The Third Rule of Ten Read online

  The name “Mrs. O’Malley” had conjured up a tiny, grey-haired Irish lady in a plaid dress and sensible shoes. Let’s just say my mind conjured wrong. Mrs. O’Malley was a young, stunning ash blonde with world-class architecture. Piercing turquoise eyes winked from behind wire-rimmed glasses. She balanced three tall glasses and a pitcher of amber liquid on a rattan tray that matched the furniture.

  She nodded to Bets and arched her eyebrows at me.

  “This is Tenzing Norbu,” Mac said to her. “And you remember my friend, Bets.”

  I pushed to my feet.

  “Constance O’Malley,” she said, “and please, sit down!” Mac was beaming like a proud father. At least I got the Irish part right. I could hear faint traces of Dublin lilt.

  She set the tray down on the coffee table, filled the glasses, and exited. We each claimed a frosty glass. I took a long, grateful pull and tasted mint and lemongrass.

  “She’s new,” Bets said. “You boning her?”

  I spluttered into my glass.

  “None of your damn business,” Mac answered.

  “Thought so,” Bets said, and blotted her mouth daintily with a linen napkin.

  I had just about reached my limit of small talk.

  “Ms. McMurtry, why am I here?” I asked.

  She set her glass down. Cleared her throat.

  “It’s Clara,” she said, her voice low. “She’s gone.”

  Not what I expected.

  “Ah,” I said. “Have you submitted a missing persons report to your local police?”

  Bets raised her hand to halt me. “No police report,” she said. “Nobody can know.”

  Mac put in his own two bits. “Useless fucks. I wouldn’t let the local cops clean my gutters.”

  “Nevertheless …,” I said.

  “No police report,” she repeated.

  “Right. Well …”

  “I just need you to find her for me.”

  It’s always best to get the money part done first, especially when you charge as much as I do. “Did Mac tell you my fees? I book my time in three-day increments. I charge five thousand a day and require half up front.”

  “I’m paying,” Mac said. “We need to keep this off her books.” He frowned. As an early client, he’d paid me by the day. “You think it’ll take three days? You found Maggie in one.”

  “One is ideal,” I said, “but I charge for three.” My voice was firm. I’d been practicing. “We’ll hope for the best, but if I haven’t found Clara within seventy-two hours, we’ll need to use another approach.” I didn’t want to spell it out. Three out of every four people who disappear are found within the first 12 hours. It’s the one out of four that causes the gut to clench. I hoped Clara Fuentes didn’t land in that category. Most of them either stayed lost or were found without a pulse.

  Bets’s mouth thinned. “Mr. Norbu—”

  “Ten, please.”

  “Ten, this is very delicate, understand? No one can know about this. No one.”

  Mac jumped in again. “I told you, Bets. He’s the best.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes the best isn’t good enough,” she snapped. “Look at the Meg Whitman fiasco. Spends a hundred sixty million of her own dough on ‘the best,’ and one disgruntled maid later, Looney-tunes Brown gets elected anyway.” Her face had turned a dull red. “The goddamned mainstream media is already sharpening its claws over me. They’d love nothing more than a nice juicy reason to pounce.”

  I took out a small notebook and pen. I was still old-school when it came to the early stages of an investigation, and I’d learned under Bill’s tutelage that this straightforward action tended to calm people down.

  I started with what I thought was a simple question.

  “How long has your housekeeper been missing?”

  Wrong question.

  “I don’t know!” Bets wailed. “I’ve been fundraising up and down the state, and I gave her last week off. But then she didn’t show up for work on Friday. And I’ve been calling and calling, and she doesn’t answer! That’s not like her! She’s always been … been there for …” Her words dissolved into harsh sobs. I stared at Bets in fascination. Tears were literally shooting horizontally from her eyes. How was that even possible?

  She honked into her napkin. Mac shifted in his seat and looked away, as if embarrassed.

  I tried again. “Where does she live?”

  “With me. In Antelope Valley.” Bets sniffed, on firmer ground again. “And here, when I’m here; I still have my Mom’s bungalow. Clara’s been with me my whole life, Ten. She’s like a sister to me. We even wear the same size clothes.” Her eyes started to well up again.

