The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) (34 page)

I knew that description. Word for word, I knew it. I grabbed my notebook, and leafed back through the pages to my first meeting with Marv, months and months earlier.
Where is that name?
I found it: Bronco, Bronco Portreros. Harper’s first man-crush. Drug dealer. Wannabe actor. And according to Marv at the time, a big star in the making.

What had Mike said about
Loving Hagar
? Rewrites—after Julius dropped out, there had been rewrites to the script.

Change the story.

Why was this flight taking so long?

I forced myself to read the rest of the screenplay, which was 100 pages of lameness, to my mind. Whoever had done the rewrite, he or she was no bard. Then, I watched a disturbing film about an international plague that made me want to spend the rest of my life washing my hands.

Then, I thought about Heather, which was much more pleasant. I couldn’t wait to see her, to touch her and kiss her. I couldn’t wait to tell her everything, and hear everything back. I pictured her, the way she threw her head back when she laughed. The way she opened her heart to silence and could both receive and send affection—or maybe something stronger—across a room . . .

A solid seven hours of dreamless sleep later, I was gazing at another smudgy skyline. Home sweet home. Soon I was shuffling through the huge customs and immigration area, one among an exhausted horde. The officials gave me a hard look, and my backpack a major search. Nobody in their right minds made the kind of trip I’d just made, unless they were on something, smuggling something, or both. Fortunately, the only suspicious item I was carrying was a package of Indian crispy snacks for Heather.

I stepped outside the terminal, squinted at the blue-gray Los Angeles sky, and felt an odd jolt of displacement. I’d been gone for four days, but it felt like a lifetime. Ideally, I’d have allowed myself at least two more days just to process everything, but not today. My work was waiting.

I checked my voicemail before I left the lot in my Mustang. The stack of e-mails would have to wait. Six messages. Bill’s said, “Hey. You back? Give me a buzz.” Martha’s said, “Thanks again, for everything.” Mike’s said, “Dude, your cat’s crazy,” which was a little worrisome, and Heather’s said, “Hi! It’s me. How was your trip? Are you talking yet? I have some information for you.” A quick one from Clancy: “Are you going to Marv’s memorial service Thursday? Just wondering.” And finally, from an hour ago, Bill again: “Call the minute you land.” I caught the urgent undertone.
Something’s up.

I called back in order of importance. I got Heather’s voicemail. “Call me,” I said. “Better yet, come see me. I’m home.”

Bill next.

“Thank God,” he said.

“What’s going on?”

“Not on the phone. Listen, we tracked down Tovah Fields. She was staying with friends in Newport Beach. I’m meeting her at the Robinsgrove in an hour. Can you . . . “

“See you there.”

I called Mike next. He answered on the tenth ring, voice foggy.

“It’s yesterday morning my time,” I said. “What’s your excuse?”

“My excuse is, your cat has boundary issues, as in he doesn’t have any. Doesn’t believe in anyone sleeping during the day, either, unless it’s him doing it.”

“It’s good for you,” I said. “What if you get a real job someday, with real hours?”

Silence.

“Anything on Sadie?”

He seemed to cheer up at that. “I struck gold. Sadie Rosen never came into contact with the big three organizations, but I did find her mentioned in the records of a private group calling themselves The Refugee Center. Bad people, it turns out.”

“How bad?”

“They were snatching up Jewish orphans and charging exorbitant fees to return them to their relatives, ransom demands, essentially. And guess whose family was right in the middle of it all?”

What do we inherit?

“Helmut Zigo’s?”

“Boom. Two brothers, Albert and Dieter Zigo. Helmut’s daddy and uncle. Both did some prison time, both now deceased.”

“Anything else?”

“Plenty. Sadie was logged in somewhere in Northern Germany and logged out in Brooklyn, New York. An unnamed family member took her.”

“And the trail ends there?”

“No. I took a nap, okay? Out here on the deck, where Tank the Obliterator couldn’t jump on my chest and knead me into submission.”

“It’s good for you,” I said again.

“Oh, yeah, one more thing. May explain why your friend Julius called you off. I mean, there’s something extremely fishy about this. I turned up a bunch of donations to different Jewish organizations given anonymously, only the small print says “in celebration of Sadie Rosen.” Could be a coincidence, with all those Sadie Rosens floating around out there, but still . . . “

“Any way to find out who made the donations?”

