The Third Rule of Ten Read online

  I shuddered, remembering the grave, pained look on the face of my tutor, Lama Sonam, or the angry look on my father’s when I had broken yet another rule. It was a look nobody could ever fake, communicating something like, “Your behavior makes me question whether my whole life as a teacher has been a waste. Your behavior causes me to wonder if I’ve betrayed the Dharma and will be reborn as a horny toad.”

  I can testify that a shaming look is a very strong deterrent to most people. I must have been about six the first time I experienced it at Dorje Yidam. My gut froze, as if a giant hand was gripping my entrails. A split-second later, fire bloomed in my calves and spread up through my thighs to meet the ice deep in my belly. The collision of these two—shame and fear—triggered an awful alchemy, sending toxicity throughout the body.

  Right now, looking at Heather’s text, my blood was streaming with it.

  Breath is the only thing that will clear the taint of that particular poison. As I mutely stared at the text, I breathed deeply and slowly, in and out, until the toxin began to disperse. After about ten breaths, the disharmony was more or less resolved. But I still didn’t know what to do.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard Lama Sonam’s gentle voice: “Whenever possible, Lama Tenzing, do the thing you’re most hoping to avoid.”

  I had promised myself today would be different. I found her name and pressed it. Her phone rang in my ear.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi back.”

  “You never called me back. Are you mad at me?”

  A little fist of tension balled up between my shoulder blades. Part of me wanted to run my usual tactics and say, “I’m not mad at you. You’re the one who’s mad at me,” but I was way too tired to sell that one with any confidence.

  “I don’t know what I am right now. It’s been a hard day. I’m ready for bed.”

  “Ready because you’re tired or because you’d prefer to avoid talking to me?”

  Sometimes Heather can be maddeningly insightful. I felt my mental wheels spin in place.

  How about telling the truth?

  “A little bit of both, I guess.” My shoulders relaxed. Over to you, Heather. I wondered if she was going to punish me for being honest.

  To my amazement, she didn’t. “Yeah, I’m pretty tired myself. I wound up working all afternoon. Check in tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, let’s do that.” We both left off the love you’s.

  I activated the alarm and fell into bed. A solid thunk registered Tank’s daredevil leap from dresser to mattress. He tucked up against me, and I felt honored, even as the tiny part of my brain still functioning smirked at my reaction. As I drifted off, I pondered the different ways cats and dogs—not to mention their deluded owners—handle affection. If you’re a dog owner, you pay a little attention to your dog, and the dog thinks you’re doing something miraculously wonderful. It licks, wags, pants, and dances in circles. Dog owners accept everything about this deal, despite the potential for well-earned ridicule as enablers of vulgar canine toadying.

  If you’re a cat owner, the reverse is true: your cat pays a little attention to you, and you think it’s doing you a favor. Cat owners accept everything about this deal, despite the potential for well-deserved ridicule as easy marks, suckered in by cunning slackers who appear, at best, amused, when not subjecting their masters to long periods of feline disregard.

  Either way, everybody’s happy.

  CHAPTER 6

  I woke up rested and with a breakfast game plan—a gourmet version of what, when I first moved to Los Angeles from Dharamshala, seemed like the oddest food I’d ever tasted. The same teenagers I was introducing to Tibetan Buddhist chants introduced me to a P, B, and J. I was stunned at how good crushed peanuts and strawberry jam tasted, smeared on two slices of bread. Over the years, I continued to experiment with multiple variations on the original theme. These days, I started with handcrafted, organic, whole-grain bread from the local farmer’s market and crunchy peanut butter, ground fresh while I watched at the natural foods store down the hill. To these basics, I would add slices of organic banana, when I had bananas around, and a drizzle of raw, wildflower honey.

