“So what happened?”
“Oh, well, I finally escaped to Los Angeles when I turned eighteen. Another irony. I was sent to America to teach teenagers how to meditate. Instead, I guess you could say I learned how to retaliate, by going to the police academy. I’m not cut out to be a monk—I never was.”
Heather touched the scar on my left temple. “Apparently not. Is that a bullet graze?”
I smiled. “Another long story.”
“We’ll get there,” we both said at the same time.?”Anyway,” I said. “All I ever wanted to be was a detective. And here I am.”
“And here you are. I’m glad your dream came true.” Her gaze deepened, and the invitation was clear and strong.
“So, um, would you maybe like to come stay with me tonight?”
She smiled. “You read my mind, detective.” She stood up. “Be right back.”
I added a pint of lavender ice cream to our tab and included a hefty tip, paying without a twinge; another recent aspiration come true.
Heather traversed the dining area back to our table, leaving in her wake a pattern of admiring—or assessing, depending on the gender—glances. I stood, proud to be the target of her smile. We walked out hand in hand.
The drive was short, one quick turn off Old Topanga to Topanga Boulevard proper, and a couple of winding curves up the canyon to my driveway. Heather’s lights remained close behind me.
As I drove, I wanted to reach across time and space, grab my father by the shoulders and shake him. See? I wanted to say. See how great my life has turned out?
“You know nothing,” my father had roared at me, the night before I left for Los Angeles. “You cannot possibly understand the implications of your actions!”
“You mean the way you did, with my mother?” I had shot back.
“Quiet! Have some respect. You are too young and ignorant to know the truth of things!”
“Maybe you’re too old to remember what truth even feels like!”
I could still taste the rush of glee I’d experienced proclaiming my rightness. But this time I felt a second rush, the hot, dark tang of shame. My father and I had been equally caught up in the great drama of needing to be right. He was acting out of that need, but so was I. Underneath each of us lay whole worlds of unexpressed emotion. At the time, I was terrified I’d never escape from my vows, wherever I lived, never experience a world outside of my father’s rigid precepts. As for my father, faced with me, his careless accidental son, he probably felt deep regret, along with the fear that trumped all others for the ambitious man: what if my existence hasn’t made the slightest bit of difference in the world?
I pulled into the carport and sighed. I had a lot to learn before my second rule became second nature. I was still doing daily battle with my ferocious attachment to rightness; just ask Bill.
Heather was standing by the big eucalyptus, taking in the tree-spired nightscape: the dark silhouettes of scrub oak and balsam, the amber glow of houses tucked throughout the canyon, and the distant, inked-in ocean.
She turned to me.
“You live here. This is where you actually live.”
“I wake up grateful, every morning,” I admitted.
A coyote chortled in the distance. Heather wrapped her arms around herself.
“Ten?”
“Yes?”
“Do you ever, I don’t know, do ever feel like your angle on time and space isn’t quite right?”
I realized she was asking a question that wasn’t really a question. “Can you tell me what you mean?” I said.
She shook her head. “I don’t know if I can. I’ve had this experience since I was a little girl. It’s like I’m in a dream but I’m fully awake. Like now. I’m standing here next to you, and, we’re talking, and there’s this stream of thoughts, but there’s also this other reality. Like two different dimensions, but wrapped in one. Does that sound crazy?”
I smiled. “No. Not crazy. The monks used to talk about that kind of thing all the time.”
“Really?”
“Really.” My mind drifted back to a dusty classroom and the slightly rank scent of yak butter candles. “My teachers liked to say, ‘You are time and space. There’s no “I” over here and time-space over there. It’s all one thing, and you’re it.’”
Her smile was uncertain. “So, which reality is real?”
“Neither. Or both. You get to choose.”
“But . . . but we can’t just make it all up as we go, can we?”
“Sometimes I think we can,” I said. “It sounds complicated, but in a weird way it keeps life simple.”
“Simple,” she said. “There’s a concept. How does that work?”
