The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) (16 page)

I wanted to tell him about Marv’s starlet Tovah, about Thunder Bird, about the mysterious cop wannabe Raul Martinez, I really did, but my mouth wouldn’t form the words
. It’s not the right moment. He already has too much on his plate.
The tight ball forming in my belly told another story. I was anxious. If Bill railed at me again for exceeding my authority, I wasn’t sure I could handle it. I didn’t even dare ask for a copy of the coroner’s report.

For the first time since Bill and I had become partners, and then friends, I withheld information that could be important to a case. Instead, I played it safe.

“I just wanted to pass along some good news. Julius Rosen’s hired me to find his sister, Sadie. Really nice money, too. I have an actual job.” I wondered if he could hear the bright, false note in my voice.

“That’s good, Ten,” Bill said, distracted. “Listen, I’ll catch you later, okay?” He hung up, leaving me to absorb the sour aftertaste of guilt.

I jabbed Mike’s number on my iPhone. His voicemail picked up.

“Where the hell are you, Mike? I need to see you! Check your text messages.”

That’s useful, Ten, taking your guilt out on your one other friend in Los Angeles.
This was becoming a bad habit. Before I could ring Mike back and apologize, he called me, his voice sleepy.

“I miss something, boss? Somebody start a fucking fire in your pants?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve been up since three this morning. I’m running on fumes. Listen, the good news is I have a job, so we both can get paid. The bad news is, I need your help with some technical stuff. Right away. So can I come to your place?”

“Oh, man. No can do, not today. I have a deejay gig later, and I have to pick up an extra turntable in Calabasas first.”

My only task for Julius was going down the proverbial drain. There was only one solution—I would have to do what I had vowed never to do. “Then I’ll meet you there, okay? At your gig. Where is it?”

Mike lowered his voice to growl. “If I toldja that, I’d have to kill ya.”

“What are you talking about, Mike?”

“Little joke, Ten, okay? It’s just, the concert’s, umm, let’s just say it’s way underground, you know? I mean, it’s not exactly—what’s the word—legal? Even I don’t know where I’m going yet, you know?”

“The only thing I know, Mike, is that I’m in a bind here.”

Mike sighed. “Look. I’ll e-mail you the link, and the promo code for this thing. Just register online, and someone else will e-mail you the actual address later. But boss, you can’t tell anyone about this, like Bill for instance, or post it on Facebook, okay?”

“What is this, some kind of deejay terrorist cell?”

“I mean it, Ten. These are my friends, and they’re finally letting me in on their deal. I don’t want to blow it. I go on at ten. Ironically.”

“That’s when you
start
?” This day was sliding from bad to worse. I could probably find someone else to help with the technical aspects of contacting Zigo, but I knew no one as skillful or discreet.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.” I couldn’t resist a small dig. “Gosh! My first rave.”

Silence. Then, “No glow sticks, boss. I’d never live it down.”

The e-mail from Mike arrived moments later. I opened the link to
www.iluvchaotica.com
and entered the promo code, my thumbs clumsy: iBluvingTechno.

i B feeling ridiculous was more like it.

One $20 credit card “donation” later, I was promised a text message at 8
P.M.
, complete with location and further instructions. Would Sherlock have gone to these lengths? Probably, probably.

I recorded the website address and code in my little notebook, just in case. As I leafed back through the pages, I zeroed in on my suspect list: item number 1, in particular.
Pissed off family member. Arlene. Harper. Others?

I knew where to go next. Maybe Bill couldn’t make it to the Rudolph family reception, but I could. Heck, I even had a tie.

C
HAPTER
12

Cars lined the front of the Rudolph home. I recognized Rabbi Fishbein’s Acura; soon I’d have as many vehicles in my mental files as Clancy Williams. Speaking of which, there was no sign of Clancy’s Impala, or any other photographers or media members. They must all be at the press conference.

I parked in the street and trailed behind an elderly woman walking up the Rudolph’s drive, holding a covered casserole dish. The front door was slightly ajar, and I could hear the murmur of voices within. Like the rabbi, this woman kissed the fingertips of her right hand and pressed them to the piece of wood on the doorsill before slipping inside. I paused, hesitant to enact a ritual I knew nothing about, but wanting to honor a house in grief. I settled on a small bow and followed her.

