The Fifth Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  “Good point.”

  “I don’t think it’s coincidental this has come up now for you. Hopefully our friends can shed some light. The unconscious hates unfinished business, even from decades past.”

  “And if all else fails, there’s always Google.” I was only half joking.

  “Whatever works, my friend. Whatever works.” Eric flipped his notepad closed.

  I stood up and stretched.

  “Wow. I really feel terrific.”

  “Don’t forget what I said, Ten. This relief is real, but it’s not necessarily permanent.” He stood as well. “Think of your life as two silos, one full of consciousness, the other full of crap. Something tells me you’ve been avoiding going anywhere near the crap silo for a very long time. And guess what? It’s starting to overflow. These panic attacks? They’re just your unconscious waving a red flag—letting you know it’s time to pick up the shovel and get to work.”

  He slid the notepad in between the others in the mesh basket. I was dying to count them. How many of us were there?

  “What do I owe you?” I reached for my wallet.

  Eric waved his hand. “I never charge for the first session. Again, not what the powers that be recommend, but I like my clients to understand what they’re committing to. I think it went pretty well, though, don’t you?”

  I gave him a look that said are you kidding me? and he laughed. “Yes,” I said. “I want to continue.”

  “Good. I’d like you to come in again soon, maybe in a few days. Monday okay?”

  “Monday’s fine.”

  “In the meantime, take it easy. You did some powerful work today. And please, call me if you need to. Like I said, I’m here.” He moved to his desk. Our session was over.

  My shoes were tied, but I stayed put on the bench, relishing the spaciousness inside and out. Across from me, the Buddha seemed to smile. The jasmine was intoxicating. Everything looked sharply etched and saturated with color—the trees, the hanging baskets of flowers, the gleaming saffron flanks of my Shelby Mustang, parked below.

  Maybe I’d take a walk before getting back in my car and battling my way through traffic. Yeshe and Lobsang would understand. This heightened sense of awareness was precious. Who knew how long it would last?

  Nawang. I mentally unearthed the Tibetan translation: the possessive one.

  You belong to me. And I belong to you.

  I pulled out my phone and called Julie.

  “Hey,” she whispered. I heard the deep familiar throb of Tibetan throat singing.

  “It’s happening?”

  “Thank God. They forgot to unlock early for us, so it was a mad scramble, but we started on time. Adina’s ecstatic. Huge turnout. Hang on, let me move outside.”

  My gaze shifted to the park. Now there were maybe 10 or 12 birds circling Bronson Canyon. That meant crows. Hawks flew in pairs.

  “How are you?” Julie’s voice was concerned. “How’d it go?”

  “Actually, I feel pretty great. Eric was amazing. Just . . . amazing.”

  “I’m almost jealous. I used to fantasize as a kid about having Yoda as my special friend.”

  “I got hypnotized.”

  “Seriously? Okay, now I am jealous.” Julie laughed. “Jeez. I let you out of my sight for two days . . .”

  “I think we discovered something. Don’t freak out, but I think I have a brother out there somewhere.”

  Julie was silent.

  “It’s a lot to process,” I said. “Sorry. Don’t be upset.”

  “I’m not upset.” She took a moment. “Well, maybe a little.”

  “Just to be clear, I wasn’t keeping it from you. More like keeping it from myself.”

  “I get it,” Julie said. “Listen, I really want to talk more about this, but they need me inside. How soon can you get here?”

  “Soon.”

  “Good. They’re about to sketch the design. They’ll start pouring sand right after lunch.”

  Now there were over 20 crows, some circling, some darting out of sight. Their caws were faint, but insistent.

  “That’s so weird,” I said.

  “Really? I figured you’d know all about sand mandala ceremonies.”

  “No, I mean I’m watching something weird. I’m still at Eric’s, and I’m looking across at Griffith Park. There’s a flock of crows flying around, more every minute.”

  “A murder.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what you call a group of them. A murder of crows. You know, pride of lions. Gaggle of geese. Kind of like a metaphor.”

