The First Rule of Ten Read online

  I handed it over.

  He looked at it in disbelief. Handed it back.

  “Pleistocene-era, my man. And fugly to boot.”

  As I opened my mouth to protest, I heard the unmistakable choppy stutter of an old Volkswagen wheezing up the gravel hill that leads to my driveway.

  Two visitors in one day. Unheard of.

  Mike and I moved to the kitchen window. A rusted Volkswagen Beetle—the original model, the one you could fix at home, blindfolded—surged into my driveway, coughed once, and died. After a moment, the door creaked open and long, California-girl legs unfolded a lean body from the driver’s seat. She rolled her shoulders a few times, and stretched. As she turned to look at the house, her face was illuminated in the afternoon light. She was older than I’d first thought, already in her 40s. Her thick blond hair, threaded here and there with silver, was plaited into a long braid down her back. Her face and arms were tanned—the tawny color of sage honey.

  “Time warp. What a trip. She’s straight off of Yasgur’s Farm,” Mike said.

  “Who’s Yasgur?”

  Mike shot me one of his “Are you joking?” looks.

  “Yasgur’s Farm. Woodstock? 1969? Peace, love, and acid? Boss, you have some serious gaps in your cultural literacy.”

  Woodstock I had heard of. Missing that event was one of Valerie’s deepest regrets, or so she’d often informed me after several glasses of wine. It sat at the top of a long list of resentments she’d held against her estranged parents until the day she died.

  This lady did appear to have a strong vintage-hippie thing going on. Her yellow and brown paisley dress was long, loose, and flowing. She had a crocheted shawl around her shoulders, and her handbag was of Indian cotton embroidered with tiny mirrors that winked in the late afternoon sun.

  “Man,” Mike said. “That lady’s so outdated she’s back in.”

  She spotted us watching from the window, and waved.

  “I’m going to let you handle this one,” Mike said. “I’ll keep examining the entrails here.” He went back to work on my computer.

  I stepped outside and waved back. She walked right over and offered her hand. I caught a faint whiff of stale incense.

  “My name’s Barbara Maxey,” she said, her voice pleasant. Her palm was rough and dry, like she did a lot of outside work.

  “Tenzing, Tenzing Norbu.”

  “You’re a long way from Tibet.”

  That was interesting. Most people I met had no idea that Tenzing was a common Tibetan name.

  She gestured toward the house. “I’m guessing Zimmy Backus doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “Not for a couple of years,” I said.

  “Is he …?” Her face creased with anxiety.

  “No, no, he’s fine, as far as I know.”

  She looked relieved.

  “I used to be married to Zimmy,” she said, “but I was part of the living-out-of-a-van era. B.S., we called it back then. Before Success.”

  “No kidding, you were married to Zimmy?”

  “Wife number one. The one before the Japanese wife. I never lived up here.” She took in the view, and a wisp of regret passed over her features. “It’s beautiful. A beautiful place to be.”

  I waited. After a moment, she half smiled at me. I was oddly touched.

  “They still together?” she asked.

  I told her about the bass player, and she winced at the indignity of it.

  “Zimmy and I hooked up as drug buddies first, before we made it official. We never had much of a marriage. We went through a major mountain of cocaine before we split up. Four years of haze and hell is what it was, and I was the one keeping the engine stoked with coke.”

  I’d only known this woman for 30 seconds and we were already deep into her marital and pharmacological history. Usually that kind of instant confession turns me off, but there was something endearing about Barbara’s candor, an underlying sadness that kept her confession from seeming in any way self-serving, a ploy to arouse sympathy. I found myself wanting to protect her.

  I told her I’d bought the house from Zimmy, and gave her a quick synopsis of Zimmy’s life since.

  “Pear farm?” She shook her head. “That must be some different version of Zimmy than the one I knew.”

  “I think rehab really worked for him.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “I had to join a cult to get clean. And then the cult ended up being worse than the dope. I mean, it only took six weeks to get off coke, but ten years to escape that freaking place.”

  “How long have you been out?”

