The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (16 page)

She plowed ahead. “Maybe if I knew we were solid it wouldn’t bother me so much.”

Her logic seemed shaky. I smiled, remembering a conversation I’d had with Julie once, when I was upset at her for doing something without including me. “Ten,” she’d explained, “handing out claim checks on your well-being to other people is just … is never a good idea. If you think it’s my job to make you feel okay, you’re not only avoiding responsibility but you’re giving all your emotional authority to me. Eventually, you’ll resent me for that, guaranteed.” Wise woman, that Julie, but somehow I didn’t think Heather would appreciate my ex-girlfriend’s insight.

I said, “I disagree, but now’s not the time.”

Heather made a sound like the low speed on a dental drill. “There you go again.”

“What?”

“And now that … that other infuriating thing: pretending not to know what I’m talking about.”

I started to emit a small peep of defense but didn’t have the heart to push it into the air. Any conversation that leaned toward the personal was becoming impossibly complex between us. And if Julie was right, we shared equal responsibility.

Heather’s voice was small. “Maybe it’s good I can’t come over,” she said. “Maybe we should take a little time off, you know, apart from each other. Get to know ourselves again, maybe explore other options …” She trailed off, but I knew what she was doing. The daisy Post-it was proof she had already started down that road, and now she wanted my permission. The nerve she touched was shockingly raw.

In my early training as a monk, the principle of
ma chags pa
, nonattachment, was drilled into me constantly until it was part of every breath I took. In spite of all that training, I’d experienced the polar opposite of nonattachment with girlfriends. Especially Heather. I clung to her at times like a parasite. I’d never been with such a physically exquisite woman, and I still wondered at her beauty. But nobody mentioned that the experience came with a price tag. My gut clutched whenever another man gave her a second look or talked to her, innocently or not, and such incidents happened all the time.

As I started a downward slide into a sinkhole of past jealousies and futile arguments, Lama Sonam’s calm face came to my rescue. “Clinging doesn’t lead to suffering, Lama Tenzing,” he told me. “Clinging
is
suffering.” I used a deep breath to help propel me up to firm ground.

“Let’s not decide anything right now, Heather. We’re not at our best.”

“Okay,” Heather said. “Okay. You’re right. Sorry.”

As I hung up, it occurred to me that I might actually be the more emotionally mature partner in this relationship. Now,
there
was a terrifying thought.

I took another long breath, inhaling deep into my belly. En route, I passed a cluster of emotions. Sadness, for sure, and a queasy sensation of fear. But underneath the fear I tuned in to a slight bubble of elation. What if I was a free man again—not now, but soon? A certain female reporter’s face floated up, unannounced and uninvited …

I activated my Guard-on before leaving. I had to smile:
You’ll be a free man, all right. A free man who lives inside an electronic fence.

Within the hour my Toyota was parked behind Clancy’s Impala. Clancy climbed out and stretched, unfolding like a ruler. He had shorter hair and more muscles than the last time we’d met. He looked great. I made a mental note to start lifting weights again. I joined him on the sidewalk, and we did an awkward man-hug consisting of shoulder clapping and hip avoiding, before stepping back and grinning at each other.

“Good to see you, man,” Clancy said.

“And you.”

We got right down to business. I had just done a quick drive-by of the address and was able to tell him about his target.

“It’s a one-story storefront,” I said. “Some kind of housekeeping service. Their logo is on the window, with the slogan ‘We Bring Clean to You.’ But I’m primarily interested in the lot behind the building. It’s full of maybe a dozen of their vans, and I’m hoping there’s one van in particular with this plate.” I gave him the license number and described the two heavyset men I’d seen at the beach. “You bring your telephoto?”

Clancy nodded.

“Good. I want you to try to locate that van, without being too obvious. If it’s not there, call me. If it’s there, call me and start watching it. If you see two huge cholos approaching that or any other van, call me. If they or anyone else visits the van, if the van so much as changes parking places, you call me. If it hits the road, you follow it, and you call me. I want to know everything, okay?”

“Dude, you lookin’ at the king of surveillance. I plan on rackin’ me up some serious extra hours. I even brought an empty super-size cup, ’case I need to take a piss.”

“Okay,
that
I didn’t need to know.”

We shared another laugh. My smile faded.

“Clancy, be really, really careful, all right? These are not good guys.”