  I dressed quickly. My mouth watered just thinking about what lay ahead: the wild jungle sweetness of banana, combined with the earthy crunch of peanut butter, the low note of crusty bread, the hint of honey providing a tantalizing jazz riff in the far distance. I found a loaf of bread in the freezer, popped two slices in the toaster, and went to the cupboard for the peanut butter. It was gone. An almost full jar, if I remembered correctly. I checked all my cupboards, the refrigerator, and then all the cupboards again, in case I was merely suffering from a severe case of sudden-onset male blindness. Twenty minutes and two burned pieces of toast later, I was breakfastless and in a foul mood. Not even fresh-brewed coffee helped. I was seriously considering going back to bed with a pint of ice cream, when Mike called.

  “Yo, boss-man,” he said. “How’s it hanging?”

  “I can’t find my peanut butter anywhere,” I wailed into the phone. The wall of silence that greeted my words made me realize how ridiculous I sounded, and I started to laugh.

  “Dude, for a minute I thought you were, like, six years old,” Mike said. “Ask Heather. The women always know. So listen, I’ve been trying to trace that number you gave me, as in trying all night. And, well, the thing is, I’m stumped.”

  “I don’t believe it.” I had never heard the word stumped come out of Mike’s mouth, not in the ten years I’d known him.

  “Believe it. At first I thought it was one of those rerouting scams, you know, where they route the number through a buttload of countries, so you can’t be sure where it first originated—well, I mean, most people can’t, unless they’re the FBI—but the thing is, I always can. Only this time, I couldn’t. And it gets weirder.”

  “Go on,” I said, checking under the sink. I needed that sandwich more than ever.

  “Ten, I don’t even recognize the network this cell phone number was using, or I should say, my algorithms don’t. And that’s not just strange. It’s impossible!”

  This day had started out bad and was rapidly getting worse.

  “I’ll keep trying,” he said. “But first I gotta sleep for a couple hours. Later!” Mike hung up, his voice sounding almost ebullient at the challenge.

  I called Heather.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Have you seen the peanut butter?”

  “The peanut butter?” Now I felt ridiculous, as well as put upon. “Have you tried looking for it?” Heather’s voice sounded taut and high-pitched, as if she were angry with me for asking. “Sorry, Ten, but I have to go.”

  I settled for toast and honey, but every bite rankled, as did the fact that I was back to square one and Clara’s time clock was running out.

  I walked into my designated meditation area and got as far as looking at my cushion before walking back out. I stared across the living room at my computer: I could Skype Yeshe and Lobsang, maybe bring them in on the meager facts at hand. My mind rebelled. I was a certified private investigator with more than a decade of police work behind me. I was the Sherlock Holmes of missing people. For once, I wanted to solve a case without resorting to the inner tools and secret weapons I’d inherited from the other side of the world.

  The six-year-old in me still wanted to prove my father wrong.

  For the next several hours, I used every non-meditation-based investigatory tool known to technology to try to track down Clara Fuentes. I entered my five-digit P.I. license number and executed various searches from simple to complex, using Merlin, TRACERS, and the LexisNexis offshoot People Search. By estimating Clara’s age (mid-50s) and entering both Lancaster and Los Angeles as her cities of residence, all three sites turned up several dozen versions of Clara Fuentes, from a 16-year-old student in Covina, to a 75-year-old retired day care assistant in Fresno, as well as their neighbors, relatives, home addresses, and annual incomes. But not o
ne of these Claras matched mine.

  The California DMV was out: she didn’t have a license, much less drive a car. And anyway, thanks to the tragic Rebecca Schaeffer case—a stalker hired a P.I. to acquire the actress’s home address so he could shoot her—I wouldn’t get much in the way of personal information via that department.

  My Clara Fuentes had no record of arrests, no accidents, no bank accounts, no credit cards, no late payments—in fact, no payments at all. She was like a ghost, living beneath the social radar as effectively as if she were living under a bridge. I recalled an infamous case when I was still a rookie cop: one of our patrol units, answering a call about a bad smell wafting from a storage unit in the City of Industry, discovered inside a huddle of people, gaunt and filthy—illegal immigrants starved, beaten, and trapped like rats in a sewer. They were the victims of a “coyote” kidnapping, snatched and spirited across the border by a soulless Mexican smuggler—or coyote—and stashed out of sight while their captors used violence and threats to extort money from their families back home. These immigrants, too, had no identification. They, too, were ghosts.