  “Where does she usually go on her days off?” I asked hastily.

  Bets shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “Okay,” I said. “No matter. Let’s start with the basics. I’m going to need her full name, driver’s license if she has one, date of birth, social security number …” My voice trailed off as my eyes registered Bets. She was shaking her head no, over and over again.

  I made another stab.

  “Green card?”

  No.

  “Credit card?”

  No.

  “Bank account?”

  “I pay her in cash,” Bets whispered. “Just like my mother did.”

  I sat back. “Ms. McMurtry, are you telling me Clara is an illegal? That technically, she doesn’t exist? Are you saying all you have for me is a name?”

  She nodded, miserable.

  “Do you even know if Clara Fuentes is her name?”

  She shook her head, more miserable.

  “Do you have a recent photograph of her?” Bets looked down. “Any photograph of her?”

  Her embarrassed silence was answer enough. I sat back in my chair. Now what?

  “Don’t forget about Sofia,” Mac piped up.

  Bets brightened. I picked up my pen. “Who’s Sofia?”

  Now it was Mac’s turn.

  “See, we were lookin’ for some new help earlier in the year. The wife pulled a groin muscle riding her horse, got laid up in bed, and damned if our housekeeper didn’t up and quit right around the same time.” He shot Bets a look. “And no, I wasn’t boning her, thank you very much.” He downed the rest of his iced tea and poured himself another one.

  “I remembered how great Clara was, and I called Bets, out of the blue. We hadn’t talked in years, but so what? I asked if she had any recommendations. Well, it turns out Clara had—sorry, has—a half-sister or half-niece or some sort of relation who’d just come here from … Nicaragua, was it?”

  “Guatemala,” Bets said. “And they’re cousins.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, she’d just started working for some fancy-schmancy maid service.”

  “Mark pulled some strings,” Bets added.

  “Whatever,” Mac said again. “Long and short of it is, we signed up with them, and now she’s here four days a week, plus Sundays. No driving to the bus stop necessary—all the maids get dropped off, picked up, even bring their own organic cleaning products. It costs a fucking fortune, but it keeps the wife muy happy.”

  I recalled the black van laboring down Mac’s driveway—and wondered.

  “What’s the name of the service?”

  “No idea,” Mac said. “Not my bailiwick. Bets?”

  She shrugged. “Mark knows,” she said.

  “Okay, well, is she here at your house now?” I asked Mac.

  “Is who here?”

  “Sofia,” I said, trying to stay calm. “Clara’s cousin.” I took a deep inhale. The man had the attention span of a gnat.

  “Lemme see.” Mac used his cell phone this time. “Hey. We need to know if that new Mexican—sorry, Nicaraguan—cleaning gal, Sofia, is still here. Can you check?” He frowned. “Then call Penelope on her cell. Thanks. Oh, and sweetheart, can you wire seventy-five hundred into Tenzing Norbu’s account? We’ve got his information on file. Thanks, darlin’.”
/>   So much for “Mrs. O’Malley,” I thought.

  A second thought plucked my brain. I turned my attention back to Bets McMurtry.

  “Ms. McMurtry?”

  “Gawd almighty, son. You’ve seen me covered in snot. I think we’ve graduated to ‘Bets.’”

  “Bets, you mentioned you’ve tried calling Clara. Does she have a cell phone?”

  “Smart!” she said, tapping her temple with a pink talon. “Yes, I replaced her ancient flip-phone for Christmas. Bought her an iPhone. I was sick to death of never getting through.”

  For the first time, a butterfly of hope fluttered inside.

  “Do you have that number?”

  Bets had already whipped out her phone and was scrolling through her contacts list.

  “Here it is: 661-478-1319.”

  I wrote it down. “661. Do you live in Lancaster, by any chance?”

  “That’s right. You know it?”

  “I do.” I smiled; I knew Lancaster well. I made a mental note to call my very first client, John D, later. He’d probably have some choice words about Bets McMurtry’s political leanings.

  Bets scowled as she clicked through a long series of text messages. “Uh-oh. I’m in deep doo-doo. Late for a ladies’ prayer brunch and Mark’s got himself in a royal snit. You need anything else?”

