The Third Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery

by Hendricks, Gay

  Finally I listened to my messages from the night before:

  Heather, unable to reach me on my cell. Exhausted from dealing with multiple vehicular deaths. Turning in. Maybe we could talk tomorrow. (Which was today.)

  Clancy, wondering why the hell I wasn’t answering my cell.

  Bill, ditto.

  Mike, ditto.

  Cielo Lodera, asking, “How’s my hero of the hour doing?”

  And finally, a sheepish-sounding Mac Gannon, just checking in.

  I started at the end, which was also the beginning. I called Mac.

  I got his voice mail. “You know who it is. Speak after the beep.”

  “Mac, Ten here. I need to talk to you, as soon as possible.”

  I had no sooner ended the call than Mac returned it.

  “Ten? What’s up? Any news?”

  “No,” I said. “But we need to have a conversation. When can we meet?”

  A moment of silence, followed by, “Why not now? I just finished sucking at eighteen holes of golf, and I’m almost home. Come by whenever. The girls are out riding all day, or some fucking thing, so it’ll just be me.”

  He sounded sober, if a little irritable. I told him that would be fine.

  My next call was to Mike. It took three calls to wake him and tell him he was a complete genius and I was wrong again. Mike being Mike, a few months ago he’d insisted, against my protests, that I purchase a back-up iPhone and give it to him for safekeeping, as well as a memory stick onto which I’d downloaded my list of contacts.

  “Told ja,” was all Mike now said.

  I showered, changed, brushed my teeth, collected my gun, and fueled both tanks, feline and automotive. An hour and a half later, after a detour downtown to pick up the new phone from a sleepy Mike, I was knocking at Mac’s office door.

  “Come in!” he yelled.

  He was sitting in the rattan chair by the coffee table. Two glasses and an untouched pitcher of water completed the picture. Mac’s right knee was jittering up and down like a jackhammer. In fact, he looked a little twitchy all over. Mrs. O’Malley hovered nearby—I guess Mac’s concept of “It’ll just be me” didn’t include her. Mac gestured me toward the other chair.

  “Want a bite to eat?” He focused on my face. “Th’ fuck happened to your lip? I wouldn’t have pegged you as a brawler.”

  “Nothing. And no thank you.”

  “A drink, then? You look like you could use one.”

  “Not for me.”

  “Suit yourself.” He reached behind him in a single fluid motion, finding, without having to look, a bottle of expensive-looking single-malt Scotch positioned just so in the middle of the bookshelf. He twisted the cap open and poured himself a generous tumbler of amber liquid. His look was defiant, as if daring either of us to comment.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  I noted that Mrs. O’Malley’s pretty mouth had suddenly thinned into a narrow, disapproving line. I also noticed that Mrs. O’Malley’s hair, like Mac’s, was damp, as if they had both just stepped out of the same shower. I quickly stuffed these observations in the giant box called “None of My Business.”

  Mrs. O’Malley withdrew, but not before confiscating the Scotch bottle. Mac scowled but didn’t stop her. He admired his drink like a lover, before taking a swig. He savored, then swallowed, and it was as if a large, soft hand had smoothed down all the prickly places on his skin.

  “So, what brings you here, Ten?” His voice was instantly expansive.

  I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Where to start? “I’ve been … following several lines of inquiry having to do with Clara Fuentes’s disappearance,” I said. “And all of them lead back to here.”

  “Here?”

  “Well, to that first meeting here, with Assemblywoman McMurtry and Mark Goodhue.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Do you even know?”

  “Know what?”

  “About the drugs? About Sofia’s murder?”

  He reached behind for the bottle, although there was plenty of Scotch left in his glass. Realized his booze had been impounded. “Goddamn busybody,” he muttered. “They’re all the same. Like fucking fourth-grade schoolteachers.” He took another long swallow from his glass and met my eyes. “You want to tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”

  I knew from intimate personal experience that I had maybe 20 minutes of lucidity to work with before the alcohol hijacked Mac’s personality. Then all bets were off.

