The Third Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery

by Hendricks, Gay

  “Yeah, so I found the van. Got my eyes on it. Nothin’ much else goin’ on here, but the situation’s sweet. I’m goin’ off the grid now, so I can focus. Later.”

  I took the elevator up two floors, got off, and found myself facing a wall, a desk, and a uniformed concierge planted there to direct, as well as inspect visitors. My Dodgers cap low over my brow, I exited the elevator quickly, clutching the manila envelope to my chest. Time to instigate the time-honored activity known to private investigators as “pretexting” and to normal people as lying. My pretext? I was a harried messenger with a late delivery.

  I approached the concierge, a young, handsome African-American man standing behind a long desk. A false wall, decorated with a huge rainbow-hued modern painting, separated us from the actual lobby and office elevators. I was breathing fast to emphasize the urgency of my delivery.

  “Excuse me,” I panted. “I have an urgent express delivery for GTG Services.” I flashed the envelope at him, GTG’s pre-printed address on the label and the word RUSH added by me in block letters, front and back.

  He picked up the phone, pushing a sign-up sheet and a ballpoint pen toward me. I signed my name with a flourish, making sure the writing was illegible.

  He must have been on hold. He studied my signature, his brow furrowed. “Name,” he said.

  “Name?” I swallowed.

  “Name of the messenger service. It’s not on here.”

  I was starting to sweat for real, when a seemingly familiar figure rounded the corner. Although the man wasn’t immediately recognizable, his thousand-dollar suit was. My eyes moved up the pinstripes to their owner with his stony face and slicked-back hair, as I shuffled through my memory files. Mark Goodhue. Goodhue, Bets McMurtry’s go-to man. One of the G’s in GTG, unless the universe was playing a ridiculous joke.

  “Just let them know it’s here,” I said and made a swift retreat to the elevator, pushing the down button. I knelt, as if to tie a shoelace. The concierge said something to Goodhue. Sure enough, he took my bogus envelope. He opened it and removed the three blank sheets of paper.

  Bing!

  I stepped inside the elevator. As the doors closed, I saw Goodhue shrug and hand the envelope back.

  As I ran back through the tunnel, I wracked my brain to remember Goodhue’s car. I pictured Gannon’s driveway and retrieved the image of a sleek black Mercedes S-Class sedan.

  As my mind attempted to unlock the reason behind Goodhue’s presence, a separate lever fell into place: I was almost positive this same Mercedes had cruised by Langer’s while I was eating inside.

  I was in my car and on the street in record time and waited a half-block away from the exit, hoping I’d remembered right.

  I had. The black Benz nosed out of the exit and turned north up Wilshire. I waited until the sedan had a block-and-a-half on me and then pulled into Wilshire myself, keeping the car in sight. If I had guessed right, Goodhue was at the wheel. In a few blocks, the driver maneuvered from Hope to Flower to Third and then merged onto the 110 South. I followed, maintaining several car lengths between us. When the car merged again, onto the 105, I realized where we were headed. LAX was about 13 miles west. I frowned, adjusting my thinking. Los Angeles Airport could be incredibly tricky for a one-man tail.

  But I was wrong. Maybe three miles later, the Mercedes took the Crenshaw exit and disappeared off the ramp. I followed, trying to guess: left or right, left or right. I settled for left and, sure enough, saw the sedan just ahead. I followed, keeping my distance, as the traffic was now sparse. Several blocks ahead, the Mercedes took an odd jump. I slowed way down, pulling my car left to avoid a deep cleft in the middle of the street. Welcome to the wrong side of the tracks, where potholes stayed potholes for years.

  I continued following the Mercedes, turning right onto 120th Street, and was startled to see a fenced-in airport, complete with diner, airstrip, and several private planes parked along the edges of the terminal, smack in the middle of the Crenshaw district in Hawthorne. Who knew?

  I pulled over and watched as the Mercedes drove inside. I continued along 120th Street, looking for a sight line. Finally I found a spot where I could see past the building to the solitary landing strip. The black sedan was parked near a private jet, a Gulfstream. I lifted my binoculars. Yes. Goodhue swam into view, climbing out of his car. He waved one hand, looking upward. I swung the glass sideways, and my lenses filled with the stiff helmet-hair of Bets McMurtry, ducking out of the plane. Giant red-framed sunglasses covered half her face—odd, considering the afternoon sky was overcast—and she was wearing a checkered black-and-white coat. She looked like a distressed, big-eyed fly. She picked her way down the steep stairway from the plane, gripping the rail and moving gingerly, as if she were in some pain. Goodhue hurried to her side and eased her into the passenger side of his car.