Clancy nodded. “I figured.” His eyes narrowed. “How ’bout you? You doin’ okay?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“I dunno. You seem a little skeeved out to me. Like, not as mellow as I remembered.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. I shrugged. “Long week,” I said.

I left Clancy getting all his gear in order before he set up shop down the block from the GTG lot.

In 20 minutes, I was circling the slender, stealthy black skyscraper known as the Aon. My first order of business was to determine how to get in and how to get out. According to their website, the underground in-house parking facility was open to visitors. But it wasn’t that big, and I suspected it was already full. I quickly discovered the entrance to a second underground lot, for valet parking and residents with monthly passes, located just around the corner. I drove down the ramp to the valet area. An attendant ambled to my window.

“Help you?”

“I’m a messenger. Can I get to the Aon easily from here?”

He nodded. “Tunnel’s that way,” he said, motioning with his chin.

“I’ll only be here a few minutes,” I added.

He gave me and my beat-up car a chilly once-over, but his eyes widened at the sight of a folded $20 in my hand.

“I’m really backed up. Time is money,” I added.

He pocketed the $20. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a space right next to the cashier’s window and very close to the exit ramp back to the street.

I grabbed the labeled and sealed manila envelope from the back seat, jammed the Dodgers cap low over my face, and ran through the underground pedestrian walkway connecting the lot with the skyscraper. Three decades ago a fatal fire had broken out in the Aon building, and firefighters had used this tunnel to evacuate panicking occupants. Thanks to that tragedy, every office building, old or new, is now required to have an installed and functioning sprinkler system. I wondered what other history these reinforced walls contained.

I found the elevator leading up to the main lobby and pressed the button. Checking my phone, I saw that Clancy had left me a message while I was traversing the underground tunnel.

“Yeah, so I found the van. Got my eyes on it. Nothin’ much else goin’ on here, but the situation’s sweet. I’m goin’ off the grid now, so I can focus. Later.”

I took the elevator up two floors, got off, and found myself facing a wall, a desk, and a uniformed concierge planted there to direct, as well as inspect visitors. My Dodgers cap low over my brow, I exited the elevator quickly, clutching the manila envelope to my chest. Time to instigate the time-honored activity known to private investigators as “pretexting” and to normal people as lying. My pretext? I was a harried messenger with a late delivery.

I approached the concierge, a young, handsome African-American man standing behind a long desk. A false wall, decorated with a huge rainbow-hued modern painting, separated us from the actual lobby and office elevators. I was breathing fast to emphasize the urgency of my delivery.

“Excuse me,” I panted. “I have an urgent express delivery for GTG Services.” I flashed the envelope at him, GTG’s pre-printed address on the label and the word RUSH added by me in block letters, front and back.

He picked up the phone, pushing a sign-up sheet and a ballpoint pen toward me. I signed my name with a flourish, making sure the writing was illegible.

He must have been on hold. He studied my signature, his brow furrowed. “Name,” he said.

“Name?” I swallowed.

“Name of the messenger service. It’s not on here.”

I was starting to sweat for real, when a seemingly familiar figure rounded the corner. Although the man wasn’t immediately recognizable, his thousand-dollar suit was. My eyes moved up the pinstripes to their owner with his stony face and slicked-back hair, as I shuffled through my memory files.
Mark Goodhue.
Goodhue, Bets McMurtry’s go-to man. One of the G’s in GTG, unless the universe was playing a ridiculous joke.

“Just let them know it’s here,” I said and made a swift retreat to the elevator, pushing the down button. I knelt, as if to tie a shoelace. The concierge said something to Goodhue. Sure enough, he took my bogus envelope. He opened it and removed the three blank sheets of paper.

Bing!

I stepped inside the elevator. As the doors closed, I saw Goodhue shrug and hand the envelope back.

As I ran back through the tunnel, I wracked my brain to remember Goodhue’s car. I pictured Gannon’s driveway and retrieved the image of a sleek black Mercedes S-Class sedan.

As my mind attempted to unlock the reason behind Goodhue’s presence, a separate lever fell into place: I was almost positive this same Mercedes had cruised by Langer’s while I was eating inside.

I was in my car and on the street in record time and waited a half-block away from the exit, hoping I’d remembered right.