  “Oh. Right.” But my body wasn’t buying the circling birds as metaphor. My body wanted to close the distance between the black birds and me in three strides, so I could find out what was underneath them.

  A murder of crows.

  “Can’t wait to see you,” Julie said. “And babe?”

  “Yes?”

  “I hope it’s true. The brother thing.”

  CHAPTER 29

  My phone pinged. A text had just made its way across the ocean from Bertie’s thumbs to my eyes. My feeling of spacious ease was dissipating rapidly.

  RE: IDENTIFYING MARKS. NO TATTOOS. TWO SCARS. ONE ON LEFT WRIST. ONE FROM APPENDIX REMOVAL 2001. ACCORDING TO MEDICAL RECS. COLLIE BLOOD TYPE RARE: AB NEG.

  I hurtled down the stairs. The second I reached the driveway, I scrolled for and pressed Bill’s number.

  “Hola,” Bill said. “How’s the head-shrinking going? Any nasty secrets I need to know about?”

  I’d mentioned my appointment with Eric to Bill last night. He’d refrained from immediate ridicule. He knew that I knew he currently had two therapists, one for him, one for them.

  “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” I said, crossing the driveway. “But that’s not why I’m calling. Did you guys think about bringing Fran and Shirley in on the Griffith Park deal?” Bill and I had worked with the human-remains detection dog and her handler, Fran Hoagland, with great success in the past.

  “Shirley Bones? No. No reason to. Like I said before, no missing hikers, no missing anyone that matched the time and place, and nothing else turned up in the surrounding area. As for a broader search, we’re talking four thousand acres of land, much of it inaccessible. Why?”

  “Well, Eric’s office is in Los Feliz. Adjacent to Griffith Park. I’m looking across at an area known as Bronson Canyon.”

  “Yeah, I know it. A head showed up in a garbage bag there a couple years back, hands and feet soon to follow. So?”

  “So there’s a lot of crows right now, circling and diving in the vicinity of Bronson Caves.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m thinking murder.”

  “What did that shrink do—give you acid?”

  “Bill, listen. That job I was telling you about yesterday? The young man from the UK?”

  “With the rich parents. What about him?”

  “According to the police over there, he definitely flew into L.A. this past Monday, before he dropped out of sight. He was listed as a passenger, plus there’s visual CCTV confirmation from Heathrow, plus written confirmation from the kid himself.”

  “Okay.”

  “Plus something else. His blood type’s AB negative. I just found out.”

  “What the hell?”

  “I know,” I said.

  “You’re telling me he’s missing, he’s AB negative, and he’s in Los Angeles?”

  “Affirmative.”

  I waited. Bill’s gears were grinding. Best to let him reach his own verdict.

  “Stay put,” Bill said. “I’ll get back to you in a few.”

  I reread the text. I knew I was right about this. Collie had been on that Griffith Park trail, or at least his blood had. And the crows weren’t circling a discarded bag of take-out.

  My phone buzzed.

  “We’re in luck,” Bill said. “Shirley and Fran are free. They can be there in an hour or two. You’d better be fucking right about this.” />
  “If I’m not, feel free to lay the blame at my feet.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not on the LAPD payroll anymore, are you?” Bill’s voice was sharp. He hated having to answer to people as much as I did.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t joke. What do you want me to do?”

  “I’m coming over right now. Meet me at the gated entrance at the top of Deronda Drive. You said you were in Los Feliz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right. Take Los Feliz to Franklin to Beachwood then left on Ledgewood until it meets up with Deronda. I’ll notify the rangers. We’ll need an escort from that entrance point. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT go anywhere near the site without me. I’ve sent word to S&M to get their butts over there. Usually Fran likes to take a look-see first, but I’m pretty sure she’s familiar with the overall terrain of Griffith Park. Shirley, too. It’s a popular dumping ground, unfortunately.”

  “I know.” During one 15-day-period a few years ago, six bodies had turned up, scattered throughout the park like so much debris. The combination of paved roads cutting through inaccessibly mountainous terrain proved irresistible to murderers looking for good hiding places.

