The Fifth Rule of Ten Read online

  “Do you remember Bobby’s date of birth by any chance?”

  “Not exactly. I know he was born the same month as me.”

  I wrote down: Bobby Smith. Born sometime in June.

  Two days was looking a little optimistic.

  Kim leaned over to set Tank on the floor. Halfway there he executed a flying-squirrel leap and landed a few feet away with a decisive thud. He strolled off, as if leaving was his idea all along.

  Like his owner, Tank was obsessed with maintaining at least the illusion of control.

  Tank entered the kitchen to reconnoiter the food bowl situation. Julie’s voice sing-songed through the screen door. “We’re ho-ome!”

  I tapped the photograph. “May I keep this for a few days?”

  Kim nodded. Her metal tongue stud click-clicked against her teeth, another nervous “tell.”

  “Do you think you will be able to find him?” Kim asked.

  “I hope so. I’ll do my absolute best.”

  In the kitchen Julie unhooked a wheezing Homer from his leash, a semicircle of pink protruding from his mouth. Homer’s tongue was a permanent pennant announcing his inner state of bulldog being, in this case, hot, tired, and thirsty. He collapsed, panting.

  Unlike Homer, Julie seemed energized by the exercise. The front of her T-shirt was marked with two triangles of dampness, one just above her breasts, the other lower down. My body took note.

  Kim and Julie zippered past each other, Julie taking care not to brush against any part of Kim’s body. She was impeccable about respecting Kim’s need for a physical safety zone.

  “Hey,” I called out.

  Julie waved over her shoulder and continued into our bedroom. In a moment the shower started up. I moved to the living-room windows and glanced outside. As I watched, Kim climbed on her bicycle. She had somehow crammed her helmet onto the bed of spikes, and she pedaled sturdily down the driveway toward Topanga Canyon Road and out of sight.

  Why had I just agreed to this? Two days was not a lot of time, and I was rusty. I hadn’t taken on a single missing-person’s case in almost a year. The last misper case had almost gotten me killed.

  I studied the photograph of Kim and had my answer. Four years old. I could only imagine what had happened to her in the intervening decades, an only child with an anxiety disorder, an angry mother, and without her older sibling as protector.

  I crossed the living room and shimmied past the bookcase, which was bulging to the point of overflow since Julie had added her poetry and short story anthologies, plus an extensive cookbook collection. In desperation I’d switched to using a Kindle.

  I slipped behind the five-paneled screen that delineated my meditation alcove. It was very cramped since I’d moved the partition closer to the wall, adding space to the living room and subtracting it from my place of refuge.

  I stood before the makeshift altar. My discarded red monk’s robe served as a cloth covering, camouflaging the old suitcase I’d lugged from Dharamshala when I arrived here 16 years ago. I suppose I could have just bought a low table from IKEA and been done with it, but this way I was always reminded of my roots, and my hybrid nature.

  Over time I’d added mementos of the ensuing time in California—feathers, stones, a misshapen bullet. They balanced the sacred spiritual aids of my previous world: a string of carved sandalwood beads; a photograph of His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama; a small stone statue of the Buddha. The silk thangka of the Wheel of Life hung behind the altar, overseeing all.

  Today I would summon an ancient protector. I placed the photograph of Kim and her brother Bobby next to a delicate Green Tara carved out of jade.

  I took a step back, closed my eyes, and prostrated three times, chanting: Om tare tuttare ture soha. Om tare tuttare ture soha. Om tare tuttare ture soha.

  I prostrate to the Liberator, mother of all victorious ones.

  With any luck the goddess of compassion would step down from her lotus throne and bring me guidance so that I could keep my commitment to Kim. Quickly.

  I quieted my senses to hear Green Tara’s reply.

  What I heard was Homer slopping up water from his bowl in the kitchen.

  Welcome to my overpopulated world. The house was maybe 1,200 square feet. Divided by four, that gave us each . . .

  I didn’t want to think about it.

  “We’d better go, Jules,” I called out to the bedroom, my voice maybe a little sharper than necessary. “We don’t want to be late.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The mahogany steering wheel felt warm and smooth in my hands. I downshifted onto the Sepulveda exit and we slowed to a crawl, surrounded by limos and airport vans following the signs to LAX. The drive had been quiet, both Julie and I absorbed in our own thoughts.

