The Fifth Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  What was she doing here?

  “Julie’s not here,” I called.

  Martha said nothing.

  I let the flare of irritation subside. I needed to ground myself, in case Martha was in a karma-ripening mood. I set the license on my desk to check out later.

  Martha was pouring herself the last of the coffee. She lifted her mug.

  “Sorry, should I make more?”

  I waved her off.

  “I won’t stay long. I know you’re working.”

  I didn’t tell her otherwise. We sat across from each other at the kitchen table.

  Martha was nine years older than Julie, which put her at forty-three now. The past year had added lines to her face and subtracted pounds from her frame. She had done something new to her hair—I didn’t remember it being that blonde—but it suited her.

  “I like your hair,” I said, and she fluffed it with one hand. “How are the twins?”

  “Relentless.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Martha had left her job as a court reporter to concentrate on raising the twins full time. I don’t know how she did it—one afternoon of babysitting Maude and Lola put me in a coma for a week. But Martha had German in her DNA and she ran her family like a well-oiled panzer tank. Her energy level was such that whatever her job, she’d always required side projects to keep the spark plugs firing.

  For the first few years of motherhood, her top priority had been changing my status from “single” to “in a relationship.” Now . . .

  She rummaged in her purse and pulled out several color printouts and three typewritten pages, stapled together.

  My heart sank.

  “I brought these venues for you both to look over. My favorite so far is the Terranea Resort, on the coast of Palos Verdes, but it’s booked until next fall, so . . .”

  “Martha.”

  “There’s also the Japanese garden downtown, you’re okay with Japan, it’s China that you hate, right? But you have to use their caterer, and I just can’t see Julie going for that. Now Saddle Back Ranch in Malibu is probably the closest thing to local, but again, fully booked for months . . .”

  “MARTHA.”

  “What?”

  “Does Julie know you’ve been doing this research?”

  Martha had the good graces to blush. “Not exactly.”

  “Because as I’m sure you know, she and I still haven’t decided on a date.”

  “I do know that,” she said.

  I waited.

  “I’m sorry.” She looked miserable.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why the rush? What is causing this pressure, this discomfort in you?”

  “I just . . . I want to make sure it happens,” she said. “I feel like once you and Julie get married, you know, then that means Bill and I will . . .”

  “Stay married?”

  Martha nodded, her eyes welling.

  I walked around the table and touched her shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”

  She did.

  “Healing takes time, Martha.”

  She sniffed. “I know, I know.”

  “The thing is, for some of us, so does choosing a wedding date.” I passed her a paper towel and she blew her nose.

  “You’re a good friend,” she said. She neatly folded the printouts and tucked them into her purse. Her hand paused at the stapled pages. “Can I leave these, at least?”

  I picked them up and leafed through columns of names and addresses. A few I knew, cops, mostly. The majority I didn’t.

  I turned back to page one. “‘Julie’s guest list,’” I read out loud. I raised my eyebrows at Martha.

  “Bill and I eloped,” Martha said, after a moment. “I never got to . . .” Her voice trailed off at the look on my face.

  I hurried her out the door before I made her cry again.

  “Don’t forget to make your own list,” she called over her shoulder. “It’s all about the head count!” She climbed into their latest family car, a Mazda minivan, and drove away, her good humor restored.

  The guest list lay on the table like an accusation.

  Martha and Julie had a huge blended family that extended from Chicago to Germany and points beyond. Everyone had managed to stay on pretty good terms with everyone else, generating a seemingly endless supply of friendly and communicative siblings, stepsiblings, and cousins. Add to that the fact that Julie attracted friends like ripe mangoes attract fruit flies, and you had a very, very long guest list.

  I had a cat, two monks, and a cyber-geek who probably didn’t even own a tie.

  Mother? Dead.

  Father? Also dead.

  Other family . . . ?

  A rush of blackness attacked inside my eyelids. My blood swam and I had to sit down before I passed out. I jammed my palms against my eyes until the dark flood receded.

  Enough.