  I skipped past the hidden backpack of drugs, mentioning only that Sofia may have been connected to a small-time dealer. I wasn’t going to throw Melissa under the bus, especially not if Mac was drinking again. Instead, I concentrated on my growing suspicions concerning Mark Goodhue and his company, GTG.

  “What kind of suspicions?” Mac asked.

  “There seems to be a connection between Goodhue, a local dealer called Chuy Dos, and a drug lord. A bad one. Mexican-cartel bad,” I said. “Bets McMurtry may be involved, as well.”

  He looked skeptical. “Bets and a drug lord? You’re reaching there, buddy. You ever listened to her on the subject of drugs?”

  “Tell me about Goodhue,” I said.

  He leaned back in his chair, thinking. “Bets and I go back to high school, as you know. We lost touch for years, sure, but I still consider her a friend. But Goodhue? I really don’t know the guy. I met him for the first time that day you were over here.” He scowled. “Mexican cartel. Jesus fucking Christ. That’s all I need.” He drained his glass. Mac’s face was starting to flush; his liquid medicine would soon move from calming to fraying his temper. If I weren’t careful, in a matter of minutes he’d again be accusing me—and my Chinese relatives—of ruining his life and taking over the world.

  I glanced out the window, where the afternoon sun was painting dapples of light on the trees, and compared that dance of nature with the reddening glower on Mac Gannon’s face. So much good fortune, so little contentment. I wondered what big feelings he was avoiding, what secrets he was keeping. They must be substantial. Fate had conspired to make him a major movie star, with a few hundred million dollars in the bank, a beautiful wife and family, and a fabulous estate in Malibu, and yet at the slightest hint of trouble, he ran to his favorite victim role for comfort, like a child to his security blanket. It was sad, really.

  I adopted the soothing voice I’d used so many times on my mother. “I’m just trying to put pieces together, Mac. And it’s worth your paying attention to what’s been happening. You don’t want blowback if there’s something illegal going on with those two. Not to mention what it might do to Bets McMurtry’s political aspirations.”

  He shrugged irritably, as in I don’t want to hear this. “Look, I adore Bets,” he said. “I think she’s the best thing to come along since Sarah Palin. She’s crazy as a loon, and I should know, but she’s fifty times smarter than any of those other bimbos. Bets gets people fired up, plus she’s got a brain. And as far as I know, she’s as straight an arrow as they come.” He leaned closer. “Let me tell you something. It’s people like Bets who’re gonna save this country.”

  Here we go, I thought.

  “She’ll take strong measures. She’s not afraid to do the things that need to be done.”

  A chill wriggled up my spine, into my neck. “Like what?”

  “Like, keeping those goddamned wetbacks from crossing our borders. Like taking illegal drugs off our streets once and for all. Like shoving fucking Obamacare where the sun don’t shine. Count me in as a big supporter.”

  And then I got it. Immigration. Drugs. Medicine. What did they all have in common? Who would stand to lose the most if these issues were solved through legalization and implementation?

  GTG Services, Incorporated.

  Mac stood up, turned to face the bookcase, and reached behind a row of leather-bound books on the top shelf, retrieving a fifth of Scotch. He refilled his glass, muttering something that sounded like “bad pony.”

  “I’m sorr
y, I didn’t quite hear you,” I said.

  He focused on me, as if surprised I was still there. The alcohol was doing a number on his brain cells. “I said, ‘I hope I haven’t wasted my money on a bad pony.’”

  “Who, Bets? You’ve donated to her campaign?”

  He waved off my question. “Not Bets. With these goddamned spending limits, I couldn’t give her much even if I wanted to. No, I’m talking about the PAC, New Americans for Freedom.”

  He covered his mouth. “Oops. Nobody’s supposed to know I put my money in that. Ten fucking million, to be exact.” He shrugged again. “Not that they give a fuck anymore. That’s chump change. These days, you gotta have at leas’ one billionaire behind you to get your people elected, somebody who can write those checks for a hunnerd mil without flinching, y’know? And New Americans for Freedom’s fuckin’ landed one.”

  “Really? Who’s that?”

  “They’re not saying.” Mac’s eyes grew sly. “And why d’you care s’much, anyway? All I know’s wha’ Bets told me the other day: ‘Fuckers’ve brought a whale in.’” He swung his head back and forth, like a wounded bull looking for someone to charge.

