The First Rule of Ten (16 page)

“The good news is, I’ve been in a long-term, committed relationship for four years,” I’d said.

“What’s the bad news?”

“It’s with a cat.”

Bill slid into the booth across from me, and Jean jotted down our orders: pastrami and Swiss for him, a grilled cheese sandwich and a side of slaw for me.

I took in Bill’s coat and tie, and shifted a little in my seat. I was still in the rumpled jeans and T-shirt I’d pulled on in the dark this morning.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” Bill answered. He reached under his coat and pulled out a manila envelope.

“You wanted to know the autopsy results from the woman who got killed over your way.”

“Barbara Maxey.”

“Right, Maxey. Well.” He pushed the envelope across the wood.

I slid out the report and found myself staring down at the photograph of Barbara’s ashen cadaver. Her warm smile flashed in front of me, then was gone. I skimmed over the details: “petechial hemorrhaging” and “laryngeal abrasions,” cold, clinical terms, belying the violence of her death.

Then my breath caught.

“Did you see this?” I asked, pointing to the bottom of the last page.

“I saw it,” he said, his voice grim.

“Her voice box was crushed
after
she was strangled to death?”

“Yep. Looks like somebody was making a point.”

Don’t talk
, I thought.

Jean delivered our plates. Bill leaned over and inhaled the aroma. “Mmm-mmm. I’m telling you, Ten, you have no idea what you’re missing.”

Jean, still hovering, snorted. “Shame on you, Bill. He can’t eat cows on account of they’re sacred to him. Right, Ten-zing?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that would be the Hindus. As Jean zoomed off to another table, I slipped the autopsy report back in the envelope and set it aside.

Don’t talk
. But about what? What had Barbara known that demanded such a brutal message?

C
HAPTER
16

Bill, being a working man, had to eat and run. I sat in the parking lot for a few moments, digesting, and testing my emotional insides. They were tender, sensitive to my mental prodding, like a canker sore. Reading the details of Barbara’s autopsy had walloped me, delivered a brutal gut-blow matching the fist-smash to her own jugular. What was I doing to help her? I had no money coming in, and was no closer to figuring this stuff out than I was to earning a salary.

I looked at my clenched fists, resting on the steering wheel. Loosened them, finger by finger. Self-recrimination was going to get me absolutely nowhere. There were too many questions swirling like loose sediment in my psyche. I had to find a quiet zone to sit, let the silt settle. See what I actually knew.

I drove north on Alameda, turned right on Third, and again on San Pedro. I circled the block to look for street parking, and then thought better of it. A bright yellow Mustang might prove irresistible to gangbangers and car thieves. I grudgingly parked underground at Five Star and walked the two blocks to the Japanese American Cultural & Community Center. I tried to leave my resentment over public parking outside the gates of my secret downtown refuge, an authentic Japanese stroll garden.

I had stumbled onto the garden early on in my police training. I’d gone into Little Tokyo for takeout and was looking for a quiet place to eat. Something drew me to the Cultural Center, and I’d soon spotted a small side gate. I pushed it open, and was rewarded with my first glimpse of the Seiryu-en, the Garden of the Clear Stream. It turned out food wasn’t allowed, but ever since, I’d visited this garden many times to partake of my other necessary sustenance, the spiritual kind.

I looked around. I was alone. Good. I stood still, letting the melodious sound of water cascading over rock soothe me. The azalea bushes were glossy green, with tight buds hinting at the spring bloom ahead. The delicate foliage of the heavenly bamboo still showed traces of the bright crimson it wore through the winter months, but I could picture the clusters of creamy white blossoms to come. The same with the Japanese wisteria—its green leaves held their secret close, but within a few months the vines would be draped with flowering lilac clusters, smelling of grape and possibility.

My eyes traced the tumbling waterfall as it forked into two streams near its head, splitting around a small island, then slowing and reuniting in a shallow, quiet pond.

I stepped onto the walking path, and let my attention rest on the sensation of my upright body, my arms hanging by my sides, my hands lightly clasping each other. I let my eyes rest on the ground, a few feet ahead of me.
Lift, move, press. Lift, move, press
. I paused, breathing in and out, feeling my lungs bellow and compress.
Lift, move, press
. Feet touching the ground, the space between each step, the feeling of stopping and starting. The mental silt began to settle, the inner chatter to fade away.
Lift, move, press
.