  A pair of policemen waved us straight through the security checkpoint. No terrorist in his right mind would drive a bright yellow 1965 Shelby Mustang en route to committing subversive acts.

  We began the slow loop, avoiding the impulsive swerves of taxis and hotel transportation buses until I could pull into Lot 4, just beyond the Tom Bradley International Terminal.

  “Ten?”

  Julie’s voice was high, like a child’s. In an instant, my own throat tightened. She’d been so subdued on the way here. Had she felt my aversion this morning, once again vaulting me out of bed before dawn? Was she going to ask me about it? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d zeroed in on my shadows.

  “What happens if they don’t like me?”

  Relief flooded my body. I wasn’t ready for the other conversation. Not yet. “They’ll love you,” I replied. “Anyway, it’s not about Yeshe and Lobsang liking you. It’s about them liking me when I’m around you. Don’t worry. I’m the one in their crosshairs.”

  The machine spat out a ticket.

  In moments I had squeezed the Mustang between two identical black Lincoln Town Cars. Their bumpers displayed the charmingly antiquated California Livery license plates, a title better suited to an earlier time, when people traveled in horse-drawn carriages and arrived with their own retinues. The state was finally going to stop issuing livery plates, and I mourned their passing, as I did snail mail and phone booths. Julie says I was born in the wrong century.

  She was already out of the car. She stretched, bending her waist from side to side.

  Early this morning I’d stroked her awake, her skin silk beneath my hands. The writing had calmed me, and I’d managed to crawl back into bed before she stirred. As if nothing had happened. As if everything was fine.

  Inside the terminal, a phalanx of limo drivers in black three-piece suits scanned the arrivals area, handwritten placards positioned at their chests like tactical shields. A steady dribble of travelers trudged past, finally released from Customs and Immigration, surely one of the bardo realms of purgatory. Some lugged wheelies, others pushed carts piled high with their life’s attachments. Even the children’s faces were painted with exhaustion.

  I double-checked Yeshe’s e-mail and located an electronic arrivals board overhead. The split-flap display shuffled through departure cities and times with confusing speed.

  Flip. Flip. There it was—the Delhi-Frankfurt Flight.

  “Their plane just landed.”

  Julie grimaced. “My stomach is in knots. I think it’s nerves.”

  “Take a deep breath,” I said, and I did the same, though in my case excitement was the culprit.

  We moved to the flecked gray concrete wall overlooking the flecked gray concrete ramp. It was crowded, everyone jockeying for the best look, as if at a sporting event. One toddler in her mother’s arms clutched a pair of Mylar welcome-home balloons. Her bowl-shaped haircut reminded me of Kim’s as a girl. A few paparazzi, bodies bristling with cameras, scoured the passengers below with eager eyes, on the lookout for money shots. All around us smartphones announced texted progress reports with a ding.

  Mine was stubbornly silent.

  Suddenly the back of my neck tingled, a whispered warning hinti
ng of hidden danger.

  Someone was watching me.

  “Yeshe said the temple was sending a van and driver,” I said, covering, as I scanned the crowd around us carefully. Nothing hooked my vision. I tried to dismiss the feeling as a false alarm. But my ears were now pricked like a dog’s.

  A large flat-screen monitor occupied a blue Plexiglas divider on the far side of the welcome lobby. Rotating images promoted optimistic slices of diversity in America. The looped series culminated in a robed goddess of copper and steel, rising from New York Harbor. In case anyone missed the point, every few minutes the words Welcome to the United States of America flashed.

  “I wonder what their story is.” Julie pointed. A cluster of young people moved up the ramp, their own huddled mass. It was hard to tell their genders. All their heads were loosely wrapped in white shawls, and all wore caftan-like robes of different hues. Their complexions ranged from darkish to fair, but their eyes uniformly gleamed with the pure light of the converted.

  I referred to the arrivals board.

  “London, I think.”

  The back of my neck prickled a second time.

  I spun, but no one was paying me any mind. The little girl with the bowl cut hurtled past, silver balloons bouncing above her like giddy satellites.

