John D looked at me, his eyes troubled. “Maybe. Or maybe he was filled with regret. It’s not always what you think it is.”
He moved to the kitchen and rinsed off two Fuji apples from the market. He tossed one to me.
“Okay, son, time to see what Sister Rose has to say.”
We hiked to the fence separating John D’s property from the Children of Paradise. Sister Rose kept her word; a few minutes later we saw her ghostly figure coming up the hill toward us.
We greeted her with smiles. Her face was expressionless. “I can’t stay long,” she said. “They know I like to go out for a walk in the evening, but they’ll get suspicious if I’m gone long.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” John D asked. She just shook her head.
“I appreciate what you’re doing,” I said.
“Sister Barbara would have done the same for me.”
We stood another moment in the darkness. The silence was peppered with night sounds: rustling leaves … the scuttle of a small animal.
I got to the point. “Can you think of any reason somebody would want Barbara Maxey dead?”
Her eyes filled. “It’s still so hard to believe …”
“I know, but we have to move fast if we want to find out who did this. After forty-eight hours, the statistics on solving a crime drop like a rock. It’s over a week now, and I’m afraid we’re going to miss our chance. If there’s anything you know or may have heard that could help us, please tell us now.”
She said, “Sister Barbara was stubborn. She was the only one who’d stand up to Brother Eldon. She came here long before he did, back when Master Paul was our teacher.” She turned to John D, almost pleading. “Master Paul was different; he loved us, even when we were bad. We fear Brother Eldon and respect him, but there is no love.”
I pictured Brother Eldon’s thick menace and Nehemiah’s querulous insistence that something needed to happen, and soon. “Has anything changed recently? Anything that would cause Barbara to want to escape?”
A branch snapped and Sister Rose startled, her eyes darting back and forth. I scanned the field. The air settled into stillness again.
“Nothing out there,” I said. “I promise.”
Sister Rose stepped close, her voice low. “Brother Eldon asked us all to get insurance. Barbara refused to sign up for it.”
My heart beat against my rib cage, a rapid, tapping staccato.
“What kind of insurance?” I said, though I already knew the answer.
“Life insurance.” Her words tumbled faster. “Barbara told Brother Eldon that Master Paul had always spoken against insurance, that if our faith was strong enough we wouldn’t get sick. And once we died we’d be with God anyway, so there was no need for any of mankind’s worldly inventions like insurance. Master Paul believed insurance was the path to greed, and the work of the devil.”
“How did Brother Eldon react when she challenged him?”
“He berated her in front of the community. I wanted to speak up for her, but I was too afraid. Later that night, Sister Barbara defied our curfew. I think she must have been spying on Brother Eldon, because when she returned to our yurt, just before dawn, she was very angry-and Sister Barbara never indulged in the sin of anger. I asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn’t tell me. Told me to go back to sleep. The next morning I woke up, and she was gone. Now she’s dead and I’ll never …” She trailed off into quiet sobs.
John D wrapped both arms tight around her. She leaned into him like a child, her shoulders shaking. I added my own form of comfort, surrounding her with a blanket of compassion. I hoped she could feel it.
Her sobs lessened after a time. She pulled away, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
“Do you want to leave, to get out?” I asked.
She looked over at me. “I don’t think I can do that,” she said. “My life was an awful mess before Master Paul. He helped me get straight. And I’ve been here so long. I don’t know any other way to be.”
“I could help you find another place, someplace where you wouldn’t be scared all the time.”
“And do what? I’d rather be scared in here than scared out there. At least I’ve got a place to sleep, people who know me, accept me.”
“Did you sign up for the insurance policy?”
She nodded.
“Have you thought about what that means?”
She bit her trembling, lower lip. “It means I’m worth something if I die.”
“But to whom?”
“To the others, to my family of sisters and brothers.” Her voice rose. “Don’t you see? Even if I didn’t do anything with my life, I can do something good by dying. When it’s time for me to go, I can help build the new Paradise. A better one.”