  “If I know Fran, she’ll want to give Shirley a good sniff around the original scene before she lets her loose,” Bill mused. “Remember what I said. Wait for me.” He hung up before I had a chance to argue.

  I brought up the location. I was 15 minutes from Deronda Drive. Knowing Bill and traffic, it would take him at least an hour.

  I leaned against my car. The bright yellow metal warmed the seat of my jeans.

  I had a decision to make. I could call Lord and Lady Purdham-Coote, or I could wait until I had more information.

  Just find my son.

  If this turned out to be a false alarm, I would regret the impulse to share information prematurely. Hearts were at stake.

  And if I told Bertie Andrews, he would be obligated to tell them.

  There was one person over there I could call. I checked the time, added eight hours. Still only 9:00 P.M. in London. I found Garfield’s number.

  “DCI Garfield.”

  “It’s Ten. Sorry to call your cell so late, but I have news.” I brought him up to speed.

  “This is most concerning. So you’ll know more later today?”

  “Hopefully, yes. DCI Garfield?” My voice had tightened. I took a page from my session with Eric. Inhaled deeply and let the outward flow of breath carry my dread along with it. I tried again. “DCI Garfield, what’s the protocol if we find a body? I mean, if we find a body, and it turns out to be Collie?”

  Garfield’s answer was prompt. “Where the body lies,” he said.

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Pertaining to incidents where a victim of homicide has crossed borders, jurisdiction is determined by where the body lies. Your country, your case.”

  “I see.”

  “Not that we wouldn’t do everything we could to help from over here, if it comes to that. Let’s hope it doesn’t. Thank you for calling. I’ll await word, either way.”

  Where the body lies.

  I sent Julie a text message: SOMETHING’S COME UP. I MAY BE DELAYED. SORRY.

  Then I closed my eyes and sent a different kind of message to whatever or whoever lay out there near the caves, a powerful series of mantras that can transform any physical or mental impurities into the pure body, speech, and mind of a Buddha: Om mane padma hum.

  CHAPTER 30

  No reply from Julie, which meant she was busy, or irritated. Either way, I was starving.

  I checked the time. I had 45 minutes, plenty of time.

  Franklin Boulevard had several food options, discounting the Scientology Celebrity Centre. I wasn’t going to eat or drink anything they served. Kool-Aid—that’s all I have to say about that. Victor’s Deli seemed like the fastest choice, so I turned right on Bronson Avenue, just past Gelson’s.

  The deli I remembered had morphed into a hipster café, complete with outdoor tables on a narrow sidewalk patio. They provided the perfect urban Instagram setting for men in porkpie hats and sunglasses and women who looked like they ate maybe once a month.

  The café had its own small lot, but the car directly in front of me—a low-slung black Maserati—veered left and snagged the last empty space. I pulled into the larger adjacent lot and squeezed into a narrow vacancy in the far corner, directly in front of a pet-grooming store. A few faint barks followed me across the tarmac.

  Inside, the café was both frenetic and somewhat dysfunctional. A long line of customers to my left waited to give their coffee and pastry commands at a glass counter; a shorter line had formed in front of a harried cashier who was taking food orders.

  I scooped up a premade baguette of Brie and mango chutney located in a refrigerated glass case filled with artisanal cheeses and unpronounceable dried meats. The sandwich honored the French-Indian cuisines of my youth. The cup of black coffee-to-go was American cop, all the way.

  The total cost? Ridiculous.

  I moved outside. A narrow counter bordered the café’s picture window. I perched on a fixed metal-and-wood bar stool. The baguette was wrapped in brown paper. As I pulled off the wrapping, a pigeon landed on the pavement next to me, which reminded me that I was on Bronson, and that there was a murder of crows right at the end of the street.

  Bill had warned me off the original crime site. He hadn’t said a word about the caves.

  In minutes I was driving north up Bronson while gnawing at the baguette. I gave up after three bites, peeled the remaining Brie off the gluey chutney-smeared bread, and ate the cheese straight up, rind and all. Prorated, it came to about $3 a mouthful. The gourmet coffee was also just okay, nothing special. I guess you paid extra for the hipness factor.

