The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) (9 page)

I could feel the front edge of a headache descending like the angled blade of a guillotine. I dug my fingers into the tight muscles at the base of my skull and kneaded. The blade receded a little.

Maybe I didn’t want to face the hurt look on Martha’s face when she discovered my betrayal.

The moon was up, illuminating the scrub oak and manzanita with a night-light of blue. The glowing sphere was just past full, as if someone had taken a paring knife to one side. A soft breeze drifted across the dark canyon and brushed my cheeks, its breath cool and slightly salty.

Or maybe it was simple: I just didn’t want to leave my place of refuge for a broken land, still torn and bleeding from a recent war. Weariness crept up my back and settled in my shoulders. I had been awake for over 18 hours. I hoisted Tank in my arms and carried him inside for his tuna water nightcap.

Bill would do what he had to. So would I. I’d get back to my own work, to G-Force and his money, in the morning.

Everybody has skeletons.

Bill’s had put on flesh and walked back into his life. Roland’s might be harder to locate in the present, but I was certain the key to unearthing them lay somewhere in the past.

C
HAPTER
9

“Mr. Norbu? Mr. Norbu! You need to wake up now.”

I groaned. I’d overslept, by at least two hours.

“I cleared up your desk. I fed your cat. And also I made you coffee. Here.”

A skinny arm shoved a fragrant mug under my nose. I elbowed upright, making sure the duvet continued to cover the necessaries.

“Thank you, Kim.” I took the mug. “I’ll be right out, okay?”

Once upon a time, I had declared to Bill that if I ever got busy enough to need a personal assistant, I would check myself back into the monastery. Might as well have sent a direct message to the gods in charge: as of two months ago I had found myself hiring Kim for Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays—ten hours total.

This was apparently one of those hours.

I dressed quickly, skipping the shower, and soon was inspecting a desk pristine enough to rival Roland’s. Kim hovered over it like an anxious mother.

An angular twentysomething, my new assistant would have fit right in at one of Mike Koenig’s underground electronic music events—spiky black hair, scrawny limbs, and bits and pieces of metal piercings protruding from both ears, her lower lip, her right eyebrow, and probably other places I didn’t want to give much thought to. She’d answered my ad in the classified section of the
Topanga Messenger,
and I liked that she was local and affordable.

Other than being a potential lightning hazard, Kim was working out well. She could clear up bewildering tempests of disorganization with ease, she was happy to make a trip to Whole Foods whenever necessary, and she was very handy with computers. Not Mike-handy, but a major step up from Tenzing-handy. Tank approved of her, and she approved of Tank. She was also relentlessly cheerful, which I appreciated most of the time.

I marveled at my now-spotless desk. “Kim, you’re a genius.”

“Thank you, Mr. Norbu. What’s next?”

Kim rarely wasted words, or time, another plus.

“Please, call me Ten.”

I jotted down a quick shopping list: cat food, coffee, organic chunky peanut butter, chopped raw liver bits from the butcher section, and another six-pack of Redhook—all my little household’s essential staples. I watched her chug away in her boxy Scion with a surge of relief. I really needed her help. I really resented the intrusion. The shorthand version of my relationship-challenged life.

I carted a second mug of coffee to my desk. After a swift visit to Google, which did not offer up any suitable resident’s telephone number, I instigated a phone number search with that most elementary of tools, AT&T Direct. Sherlock would be so proud. I could always go to one of my paid services if this didn’t work. The nice recorded voice on the phone immediately provided me with the numbers for two Roland Conways, one in Studio City, one in Mission Hills. Time for a quick “pretext” call. I decided to use my office fax line, the one that was blocked. No need to let anyone on the other end know who was calling.

I looked at the two phone numbers. Fifty-fifty, again. I chose Mission Hills.

“Hello?”

The voice was warm, but maybe a touch elderly.

“Hi, I’m not sure if this is the right number or not, but I found this wallet. At a Starbucks? The license says it belongs to a Roland Conway?”

“Oh,” the woman said. “Oh dear, he must have stopped there on his way to golf. You’re very kind. How did you get this number?”