I paced the circular path, feeling the terrain change beneath me: hard granite … beaten earth … knobby, uneven stepping-stones. I traversed the three arched, wooden bridges, hanging like lanterns over the gurgling water.
Lift, move, press
.

Pieces of my dream tiptoed back to me, enticed by the clear, empty vessel that was now my consciousness. I let the images flow: my father standing guard … the X-shaped building … the pelicans … the watchtower.
A geometric tattoo, straddling a man’s thick neck.
Guards. Pelicans. Prison. Paradise.

Got it.

As I left, I stopped at a small fountain, cupping my hands under the cool stream of water flowing from a bamboo spout into a stone basin. My teachers taught me well.
Thank you.

Bill met me in the lobby of the Police Headquarters.

“Two Tenzing sightings in one day,” he said. “I like it.”

We took the elevator to his fourth-floor office, where he closed the door. I told him about the insurance policies. The suspicions I had about Buster’s death and Freda’s illness. My visit to the Children of Paradise. Barsotti’s pig farm. John D’s almond grove. Then I ran the dream images by him, and what I thought they meant.

Bill nodded at once, like he got where I was going. He pulled up a page on the computer and tipped the screen my way. I found myself staring at an overhead view of the Pelican Bay State Prison. My eyes zeroed in on an X-shaped cluster of white concrete buildings set apart from the main facility.

“What is that?” I pointed.

“That’s the Security Housing Unit,” Bill said. “Pelican’s supermax-type control unit for the superbad. Affectionately referred to by inmates as ‘the Shu.’”

Is that what you want to go back to? The shoe?

“The Shu. Of course,” I murmured.

“Those are some bad boys in there, Ten. Not to be messed with.”

“Can you see if they had an inmate by the name of Monroe, Eldon Monroe?

Bill picked up the phone. Three re-routes later, he had an answer for me. No. It was what I expected, though not necessarily what I needed to make sense of anything else.

“You’ll get there,” Bill said.

On my way out the door, insects started chirping. The look on my partner’s face was priceless.

“New phone,” I told him. “Very green.”

I glanced down. It was Zimmy.

“Hi, Zimmy,” I said.

“My man. How’re you doing on this fine day? I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”

“I’m doing great,” I said. “I just finished an hour of walking meditation, so you are probably talking to the clearest version of me you’re going to get.”

Bill made a gagging motion from his desk.

“Good deal,” Zimmy said. “I had an idea pop into my head clear as day myself—something I want you to do for me—and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“That’s quite an introduction,” I said. “I’m all ears.”

“Jilly and I have been talking it over, and we want to hire you as a private detective to get to the bottom of all this stuff. Florio, Barbara’s death, the whole thing.”

I smiled. “Thanks, Zimmy, but I’m already investigating this on my own. You don’t need to pay me for it.”

“You don’t understand, Ten. I do. See, when Barbara and I first got together, she had some money saved up, several thousand dollars. Me being me back then, it wasn’t long before I’d put it up my nostrils, and hers.”

I waited.

“I have to make this right somehow,” he said. “It’s eating away at me, you know? Jilly can always tell when I’m getting wound up, so last night we had a long talk. We’ve been real fortunate up here, Ten. We just found out we’re gonna have the biggest crop of pears since we started growing them. We’ve got some extra money to spend. But even if we didn’t, I’d be asking you. I owe this to Barbara. I’m telling you, my peace of mind, maybe even my sobriety, depends upon repaying this debt. You’d be doing me a big favor by letting me buy five grand’s worth of your services. So, do we have a deal?”

I spot-checked my insides, and his, for any hidden agendas, and came up clear.

“We have a deal,” I said.

“Fantastic. I’ll get a check in the mail to you this afternoon. And Ten? I love you, brother.”

“You’re a good man, Zimmy. I’m proud to have you as my first official client.”

I hung up, and beamed at Bill.

“What?” he said.

“Magic is what, Bill. Five thousand dollars, falling from a tree, is what.”

“Zimmy hired you?”

“Zimmy hired me.”

“Then I guess it’s true, what they say. ‘If you investigate it, they will come….’”