  I walked straight to my desk and picked up the phone. I still remembered his number, after all these years.

  “This is Dr. Eric Leonard,” I heard. “I can’t come to the phone right now, so please leave your number, and I’ll get back to you just as soon as I can.”

  “Dr. Leonard,” I said. “Eric.” My heart was still pounding. “This is Tenzing. I’d really like to talk with you. Officially, I mean. I’m drowning. I need help.”

  I let go of the branch.

  CHAPTER 15

  I had done it. The relief was immediate, as a rush of energy followed this simple act of commitment. I sat back and enjoyed the newfound spaciousness inside.

  My eyes drifted to the odd gift left in my mailbox this morning, and I picked up the stranger’s driving license. DRIVING LICENCE, I should say, for that was what the block letters across the top stated. Below them was the Euro flag, dark blue with a circle of bright yellow stars, the initials UK in the center.

  I studied the image of a young man. White. Reddish stringy hair, long scythe of a nose, and a glum smudge of goatee like a taunt. Full, almost feminine mouth. He’d be handsome if he weren’t so sullen. He pouted at the camera as if resenting its existence. Or maybe it was his own life he hated. His identical ghost to the right, though smaller in size, was just as surly. In between the scowling twins, an official stamp of some sort.

  Who was he?

  Surname PURDHAM-COOTE with the suffix III. First name, COLIN. Below the names, a date—23-04-94, and the word LONDON. So Colin Purdham-Coote III was 20 and was either born or lived in London. I’m not a certified private investigator for nothing.

  Next to the numbers 4a and 4b, I further deduced when he’d gotten his license, April 30, three years ago, and when it would expire, April 29, seven years from now. Next to 4c was a set of initials that meant nothing to me. The license number itself, 5, was a long series of letters and digits I would decipher later if necessary.

  His signature was an angry, illegible scrawl.

  Underneath his irate autograph, a London address.

  And finally, across the bottom, a string of code after the number 9: AM, A1, A2, B1, B, C1, and so on.

  I flipped it over. How thoughtful of them. To the left, a list explaining the numbered information on the front. To the right, a chart of the same coded letters, complete with illustrations, showing when and what kind of vehicles this particular young man could and could not drive.

  But not a single clue as to why the 20-year-old Colin Purdham-Coote III was no longer in possession of his driving license, and I was.

  This called for a cold beer.

  I opened the refrigerator door and foraged. Julie had mentioned there was still some leftover pad thai. There it was, front and center. I set it on the counter. I moved condiment jars and Tupperware containers like chess pieces until I found a bottle of Goose Island Matilda hiding like a beautiful Belgian pawn. It was mine to capture, and I took it.

  I poured straight down the middle of a widemouthed glass goblet, let the amber liquid foam up, and waited for the foam to settle. Pour. Foam. Settle. Pour. Foam. Set
tle. I love how mindfulness can be applied to any action. After five minutes the bottle was empty and the glass was full. I set the goblet aside to breathe.

  I refreshed Tank’s water dish. He still had food in his bowl. He was sprawled in a patch of sun on the driveway, a mound of fur on a rug of light.

  Sometimes I would wait for half an hour before drinking a Trappist-brewed ale, so the flavor could fully bloom. This was not one of those times.

  I carried the beer and noodles outside, toasted the cloudless sky, and took my first swallow. There is nothing else on this planet like the first swallow of cold Belgian pale ale on a hot day—that moment when the smooth snap of hops meets the warm tongue and the scent strikes your nostrils, yeasty and alive.

  I hadn’t eaten much today and the alcohol soon initiated a light, pleasant buzz that traveled through my arteries like a stream of humming bees. I opened the pad thai container and forked cold rice noodles into my mouth—any more buzz and I’d need a nap. The bean sprouts were still crunchy, and the sesame oil, fresh-chopped cilantro, and red pepper flakes added just the right amount of counter punch to the malty ale. I alternated solids and liquids so I could end the meal with a final mouthful of beer.