“Directory assistance.” That, at least, was true. “Listen, I’m happy to return it to him. I’m still in the neighborhood. I’ll just need you to verify the date of birth, you know, just in case?”

“Of course. Eleven-nine-forty-three.”

Shoot. Wrong Roland.

“I’m so sorry, this Roland Conway is about twenty-five years younger than that.”

“Oh! You must mean Rolly, our son,” she said. “February 29th, 1968. Leap-year baby.”

“That’s the one,” I said while jotting the date down. “Do you have Rolly’s cell phone number?”

“Just a minute. I know I have it written down somewhere, oh! Here it is.” She recited the number and thanked me again, profusely. I felt a momentary twinge of guilt until I remembered Roland’s priggish mouth and pale, guilty eyes.

With a legal name and date of birth, and by first entering the required prviate investigator’s license number, I had enough of a scent to sic the hounds of Merlin, TRACERS, and LexisNexis onto Roland’s trail. I added a national background data search for good measure. If he had so much as an overdue book, I would soon know about it.

I crossed the living room and stepped behind the folding screen for time on the cushion. Last year, after abandoning any spiritual practice for months, I’d made a pledge to Yeshe and Lobsang to reestablish a twice-daily routine of inner exploration. Oddly, but inevitably, the time I expended sitting somehow translated into getting more done during the rest of my day.

While my computer minions were at work, I sat for a full 30 minutes counting breaths, allowing feelings to rise, swirl, and recede, and again calling upon my personal protectors to bring clarity to my friend Bill and ease to his wife.

I forgot to ask for easeful success in my own current endeavor. I soon was scrolling through the various reports on my screen with dismay. Roland’s record was as pure as the Buddha’s intentions: no bad debts; no traffic violations; no civil, state, or federal convictions; no drug habit; no divorce; no registered guns; no nothing.

So what was he hiding?

What would a man need an untraceable search engine for?

Oh.

I returned to the screen, took a deep in-and-out breath, and logged onto the State of California’s sex offenders website. A few years back, I would have had to leave my house and pay an actual visit to a police station or two, but now, thanks to the latest iteration of Megan’s Law, I could search for his name online. With my mental fingers crossed, I signed the disclaimer that said I wouldn’t use this information to harass anyone, entered Roland’s last and first name, and “Los Angeles” where it asked for county.

And found myself looking at a picture of Roland Conway, Jr., younger and more innocent-looking, but unmistakably the same man.

My first thought was,
How very sad.

My second?
You creepy bastard.

The birth date was the same, as was the height, but he’d added at least 20 pounds in the weight department since they’d last asked. His offense was 311.11a, possession of obscene matter depicting a minor. There was no indication of any conviction, which was strange. He must have been able to afford superior lawyers and somehow gotten off with a misdemeanor slap of the wrist and a fine—they probably had the whole thing expunged, which was why nothing had turned up in my earlier searches. But any sex offenses involving minors, including possession of kiddy porn, are as hard to remove as permanent ink. Unless Roland Conway, Jr. had a direct line to the governor, he would stay on this list for the rest of his life.

And if he were ever caught indulging in his dirty habit again, he’d go straight to jail.

I had found Roland’s skeleton, with one short computer search. How hard could it have been for the Lunzy boys to do the same?

I knew what came next, but decided to take a very hot shower first. I felt polluted by Conway’s behavior, and needed badly to scald the toxins from my pores.

Kim entered the kitchen, nylon bags bulging, just as I was heading out to the car. I’d already called Roland on his cell. He was meeting me in his office within the hour.

“I am back. And you are leaving,” Kim said.

“Thanks for doing the filing and shopping. Great work, as always. See you in two days.”

“But I have twenty-five minutes left.” Kim started to chew at her lower lip, and the metal stud click-clicked against her teeth, like a code signifying distress.

She really was an odd person.

“Well, why don’t you go ahead and put away the food, if you like. And give Tank some of the liver bits. He’ll love you for life.”

“Yes, Mr. Norbu.”

“Ten. Please. You’re making me feel so old.”

But Kim was already busy unloading.