“Who will come?”

“Forget it.” Bill walked over and clapped me on the back. “My dad used to tell me the only difference between an amateur and a professional is one dollar. You are now a bona fide professional private investigator. Congratulations. Now get to work.”

I drove home smiling. Tank met me at the door. I picked him up and gave his sturdy body a hug. His eyes blinked, like, “What’s the big deal?” I was on a spiritual roll, so I beamed him a little mind-movie, a series of mental pictures of me happily working on the case, and a cupboard stacked high with cans of tuna fish.

Then, just in case he didn’t pick up my vibes, I carried him into the kitchen and opened one, emptying the entire can in his bowl. Tank’s eyes opened wide in appreciation as he vigorously chomped down the contents, and happiness reigned supreme in our little household of two.

The Buddha tells us our thoughts and emotions, good or bad, never stay put. Rather, they pass like weather systems, so long as we don’t attempt to control them. As I watched Tank eat, I concentrated on just enjoying the feeling of abundance, without trying to staple it to my brain.

I made myself some green tea, and settled on my deck to make some calls. I scrolled through to find Julie’s number, and as I did, sure enough, a wisp of cloud passed over my sunny mood. I was grateful Bill hadn’t asked about us—I still didn’t know where “us” was going.

On the one hand, I liked her a lot. Her humor. Her confidence. Her freckles. But I couldn’t help but wonder if her self-assurance would soon prove to be a facade, as it had every time before with the women I dated. What if she turned around one day and was wearing another face, her real one, her warm, shining eyes replaced by two black holes of neediness?

Maybe it’s your neediness, not theirs.

I pushed that idea away. If anything, I was too self-sufficient for most women.

Okay, then. Don’t call Julie today. It’s still too soon. Better yet, let her call you.

I turned my attention to the Children of Paradise. I decided to check in on John D and see if I could get any more information out of him about the cult. Fortunately, his number was listed.

“Hello!” John D sounded startled, as if he didn’t get a lot of phone calls.

“John D,” I said. “This is Ten Norbu.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “What can I do for you, young fella?”

“I’m wondering if you can tell me a little more about your next-door neighbors.”

“You’re welcome to whatever I know,” he said.

“Besides Nehemiah, have you seen any other members? I’d like to know how many there are.”

I heard his breath wheezing as he thought things over.

“Every now and then they’ll gather in the field in a big circle, holding hands. I reckon there’s maybe forty people, all told.”

So they hadn’t expanded.

“And do they ever leave the place?”

“A few of ’em go down Thursdays to buy groceries.”

“Go down where?”

“There’s a farmer’s market in town every Thursday, down near the Vons. I see ’em there buying vegetables and fruit. I like to go myself—that’s how come I know.”

“Is it always the same people?”

He chuckled. “I’m sorry, son, I’m seventy-seven years old. One robe-wearing hippie looks just about like every other one to me.” He paused, as if revisiting the question. “Come to think of it, though, there is this one woman, she’s got long brown hair, she does the shopping most of the time. I remember her ’cause she’ll smile at me sometimes.”

“The rest of them don’t smile?”

“Nah, they’re a real serious bunch. She sticks in my mind ’cause when you’re old like me, you don’t get a lot of smiles from young women. Maybe I’ll see her at the market tomorrow. You want me to call you?”

“How would you feel about taking your newly adopted son there in person?” I asked.

I heard his rumbling chuckle again. “Danged if my adopted son don’t visit me more than my actual one! Sure, come on out. I’ll show you all the best stalls.”

“If you think of anything else important, just give me a call.”

“If I think of anything else important, I’ll write it down first,
then
give you a call. These days, by the time I get to the phone, I’ve already forgotten who I was calling.”

C
HAPTER
17

The next morning, I put myself through my paces, and was on the road, earning my keep, by nine. I took the Mustang. I wasn’t planning on any off-road surveillance this trip, and truthfully, I wanted to see John D’s reaction to my roadster.

Ninety minutes later, I was kicking dust up the hill into his driveway. He was ready and waiting, rocking on his front porch in a checked short-sleeved shirt and stiff new jeans. He pushed himself upright, and stared. Then he started fanning his face, like my car was giving off too much heat.