The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (12 page)

He lowered his arms.

“Now roll over. Put your hands behind your back.”

I used a bungee cord to secure his wrists.

“Stay put,” I said. I stepped outside to survey the damage to my other two assailants. It was extensive and permanent. The end for both of them had come quick. The first body had a hole in the chest, just right of center. The man lay flat on his back, so I couldn’t tell if it was a through-and-through. The other sprawled facedown, his head at an odd angle. I half-rolled him over and saw that his throat was a ragged mess, before letting his body return to its original position. Two deadly MAC-10 semiautomatics—the earlier versions, complete with sound suppressors—lay next to their dead owners like attack dogs. Next to them, my Wilson looked like a younger, weaker breed. I was very lucky to be alive.

I stood up, feeling slightly light-headed, and focused on my breathing to center myself. A river of feeling was flooding my body.

Relief. Sorrow. Remnants of rage. Shame.

Swimming up through it all was a deep and sure knowledge that this was a turning point in my life. I had never killed anyone—not in the line of duty as a police officer, not as a private investigator. Now everything was different. I had killed—not once, but twice.

I had taken two lives.

Nothing in my training as a monk or a cop had prepared me for the next sensation that welled up from my core—a hot wave of revulsion, as if my stomach was turning inside out. I tasted the bile on the back of my tongue and bent over to throw up.

The sudden roar of a big engine broke through my nausea. I stood up just in time to see the rear lights of the Hummer receding, wheels spitting gravel like grapeshot.

I ran back into the garage and saw the bungee cord on the floor, sliced in two. During my quick frisk of Miguel I must have somehow missed a hidden blade. I wanted to swear, but in my current overloaded brain state I had reverted to thinking in Tibetan, which has no real curse-words. My mind just kept repeating a Tibetan phrase that loosely translated as “I’m upset! I’m upset!”

The Hummer swerved onto Topanga Canyon Boulevard. I decided not to give chase—he’d be long gone by the time I got my car cranked up and hit those steep turns myself. I could feel the adrenaline, nausea, and other feelings fading in my body, replaced by a faint, grudging respect for the kid. Miguel had managed to get away on a badly wounded leg. He’d done it quickly and so quietly I hadn’t even noticed. Even though he hadn’t come to my house for honorable reasons, he’d certainly made a skillful escape. He was one tough kid. I found myself wishing him, if not well, then at least no more harm, in spite of his abuse of my hospitality.

Then that feeling subsided, replaced by a sharp twist of revulsion at my own actions.

What have I done?

I grabbed for my phone, to report the incident to the Malibu Sheriff’s Station and give them the word on the Hummer. The cell phone vibrated in my hand. I glanced at the screen and saw it was Bill Bohannon, my ex-partner. In that moment, it seemed like light years since we’d been Detective IIs in LAPD’s elite Robbery/Homicide division. Now Bill was a Detective III, and I was about to become one of his cases.

“Hey,” I said.

Bill’s voice was thick with sleep. “I thought I told you to stay out of trouble. Your buddy Mike said something triggered the security system. Everything okay?”

I looked at the two still bodies.

“Not exactly,” I said. “I got two men down, one more wounded and at large.”

Bill woke up fast. “Two men down. How down?”

“As down as they can get,” I said.

Bill groaned.

“The kills were righteous,” I said, but I wondered if that was true.

A siren wailed in the distance, drawing closer. Shit, Mike must have also called 911. My night was about to get even more complicated.

“Can you let them know about the Hummer? Black—no idea the license plate, but there’s a young kid at the wheel with a leg wound. And Bill, I hate to ask, but—”

“I’m on my way,” he barked. “Do not say one word to anyone until I get there.”

The two lifeless bodies lay sprawled on the ground like a pair of unanswerable reproaches. I studied them and felt a second wave of shivers pass through my body.

Suddenly I remembered I wasn’t the only member of my household that might be having some feelings.

Tank.

I hurried across the driveway and into the kitchen.

“Tank? Where are you, buddy?”

I heard a muffled squawk from the living room. I ran to the sofa and dropped to my knees, peering underneath it. Tank was huddled flat in his place of ultimate refuge, usually reserved for the rare thunderstorms we have in this part of the world.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m okay.” I stretched out my hand to stroke his head.