  I pushed to my feet. My time was up. But something was still niggling at me.

  “One last question, Mac. How did Bets know to hire me?”

  “Wha’?”

  “When Clara went missing. How did our meeting come about? Did you recommend me?”

  “Lemme think …” Mac leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he shook his head, meeting my eyes. “Can’t remember. The firs’ call came from Bets, for sure. Then Goodhue got involved, once he found out I’d set up a meeting with you ’n Bets. Tried to call it off, but Bets wasn’t having it.” Mac shook his head. “Guy’s a fuckin’ prig. Don’ know why she doesn’ get rid of him.”

  Goodhue again. Goodhue, Chuy, and behind it all, the head of the hydra, Carnaté aka Chaco Morales. The grand puppeteer, manipulating the strings, making everyone else, including me, dance. Another man who hated unfinished business. I was his loose end, just as he was mine. But he was the one who had me tied up in knots.

  I left Mac sinking into a bog of self-pity, belting back Scotch straight from the bottle. I was safely out of there and had pulled out my phone to call Clancy, when Mrs. O’Malley ambushed me next to my opened car door. I inwardly rolled my eyes. The last thing I needed was a long heart-to-heart with Mac Gannon’s secret mistress.

  “A moment, Mr. Norbu?” She gestured toward the office. “I heard raised voices. Is everything all right?”

  “Absolutely fine.”

  Anxiety spiked her voice. “So he didn’t … ? No politics? No conspiracy theories?”

  I shook my head. “None at all.” She was probably worried that I had TMZ on my speed dial.

  “I’m glad,” she said. A tear formed at the corner of one eye. She brushed it away. Not my business. Not my business. Not. My … I rested my hand lightly on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  More tears. “It’s just that Mac …” She crossed her arms, clutching at her shoulders. “I’m afraid he’s destroying himself,” she said. “I’m afraid the whole thing is about to collapse.”

  “The whole thing?”

  “His career, his reputation, all his hard work. His entire world. Everything’s teetering on the brink.”

  “Because … ?”

  “People used to love him. Now everybody hates him. Or worse, they think he’s a foolish idiot. I’m so afraid for Mac.”

  She was avoiding the obvious. What would Lobsang say?

  “What about you? What are your fears for yourself? What are you hiding from?” I tried to keep any judgment out of my voice. “What aren’t you admitting? The hardest thing?”

  “The hardest?” Her eyes were pools of pain.

  “Yes.”

  “I … I don’t …”

  I said, as gently as I could, “How long have you been … with Mac?”

  Her whole body slumped, though whether with relief or shame, I couldn’t tell. “In love with him? Since I was a teenager in Dublin and saw his first movie,” she said. “Half my life. Pathetic, right? As far as the other goes, we only got … intimate a year or so ago.”

  I stayed silent, trying not to glance at my watch. The woman was in a lot of pain.

  “I moved to Los Angeles after I left university, and got a job as a nanny for an actor who knows Mac; his daughter and Melissa go to the same school. Mac spotted me at a birthday party. He needed an assistant and offered me a job. I thought it was a sign that we were meant to be.” She made a bitter little mouth movement. “I know! I know! It’s all such a fucking cliché.”

  “What about Mac. Does he love you?”

  Her smile was resigned, though surprisingly without bitterness. “I’m pretty sure that’s not in Mac’s repertoire. Not with adult women anyway. We have opinions, you know? He adores Melissa, but that’ll start changing as soon as she hits puberty, just like it did with Maggie.”

  “Well, at least your eyes are open, Mrs. O’Malley.”

  Her eyes flashed. “That’s another thing. My last name’s O’Malley, but I’m not anybody’s missus. Mac just started calling me Mrs. O’Malley because he thought it was funny. He did the same thing to poor Penelope—she was always Penny before. I guess he likes branding his women, you know, after he charms them and before he starts blaming them for everything. No wonder she pops so many pain pills.”