  I again kept my distance, as Goodhue backtracked to the 105. This time, he transitioned to the 405. I was a little more relaxed. With Bets in the car, no doubt talking a blue streak, Goodhue was much less likely to spot a tail. I followed for ten miles or so at a pretty good clip before Goodhue left the freeway and zigzagged from Cotner to Santa Monica Boulevard to a smaller side street in the Flats area generously—and sometimes snidely—referred to as “Beverly Hills adjacent.”

  I hung back as he parked in front of a small but tasteful one-story Spanish bungalow in the middle of the block. He escorted Bets through the front door. This must be her mother’s house, the one she suffered in as a girl and later inherited. Didn’t look that awful to me, but what do I know about deprivation in Beverly Hills?

  I was just about to claim a good viewing area and settle in when Goodhue marched out again. Soon, we were back on the 405 South. Goodhue was a busy boy today. Now where was he headed?

  Within 15 minutes, we had entered the uninviting heart of Culver City’s industrial badlands. The shadows were lengthening. By now I was wishing that I, too, had brought a super-sized cup to take care of my urinary needs. I dropped back even farther, leaving several blocks between us as we weaved through a maze of cement warehouses and one-story brick buildings. Finally, the sedan nosed up to an industrial chain-link fence of thick galvanized steel, woven through with dark green slats for privacy and enclosing who knows what. My detective antennae started to quiver as I noted the barbed-wire reinforcements jutting inward from the slatted boundary. “We Bring Secure to You,” indeed. This circumference had the feel of a state prison. I again wondered what lay inside. Nothing good.

  An electric barrier gate, wide enough for a tank to pass through, slid open. The Mercedes eased into the lot. The gate closed firmly behind it.

  I parked a block-and-a-half away. Even with binoculars, I couldn’t see much through the green slatted vinyl, though I just made out two large warehouses, situated side by side, with what looked like a modular trailer sandwiched in between. I used my iPhone to take a GPS snapshot of the location; otherwise I’d never find my way back here. Switching back to my binoculars, I carefully scanned the front and side perimeters of the chain-link barricade. Unless I wanted to shimmy up the spiked trunk of a huge, three-limbed saguaro cactus planted at the front corner of the boundary, it appeared as if there was no other way in. I took a second series of photographs with my Canon.

  After waiting several minutes, I slipped out of my car and sidled past the cactus to the back of the enclosure, to double-check if there was any other mode of entry, as well as take care of my urgent need to pee. I noted a large dumpster and a Toyota Tercel hatchback from another decade, its dented hood and passenger door sporting different shades of blue.

  After marking a ficus tree like a territorial dog, I was able to think again. I stepped from behind the twisted gray-green trunk and froze as a red pickup truck pulled into the narrow dirt-lined alley paralleling the rear of the enclosure. The truck parked behind the Toyota. A thin man in a security guard’s all-purpose navy blue uniform, complete with epaulets, emblems, and gun, climbed out of the pickup. He t
ugged on his holster and crossed the alley to the fence. Like magic, a batch of chain link opened inward, and I realized there was indeed a small, padlocked gate back here, camouflaged by overlapping fence slats.

  As I watched, a second uniformed and armed guard, as thick as this guy was thin, let him in. My binoculars offered up a brief glimpse of a third warehouse within the enclosure, as well as a small metal shack, the perfect size for a guardhouse. The small gate closed. After five minutes, it reopened, and the heavy guy exited, yawning. He climbed into the rundown Tercel, and soon man and car huffed away.

  I checked my watch. It was 8 P.M. Shift change. I waited, and sure enough, the thin guard stepped out of the guardhouse and took a long, careful meander around the grounds before returning to his tiny quarters. Still no sign of Goodhue.

  I returned to my car and settled in for what I assumed would be a long night of sitting and watching, punctuated by a few location changes and drive-bys, to avoid suspicion. My stomach grumbled. I ate a stale protein bar I found tucked in the back of the glove compartment.