I had. The black Benz nosed out of the exit and turned north up Wilshire. I waited until the sedan had a block-and-a-half on me and then pulled into Wilshire myself, keeping the car in sight. If I had guessed right, Goodhue was at the wheel. In a few blocks, the driver maneuvered from Hope to Flower to Third and then merged onto the 110 South. I followed, maintaining several car lengths between us. When the car merged again, onto the 105, I realized where we were headed. LAX was about 13 miles west. I frowned, adjusting my thinking. Los Angeles Airport could be incredibly tricky for a one-man tail.

But I was wrong. Maybe three miles later, the Mercedes took the Crenshaw exit and disappeared off the ramp. I followed, trying to guess: left or right, left or right. I settled for left and, sure enough, saw the sedan just ahead. I followed, keeping my distance, as the traffic was now sparse. Several blocks ahead, the Mercedes took an odd jump. I slowed way down, pulling my car left to avoid a deep cleft in the middle of the street. Welcome to the wrong side of the tracks, where potholes stayed potholes for years.

I continued following the Mercedes, turning right onto 120th Street, and was startled to see a fenced-in airport, complete with diner, airstrip, and several private planes parked along the edges of the terminal, smack in the middle of the Crenshaw district in Hawthorne. Who knew?

I pulled over and watched as the Mercedes drove inside. I continued along 120th Street, looking for a sight line. Finally I found a spot where I could see past the building to the solitary landing strip. The black sedan was parked near a private jet, a Gulfstream. I lifted my binoculars.
Yes.
Goodhue swam into view, climbing out of his car. He waved one hand, looking upward. I swung the glass sideways, and my lenses filled with the stiff helmet-hair of Bets McMurtry, ducking out of the plane. Giant red-framed sunglasses covered half her face—odd, considering the afternoon sky was overcast—and she was wearing a checkered black-and-white coat. She looked like a distressed, big-eyed fly. She picked her way down the steep stairway from the plane, gripping the rail and moving gingerly, as if she were in some pain. Goodhue hurried to her side and eased her into the passenger side of his car.

I again kept my distance, as Goodhue backtracked to the 105. This time, he transitioned to the 405. I was a little more relaxed. With Bets in the car, no doubt talking a blue streak, Goodhue was much less likely to spot a tail. I followed for ten miles or so at a pretty good clip before Goodhue left the freeway and zigzagged from Cotner to Santa Monica Boulevard to a smaller side street in the Flats area generously—and sometimes snidely—referred to as “Beverly Hills adjacent.”

I hung back as he parked in front of a small but tasteful one-story Spanish bungalow in the middle of the block. He escorted Bets through the front door. This must be her mother’s house, the one she suffered in as a girl and later inherited. Didn’t look that awful to me, but what do I know about deprivation in Beverly Hills?

I was just about to claim a good viewing area and settle in when Goodhue marched out again. Soon, we were back on the 405 South. Goodhue was a busy boy today. Now where was he headed?

Within 15 minutes, we had entered the uninviting heart of Culver City’s industrial badlands. The shadows were lengthening. By now I was wishing that I, too, had brought a super-sized cup to take care of my urinary needs. I dropped back even farther, leaving several blocks between us as we weaved through a maze of cement warehouses and one-story brick buildings. Finally, the sedan nosed up to an industrial chain-link fence of thick galvanized steel, woven through with dark green slats for privacy and enclosing who knows what. My detective antennae started to quiver as I noted the barbed-wire reinforcements jutting inward from the slatted boundary. “We Bring Secure to You,” indeed. This circumference had the feel of a state prison. I again wondered what lay inside. Nothing good.

An electric barrier gate, wide enough for a tank to pass through, slid open. The Mercedes eased into the lot. The gate closed firmly behind it.

I parked a block-and-a-half away. Even with binoculars, I couldn’t see much through the green slatted vinyl, though I just made out two large warehouses, situated side by side, with what looked like a modular trailer sandwiched in between. I used my iPhone to take a GPS snapshot of the location; otherwise I’d never find my way back here. Switching back to my binoculars, I carefully scanned the front and side perimeters of the chain-link barricade. Unless I wanted to shimmy up the spiked trunk of a huge, three-limbed saguaro cactus planted at the front corner of the boundary, it appeared as if there was no other way in. I took a second series of photographs with my Canon.