felt lost, swarmed by questions to which I had no easy answers. But once I could see a way forward, I actually started feeling grateful to Leon—the poor, misguided being who pulled the trigger.
I do regret how much I scared Bill. I’d never seen him look like that—drawn and pale, his eyes dark with fear. He told me when he heard the shot, found me on the floor, he thought I was done.
Turns out I was, just not in the way Bill meant.
You two know me best, so you know this is true: From the time I was a teenager, reading all those contraband detective novels by candlelight in our sleeping quarters, I never wanted to be anything but a modern incarnation of Sherlock Holmes. So when I made Detective five years ago, I thought I had my life all wrapped up, with a nice, pretty bow on top. But lately, the realities of working for the LAPD have been closing in on me. I can hardly breathe anymore.
Some cops are happy to spend the bulk of their time shuffling papers and testifying in court. They’d rather pass their days getting hammered by defense attorneys than roam around out in the big world, messing with actual criminals. Not me. I like the action. I spent enough years sitting cross-legged in confined spaces, eyes closed, sheltered from anything that might challenge reality. Or nonreality, for that matter.
No offense.
It’s just that every minute in court, or chained to my desk, is a minute I’m not out putting bad people away, which last I heard was the whole point. The number of hours I spend on real police work has been declining steadily over the past couple of years, until these days when I’m lucky if I pull 15 hours a week outside.
Poor Bill’s no stranger to my discontent. My partner’s been putting up with a swelling stream of complaints about the paperwork, the politics, the endless bureaucratic hassles and mandatory regulations that are taking all the joy out of the job. I mean, monks deal with endless rules, too, but at least where you are, the goal is freedom from suffering. Not piling on more and more of it.
Once again in my life, something had to give. Once again, something has.
It’s over. I’m no longer a cop.
Well, time to go. Tank is eyeing his empty food bowl with impressive concentration. I send my prayers and good wishes to you both, as always. Please give Kino my heartfelt congratulations on becoming Abbot. Tell him I am well. You can also tell my father. Should he ever ask.
Until next time,
Ten
I was just sitting down to a cold beer and hot corn soup, at the end of a long week, when my phone rang. I glanced at the number.
Great.
Her
. My stomach contracted, arming me for whatever barbs my ex-girlfriend Charlotte had in store this time. I tried to breathe a little flex into my gut. Good luck with that.
“Hello?” I said. “Charlotte?” I braced myself for the onslaught.
Then she surprised me.
“Ten? I’m getting married. I thought you’d want to know.”
Charlotte, married. To someone else. A hot streak of jealousy sliced through me, which made no sense at all, considering I was the one who broke things off.
“Tenzing? Aren’t you going to congratulate me? You owe me that, at least.”
And there it was; the familiar “you owe me” card. It loosened up an avalanche of bad memories—the many ways I constantly infuriated her, the times she, in turn, disappointed me. Our last fight bloomed inside my brain like a bad seed. Prompted by her insistence that I had bought the wrong kind of lentil (I hadn’t), the small spat quickly escalated, culminating in my yelling at Charlotte, in one of my finer expressions of loving-kindness, that I’d never liked the way she smelled. Since the day I met her.
She responded by swatting me with a dish towel, a sharp snap to the side of the head.
Honestly? I admired her for it. It woke me up to the hard truth that we were never going to be right in each other’s eyes. And that it didn’t have a thing to do with either of us. Not her. Not me. We were just a couple of warm bodies stepping into old, familiar roles, long established in the past, and sure to run us well into the future if we didn’t do something to change the wiring. Two con artists conning each other, with the occasional great sex thrown in just to keep us good and confused.
That fight was the last time we saw each other.
I could sense Charlotte’s edginess growing on the other end of the line as she geared up for one last dramatic blowout. The familiar tension bounced back and forth between us, looking for an ally.