  She gave me a wide, full smile, and I saw the stunning young woman she must have been before drugs and disappointment had their way with her.

  “Since yesterday.”

  How bizarre was that? Today was my first real day of freedom, and hers, too. I was intrigued. Why had the universe arranged for us to meet on such a hopeful day for both of us? It seemed auspicious, and my heart perked up at the possibilities.

  Barbara gestured at my house. “That’s why I came here. This house is the only place I thought I might find somebody I know. I have nowhere else to go. The group I was in, they didn’t allow any communication with anybody from our past. No phones, no letters, nothing.”

  Nowhere to go. That feeling, I understood.

  “What about your family?”

  She shrugged. “No family. Just me.”

  I understood that, too.

  “Where did you get the car?” I asked.

  She ducked her head. “Stole it,” she said. “It belonged to them.”

  “The cult?”

  She nodded sheepishly. “But I figured I had something coming to me, with all the crap I put up with from them.”

  She scuffed at the dirt. She was wearing old work boots under her dress, an oddly attractive combination of masculine and feminine. It occurred to me she might like to come inside. Have a cup of tea.

  “When’s the last time you talked to Zimmy?” she asked.

  “Maybe a year and a half ago,” I said.

  “Did he say anything about his royalties?”

  A sour gorge of disappointment rose in my throat. She was angling for something after all. My heart snapped shut.

  “Zimmy and I never talked about that kind of thing,” I said, my voice cool. I glanced at the house. “Listen, I need to get back to work. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “I think something bad may be going on. I need to warn Zimmy. I want to make sure he stays safe. I still care about him.”

  I didn’t believe a word of it.

  “Tenzing, do you have a phone number for him?”

  “I’m sorry, but I haven’t talked to Zimmy for almost two years. The last number I had is from rehab days. All I know is he lives on a pear farm, like I said. With his new family.”

  She finally caught the change in tone. She looked at me curiously, but said nothing.

  “Sorry. I can’t help you,” I said. “Have you tried his old record label?”

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “That’s part of the problem,” she muttered, crossing her arms protectively. She didn’t elaborate.

  I said nothing.

  Then her whole body sagged, as if the past 24 hours had finally caught up to her. Forlorn, is how she looked. Forlorn, and far away. I tried to summon up some compassion for her, but I had nothing tangible to offer—I was feeling kind of forlorn myself. Empty, and not in the good Buddhist sense of open and spacious, but devoid of feeling. So I told myself she’d figure it out on her own.

  She straightened up and met my eyes. “Thanks for your time. Listen, the starter on the car is shot. Can you help me give it a shove down the hill?”

  I got Mike. With Barbara at the wheel, we leaned our shoulders into it and soon the Beetle was out the gravel driveway and rolling downhill. Barbara popped the clutch, and the engine clattered to life. Her hand fluttered one small wave out the window of the battered old car. Mike and I wa
tched her chuff away, until she disappeared.

  “What was that about?” he said.

  “Nothing. She’s looking to get rich off her ex—my former landlord Zimmy Backus. I’d love to call Zimmy and warn him, but I have no idea where he is anymore.”

  We walked inside.

  “So here’s the deal,” Mike said. He pulled out his phone and his fingers started dancing. Postage-stamp-sized web pages swelled and shrank until he found the one he wanted. “Setting up a home office that actually functions will cost you at least three grand in new equipment. But you also have at least three cell-phone upgrades coming to you, so I’ll start working on that right away. Meanwhile, you’re going to have to do your gumshoe footwork the hard way. By foot.”

  “Or I can call you.”

  “Or you can call me.” Mike mounted his electronic pedal-bike, a flamingo perched on a two-wheeler. Got to love the guy.

  “Mike?”

  He turned.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problema. Hey, you want me to find this Backus dude’s whereabouts? I do love me a challenge.”

  “Be my guest,” I said.

  I walked back in the house and fixed myself a pot of green tea. I sat on the deck and sipped. The day darkened into night. Barbara Maxey, she of the blond braid, callused hands, and wide sunflower smile, floated up. I dismissed her. Nothing auspicious about it. Just another ship, passing in the night.