  I leaned against the headrest and waited.

  Two hours passed, and I had just allowed myself a quick catnap, the kind you take with one ear cocked and one eye open, when the faint beep-beep-beep of a reversing truck alerted me to a change. I scrambled upright. A large semi was backing out of the lot, a sidelifter loaded with two movable containers and equipped with a pair of hydraulic-powered cranes. Its cab and trailer executed a complex reverse three-point turn, straightened out, and drove right past me. I ducked below the driver’s line of sight, but I could clearly make out the writing as the truck rolled by—“GTG Services: We Bring Clean to You,” printed on both containers and the passenger door of the semi.

  The truck might as well have been printed with giant question marks. I decided to follow.

  I’d started this adventure with a full tank of gas. Two-and-a-half hours later, the semi pulled into a second warehouse facility, equally well-enclosed, equally well-protected, only this one was all the way in fucking San Diego, just off the last possible exit before Tijuana. The Corolla was driving on fumes, and I was hungry enough to eat its fraying upholstery.

  For the second time tonight, I peed on a tree that didn’t belong to me. For the second time, I rolled silently around the perimeter of an enclosed storage warehouse set in an industrial park, with another huge, three-limbed cactus standing guard at one corner. But this time, when I rounded the empty block to the front entrance, a black Hummer was waiting for me, head lowered, revving its engine like a giant bull.

  The fear-fueled flight response was immediate. As I wrenched the wheel, executing a crazy, screeching U-turn, both rear passenger windows exploded. My car had just taken a through-and-through meant for my skull. Hunching as low as possible, I jammed hard on the accelerator, very grateful for the darkness. I wove back and forth on the deserted road, the little Toyota’s engine revved up to a high-pitched shriek, as several more shots whanged off my back fender. I was bleating with fear, definitely the goat of goats, as the Hummer closed the gap. I almost wept with relief when I caught sight of a well-lit 24-hour gas station up ahead. Sure enough, the Hummer stopped giving chase. It sat for a minute on the road, then turned around and drove off, like a slavering dog that has made its point.

  I ran inside the 24-hour Stop and Shop and spent 20 nervous minutes surveying shelves of junk food with one eye on the window. The Hummer didn’t reappear, and finally I filled my car’s tank with gas and left, armed with beef jerky, vinegar-flavored potato chips, and a can of root beer. I would have bought actual beer, but I was too paranoid to put anything into my system that might soften the razor-edge of attentiveness honed by the Hummer. I might need it again tonight.

  As I started the drive, I opened the beef jerky and popped one strip into my mouth. It tasted exactly the way it looked—like highly seasoned, desiccated animal flesh. As I slowly chewed, though, I tasted something else behind the processed hide. I tasted the fear and helplessness of a trapped animal that has given up its life, flavors that were now lodged in my own body, after the recent spate of attacks. I spat the half-chewed mouthful into my hand and threw it out the window.

  Maybe my brief romance with meat was officially over. Maybe no one else need ever know.

  The rest of the drive home was uneventful. I pulled into my driveway just after 3 A.M. I did a brief walkaround of my car, stumbling with exhaustion as I checked out the damage. The back seat was littered with kernels of shattered glass, the left fender had a big tear in it, and the entire right flank was pocked with bullet holes. I laid my hand on the damaged sheet metal and shuddered. This car had been my partner longer even than Bill. It had kept me safe, and tonight it had probably saved my life. But these wounds felt irreparable, psychically if not in reality. Time to buy a new old car.

  I trudged into the house. Tank ran to me yowling. I knelt down, but he stalked away a few feet and glared. Like Heather, he was furious now that he knew I was safe.

  I checked my office messages and had three, plus a hang-up.

  The first was from Cielo, but she didn’t leave a message. The second was from Melissa, her voice shy. “Ten? Hi, Ten. It’s me, Melissa. Where are you? I miss you. Are you ever coming for a visit with your cat?” Next, from Carlos: “Hey, just wondering if … you know … It’s just that Sofia’s still gone, and I was hoping you might have found something out.” And finally, Mrs. O’Malley: “Mac is wondering if you have anything further to report on that matter you discussed. He heard from your mutual friend, and she’s very concerned at the lack of progress.”