I slipped off my shoes and added them to the pile just inside the front door. The older woman carried her casserole into the kitchen. I headed right, toward the living room, carefully stepping around a small basin of water and a stack of linen hand towels set by the entrance. The living room curtains were drawn. My eyes adjusted to the flickering light of several large candles. About 20 people, men and women, were sitting on or near the floor, I couldn’t quite tell which. All the photographs and framed posters on the tables and walls were shrouded with pieces of cloth, as was the large mirror hanging over the fireplace. The effect was of a room itself wrapped in sorrow. I could feel my body softening, settling into a quieter, purer space. Any thought of interrogation evaporated.
Not the time.

I spotted Arlene, arms wrapped around her knees, near the middle of the room. Her skin and lips were pale, her eyelashes almost invisible. She was scrubbed clean of make-up, and she seemed younger and more vulnerable without it. The left sleeve of her silk blouse was torn, and I realized other people had tears in their clothing—here, a jacket, there, a shirtsleeve. I was touched by this visible symbol of the emotional fissure a sudden death can cause. Arlene glanced over at me, confused by my presence, I thought. I bowed slightly. She looked away.

Low wooden stools were scattered throughout.
Ahh, these must be their special mourning seats.
I walked over to the little stool closest to Arlene and sat.

I heard a hiss, a collective intake of breath indicating I had done something wrong, and I scrambled to my feet. I’d committed some sort of
faux pas
, not at all my intention. I stood awkwardly, until Rabbi Fishbein took pity on me. He got up and led me to the empty sofa. I perched on the edge, self-consciously looming over the others in the room.

“Why are you here, detective?” Rabbi Fishbein’s voice was quiet, and not unkind. “We are sitting
shivah
. This is a sacred time.”

“I understand,” I said. I included Arlene in my next words. “I’ve come to pay my respects. I won’t stay long.”

She offered me a wan smile. “My husband’s soul is at peace now,” she said.

I nodded, and relaxed my posture, settling into the sofa. I closed my eyes:
Om mani padme hum. May you have serenity and happiness in the afterlife and in all your future lives.

I rested in the silence. My breath slowed, and spaciousness flowered in my heart, as the men in the room started to chant, a beautiful, haunting melody in a language that sounded both ancient and wise. I dropped deeper into a state of stillness. The universal practice of honoring the dead was expressed in a tongue absolutely foreign to me, but it was perfectly understood.

As the prayer faded, I opened my eyes. My throat tightened, not with sadness, but alarm. A young woman, startlingly beautiful, toned and strong, was sitting on a low stool across the room, staring at me. Her eyes blazed with hate. Harper, seven months later, and all grown up. My face registered shocked recognition; she quickly covered her own with her hands and began to wail. Comforting adults surrounded her.

I turned to Rabbi Fishbein, who was again pushing to his feet, this time to tend to Harper.

“I’ll get her a glass of water,” I murmured.

I hurried through the foyer and dining room, skirting the long wooden dining table, where a handful of women were busy unwrapping platters of fruit and cheese and setting them next to noodle casseroles, mounds of chopped liver, and bowls of egg salad. I pushed through a swinging wooden door into a pristine kitchen, which was smaller than I’d imagined, but a jewel. From the antique tile to the honeyed wood, everything looked exquisitely original—vintage and yet brand new.

I couldn’t help myself. I scanned the stone counters for any signs of knives, and soon located a slotted wooden block of them, by the gleaming Viking stove. I crossed over to investigate. Wüsthofs.
Yes.
But every slot was occupied by its designated knife, including the 8-inch chef’s knife. All cutlery present and accounted for.

A woman backed her way through a second swinging door, on the far side of the kitchen, balancing a pungent platter of carved meat.

“Smells delicious,” I lied.

“Brisket,” she said, and continued to the dining room.

I plucked a small plastic party glass from a stacked tower on the counter, filled it with water, and retraced my steps to the room of mourners. I offered the water to Harper. She gulped it down.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice low. But when she raised her eyes to meet mine, a wild, panicked look distorted her lovely features, gone almost before it arrived. I took the glass.