  Tank brushed up against my right calf. I positioned the top of my foot tight against his soft belly. Using my foot as a kind of human winch, I arched and released his spine a few times. Cat calisthenics.

  I considered calling Julie again, but even if I left now to join my friends, I’d have to turn right back around and come home. I had three hours until the entourage arrived. Subtract an hour to shower and meditate, and I still had enough to make a start.

  “Okay, Mr. Purdham-Coote,” I said. “Let’s find out who you are.”

  I don’t know if people realize how much they expose through social media. It’s like offering anyone who wants to snoop a free and anonymous peek into their private diaries, their most embarrassing moments, their underwear drawer, and their garbage can, all at once and without the mess. There’s a street term in Los Angeles for the knuckle and neck tattoos popular with gang members: job killers, they’re called. The same title could apply to a certain class of Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, or Instagram post. I see these snapshots of bloodshot leers, half-clothed bodies, bongs in the background, and I want to say, “Fellow travelers, I know this seems like a good idea, but there will come a time when you want someone to hire you.”

  I’m only 33 years old, and very new to the technology, but even I know better.

  Colin Purdham-Coote had just such an awkward array of visual missteps, at least up until about six months ago, though even his tackiest pictures included ties and blue blazers. His drink of choice appeared to be tequila, with a chaser of hash oil from a water pipe.

  Digging deeper, I discovered that this entitled young man had gone to a very expensive and academically rigorous school in central London called Westminster and was now at the even more expensive and academically rigorous university called Cambridge.

  He may have breathed the rarified air of aristocracy, learned to wield a cricket bat, and recited Shakespeare onstage, but from his posts you would conclude that his major sport was Partying, and his major subject Complaining.

  Then something changed. Sometime late last year he posted a couple of pictures where he was clear-eyed and smiling. His hair was still long, but clean and shiny. In one photo, he stood shoulder to shoulder with another young man, untagged by name but equally radiant. Of Indian descent, as swarthy as Colin was fair. He’d slung one arm over Colin’s shoulder. He wore a gold ring on his middle finger, a thick band with an imbedded stone. I enlarged the image, zooming in on the ring. An amber cat’s-eye filled the screen.

  They were like pepper and salt. Maybe they were mates, maybe lovers, I couldn’t tell. But Colin was transformed. And then he was gone. I scrolled and cross-scrolled, checked all the sites, but he had simply stopped posting. No more technological footprint.

  I moved back to the license.

  His address was 63 Eaton Square, SW1—like his school, right in the heart of London. I Googled the address. Unless he’d managed between hits of hashish to invent the next Facebook, Colin was still living at home—a seven-bedroom Georgian town house that screamed wealthy parents.

  Where there’s a Third, there’s a Second. A couple of searches and clicks revealed that indeed, Colin Two was a very successful financier and a bona fide blue blood. Also entitled. Literally. He was a baron, like his father, the original Colin, before him.

  In the past, unearthing information was done with binoculars and door-to-doors, visits to libraries to access microfiche for archived newspaper articles. There was a tactile element to investigation. Today might be less hands-on than the past, but there’s a lot to be said for the speed of online research.

  I soon dug up a flattering feature in the Financial Times from five years ago. I took a moment to study the photograph—a man and woman in black tie and gown facing forward, their posture formal, like a museum portrait from another time. Behind them, flanked by mounted stag heads, was a huge fireplace, the kind you could roast a boar in, no problem.

  A ruddy Lord Purdham-Coote, his hairline receding along with his chin, towered next to a waifish blonde with skin like parchment paper. Apparently papa had genetically received and passed along to his son the wispy reddish hair and narrow hook of a nose.

  I scanned the article.

  Actually, everything about Lord Purdham-Coote II was hereditary: his slot at Queens’ College, Cambridge; his managerial position at the Bank of England; his title of Baron; his wealth. I was willing to bet the stags were hand-me-downs as well.

  Were lords even listed?

  I tried London information. Lo and behold and tallyho, a British recording, the voice female and formal, recited an actual telephone number for Colin and Winifred Purdham-Coote, Number 63, Eaton Square.