  Four calls and at least three needed something from me, something I couldn’t give at the moment.

  I fed Tank quickly and silently, before readying myself for bed. I tumbled under the covers and shifted from stomach to back, my body itching. I’d washed my face and brushed my teeth, but dejection coated my skin, and disappointment lodged at the back of my throat. I’d made some kind of connection between the Hummer and Goodhue, but what did it mean? Could I rule anything out, really? Exhaustion acted like an accelerant on this flicker of self-doubt. Instead of breaths, I started counting the long parade of hours I’d spent so far, trying to learn something of value with this case that would lead me to Clara Fuentes and coming away empty-handed. She was still out there somewhere, waiting for someone to rescue her, and I was the wrong man for the job. Like my poor car, I was badly damaged goods.

  Go to sleep, Tenzing. All will be well. Go to sleep.

  CHAPTER 11

  Tank kneaded me awake, his claws mostly retracted. That proof of forgiveness, combined with sleep and the warm spill of sunshine pouring in my bedroom window, eased my mood considerably.

  Before I could change my mind, I put in a call to Clunkers for Cops, an LAPD non-profit organization that provides financial assistance to widows and orphans of fallen officers. The cheerful gal at the other end promised to have a tow truck there within the hour.

  I made a pot of coffee and moved to the deck to assess. As I sipped from my mug, I could still feel the lingering traces of disappointment from the night before. I doubt if anybody likes running away with their tail between their legs. I certainly didn’t.

  My cell phone buzzed, and I saw it was Clancy.

  “Clancy! How’s it going?”

  “Going okay,” he said. “Still no movement on your van, but several others took off first thing this morning. They were gone a few hours. Now they’re back.”

  “Are you cool staying there for now?”

  “No worries. The wife and kid are at her mother’s this week. I still got some food, and I got my iPod all set up. I’m learning Spanish, did I tell you?”

  “Smart.”

  “Gracias, amigo.”

  I did a few stretching exercises on the deck as I went over what I’d learned. Not only was Mark Goodhue involved with my client Bets, but he was up to his eyeballs in everything else pertaining to my world at the moment. The question was, why? Was Mc
Murtry ignorant, or behind all of this? If not, who was? I had a hard time picturing Goodhue as the chief honcho here. He was well groomed, but there was that hint of weakness in his eyes, the soft corners of his mouth, and the prissy crease of his suit trousers. I didn’t think he had the stones to be behind an operation this vast.

  I sent Mike a text, letting him know Goodhue was probably one of the G’s in GTG. Mike was no doubt fast asleep, but later today he’d be all over this fact. I needed to call Bill next, to fill him in on my second armed attack in as many days, though hopefully this one was far enough from his jurisdiction to remain off the LAPD grid for now. I certainly didn’t need any more reporters ringing my doorbell, any more gorgeous, sloe-eyed, curvaceous …

  As if on cue, my cell phone buzzed. When I saw it was Heather, my face flooded with heat, caught fantasizing. Her words quickly eradicated my embarrassment.

  “Ten, a Juanita Doe just came in. Definite homicide. Autopsy’s pending. They’re still trying to ID her.”

  “Where’s the body?’

  “One-one-oh-four,” she said, referring to the building at the county coroner’s office where autopsies take place.

  “I’m on my way,” I said.

  I raced around the house, my heart pained, but also eager to know if this was Clara. As I ran to the Shelby, a tow truck pulled up, ready to haul my mortally wounded Toyota to its next incarnation. They attached the chain and raised the carcass until it was balanced on its rear tires, then drove away, towing the battered vehicle behind them.

  I offered thanks to my Corolla for its service: May you serve well into the future, even if only as parts. Something prickled at the nape of my neck, gone before I could catch it, as my monkey mind next wondered: If a Toyota leads a good life, does it come back as a Lexus?

  I made a brief but essential stop en route downtown and arrived at the county coroner’s bearing a peace offering. Heather met me in the parking lot. Even in scrubs, she glowed. I handed over a nonfat vanilla soy latte, and we shared the bittersweet smile linked to better times. The first time I’d exchanged any actual words with Heather was in this very lot, and the second time, I’d tried to woo her with this very drink.