  When I’m wrong, I am so wrong.

  CHAPTER 5

  “No way,” I said into the phone.

  “Come on, Ten. Just a nice, relaxed dinner with the family.”

  “I know Martha almost as well as you do, Bill. There is no such thing as relaxed where I’m involved. Who’s she got lined up this time?”

  Bill said nothing. I returned the favor. When it comes to playing silent chicken, I have much more patience.

  I didn’t have long to wait.

  “Fine,” Bill snapped. “Her younger sister Julie’s in town. Half-sister, technically. She’s an amazing cook, Tenzing. The real deal. A professional chef. Good-looking, too.”

  “I don’t care if she’s the radiant goddess Tara incarnate. I’m not interested.”

  For the past six months, since she quit her job to have and raise the twins, Martha has been on a one-woman tear to fix me up with a new girlfriend. I finally caught on after the third “accidental” drop-in of an available female right around the first course of yet another supposedly relaxed family dinner.

  Bill sighed.

  “I’ll be sure Martha makes it clear you aren’t looking for a mate. Anyway, Julie’s almost as gun-shy as you. She’s coming off a disastrous breakup with a crazy sommelier. You don’t want to know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Come for dinner, Ten. Martha misses you. Hell, another day or two, and I may even start to miss you. Anyway, you haven’t seen the girls in months.”

  I heard the crunch of tires turning into my driveway. This hideaway home of mine was becoming a regular Greyhound bus station.

  “I’ll call you back,” I said.

  I crossed to the window. A black-and-white pulled up, followed by a dusty sedan so nondescript I immediately made it as an unmarked police vehicle.

  I recognized the local cop the minute he clambered out of the car and hitched up his pants. He was middle-aged, built like a cement wall, with a permanent look of disappointment etched into his features. I’d seen him around. His main beat seemed to be traffic citations, handing out greenies to entitled yuppies making illegal U-turns around town.

  Hey, I’d be disappointed, too. A traffic beat isn’t exactly the pinnacle of police work.

  I didn’t recognize the plainclothes detective. He was bone-thin, with a hawk face. His suit was in serious need of a visit to the dry cleaners.

  They ambled toward my back door.

  I tucked my T-shirt into my jeans. Pulled it out again. Smoothed my hair. Noted the flicker of nerves in my chest.

  Remarkable. I’d only been a civilian for a few days, but apparently that’s all it took to cross the invisible boundary separating the rest of the world from law enforcement. I was no longer a member of that exclusive club. I wasn’t sure I liked the feeling.

  They clomped up the back steps and rapped on the door. I opened it and extended my hand.

  “Ten Norbu.”

  Hawk Face gripped hard. “Detective Terry Tatum,” he said. “This is Officer Morris.”

  Morris’s handshake was damp and halfhearted. I refrained from wiping my palm on my jeans.

  “I’ve seen you around town,” I said to Morris. “What’s up?”

  Tatum stepped in before Morris could reply. Interesting. Must be two jurisdictions.

  “We’re hoping you can help us with an investigation,” Tatum said. “But first, I guess congratulations are in order. I hear you just put in your papers.”

  “Word gets around fast. What division are you in?”

  “Sheriff’s Department. Fifteen years on the job.”

  “My sympathies,” I said, which elicited a tiny, tight smile from him. There’s no love lost between the LAPD and County.

  I gestured toward the kitchen table. They sat.

  “Want a cup of coffee?” Dumb question. They were cops. Of course they wanted coffee.

  I busied myself setting out two mugs, filling them with the strong Arabian brew left over from breakfast and stored in a carafe. I tend to make a lot of coffee. I don’t always drink it all, but I like knowing it’s there. As I set down the mugs, I mentally ran through my cold cases, trying to work out what brought them to my house.

  I came up blank.

  “So, what’s the investigation?”

  Tatum and Morris exchanged glances.

  Tatum again spoke first. “There was a woman in a beat-up Volkswagen seen coming up your road yesterday. One of your neighbors thought she might have turned into your driveway.”

