The First Rule of Ten (36 page)

“Marv, take Harper home and put her to bed. Then get some sleep yourself.” Marv grunted and pushed himself up to a sitting position.

“Keith, go into the kitchen and make yourself a cup of hot beverage, if you know how. Sip it, and count your blessings.” He shuffled into the kitchen, the too-long legs of his sweats dragging behind like flippers.

“How did you figure out Harper was here?” I asked Marv.

“Two plus two equals Keith,” Marv said. “She’s a star-fucker, just like everyone else in this town.”

I was sorry I’d asked.

I marshaled the remaining revelers into the foyer. They were scattered throughout the downstairs like so many discarded empties.

“Party’s over,” I said. “And if I see one word of this on the Internet, I will not only track you down and have you arrested, I will serve your name to Marv Rudolph on a platter. And you don’t want Marv Rudolph as an enemy.”

They hustled out the door.

That was worth at least $5,000 in P.R. repair and maintenance right there. Operation Pothole, at your service.

It took me a few more minutes to shepherd the Rudolphs into Marv’s smoky gray Lexus, parked askew in the driveway. Touching. He drove an LS Hybrid. For over $100,000 he could be comfortable, as well as politically correct.

Father and daughter drove off together in stony silence. I went back inside for one last sweep. Everyone but Keith was gone. The house felt very hollow.

“Hey,” Keith called from the kitchen. “Want a cup of Darjeeling?”

“I’m good,” I said. He re-joined me with his steaming mug.

With a sheepish smile, Keith offered, “I still want to pay you.”

“What for?”

“I owe you, man.”

I thought it over for one, maybe two seconds. “Send it to the Tibet Foundation,” I said. “Twenty grand sponsors a lot of yaks.”

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket, buzzing me back to the present. Tank leapt off my lap. I rotated my neck and shoulders. I was a little stunned at the almost total recall I had just experienced, especially after so much time had passed since I closed the case.

I grabbed my phone and glanced at the screen.

“Hello, Detective,” I said.

“Hey, Ten. How goes it?”

“It goes, Bill. It goes. I’m just out here on the deck, enjoying a spectacular sunset.”

“Rub it in.” Bill Bohannon, LAPD Detective III, Robbery/Homicide, is my former partner and one of my oldest friends in Los Angeles. He and I have weathered a lot of weirdness together, including the ultimate male-bonding experience: shooting back at thugs who were trying to kill us.

He’d recently moved to a desk job. Me? I’d just moved on.

“We’re working a homicide, Ten. Messy one. Came in late last night. Some big Hollywood producer.”

My skin began to tingle.

“The Captain thought I should give you a call.”

Of course he did
.

“The victim is a guy by the name of Rudolph. Marvin Rudolph.”

Of course he is.

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