“The new, improved Paradise, you say?” John D’s voice was skeptical.
She bobbed her head. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness. “We’re working toward the day when we can rebuild and restore our earthly home. Brother Eldon has a plan for a new city of God, right here on these hills.”
A pig farm and a field of dead almond trees didn’t seem like an ideal spot to erect this new Eden, but what do I know? Having grown up in a Buddhist monastery, I’m hardly qualified to judge someone else’s attempt at terrestrial nirvana.
I said, “But what if Brother Eldon decides you should die before you want to?”
Sister Rose jutted her chin, showing a little more spunk. “We’ve talked about that in our community meeting,” she said. “Don’t think we haven’t. If Brother Eldon does sound the Call to Paradise, he’s insisting the community make the ultimate decision by a majority vote.”
I said nothing.
John D cleared his throat. “Sister Rose, a majority vote inside a brainwashed cult ain’t exactly democracy in action.”
She wheeled on him. “Judge not, John D. Judge not, lest ye be judged!”
She started down the hill. Then she turned back, as if regretting her outburst.
“I’m really sorry about Barbara,” she said. “I hope you find whoever did it.”
We watched her pick her way across the field, until we lost sight of her among the yurts.
John D sighed. “Nobody can say you didn’t try.”
It wasn’t much consolation. I think we both felt we were watching her descend into the Valley of Death.
“Life insurance policies for a cult. I never heard of anything like that in my life. Have you, Ten?”
Unfortunately, I had. A year or so ago, bored out of our gourds on an all-night stakeout, Bill and I had listened to a long Public Radio expose on exactly this subject.
“‘Dead Peasant’ policies, at least I think that’s what they’re called.” I dredged the memory to the surface.
“Dead Peasants?”
“Yes. From back in the feudal times, when greedy landowners used the names of dead serfs-still conveniently registered as alive, mind you-to guarantee loans. As I recall, in the modern-day version, big companies secretly insure thousands of their low-level employees, naming themselves as beneficiaries. When their workers eventually die-even if they’ve long since left the company-the bosses rake in tax-free payouts.”
“Sounds crooked as hell.”
“Nope. Completely legal. Like reverse Robin Hoods, they steal from the poor to make themselves richer. No one seemed to even know or care about this massive tax loophole until recently, when companies like Walmart and Winn-Dixie got caught with their hands in their janitors’ piggy banks. So, yes, I’ve heard of such a thing,” I said grimly.
John D shook his head.
“Poor Sister Rose,” he said.
I had to agree. Sister Rose’s intentions were pure, but in reality she was just a dead peasant waiting to happen.
Meanwhile, I had a pretty good idea who the lords might be in this feudal system.
CHAPTER 19
I woke up at dawn with something pressing against my brain, like a splinter just beneath the skin. It continued to irritate me through two
cups of tea, my morning stretches, and a 45-minute run. Suddenly, near the end of my meditation, the thought surfaced: if Norman hadn’t been to see his father in two months, why did he decide to visit yesterday?
Detectives face situations all the time that strike them as odd, raising the question: Is this a coincidence or a conspiracy? After a while, most of us stop believing in coincidence. Most chance connections turn out to be anything but.
So while it was possible Norman’s visit was coincidental with mine, I had trouble believing it, especially since he’d come and gone in such a hurry. If he was there to check on his father, why did he do nothing but harass him? And why all the hostile interest in me? It was much more likely that somebody tipped Norman off, and that I was the person he wanted to check on.
If that was the case, who was the “somebody” doing the tipping off?
Maybe John D would have an idea. I made myself a tofu scramble over a toasted English muffin and washed it down with a mug of fresh coffee. Then I gave John D a quick call from my landline, a number he’d recognize. I let it ring a long time, but he didn’t pick up. I pictured him rocking outside on the porch, and I smiled as I made a note to try him later. I washed my dish and my pan, and put them both away. Fed an impatient Tank. Poured myself another coffee, and sat down at the kitchen table, facing the window.