I laughed. “Well, sometimes—and understand, I’m talking here about me on a good day—but sometimes, if my angle on time and space feels all wrong, I just change the angle. We think we’re stuck in fixed positions. But the Buddha says nothing inside or out is static. Everything’s always in motion, and guess what? You and I are part of that everything.”
“That’s actually how you see the world?”
“Yes.” Heat flooded my face. I’d been caught with some of my deepest beliefs exposed. With my father, such exposure usually led directly to an ice-cold shame-dunk.
“What’s wrong?” Heather again read something from my face.
I told her. She reached for my hand. “Thank you for explaining,” she said. “It makes me feel closer to you. And by the way, I love how you see the world.”
I decided then and there to make my life more complicated. I leaned forward and touched my lips to hers. Her mouth was soft and welcoming, as earthy and tart as the faint taste of wine that still clung to her lips.
We walked inside, our arms around each other. Tank padded into the kitchen to greet me and stopped short, his green eyes narrowing with suspicion.
Heather turned to me, but before she could comment on my cat, I gently shushed her. I pried open the pint of lavender ice cream, which had softened slightly, and used her forefinger to dip up a mouthful.
“Go on,” I whispered. “Let him lick it off. You’ll be his friend for life.”
She walked close to Tank and knelt, her ice creamed finger outstretched. Tank studied Heather with some suspicion, but curiosity as to her offering won out. He took a few dainty steps forward, stretched out his neck, and lapped off the sweet treat. Then he did a little happy-shiver and strolled back to the bedroom, looking at us once over his shoulder as if to say “Coming?”
Heather and I smiled at each other.
“Heather,” I said. “I’d really like you to stay.” Blood accelerated through my arteries. I wondered if she could see the skin at my throat pulse. “But I kind of made a promise to myself to be more mindful in matters of the heart. To take things slowly.”
Her smile was mischievous. “Fancy that,” she said. “Me, too,” and brushed my lips with hers. The kiss was gentle, but the current reached all the way to my toes.
I discovered something with Heather that night, a new, big truth: The only thing sexier than making love with a beautiful woman for the first time is making everything-but with a beautiful woman for the first time.
CHAPTER 16
I stood on the deck, breathing in the early morning smells of the canyon—the minty bite of eucalyptus, the faint hint of sea and salt. A lone bird warbled in the distance as a light, fresh breeze feathered my cheeks. Heather had left at dawn, after a hurried mug of my best Sumatra. She had an early autopsy to attend at the USC hospital, but I was guessing she was glad for the excuse to slip away. Our physical connection had been intense, more intense than I, at least, had expected. Both of us had woken up shy. But I didn’t feel any regret, and if her warm kiss and promise to call me later meant anything, she didn’t either. I considered that huge progress, at least on my part. I inhaled deeply, released a long, full out-breath, and went inside for a second cup of dark-roasted ambrosia. Maybe I’d finally have time to check out the contents of th
e Robinsgrove’s trash bags before Bill got here. Surely they held a clue to Marv’s demise.
But my fax machine began to buzz and chirp from my office area. Zigo’s first regiment of information had arrived. A series of pages marched end to end out of the machine and into the tray. When the whirring stopped, I riffled through, counting five pages in all.
The first three pages were typewritten, that is to say, hammered out on an actual typewriter; faint, spidery script, old-fashioned and neatly looped, filled the final two pieces of paper, indicating a personal hand from long ago. As for the actual contents, I was stumped. Zigo had neglected to mention his information was coming in the motherland’s mother tongue, and they don’t teach German in Dharamshala.
“Hey, Tank,” I called into the bedroom, and tried out the only two words I knew. “Spreck-en-zee Doitch?”
Tank’s silent retort was interrupted by the familiar clunk of Bill’s cop shoes, crossing the deck to my kitchen door. Just like that, my morning ease evaporated.
Bill stepped inside, a half smile on his face. “Was that the good doctor’s car I passed driving up here?”
“Maybe.”
“She makes house calls?”
“Maybe.”