“Working on it, boss. Working on it.”

“Well while you’re working on that, do me one more favor,” I said. “See if you can track down a photograph of a guy called Bronco Portreras.”

“Who’s he?”

“Besides being a scumbag, I think he may be an actor.”

“Is there a difference?” That was his exit line. I’ve heard worse.

I parked on Arden, two cars away from Bill’s. He walked over and started to give me a quick half hug. He stepped back quickly.

“What’d you do over there, roll in camel dung?”

“More like sleep in yak hair,” I said.

“I don’t even want to ask.”

“Before we go in, I’ve got a big chunk of news,” I said.

“Me, too. You first.”

I described my dream-insight, and the connection I suspected between Chaco and Manuel, the gardener at Julius Rosen’s estate.

“So now we’ve got Marv looping back to Rosen at least two different ways?” He shook his head. “I don’t get it. You get it?”

“I think I’m starting to, maybe.”

“Well chew on this. Word’s out something big is going down with Chaco’s crew. Tonight. Some big shipment coming in. DEA’s going ape shit. They know the who and the when, but they don’t know the where.”

We were at the front entrance. Something nibbled at the edge of my brain.

“Give me a second.” I paced the sidewalk, breathing in and out, feeling each foot lift, and press against the asphalt.
Lift. Press. Lift. Press.

Mula.

Pista la mula.
Watch the mule.

Descarga la mula.
Unload the mule.

I hurried back to Bill. I told him the “where.”

“If you didn’t smell like last week’s diaper I’d kiss you,” Bill said. “I guess I know where I’ll be tonight.” His finger hovered over the button next to apartment 710. “Shit. I know you’re exhausted, but any chance you can drop by Rosen’s place later? Check out the Chaco connection for me?”

I hesitated, thinking about Heather.

“I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t dealing with this other shit storm.”

“No problem. Glad to help.”

“Thanks.” He pushed the doorbell. “Let’s see what Miss Tovah has to say, shall we?”

We were buzzed in. We took the ancient elevator to the seventh floor. Apartment 710 was located between the elevator and a small stairway leading to a metal door, blocked off by yellow tape.

“That the way to the roof?”

“Yup. Scene of the crime.”

We moved to Tovah’s door. “What about this apartment?”

“Sully and Mack already checked it out,” Bill answered. “We got whatever was gettable: his and her prints, the second deck chair, a package of unused condoms. That’s about it. One of Marv’s personal holding companies has had it on the books for years.”

I swayed a little. Bill grabbed my arm to steady me.

“You okay?”

“I hope Tovah drinks coffee,” I said.

She didn’t, not exactly, but she did provide us with bottled Frappuccinos, over ice. Except for the huge wide-screen television dominating one wall, the spacious one-bedroom apartment was deco-deluxe meets Ikea, with a healthy sprinkling of fingerprint powder on the side. The bone structure was impressive, with large built-in cupboards and shelves, decorative trim everywhere, scrolled archways, and a picture window overlooking a courtyard, with a wide, cushioned window seat Tank would have immediately claimed. The furniture was functional-hip all the way. Someone had spent as little as possible to make this place likable and livable, short-term. As a sugar daddy, Marv was noncommittal.

Tovah was pale, her oval face dominated by huge dark eyes. Mid-20s, though she seemed younger. I shot a look at Bill, and his eyebrows elevated slightly. He’d seen it as well. Tovah looked like Arlene Rudolph, only thirty years younger. Everybody has his type, I guess.

Tovah took the window seat. Bill and I pulled up matching, neutral armchairs and sat facing her. A set of church bells outside gonged the time: 5
P.M.
If you’d dangled me out the window by my heels, though, I couldn’t have told you the day.

“Thank you for seeing us, Ms. Fields,” Bill said. “I know you already spoke with Detectives Sully and Mack, but Detective Norbu and I have a few follow-up questions, if you don’t mind.”

She nodded, attempting a smile. Her teeth were very white.

“Please tell us what happened the night Marv Rudolph died.”