Roland’s handclasp was even damper than before, and his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. The reception area had been empty of fiancées—Saturdays and Sundays the office was closed—and I had made sure both the front doors were securely locked before confronting him in his private lair.

I wanted more than anything to wipe Roland’s sweat from my palm, and his compulsion from my consciousness.

“I know what they have on you, Rolly,” I said. “I know what you want to keep your family from finding out. I checked the sex offenders site.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. His entire torso slumped, as if weighed down by a blanket of lead. He still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I waited.

“It happened while I was at business school,” he finally said. “I just, I was working so hard. I never had time to relax. A friend turned me onto these,” he swallowed, “these certain kinds of movies.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Not now.

“I didn’t know they were under age. I swear to God!”

“And that made it okay.”

“No,” he said. “No, it didn’t.”

“And what about now? What’s your excuse now?”

“What do you want? What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Look, I’m not a judge. And I’m not a jury. I’m just a private investigator trying to get what’s fair for my client. So what I’m going to do is sit in this chair and wait, and what you are going to do is make out a check for thirty-three thousand dollars to Godfrey Chambers. Then you are going to make absolutely sure that check is covered by sufficient funds.”

Roland moved to his desk, sat, reached to turn on his computer, and then thought better of it. He pulled a checkbook from a side drawer and filled out a check by hand.

“I don’t know how I’m going to explain this,” he muttered.

“Maybe you can start by telling the truth,” I said. “To yourself, first and foremost. I can promise you, from personal experience, that way lies the only hope you’ll have of ever finding freedom.”

He passed me the check, his hand trembling.

I paused at the door.

“And just so you know, I have a good friend who works for the FBI. From now on, you, Rolly, are officially on her radar. I suggest you cease breaking the law.”

I left him studying the flecked carpet, as if counting the ways he’d messed up his life.

C
HAPTER
10

I gave G-Force a call from the parking lot. The background din of car-washing machinery announced I had caught him at work. Saturday was auto-upkeep day for many.

“Yo, Ten! Right in the middle of things here. Whatcha need?”

“I have a check for you, G.”

“Come again?”

“Your money from Horace. I got it.”

“No way. Unh unh,” he said. “You pullin’ my leg.”

“I have it right in front of me. I assume you can deposit a check for thirty-three thousand made out to Godfrey Chambers without getting arrested, yes?”

“Aw, man. Don’t know even what to … to …” His voice thickened. “Shit, man, you getting me all choked up.”

I was touched. I’ll admit it. “So, should I bring it to you?”

“Here? Naw. Crap neighborhood. I get off work around three. How ’bout we meet at that coffee place again, the one with the sissy-ass food. Hell, I’ll even buy.”

“I thought you hated yuppies.”

“Yeah, but now you got me my money, I’m practically one myself, you feel me?”

“I do. I do feel you, G-Force.”

“You actually did it. Sheee-it,” he said, and hung up.

I coasted south toward West Hollywood on a cushion of good feeling. This was work at its best: see the problem, fix the problem, avoid the misery.

Saturdays were my personal upkeep days as well. Next stop, Yvonne’s. I hoped she had her shears sharpened.

I parked in the alley lot behind the salon. Yvonne used to work out of Topanga, but she moved to West Hollywood to attract a higher grade of clientele, mainly men and women who wanted more than just a trim, or, in my case, a buzz. But wherever Yvonne went, I would follow. Anyone can mow a lawn of hair like mine, but no one else’s scalp massages came anywhere close.

My phone buzzed again, insisting I pay attention. Martha had sent me a text:
CALL ME
.

My buoyant mood evaporated.

At first, my return call was answered with dead silence.

“Martha? Are you there? It’s Ten.”

Finally, a whisper. “Bill’s gone. And it’s all my fault.”

Tears sprung to my eyes. Shocking to me. Unbidden. I inhaled deeply, and lowered my shoulders on the equally long exhale.

“Martha, listen. There is no such thing. Nothing is ever just one person’s fault. These situations are like a dance, and this one is far from over.”

“You’re wrong,” she said. “It’s over. He’s left me and I don’t know what to do.”

“Is anyone there with you?”