He shrank against the far wall and made a small hissing sound. Maybe he was rattled by the smell of blood on me.

As I sat back on my haunches, unsure what to do next, my computer made that odd Skype sound, like a bubble popping. I looked at the screen.

It was a Skype video call from “lamalobsang.” My heart rose, choking my throat with bittersweet relief. Yeshe and Lobsang—my lifeline between past and present, Dharamshala and Los Angeles, monk and detective. I had neglected them for months. I didn’t deserve them, but here they were.

Over the years since I’d moved to Los Angeles, we’d communicated through snail mail and the occasional whispered telephone call between India and California, until last summer, when my father discovered our ongoing, forbidden contact. His “reasoned” response was to banish Yeshe and Lobsang to Lhasa, Tibet, where even snail mail was impossible. But this past December, at Apa’s request, His Holiness had recalled them from Tibet to become head abbots of Dorje Yidam—my father’s final act of healing before his death. Their journey back was, of course, harrowing but ultimately successful, and their safe arrival coincided with my time there for a few precious weeks, as I buried my father and they prepared for their new roles.

The change in leadership at Dorje Yidam brought with it many other changes, a lot of them technological. But I knew my friends’ decision to get in touch with me this morning had nothing to do with modern technology and everything to do with ancient intuition.

I sat down at my desk and clicked on the Skype icon. Within moments, the gleaming, shaved heads and warm features of my two friends swam into view.

“Tenzing, dear brother! Greetings to you.” Lobsang touched his forehead. Just to his right, Yeshe did the same.

“Lobsang. Yeshe. I am happy to hear from you,” I said. As I said the words I felt my chest compress, as if two giant hands were squeezing it.

“Are you all right?” Yeshe’s voice was breathless. “We had to reach you. I felt something … something dark.”

I pictured the fresh corpses outside. I opened my mouth to answer, but the words stuck in my throat. These were my dearest friends in the world. But they were also Buddhist monks. They had dedicated their lives to the practice of ahimsa—to doing no harm to any and all sentient beings. How could I tell them that I had just killed two men?

Was it only two days ago, sitting at breakfast at Joe’s, that I had made a new vow to be more mindful of the difference between privacy and secrecy, to make sure my natural reserve wasn’t causing me to hide things from others that I ought to be revealing? Hadn’t I just made a commitment to candor? Yet here I was at another crossroads, deciding whether or not to risk two more relationships by being totally honest. If I told the blunt truth to my brothers, would I lose the rock-solid respect we’d built up over a lifetime of shared secrets? And if I lied, would I lose even more?

I swallowed hard.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Everything’s great. But I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

I disconnected. For a minute I just sat, as the screaming siren grew closer and closer. I had spent most of my existence struggling with loneliness, but I had never felt more alone than at this moment.

Instincts kicked in, and I walked into the kitchen, removing Miguel’s .25 from my pocket and placing it on the counter. My hands were shaking, as if I suffered from palsy. I laid my Wilson alongside the other gun, as a patrol car skidded to a halt in my driveway. I looked out the window. My gut clenched. The door of the black-and-white displayed a six-sided star and the word “Sheriff.” The Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department Malibu/Lost Hills Station had jurisdiction over this portion of Topanga Canyon, which meant I was screwed. If this fell under the jurisdiction of the L.A. Sheriff’s Department, being ex-LAPD not only wouldn’t help, it might hurt. The two agencies are notoriously competitive, with the Sheriff’s Department constantly feeling like the underdog. Now the underdog had the upper hand.

The deputies remained in their cars, though the officer riding shotgun lowered his window slightly. I knew exactly what they were doing. Sheriff or police, we were all law enforcement, and the protocols for investigating a shooting incident were the same: observe; assess; be methodical; be cautious; protect the physical evidence; above all, treat the location as a crime scene until someone above your pay grade tells you otherwise. To which my frantic mind now added: if you were LASD and you could somehow stick it to the LAPD, so much the better.

I tried to remember to breathe, but my lungs weren’t cooperating. The officers stayed put. I mentally went through the checklist with them: log relevant information; scan the perimeter for any suspicious people or vehicles; evaluate potential dangers, using your eyes, ears, and even your nose, to ensure there is no immediate threat; check victims for signs of life.