  “Not for now. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  “Okay, but only through Mac, okay? No direct e-mails. No calls. No texts. Don’t want any goddamned reporters catching wind of this.”

  “Okay.”

  She fished a small mirror out of her purse and checked her face. “I look like warmed-over roadkill,” she muttered. “I wouldn’t vote for me if I was the last politician alive.”

  She stood, tugged her jacket into place with a sharp jerk, and flashed me her piranha smile. I stood as well. As she pushed by, she paused, then encircled my wrist with her thumb and forefinger. “I was sick a while back, Ten. Really, really sick. My husband’s dead. We never had kids. That woman spooned food into me as I lay in my bed. She mopped up after me. Changed my sheets.” She squeezed my wrist, a single, decisive clamp. “Find her.”

  She trotted out the door, her high heels clicking.

  Mac had walk-wheeled his chair back to his desk and was at his computer, checking e-mail.

  “I guess I’ll go see about Sofia then,” I said. Mac waved me away, already on to the next thing.

  I stepped outside, blinking in the bright sunlight. As I headed up the driveway toward the main house, I heard the brisk clip-clop of iron on asphalt. I spun around. Penelope Gannon loomed over me, attached to a snorting black beast the size of a two-story building. I’m not fond of horseback riding. If the gods had wanted us to gallop, they’d have given us hooves.

  I shielded my eyes, looking up.

  “Hello, Mr. Norbu.” Penelope’s voice was cool. I may not be a fan of horseback riding, but Penelope Gannon was even less a fan of mine. I’d already poked my nose once into private family business, and one time was plenty. She swung off her steed and landed with a wince. She rubbed her groin area. “Still healing,” she said, catching my look. “I understand you need to talk to Sofia. She should be in the master bathroom. It’s grout-cleaning day.”

  I took a step toward the house. She handed me the reins with a look that would freeze water. “I’ll just go inside and check.”

  I could understand not wanting me inside, but I wondered why Penelope hadn’t already sent Mac or Mrs. O’Malley into the master bedroom to get Sofia. Then I pictured Mrs. O’Malley and stopped wondering.

  Penelope tugged off her black riding helmet as she strode into the house, slightly favoring her right leg. She was lithe and athletic, with the same fine, red hair as Melissa, pulled back in a ponytail secured with a plain rubber band. I had never once seen her dressed in anything but a white polo shirt, jodhpurs, and tall brown riding boots.

  Now what? I reached out one hand and gave the horse’s nose a tentative pat. He jerked away, spraying spittle and yanking the reins loose. I scrambled to reclaim them and tightened my grip.

  “Um. No. Okay? No. Just … stay still.” He took a step closer, lowered his massive cranium, and started to nibble at my hair. I ducked away, still clutching the reins.

  Cats. Cats are the right size for a pet.

  The front door opened, and Penelope hurried back to me, her limp more evident. Melissa stood in the doorway, her fingers in her mouth.

  “She’s gone!” Penelope said. “I don’t understand it! Sofia’s pickup time is always five.” She worked her mouth. “I’d better call the agency. This is completely unacceptable.” Tiny beads of sweat, like dew, appeared on her upper lip. She must really care about keeping her grout clean.

  I shoved the reins at her before she got any wild ideas about taking off again.

  “Will you let me know when you reach Sofia?”

  “Of course,” Penelope said, but she was a million miles away, her eyes darting from palm tree to palm tree, as if Sofia might be crouched behind a spray of fronds.

  I waved good-bye to Melissa, still alone in the doorway, but her eyes were glued to her mother. I made a wide arc around Penelope’s horse and slid into the Tesla, grateful for seat belts, steering wheels, and brakes. I realized I still didn’t know the name of the agency, but Penelope and her horse had disappeared. So had Melissa. I buckled up. Before I took off, I flipped open my notebook to check my notes. Or should I say note.

  I had a cell phone number. Not much on its own. But a cell phone number plus a SIM card, plus a built-in GPS, plus an ex-partner still on the force? With any luck, I would locate Clara Fuentes before nightfall.

  CHAPTER 5

  “No can do, pal.”

  “Ha, ha, ha. You’re kidding, Bill, right?” I had him on speaker and directed my dismay to the phone resting in my lap as I wound my electricity-fueled way up Topanga to my house.