“Can I tell Martha?”
“Not on your life.”
He chuckled, and I felt like I might survive this conversation after all.
I poured him a coffee, choosing the black-and-white mug he’d given me for my last birthday—he’d snagged it from the county coroner’s odd little homicide-related gift shop. At the time, we had shared a good laugh over the skeletal Sherlock, pipe clamped between exposed jawbones.
Bill blew across the rim, sipped, and grunted with appreciation. We stood awkwardly in the kitchen.
“Let’s sit outside,” I said.
We sat facing the ocean, hidden under a blanket of early morning mist.
“It’s so quiet here,” Bill said. “I’ve forgotten what that’s like.” He sighed. “Ten . . . “
“No, let me go first,” I interrupted. “I need to say some things before I lose my nerve.” I breathed through the knot of fear, a hardened ball in my belly. “I realized something, after we hung up yesterday.” I swallowed. “Bill, part of me hasn’t wanted you to succeed, not without me. I wanted this change, but I’ve also been afraid. Afraid of failing. Afraid that leaving our partnership might mean losing our friendship, losing your respect. I think I’ve been overcompensating. Acting out. Completely disregarding your wishes. I’m very sorry.” I checked Bill for a reaction. Wait, was he . . . ? “Why are you laughing?”
“I’m laughing, because you just stole all my lines, asshole. Not wanting you to do well without me? Check. Overcompensating? Check. Afraid of losing your friendship and respect? Double-check, with a cherry on top. And as for failing? How about doing it on prime time, in front of the entire world?” Bill set his mug down and turned to face me.
“The truth is, this fucking case has been biting my ass from the get-go. I pride myself on making quick sense of things, but nothing about Marv Rudolph’s death does. Sully and Mack are next to useless, and now I’ve got four more homicides crowding my desk at work, an irritated boss, and a fed-up, overwhelmed mother of twins at home. But you know what really grassed me when I woke up this morning? Why I’m maybe the bigger jerk? When the captain suggested I call you for help, did I thank him? No. Inside, I cursed him. What’s worse, I blamed you. And why? Because I didn’t want to need you. But I do need you, Ten, and that’s the God’s honest truth. This is my first homicide as a D-Three, and I am royally screwing it up, all by myself. Talk about ego.” Bill shook his head. “So please tell me you’ve been the cowboy I know and love. Please tell me you’ve been working this bastard behind my back and have come up with something more than my fucking zippity-doo-dah-day.”
I patted Bill’s knee. “Friend,” I said, “you know this cowboy well.”
We moved inside and sat across from each other at the kitchen table, home to so many late night case reviews in our past. It was still too early for beer, so I made a fresh pot of coffee, and toasted two thick slices of farmer’s market corn bread. Using my notes as a memory aid, I told Bill about sitting shivah, Harper’s venomous glare, and my kitchen-knife reconnoiter. The visit to the T-Bird tattoo parlor and Thunder’s interactions with Marv. I handed him copies of my research on Marv’s past and Clancy’s telephoto shots of Tovah Fields-with-an-s, driving away from the Robinsgrove. I passed over the exed-out surveillance photo of me, and described Pretty Boy and the wild stadium chase. I even owned up to my Halloween night fiasco with the teenagers.
Bill listened intently, stopping to jot in his little notebook from time to time. Finally, I talked about Raul Martinez. I showed Bill the fake identification card and retraced the thinking that led me to finding Charles Raul Montoya, aka the Low-riding Lawyer, our Getty meeting, and Raul’s threats.
To my surprise, Bill shrugged off that part of the conversation. “Creeps say that sort of shit about me and the family on a daily basis. Forget about it. What’s more interesting to me is, this Charles, or Raul, or whatever the hell he calls himself, rings a bell. You say he rides a Harley?”
“Yup.”
“Hunh. There was this guy, back when I was still on patrol. He got his start doing slip-and-falls, kind of a joke around town with his shiny suit and his chopper. Then a few years back he gets this young gang-banger off scot-free—a Mexican, someone connected to someone else much bigger in the gang world. Big big, I mean. Anyway, he gets the creep off. Next thing you know, he slips and falls off the face of the earth himself.”