  “Papa! Papa!” A soldier in khaki uniform and peaked cap dropped to one knee, his arms outstretched. His wife reached his side, and he rose with his daughter still clinging. The couple embraced, and he set his military cap on his daughter’s head, tucked between them. It tipped low over her eyes.

  The London group flowed to one side of the family reunion and on out the glass doors as if they were a single organism. I filed the image away. I was still on high alert, and something about their robes . . .

  My phone buzzed: Blocked Caller, the screen read. Joy flooded my body.

  “Hey! Welcome to Los Angeles!” I answered. Faint sounds throbbed in my ear.

  “Hram hram hram.” A low chant, barely audible.

  “Hello? Yeshe? Is that you?”

  “Hram hram hram hram.” The monotone delivery intensified in volume. “HRAM HRAM HRAM HRAM.”

  “I’m sorry. Who is this calling?”

  The chanting abruptly cut off. “We’re here,” a voice whispered. Then, nothing.

  A hand grasped my arm and my insides cartwheeled.

  “Well, well, well. Lama Tenzing Norbu. I told Adina this morning I was sure I’d find you here.”

  I whirled, my heart hammering.

  It had been 14 years, but I knew him in an instant. His hair had turned completely gray, but it flowed back from his forehead in the same thick stream, and the laugh lines were etched deeper, but they fanned out from the same blue-green eyes. At almost 70, Dr. Eric Leonard still radiated karuna—compassion.

  “Dr. Leonard, hello.” I managed a smile, though I was shaken by the phone call. It wasn’t like Yeshe and Lobsang to play practical jokes.

  “Call me Eric, please. My goodness, you are a sight for sore eyes, Ten. How long has it been?”

  “Too long,” I tugged Julie over. “Jules, this is Eric Leonard. I lived in his basement when I first moved to California to teach at the temple. I told you about him, right?”

  “Of course,” Julie said. She turned to Eric. “You’re his Yoda.”

  “His Yoda?” He looked puzzled.

  “You changed Ten’s life. Not to mention mine. I would never have met Ten if you hadn’t asked him that million-dollar question.”

  “‘Lama Tenzing, ask your heart. What does it truly long for?’” I quoted.

  “See?” Julie said. “Totally Yoda thing to say.”

  I completed the introduction. “Eric, this is Julie Forsythe. Julie’s brother-in-law Bill Bohannon was my partner in Robbery/Homicide. Bill’s married to Julie’s half sister Martha, and Julie and I met when Martha set us up . . .” I was babbling. I closed my mouth.

  Eric directed his next words at Julie. “Ten would have figured things out eventually. To this day, I’ve never met a wiser or more reluctant Buddhist lama. Believe me, the only man Ten revered back then was Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  He glanced at Julie’s left hand, where a small silver and turquoise ring winked. “Are you two . . . ?”

  “Engaged,” Julie said. “A bit stalled, actually.” She tossed me a look, but I wasn’t catching. “We can’t seem to get it together to pick an actual date. How does anyone survive the wedding insanity?” To my ears, her laugh was a little forced.

  I jumped in. “What about you?” I said to Eric. “Still youth advisor at Ganden Gyatso?” Eric and his wife Adina had been temple stalwarts.

  “Oh, yes. Youth advisor, chairman of the board, planner of monk tours, and apparently chauffeur. At least for this afternoon. We had a little crisis arise with the volunteer driver.” Eric shook his head. “Poor Danny. I tried to warn him. Karma ripens around these tours, big time. In Danny’s case, it ripened for him before the monks even landed. He broke his ankle over the weekend trying to be the next Tony Hawk.”

  I must have looked baffled.

  “Skateboarding,” Julie said. She often served as my cultural translator.

  “Ten?” Eric’s kind eyes took me in. “I heard about your father’s death. That must have been confusing for you, and hard. But perhaps also liberating?”

  “You always were good at reading situations,” I said, and left it at that.

  “So what are you up to these days? Still a card-carrying member of the LAPD?”

  “I’m on my own, now. A private investigator.”

  “I see. Freelance. Do a lot of driving around, do you?”

  “Driving around . . . ?”