  “Barbara Maxey,” I said. “She was looking for her ex-husband, Zimmy Backus.”

  I gave them the quick sketch of my brief interaction with her, leaving out my little frisson of attraction.

  Morris scribbled in a small notebook. His writing was spiky and crabbed. It looked disappointed, too.

  “This about the car?” I asked. Stealing a rusted VW didn’t usually warrant a house call by two cops from two different departments, but you never know.

  Detective Tatum’s face narrowed. “What about the car?”

  “It’s hot. She stole it. From the cult, she said.”

  “That explains the expired plates,” Morris put in, and made another note.

  Tatum just shook his head. “No. We’re definitely not here about the car.”

  “What did she do, then?” Car theft aside, she didn’t strike me as felon material.

  “She didn’t do anything,” Tatum said. “She got it done to her.”

  A thin spear of dread drilled downward from my heart to my belly. I swiveled in my chair to look out the window. I think something bad may be going on. I took a deep breath. Turned back to Tatum. He was eyeing me closely.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Tatum opened his mouth. Then closed it. One more silent exchange with Morris. I knew this look too well—Bill and I had shared it many a time when questioned by a well-intentioned citizen. I was the civilian now. Kicked out of the tribe, maybe for good.

  Well, I would have to create my own tribe, then.

  “We’ve got her on a slab downtown,” Morris said. “We need somebody to I.D. the body. She’s got no next-of-kin as far as we can tell, so that leaves you.”

  I have nowhere else to go.

  I stood up.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  I headed south down Topanga Canyon, pulling a left on Pacific Coast Highway. Usually I loved to take the Mustang through her paces, but I was too distracted to enjoy the drive. I hugged the coast, glancing once or twice at the ocean to my right. It was dark and choppy today, like m
y mood. I wondered about Barbara’s connection to Zimmy, her concern about his royalties. I had been so quick to dismiss her fears. Too quick by far.

  I continued onto the 10. It was smooth sailing for about nine miles, until I ran into the inevitable clog of cars that meant downtown was close. I zigged onto the 110 toward Pasadena, zagged onto the 5 South, merged onto the 101, and took the Mission Road exit. Driving in L.A. was like negotiating a labyrinth. It took me years to learn my way around.

  I entered Boyle Heights, land of the gang, home of the disenfranchised. Last count, it was over 90 percent Latino, and who could blame them? Their forefathers were victims of restrictive covenants that limited land ownership throughout L.A. to only the whitest of lily-whites. South Central and Boyle Heights were the exceptions. Now these two neighborhoods marked their territories with spray cans and bullets.

  I pulled into the County Coroner’s entrance and parked in an open slot in front of the emphatic “Visitors Only!” sign. That was me, now. A visitor only.

  Ahead of me loomed an ornate confection of brick and cement that seemed better suited to an art academy than its singular, grim purpose. Eight hundred bodies passed through the County Coroner’s building every month—anyone whose death was sudden, unnatural, or suspicious in any way. Anyone not under the care of a doctor. Anyone who had fallen off the map. I have nowhere else to go.

  I slowly ascended the stone steps, dreading the job ahead. The last time I came here, it was to buy a beach towel—among other distinguishing features, this was the only Coroner’s office in the country with its own gift shop. Skeletons in the Closet stocked an array of morbid but amusing knickknacks, from skull business-card holders to numerous items decorated with the ominous traced outline of a fallen homicide victim. Some of the proceeds raised money to educate kids about drunk driving; though it seemed to me a tour of the morgue after a bad pile-up might serve just as well. Whatever. At the time, I’d been invited to a retirement party for a fellow cop who was taking his pension and hightailing it to Hawaii. The Body Outline Beach Towel seemed like just the thing.

  I entered the lobby. Passed a small cluster of people surrounding a young woman racked with sobs. Passed an elderly man, sitting, staring blankly ahead, at nothing. Took a deep breath in, then out. Mortality is hard to face, but impossible to avoid. Me? I’d been trained to view the inevitability of death as a goad to living a more meaningful life—by showing compassion to others, for example. I only wish it were that easy.