Bill sat back, pulling on his lower lip. I smiled. I knew that gesture. Bill was hatching a plan.
“I’ll put a trace on Tovah Fields right away. Even Sully ought to be able to handle that. As for this other thing, I need a little time to figure out the angle of attack. It’s beginning to smell gang-connected. Or maybe bigger. You by any chance remember the name of the kid that lawyer got off?”
I checked my notes.
“Morales. Daniel Morales.”
“Fuck me. I knew it.”
“What? Cartel?”
“You might say that. You ever heard of Chaco Morales? Started out a player in Mexico’s casino trade, before he set his sights north. He’s smart, ruthless, and everywhere—drugs, restaurants, casinos, you name it. He’s up there with Joaquin ‘El Chapo’ Guzmán. Chaco’s known for taking care of his own—hiring from within, setting relatives up, getting them out of jail, paying any legal and medical bills. It’s all about family members, and Chaco’s got a shitload of them. He’s somewhat of a legend. His nickname’s El Gato—on account of his nine lives. He’s survived two assassination hits by organized crime. And rumor has it that once, when he was cornered by two Sinaloa bad boys, he just disappeared into thin air.” Bill frowned. “What the hell was Marv Rudolph doing anywhere near Chaco Morales?”
“Hard to know,” I said. “But in L.A., where’s there’s money, there’s usually dirty money. And like Arlene Rudolph said, Marv was a movie producer.”
“In any case,” Bill said, “we’ve got to tread lightly here. When you’re in cartel territory, you’re not just dealing with DEA and the Feebs, you’re dealing with Homeland Security, ATF, and God knows what else. I’ll make some calls. See who has fingers in which pies. Jesus, what a clusterfuck.”
“Glad it’s not mine,” I said.
“Ten, you’re on a roll here,” Bill said. “You want to piss me off all over again?”
“Maybe you should tell me to go fuck myself. I’ve got a nice streak going.”
“Don’t tempt me, kiddo.”
We grinned at each other. He stood up and stretched. “Okay, Cowboy, I’ll catch you later, after I clear some fences of my own. Speaking of, I want you to resist, I repeat, resist the temptation to ride solo into gang territory, okay? Now that I’ve got you back on my team, I don’t want to lose you in a shoot-out.”
“Hasn’t cross
ed my mind,” I said. And it hadn’t. There was such a heavy undercover police presence involved in L.A.’s gangland, I was as likely to be shot by a cop as a banger.
“Here.” Bill passed over a manila envelope. “Preliminary autopsy report, for what it’s worth. Load of crap.”
“That reminds me,” I said, “as long as I’m confessing . . . “
Bill went very still.
“I might have done a little garbage cover the other evening, at Robinsgrove, just before the trash pick-up.”
“Might?”
“Well, maybe more than might.”
A smile played around Bill’s lips. “How much garbage we talking about?”
“Let’s just say there’s enough stashed in my carport to fill a small Humvee.”
Bill grinned. “In that case, my son, you can skip the Hail Marys and go straight to dumpster-diving.” He made a sign of the cross over my forehead. “I absolve you of your sins. And happy hunting.”
I walked Bill out to his car. “How’s the other job going?” he asked. “The paying one?”
“Slowly,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who speaks German, would you?”
Bill stared. “Ten, for someone so smart, you can be remarkably thick sometimes.”
I said nothing.
“You’ve met my wife, Martha? Raised-in-Germany Martha?”
I did the mental equivalent of slapping my forehead with my palm.
“Give her a call,” he said. “Please. She’d kill for a little adult conversation right about now.”
I walked inside and did just that.
“Bohannon house of horrors,” Martha answered. “Morticia speaking.” The high-pitched, background squeals told me that Maude and Lola were riding the crest of an energy wave.
The Second Rule of Ten Page 18