  I did the math. Two o’clock here made it ten o’clock in London.

  What would Sherlock do?

  Sherlock would take the plunge. Politely.

  I dialed the number.

  “Yeesss?”

  “Lord Purdham-Coote?”

  “Yeesss?” Somehow he managed to make one benign syllable sound like three condescending ones.

  “My name is Tenzing Norbu. I’m calling from Los Angeles. I apologize for calling so late, but I seem to have your son Colin’s driving license in my possession. It was delivered to my mailbox anonymously. I thought you should know.”

  “How extraordinary,” he said after a pause. “Are you quite certain, young man?” His tone already maddened me. I was starting to understand Junior’s need for tequila and bongs.

  “Fairly certain. Birth date April twenty-fourth, 1994?”

  “Darling,” I heard, “there’s a young man here name of Nor-gay, says he’s a friend of Collie’s. From Los Angeles, of all places.”

  “Norbu, actually, and I’m not . . .” but Purdham-Coote was deep in conversation with Celia or Arabella or Queen Victoria, or whatever her name was.

  Breathe, Tenzing. You need this man’s help.

  “Can we call you back, Mr. Norgay?”

  “Bu. Nor-bu. Sure.” I gave him my number.

  “Does tomorrow suit? We need to talk to our son first, naturally.”

  “Tomorrow is fine.”

  Talk about a whole load of nothing. Still, even that was something.

  A small window of unstructured time remained. I visualized my immediate future. Some stretches, 20 minutes on my cushion counting breaths and allowing thoughts, and maybe even a Tank-length nap. Somehow, the simple act of calling Eric had invited spaciousness back into my life, at least for the moment.

  I moved to the deck and stood, feet shoulder-width apart and firm on the warm redwood planks. I allowed a slow in-breath to descend into my belly, swelling its edges like a balloon. I exhaled fully.

  One conscious breath and I already felt like a new man.

  As a novice lama at Dorje Yidam, I would
often find myself struggling—with memorization of the chants, with the finer points of debate. Sonam would gently remind me, “You will never find ease or success, Lama Tenzing, except through the gate of breathing.”

  Keeping the knees soft, I inhaled, raising my arms in front of me, elbows straight, to the count of 10. On the exhale, I lowered them just as slowly. And again. Again.

  I cycled through a series of stretches, counting to 10, repeating each three times; bending forward and back, circling my hips, squatting, arching, folding at the waist and touching the deck with flattened palms. I lunged and pointed, my arm like a spear, first one direction, then another.

  And finished in the same standing position, feet apart, arms relaxed at my sides.

  I walked inside, my body loose, my mind both settled and expanded. My meditation cushion was calling to me.

  But it was my landline that rang.

  The woman on the other end was sobbing so hard I couldn’t make out her words. Then the baron’s dreaded combination of clipped consonants and drawn-out vowels was back.

  “Mr. Norrr-gaaay?”

  “It’s Nor-Bu. Norgay was the sherpa.”

  “I do apologize. Mr. Norbu, my wife and I are a bit worried.”

  “Go on.”

  “Collie is gone, you see. He appears to have left Cambridge. I’m so sorry, I don’t mean left, he hasn’t graduated, he’s gone away. Isn’t answering his phone, most unlike him. He seems to have missed his last two sessions with his tutor and the porter can’t remember when he last saw or spoke to him.”

  Lord Purdham-Coote had clearly been busy rousing people all over campus.

  “Couldn’t Colin have skipped class?”

  “That’s just it, you see. No one has seen hide nor hair for several days. I had the porter check with the students on his hall. Everyone assumed we’d called Collie home for one of Winnie’s events. She does like to wave the family flag.”

  His voice grew slightly petulant—the verbal equivalent of Collie’s fretful Facebook posts. “It is simply unacceptable. I can’t imagine why nobody thought to call us.”

  “Maybe your son decided last minute to come here to Los Angeles. On a whim.”