  “Ten, need I remind you what I do these days? I’m D-Three. You know what that means, right? That I’m responsible for making sure mooks like you and I used to be stay on the straight and narrow?”

  “Don’t call me that. It’s politically incorrect. Besides, I’m from Tibet.”

  “Jesus. Mook, not gook. Didn’t you see Goodfellas?” Bill sighed. “No, of course you didn’t. Who do you need to ping, anyway?”

  I gave him the shorthand on the trace, leaving out certain key details, such as who, what, and why. “The phone contract’s under my client’s name, but she can’t go the cell phone-carrier route to trace it, for reasons of acute paranoia—I mean, privacy. Otherwise, what I have to work with is a bunch of blanks.”

  “I don’t envy you,” Bill said. “Even with NamUs expanding its national database, we’ve had a helluva time tracking down unregistered aliens reported missing. I can think of maybe one success story out of hundreds, and she wasn’t even missing, just shacked up with a new boyfriend. I mean, think about it—where do you even start? Half of them have no ID, and the half that do trace back to someone who’s deceased, or living in another state, happily ignorant that his or her personal information has been hijacked. Needle in a haystack, Ten. That’s what you’ve got going on.”

  “Nobody said being a gumshoe was easy.”

  I waited. I knew Bill well.

  “Ah, crap. Give me the fucking number. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but he had already rung off. I texted him Clara’s number and added a smiley-face emoticon, guaranteed to make him mad all over again, in that best-of-friends way. Bill and I saw each other rarely these days, but once a partner, always a partner.

  I thought about what he’d said. If NamUs, the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System, had problems tracking down illegals, my own chance of success seemed pretty slim. Everything hung on the cell phone.

  I was grateful for his help. I always had my recovering hacker, Mike, data jockey extraordinaire, on call as a backup plan, but as Bill pointed out, tracing someone else’s cell ph
one was illegal for anyone but the cops. I hated to knowingly ask Mike to break the law. I had kept him out of prison as a juvenile; I didn’t want to send him there as an adult.

  As I pulled up to my house, I pressed a random button on my phone. Once I reached my front door, the little genies inside the system would have already authenticated me and lowered their guns. I mentally bowed down to the genius of Mike.

  “It’s simple,” he’d said, after setting up the personalized feature for me. Mike’s phone was connected to my Guard-on breach alerts, and I’d woken him up several afternoons—Mike sleeps all day and works all night—by accidentally setting off the alarm. By the time I made it inside my house, it was too late to disarm the system. “All I had to do,” he went on, ignoring the growing glaze coating my eyes, “was assign your wireless network a static IP address and set up a Guard-on network item to ping the IP every five seconds. That way, when you’re close, you return the ping, and the system can check the MAC and initiate a bunch of macros, alerting the house you’re home. Easy-peasy.”

  Welcome to Mike’s brain—and my world.

  Tank met me at the door, his tail swishing. I reached down to pet him. He sniffed my hand and stalked away.

  “It’s horse,” I said. “And if it helps, I don’t like them any more than you do.”

  I washed my hands and made peace with a tuna-water offering. I was hungry myself and decided on peanut butter on toast. Only I couldn’t find the peanut butter, and my bread had broken out in suspicious little green splotches. I settled on a banana. As I peeled the fruit, I noticed a small yellow Post-it had fallen on the floor by the counter. I picked it up.

  “Dr. K. M F 6!!!” was inked on it, in Heather’s looping, little-girl script. A small daisy was doodled next to the time.

  Who was Dr. K.? More to the point, why did he deserve a daisy?

  My cell phone buzzed.

  “Found it,” Bill said. “I can get you within three hundred and twenty-eight feet.”

  “That was fast,” I said.

  Police used to rely on cell-tower triangulation to track down the geographic location of a phone. It wasn’t an exact science, but at least it gave us a general sense of locality and position. But the newer phone models have incorporated a form of GPS triangulation that pulls much more precise information from a cluster of satellites constantly low-orbiting around our planet. The rapid cross-referencing of data can identify and place a phone to within 328 feet. Why 328, as opposed to 327 or 329, I have no idea.