  I saw what he was doing.

  “Ahh. You need a driver.”

  “I’m afraid so. I’d do it, but I have wall-to-wall clients most days, otherwise . . .”

  “I’d love to,” I said, but reality hijacked my excitement before it had time to take hold. A hot flare of anger followed. This is why you should never promise anyone anything.

  Eric read my face like a chart.

  “You’d love to, but?”

  “But, I just committed to a job, at least for the next two days. I’m sorry.”

  Julie’s body had sprung to attention, like Homer when one of us opened the refrigerator door.

  “I’ll do it,” she said. “I’m going out of my mind waiting for the lawyers to finish up lawyering so I can start scouting for restaurant sites.” She motioned vaguely, as if hoping to conjure up a restaurant right here in the terminal.

  “Julie’s a professional chef,” I explained to Eric. I turned to Julie. “Are you sure you should?”

  “Think about it. It’s perfect, Ten. You get a break from having Homer and me underfoot, and I get to have a purpose. Other than ‘future bride,’ I mean.” She turned to Eric. “I swear to God, if my sister drags me to one more bridal boutique I’m going to punch her in the nose. Talk about karma ripening.” Her face clouded. “Oh God, is it okay that I’m a woman?”

  “I’ll check, but I don’t see why that would cause a problem,” Eric said, amused. “Times have changed since Tenzing was a novice.”

  “And it’s for how long?” Julie already had her phone calendar out.

  “Eleven days. A week here plus four days in Ojai. The tour culminates in a full moon celebration, location as yet to be determined, on the twelfth. We’re treating this as a kind of pilot fund-raising program. Very last minute. If it proves successful, we’ll bring a group back next year for a longer tour.”

  “Do you think they’d mind if Homer rode shotgun? He’s very enlightened for a bulldog.”

  I was feeling distinctly left out, even though I was the one doing the leaving.

  “So this is great,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Julie can chauffeur the first few days. Then I can take over.”

  Eric’s eyes crinkled, missing nothing. “Just to be clear, you’ll both be ferrying five Tibetan lamas in a rented Ford eig
ht-passenger Econoline to and from different venues around Los Angeles. They’ll also need to shop for food and supplies. They largely do their own cooking.”

  “Dumplings. Excellent,” Julie said. “About time I added Tibetan momos to my repertoire.”

  I opened my mouth. Closed it. My discomfort had everything to do with my own internal state and nothing to do with hers. I would unpack my puzzling resistance later.

  “I see them,” Eric said.

  CHAPTER 5

  Two figures wrapped in maroon robes made steady progress up the ramp. Yeshe and Lobsang. Here. In Los Angeles. My heart swelled so quickly it hurt.

  I waved, but they were focused on balancing their carts, piled high with duffel bags, suitcases, and several bulky boxes encased in airport plastic. As usual, my friends’ primary purpose was maintaining equanimity, or in this case equilibrium.

  “Which one’s which?” Julie asked. “No, wait. Don’t tell me, I want to guess. Lobsang’s the stocky one with the scowl, and Yeshe’s right behind him, the gangly guy with the sweet smile.”

  “Right on both counts,” I said, my voice rough with feeling.

  Two more monks appeared behind them. They hurried up the ramp to Lobsang and Yeshe and took over the cart pushing. I didn’t know either. They were too young to have been at the monastery when I was.

  “That first fellow there, the boy in front, is one of Rinpoche’s protégés, Wangdue Chodak,” Eric said. “Wangdue is quite the scholar.”

  “Wang-due Cho-dak.” Julie rolled the syllables in her mouth. “Unusual.”

  “Not if you’re Tibetan,” I said. “Families don’t pass along surnames like over here. Parents name their kids for objects. Sometimes simple things, like a flower or a day of the week. But more often for certain . . .” I reached for the right term. “Elements. You know, positive traits.”

  “So no last names?” Julie said.

  “Nope. Take me. Tenzing means ‘holder of the teachings,’ and Norbu means ‘jewel.’ Or Yeshe, that translates as ‘wise,’ and Lobsang equals ‘noble minded.’ I guess the idea is to encourage right action from birth.”

  “That’s very cool,” Julie said.