  Clara worked for a person with a public presence and money. Maybe there was a coyote behind this disappearance as well. But if so, why had there been no ransom note?

  On the other hand, Bets McMurtry had a good reason for Clara to disappear. Illegal employees were a huge liability in politics, as Bets herself had pointed out.

  But I remembered her clutching my wrist, her horizontal tears. I’d already experienced the aggressive, almost sexual charm, her “tell” as a con, and she was not conning her need for me to find Clara. I was almost 100 percent certain Bets McMurtry was not behind Clara’s disappearance. I looked across the room at Tank, sprawled in a patch of sun.

  “So who is responsible, Tank? Who is?”

  I typed up a report of the first 24 hours, such as it was, and attached the document to an e-mail to Mac, subject: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY. My report took up maybe a page and a half.

  My phone alarm pinged a reminder: time to return the Tesla and pick up my newly refurbished Mustang from the mechanic. I electronically transferred $1,500 from my savings to my checking account—thank you, Julius. Now the greatest challenge to my practice of non-attachment had adjusted valves, a jetted carburetor, an advanced distributor, and a balanced camshaft.

  Tank was suddenly nowhere to be found and refused to come when I called him. I ate the last of the cereal dry from the box and dumped cat kibble in Tank’s bowl—fair’s fair.

  I hurried outside and jumped in the Tesla for our final drive together. I dialed Heather as we zoomed down Topanga, and put her on speaker. Crossed wires aside, I was starting to really miss her.

  “Good morning!” Heather was slightly breathless. I could hear a repetitive metallic squeak-squeak-squeak in the background. As a medical examiner, she spends her days doing forensic exams and autopsies. I tried not to visualize the cause of the squeaking.

  “Good morning to you.” I gave in to morbid curiosity. “What’s that noise?”

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, “I’m pushing a gurney with a gangbanger on it. One of the wheels has a nasty habit of squealing, and I haven’t had time to oil it.”

  “I presume this is a deceased gangbanger.”

  “Extremely deceased,” she said. “Whoever killed him really wanted him to stay dead. I extracted fourteen slugs from his groin to his sternum, plus some knife wounds I’d rather not describe in detail to a fellow vegan. Let’s just say it involves a few essential body parts. Weirdly, we’ve had a slew of these lately.”

  “Shooter probably emptied his magazine—seventeen rounds,” I said, picturing the victim as target practice. “Only three bullets missed. Pretty good shot pattern.”

  “Well, Juan Doe here might disagree.”

  The nickname sparked an idea. “Have you come across any Juanita Does lately?”

  “Not that I know of. You want me to ask around?”

  “Thank you. Yes, I would.”

  Squeak-squeak-squeak.

  Shoptalk was over. Which left personal talk. Heather didn’t say another word. I took a deep breath, and executed an Acapulco high dive right into the middle of the silence. “When would you like to … to have our conversation?” I asked.

  “Hold on a second.” The squeaking stopped. “He’s all yours now,” I heard Heather say to someone. “Okay, I’m back. How about tonight?” she asked. “I can come to you.”

  “Sure.” I thought about the daisy Post-it note, and the dark forces took hold of me. “How about six o’clock?”

  She paused. “Um, sorry, I’m working late today. I’ll try to get there by eight, depending on traffic.”

  I wondered, snarkily, how many times this year bad traffic had been used as a cover for something else in Los Angeles. Had to be at least a million.

  Make that a million and one.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll keep my electronic eye out for you.”

  “And I’ll bring my battery-operated buddy, just in case.”

  As the Tesla and I hit Pacific Coast Highway, fog was creeping across the road from the ocean, bringing a damp chill to the air. It matched the mood that had settled on me during the call with Heather. Yes, there’d been some humor in our banter, but like a lot of humor, it masked a deeper subject, which could be summarized in two questions Heather had posed to me at the Inn of the Seventh Ray on my birthday. I’d been thinking them myself but was too afraid to ask. Ever since, they’d hung over everything we did together, like dank ocean vapor: Any idea where this relationship is going? and We hardly ever make love anymore, do we?