Rabbi Fishbein appeared at my shoulder.

“Will you be joining us for
seudat havra’ah
? It is our meal of healing.”

“Thank you, but no,” I said. “I must be going.”

He touched my arm. “I wish you well,” he said. “Shalom.”

“Shalom,” I repeated. Again, the language was universal. Peace, my brother.

I sat in my Toyota, loosening my tie. Thinking. Maybe Harper just didn’t want me to expose her sordid past, now that she was “doing so well in her new school.” She certainly looked better—her skin and body glowed with health, and she had added needed pounds, mostly of muscle. She was stronger now. And she was capable of hate—I had just been on the receiving end of it. I circled her name in my notebook. She remained an unanswered question for now. Then I plucked one of the spare evidence bags from my glove compartment, leftovers from my homicide cop days. Inside it, I carefully placed the plastic party glass I had conveniently forgotten to throw away.

I still had two hours to fill before I received my underground instructions to Mike’s techno-rave, in this, my longest of days. What to do in the meantime? When in doubt, I ask my body. I ran my attention over my insides like a wand. The impromptu meditation had soothed the jangled tiredness and settled my heart, which was great. But a hollow space remained. Hunger. I was hungry. Hungry for food, no doubt, but also something else.
Companionship.

Should I call Heather? I’d experienced two serious romantic debacles in as many years, with a string of short missteps before that. Much as I wanted to lay the blame elsewhere, both Charlotte and Julie were now in committed relationships with other men. The overlapping factor in their failure, maybe in all the failures? Me. Let’s face it: I was afraid to engage again, to risk my heart in yet another entanglement, leading to yet another round of blame and betrayal. It was always the same. It never ended well.

Always. Never. There they were, like gongs, warning me that I was stuck again in limited thinking. Breaking my second rule. Jean’s words echoed:
Put down the flashlight, pick up the mirror.
I replayed the thousands of squabbles and upsets, the arguments, the miscommunications I had both invited and inflicted over the past decade. Watched as “she never” and “I always” moments piled up, forming a barricade around me, a prison of my own making. Better to be safe than hurt. Better to be right than happy. Ten’s working mottos.

But what if they were based on misinformation? The Buddha says to question everything. “Everything” includes mottos.

I was struck with a realization so powerful that it stopped my breath.
What if I haven’t had thousands of fights? What if I’ve been having the same fight, thousands of times?

What if my mother’s betrayal and my father’s scorn made up the foundational underpinning for every romantic relationship I’ve ever entered? What if I was breaking my second rule over and over and over again?
Don’t do it, Ten. Don’t allow yourself to be imprisoned by past betrayals, disguised as your protectors
.

I let my breath out slowly, as something shifted, deep inside. I had work to do—that much was certain. But maybe, just maybe, Heather could be a starting place to do that work. How would I ever know, if I didn’t have the courage to try?

I fished out her business card and typed her name and number into my contact list.

I touched her number on the screen.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Heather,” I said. “This is Ten.”

“Hey.”

I heard traffic humming in the background. “Sounds like you’re on the road.”

“Yup. Heading home after a very long press conference and debriefing.”

“Where’s home?’

“Santa Monica.”

I liked the sound of that. In Los Angeles, where the looming specter of gridlock hovers over just about every conversation, geography can play a big role in a budding romance. Santa Monica was just down the road from Topanga, an easy commute. I was glad she didn’t live in some buzz-killing location like Simi Valley.

“So you’re on the ten?”

“That’s me. Talking to Ten on the ten,” she said.

I smiled. “How about talking to Ten in person? Would you like to get together for dinner? I’m in Beverly Hills, and I’ve got hours before my next appointment.”

Heather took her time answering. “You know what? I’m a little beat, and I’m not crazy about most restaurants out here to begin with. All that hipster strutting exhausts me. Would it be okay if we met down at the beach? It’s a gorgeous evening.”

I made some quick calculations. Even if Mike’s gig was as far away as Thousand Oaks, I’d be able to have a picnic at the beach and make it to him by 11
P.M
. I guess insanely late gigs did have their value.