I was in for a long night. I revised my own list of priorities and started a pot of very strong coffee, using my very best beans. Whatever this visit from the authorities meant for my future, coffee was bound to help. With two dead bodies and an escaped gang-recruit in the mix, I wanted to make the best coffee they’d ever tasted.

I watched through the kitchen window as the deputies played their spotlight over the two sprawled bodies. They climbed out of the car, guns drawn. Time to make an appearance. I flashed my outside lights a couple of times to get their attention and inched onto the deck with my hands raised.

The driver was about 40, with a thickset body and the bushy overhang of mustache favored by law enforcement. His thick, black eyebrows canted sharply upwards, as if attempting to fly off his face, using his forehead as a launching pad. The other sheriff was younger, with high cheekbones and a shaved head. Like me, he looked vaguely Asian. Both wore the LASD uniform: tan shirts with epaulets, black-and-yellow arm patches, and a six-sided sheriff’s badge pinned to the left front pocket. I had never laid eyes on either officer. This could get tricky.

The young one carefully walked over to the bodies to confirm they were dead. He nodded to his partner and rejoined him by the car, both still wielding their guns

“I’m the homeowner. I’m ex-LAPD,” I called out. “Burglary/Homicide Division.”

They approached, lowering their weapons slightly. “Deputy Sheriff Gatti,” one of the cops said, “and this is Deputy Juan Herrera. Malibu/Lost Hills Station. You can lower your hands.”

“Tenzing Norbu,” I said. “Glad you’re here, Deputies.” Some lies are a matter of self-preservation.

Officer Gatti jerked his chin toward the two bodies. “You drop both those guys?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was under attack. Two semiautomatics and a .25, to be specific. I wounded the third man in the leg, but I took my eye off him, and he escaped in their vehicle. Black Hummer; couldn’t read the plate in the dark.”

Deputy Gatti jerked his chin toward the two bodies.

“Center mass?” he said, referring to the chest shot that brought my first assailant down.

“Yes. Plus a neck shot. One of the guys was wearing a vest.”

He nodded, his expression neutral, but his eyes appeared to reassess me.

“How many rounds total?” Herrera asked.

“From me? Three,” I said.

Herrera whistled. “Fuckin’ A.”

I assumed he meant this as a compliment, but two corpses didn’t feel like such a great accomplishment. A big part of me wished I could rewind the previous 40 minutes and make a different choice.

“We have some questions for you,” Gatti said, just as his radio crackled to life. He raised it to his ear; listened, nodding; and then grunted a few times. He ended the interchange and consulted with Herrera, both of them glancing at me, their expressions unreadable.

“Everything all right?” I attempted a weak smile.

“Guess we’re waiting for the brass,” Gatti said.

“Your brass,” Herrera added.

Bill to the rescue. My shoulders lowered slightly.

“Did anyone catch the Hummer?”

Gatti and Herrera exchanged a glance. “We might have passed one on the way up here,” Gatti said.

Typical Sheriff’s Department tunnel vision, I thought. But who was I to judge. I was the one who let Miguel escape in the first place.

“Want to come in?” I motioned. “I’ve got coffee on.”

They shrugged, as in “Why not?”

Inside, Gatti eyed the two guns on my counter but refrained from asking any more questions. I passed them both mugs of the fresh-brewed, French-roasted Sumatra. Herrera took a sip. His eyes widened. “Fuck, man, that’s good.” He gazed into his mug, his expression morose, as if he half-regretted having tasted such superior coffee.

Gatti got a call on his cell phone.

“Yessir,” he said. “We’re on it.” They both stood up.

“Securing the scene?” I asked. They walked outside. “I’ve got spare barrier tape if you need any,” I called to their backs. They ignored me.

More tires crunched outside. Moments later, Bill clumped into the kitchen. He headed straight for the coffeepot and poured himself a mug. He sat down in his usual chair.

“Okay, Cowboy,” he said. “Want to tell me what the fuck happened here?”

For the first of many times that evening, I described the incident, starting with Miguel’s visit the previous day. In good detective fashion, my ex-partner had me recount the sequence of events twice, to check for inconsistencies. When I was done, he had one question.