“I already told them. He came over around nine, after some big reception deal—he was always going to those things. He was already pretty tight. We went onto the roof with a bottle of red wine. We wanted to look at the city lights and . . . “ she darted a look at us, “and smoke a doobie, okay? Marv loved it up there. He said it was the only place he could ever get any peace. Anyway, we both got pretty shit-faced. He passed out—he did that a lot. I was freezing, so I came back down here around midnight and went to sleep. Next thing I know, it’s morning, and there’s a shitload of cops all over the place. I got scared. So I split.”

She spoke in a monotone, and her eyes kept shifting away. She was lying through every polished tooth in her mouth.

Bill caught my eye.
You take it.

What would tie a beautiful young woman to a fat angry man old enough to be her father? I thought about a well-thumbed screenplay, with highlighted lines and corners turned down. About naïve dreams and ruthless ambition, and how disappointment can harden the one into the other if we’re not careful, mindful.

“Ms. Fields,” I said.
“Hagar
was your big break, wasn’t it? “

Her eyes grew huge.

“You were on the brink of having all your dreams come true. Because of Marv. Then everything crashed. Because of Marv. How did you get from hope, to here?” I waved around the room. “From an up-and-coming-star to Marv’s secret plaything, tucked away in an apartment he paid for so he could have you whenever he felt like it?”

Now her eyes flashed with hatred. Still, she said nothing.

“He stole your innocence, didn’t he? Your hope. I wouldn’t blame you for wanting him to die. But I’m also pretty sure you didn’t kill him. So why don’t you help us figure out who did? Maybe it’s time to tell the truth, and then you can move on with your life. Make some new dreams.”

I stopped talking.

We waited. Tovah said nothing.

“Or, we can take you downtown,” Bill said.

Nothing.

“Aiding and abetting. Always a plus on a girl’s résumé,” I added.

That turned out to be the persuader.

“He said he just wanted to talk to Marv,” she whispered. “He told me to get Marv loaded, loaded enough to pass out. That it would be easier that way.”

“What would be easier?” Bill asked, gently.

“He said he just wanted to talk! To change his mind about making the movie!”

“Who, Ms. Fields?” Bill said. “Who came to see Marv?”

She clammed up.
She’s scared. She should be.

“I’m going to say a name,” I said. “And you just nod if I’m right, okay?”

She wrapped her arms tight around her knees.

“Bronco Portreras.”

As I said the name, another piece of colored glass clicked into place.

Tovah nodded. Her face crumpled and she collapsed into sobs. Bill shifted into good-cop comfort-mode. My phone pinged. I stepped into the hallway. Right on time, an e-mail from Mike. Subject: Bronco Portreras. A JPG was attached. I opened it, though I already knew: Bronco Portreras, initials B.P., was also my attacker. Pretty Boy.
¡Vindicacion!

It all led back to Chaco.

Bill took Tovah downtown to make a statement. As for me, if I didn’t take a shower soon, my skin was going to curdle. I also had a burning desire to bond with my furry, four-legged brother. Then I was going to take a run on the beach, then I was going to invite Heather over, then I was going to . . .
Brrrrt
.

I checked my phone. Mike again. He was unstoppable today.

“What’s up?”

“Got something. Are you coming home soon?”

“On my way.”

I pulled into my carport 20 minutes later and trotted up to the house. As I opened the kitchen door, a mass of warm cat launched itself into my arms.

“Hey, Tank. Hey, little buddy!” I lowered my head into his fur.
Yes, I’m happy to see you, too.
I carried him inside, holding him close to my heart. The minute we crossed the threshold, he launched himself from my arms and ambled over to his bowl, lest I think he’d lost his edge in my absence.

Mike was exactly where I had left him four days earlier, sitting at the kitchen table, eyes glued to the screen. Except it looked like he’d lost a few pounds.

“Give me fifteen minutes,” I said. He waved one hand at me while the other tap-danced across the keys.

I squeezed Tank a full can’s worth of tuna water. He funneled it up as I headed for hot water.

The scalding shower revived both my skin and brain cells. One clean T-shirt and a pair of jeans later, and I was ready to face Mike’s computer screen.

He pulled up a spreadsheet with donation amounts, followed by names.

“Meet Mr. and Mrs. Anonymous,” he said.

“How did you get hold of this?” I asked.

He said nothing. That meant he’d hacked in illegally and didn’t want to contaminate me with the details.

“So check this out,” he said. He pointed to the first name, responsible for multiple donations.