  So far, the only answers I’d been able to come up with were No and I guess not. Neither seemed remotely sufficient to either one of us.

  The sex part was especially unpleasant to admit, but the truth was, except for our first few weeks together, Heather and I didn’t work that well together in bed. Not that I’m an expert, but I’ve had a couple of relationships where the sex worked great, and I’ve had a couple where it didn’t, and I’ve yet to figure out the magic formula. In fact, 90 percent of this whole sexual attraction thing still puzzles the hell out of me. With my ex-ex, Charlotte, aka She-who-hates-cats, the sex was rocket ship–ride fantastic, the rest of our interactions as toxic as botulism. With Heather, it was the other way around: we hummed like a top in the head and heart but got numb down toward the pelvis.

  And Julie?

  Sorry, I wasn’t going there. Julie was old news.

  Heather and I connected in so many ways. We liked the same music, the same kind of books, even got a kick out of each other’s style of untutored but enthusiastic jump-and-flail dancing. We almost never fought. We loved to talk shop, not easy when you’re dealing with corpses and drug dealers. It was only in bed that we couldn’t seem to find the right rhythm. The first time we’d spent the night together was great. The first time we’d actually made love, I thought everything went pretty well, considering. But the next time, Heather had burst into tears and told me she was sorry, but she needed her vibrator to have an orgasm.

  “Oh, okay,” I’d said. “Fine by me.” And it was. But ever since I’d returned from India, the vibrator issue had grown bigger and bigger between us. I could tell she was more and more bothered, and that made me want her less and less. I couldn’t figure it out. I was starting to think the whole subject was a smokescreen for something else. But what?

  I returned the Tesla to the dealership, full of praise but quick to fend off the salesman with the excuse that I was late for an appointment, thanks to that darned Los Angeles traffic. (One million and two.)

  As I walked up the block to my auto mechanic’s shop, the cutting edge of a headache pressed against my temples. Then I spotted my Shelby, displayed out front for all to admire. Call me shallow, but the sight of her gleaming yellow frame chased off my headache faster than three Advil and a week of meditation.

  “She’s a beauty, all right,” my mechanic Scott said as he pocket
ed his check. Scott was a collector, as well as a fixer-upper. “You ever want to sell her …”

  “Not going to happen, Scott.”

  He shrugged. He knew.

  I decided to take my Mustang for a fast dash up the coast, to clean out both our pipes. The low roar of her V-8 engine sucked up my bad mood and blew it right out her dual exhaust pipes. I passed Malibu and was pointed toward Oxnard when my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and squinted at the screen. Shit. It was Mac Gannon’s landline. He’d probably read my report and wanted his money back.

  I had to go all the way to Point Mugu State Park before I could pull off and call him back.

  To my surprise, Melissa answered the phone.

  “Hi Ten,” she said, her voice subdued.

  “Hi, Melissa. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing much,” she said. “Daddy’s gone away, and Mommy’s in bed. She’s having one of her little headaches, so I’m not s’posed to disturb her.” I could hear Melissa parroting her mother’s words, and I shuddered. How many times growing up had my own mother’s “little headaches”—brought on by too much wine combined with other things—meant I was in for some lonely, scary hours? For the first time, I wondered what secrets Penelope Gannon might be harboring.

  “How was school today?”

  “Okay,” she said. Definitely not the effervescent Melissa I was used to.

  I waited.

  “Um, uh, Ten? I have a detective question for you.” She paused, and I pictured her hand creeping into her mouth for a quick gnaw. “You’re still our detective, aren’t you?”

  The way she said “our detective” was charming, as if every family had a personal detective to go along with their gardener, plumber, and priest.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m still your detective. What kind of detecting do you need?”

  “Can you come over? It’s not a telling thing; it’s a showing thing.”

  “Can you show anyone else?”