  The road veered east toward the hills. Bigger trees, nicer cars. Speed bumps materialized as the houses got grander and better protected. I had driven these parts a few years ago, riding shotgun on a Brangelina prowl with my paparazzo friend Clancy, before he repurposed his skill set into freelance private investigating.

  Every side street warned off nonlocals: “Preferred Parking,” “No Access to the Hollywood Sign,” “Not a Through Street,” “No Outlet,” go away, go away, go away.

  Residential development seceded to nature as I passed beneath an arched canopy of leafy branches and entered the beginnings of Bronson Canyon. The grass was green here. I guess the city could still afford to water. There were two small, kid-friendly pocket parks at the entrance. Farther along, a bleached sycamore trunk angled low over a grassy expanse, begging kids to shimmy along its thick stem.

  The large public parking lot was surprisingly empty considering the direct access into Griffith Park. I counted six cars, only one of them a rental.

  Twenty-five minutes. I’d be cutting it close. I couldn’t see the crows from here, but I could hear them. They traded caws like insults, somewhere ahead and above.

  I kept a spare set of clothes and a pair of old running shoes in the in-case-of-emergency duffel bag stashed on the floor behind the driver’s seat. I changed shoes and swapped my button-down for a black T-shirt and a binocular necklace.

  The packed dirt road was ideal for running. I started with an easy jog, passing a 10-foot-tall spear of an agave plant beginning its centennial process of blooming. The dirt crunched under my feet, a satisfying sound. The road made a sharp turn, cutting back on itself as it climbed. In the distance rocky outcroppings and steep cliffs warned of a much rougher terrain.

  The variety of vegetation was almost shocking. Trees with paint-by-number trunks, trees with leaves the size of dinner plates, trees with ferns for arms. Giant needled conifers with green-scaled pinecones, and spiky seedpods that pocked the edges of the wide dirt path.

  I accelerated to a sprint, clutching the bouncing binoculars to my chest with one hand. My feet pounded up the steady incline, lungs working hard, thigh muscles burning.

  You should be there by now.

  I le
aned over, panting. Where was my head? The caves were a five-minute stroll from the entrance. I’d been running flat out for 10.

  A California jay scolded: Pay attention to your life.

  I waved down a speed-walking woman, ponytail bobbing, buds plugged in. She made one ear available.

  “Caves?” I said.

  “Fire road,” she said, thumbing the way I’d come, without breaking stride. “Smokey the Bear!” she called over her shoulder.

  I reversed course, jumping the high red curb at the switchback to save time. It was downhill all the way, and I reached the fire road in a couple of minutes. The large Smokey the Bear sign marking the side road was hard to miss, unless you were me.

  I skirted the metal vehicle barricade and kept running.

  The push and pull between nature and man was clearly delineated in this direction. Houses marched up terraced hills to one side and uninhabitable ridges witnessed the urban madness from across the way. One brave soul had placed a gazebo on a quartet of skinny stilts at the top of the hillside overlooking the park. This was earthquake country—might as well put your trust in toothpicks.

  The fire road snaked left and so did I.

  The cave was gouged straight through the thick face of rock. A square black mouth, permanently open. Two smaller caves flanked it, semicircles of blackness hanging close to the mother cave like cubs. Not a crow in sight, but I could hear them cawing, not that far away.

  The tunneled darkness gave off an impression of coldness and damp, but an arch of bright sunlight beckoned from the other end. The other two caves were more cramped and unwelcoming. I decided to explore from left to right, weaving back and forth.

  I ducked inside the first cave. Using my phone as a flashlight, I scoured the narrow, craggy walls and low ceiling. Nothing troublesome marred their surface. The cave dumped me into sunshine, a wide sandy area. Someone had formed a spiral maze out of stones, worth investigation, but I was in a hurry, so I dove into the middle cavern, again finding nothing but rough rock.

  One more to go. The opening was narrow and forbidding. I crouched low and ducked inside. Dank air closed clammy fingers around my neck. It smelled of hostility in here. I fumbled with the flashlight.