My “office” was now open for business. I picked up my multitasking cell phone and got to work.
First things first. Sister Rose’s mention of the saintly Master Paul, aka Paul Alan Scruggs, reminded me I’d never really looked into his death. I did a search, using his full name, to see what I could find out. Within moments I had everything I needed to know.
According to a short obituary in the Antelope Valley Press, Paul Alan Scruggs had died suddenly three years ago, after a brief illness. “Brief illness” could mean a lot of things. Buster died after a brief illness. So did Jeremiah Star Trek. And Freda, too, was comatose after just a brief illness. Coincidence or conspiracy?
Or murder, plain and simple.
I caught Bill on his cell driving down the 101 toward police headquarters.
“Administrative meeting downtown,” he groused when I asked what he was up to.
“You don’t sound too excited about it.”
“Let me put it this way: if I could choose between going to a meeting on crime statistics and getting a prostate exam, I’d say ‘Give me the finger, please.’”
“I understand. Let me give you an opportunity to do a good deed, then,” I said.
“You haven’t gotten yourself in trouble, have you?”
“Nothing like that,” I said. “I just need some information about a guy who died out in Lancaster three years back. He was only in his fifties, so I’m guessing they did an autopsy.”
“What’s your interest?”
“The obit says he died after a short illness. I’m thinking there’s more to it than that. I’d like you to talk to the medical examiner who did the autopsy and see if he found anything suspicious.”
Bill said he’d see what he could do.
I took Tank outside and played “climb the tree” with him-a man can only sit cooped up in an office for so long.
Tank must have been an inside cat for the first few years of his life. While he can scoot up just about anything, including tree trunks, he never quite learned how to get down from a tree, so I give him lessons every once in a while. While I had him trapped on a high branch of the eucalyptus, I told him a little bit about Julie.
“You’ll meet her tonight,” I said. “I think you’ll like her. She’s a whiz at opening cans.”
Then I gave the Mustang a bath and buff. As I ran a cloth over the steel wheel hubcaps, I rearranged information in my mind, looking for a pattern, any pattern at all, that made sense. Florio, Barsotti, and O’Flaherty. Key man and Dead Peasant policies. Pigs and Paradise. How did they all connect?
Two hours later, Bill called back.
“What’s the prognosis?” I asked.
“The administration is full of crap, like always,” he said. “But I did get hold of the ME on the other matter.”
“And?”
“And I got nothing.”
“Hmmm,” I said.
I heard a horn honk, and Bill mutter “Asshole” under his breath. I waited. I knew he wasn’t finished with me yet.
“Strangulations. Pig farms. Dead musicians. You going to tell me what this is about, partner?”
“I wish I knew,” I said.
“Any chance we can meet for a beer later?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m a busy man.”
“Asshole,” he said again, but this time his voice was smiling.
My phone beeped, indicating another call coming in. I had no idea how to put Bill on hold with this new phone, so I just left him stranded. He’d forgive me. What else are partners for?
A crisp, businesslike female voice said, “Is this Tenzing Norbu?”
I said it was.
“Nancy Myers, Nurse Supervisor at Mercy Hospital. We have an elderly gentleman here named John D. Murphy, and he put you down as both emergency contact and next of kin.”
My stomach lurched. I walked out to my deck, pulling deep mouthfuls of air into my lungs. The brisk voice continued.
“Mr. Murphy has suffered three broken ribs and some facial contusions. He’s doing fine, but we’re going to keep him overnight to make sure things are stable.”
“What happened?”
“Mr. Murphy was attacked by two men this morning, on his way to breakfast, he told me.”
John D attacked? A narrow bolt of energy crackled from my brainpan to my coccyx, and back. Whoa. Down, boy.
“Can I talk to him?”
“He’s champing at the bit. I’ll put him on.”
“Hey, Ten.” John D’s normally gruff voice sounded weak and constricted.
“John D, what the hell? Are you okay?”
“Fine as frog fuzz,” he said. “It only hurts when I breathe.”
I felt the muscles in my belly relax slightly. I told him I was glad he hadn’t lost his sense of humor.
“If I ever lose that, just shoot me,” he said.
“I’ll have them put an addendum on your DNR,” I said, which triggered a couple of wheeze-chuckles from the other end of the phone.
“I gotta get out of here before they get me hooked on drugs,” he said. “I keep just saying no, but nobody’s listening.”
Classic John D.
“Do you need me there? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Well … they say they’re gonna let me go tomorrow, so long as I don’t drive. If you got nothing better to do, how ’bout giving me a lift home?”
“You got it,” I said. He put me back on with the nurse for the particulars.
After I hung up, the air whooshed out of my lungs, which told me how long and hard I’d been holding on to it. I did a body-check and soon located the high-pitched sizzle in my ears and clenched muscles in my upper back that signaled I was still really angry. I tried taking a few long, deep breaths to disseminate the rage. I had to think clearly. Fight or flight is fine, but not when I need the tool of reason.
I didn’t waste a moment wondering whether the mugging of John D was another coincidence. Too many things were stacking up; something was going on, even if I didn’t know what. Yet.
I paced around my deck, under the watchful eye of Tank, perched on the railing. Fucking cowards, jumping an old man like that. I’m going to find you and kick your scrawny little …
Okay, pacing wasn’t doing it for me either; I needed to burn off the excess energy still sputtering in me, orphan sparks left over from the original bolt of lightning at the news.
I went out to the garage and fired up the Mustang. I pushed it hard, savoring its deep-throated roar on a high-speed run all the way to the ocean. As I took the curves, there was so much cornering force the idiot light came on and the gauge wavered, from oil surging in the sump.
I parked in the public lot and climbed over the dunes to the beach. I kicked off my shoes and executed a long series of 50-yard wind sprints up and down the beach. I ran until my lungs screamed and sweat poured off me in rivulets, and then I ran some more. Stripping to my boxers, I took my final sprint right into the waves, and swam through the frigid water, gasping at the cold. Then I stood under the hard spray of the open-air shower until my skin was fizzing. Better.
I spread out a towel and lay on my back. The afternoon sun flashed gold against my closed eyelids. As my skin warmed, I listened to the beach sounds all around me. The grunts and cheers from a nearby volleyball game. The happy squeals of children, mingled with the drone of an overhead airplane.
Another body-check. Physical exertion had blown most of the anger right out of me. Then I checked in with my mind: it still felt hardened, and in need of repair. My deep attachment to John D had taken me on a direct skid into violent thoughts of revenge on his attackers. Rage might make me feel temporarily powerful, but in the long run it weakened me, and clouded my thinking. I needed to find equanimity toward my enemies, as well as my friends, to be effective.
I breathed in and out. I let my connection, my concern for John D, soften this time, into compassion. I let the feeling of compassion grow, ripple outward from the personal to the universal. My heart opened a crack, and the bittersweet nectar of loving-kindness spilled out, spreading to include the playing children, the calling gulls, and, finally, the men who had harmed my friend out of their own ignorance. The last vestiges of hatred dispersed into emptiness, like a cloud dissolving into pure, unblemished sky. I felt peace.
For now, anyway.
Next thing I knew, the sun was low on the horizon, and I was about to be late for my date with Julie.
I tore back up the hill and hustled inside. I brushed my teeth. Ran a hairbrush over my thick black buzz cut, not that anyone but me would notice any difference. I changed into a white linen shirt and a clean pair of black jeans, and put a good bottle of Pinot Grigio into the fridge. I pictured her freckles, her warm lips and soft curves. Added a second bottle.
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