  As I watched, something inside her shifted. She only straightened her spine, but as a result she seemed to actually grow several inches taller. “You know what?” she said. “I think I may be done.” She took a deep breath and looked around, as if seeing her surroundings more clearly. “Fuck him. Just … fuck him.” She met my eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Norbu. This little talk has helped.”

  Don’t thank me, thank Lobsang. “I’m glad” is all I said.

  She took a step toward the office and then appeared to think better of it. “Nope. Not going there. I’ll mail in my notice.” She smiled at me. “I think I’ll address it to ‘Penny.’”

  She strode back toward the house, a tall and graceful warrior, at least for this moment in time.

  I stood in the harsh sunlight. Without Melissa’s bright, darting presence, the compound, though surrounded by lush greenery, felt strangely lifeless.

  I hoped she was doing okay.

  My new iPhone strummed in my pocket like a guitar, an unfamiliar but welcome ringtone. Mike must have decided I needed a change.

  I checked the screen. Heather.

  “Hey,” I said. “Sorry about yesterday. Things got out of hand.”

  “Mike told me. Me, too, by the way. What a crazy night. Not to worry. We’ll get there.” Her voice was light, with none of the undertone of blame I’d come to dread. I smiled. We’ll get there was a favorite catchphrase of ours, from our early days of heady courtship.

  “You sound great,” I said.

  “Maybe not great, but I am better,” she answered, somewhat mysteriously. “Anyway, never mind about that. Listen, I was trying to find out more about the organ-transplant stuff, so I put in a call to Dr. K. just now.”

  “Doctor K.?” My voice climbed the scales toward high squeak.

  “Kestrel. Gustolf Kestrel. Transplant guy, remember? He wasn’t around, but I wound up chatting with one of the nurses in his department. They were all buzzing about Dr. K.’s new patient. Ten, you’ll never guess who checked into hematology this morning for blood tests.”

  “Um,” I said, still recovering from the blatant Dr. K. reference.

  “I’ll give you a hint. As far as I’m concerned, this patient doesn’t need a new liver, she needs a new brain, preferably cloned from Hillary Clinton’s.”

  As her words registered, my heart started pounding so hard in my ears I could barely hear the name I had already guessed.

  “Bets McMurtry,” Heather said. She lowered her voice. “She’s right here in County-USC, can you believe it?”

&n
bsp; CHAPTER 17

  I drove straight to Boyle Heights, which was becoming a bad habit I couldn’t seem to break. I soon found myself in a vigorous, losing debate with the elderly receptionist the powers that be had chosen to guard the lobby of County-USC. I soon determined why. Myrtle Fishbein may have looked like someone’s granny, but in fact she was a manifestation of the wrathful protector deity, the six-armed Mahakala, minus the crown of skulls. She had pulled up Bets’s information and was reading something off her computer.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but the patient in question has left strict instructions. In fact, I’m very surprised you were apprised of the patient in question’s presence.” She pulled her attention from the screen, removed her reading glasses, and set them carefully in the pinkish-gray hair on the top of her head. Her fiery eyes bulged, as if to wither me with their stare. “What did you say your name was?”

  I hadn’t said, nor was I about to. I didn’t want anyone later connecting the dots between my presence here and Heather’s offhand comment.

  “Can you at least let her know she has a visitor?” I said.

  She crossed all six arms. “No,” she said.

  I played the only card I had left. “Then let me speak to your supervisor.”

  She sniffed, but protocol was protocol, even for wrathful Tibetan protectors. She set a “Back in five minutes” sign on her desk and marched off, tiny but mighty, her joints stiff with indignation. As soon as she’d turned the corner, I hustled past the desk and down the corridor to find the hematology ward myself. Maybe I’d get busted, but I’ve discovered through years of experience that there are times it’s easier to beg forgiveness than get permission.

  After a quick sidestep into the hospital gift shop for camouflage aids, I placed myself in front of a doctor frowning over a patient’s chart near the elevator. He looked busy, which meant he’d take the easiest route from me bothering him to me being gone.

  “Hematology?” I asked, shifting my vase of flowers and box of chocolates to hide the fact that I didn’t have a visitor’s badge.

  “Sixth floor,” he answered, without looking up from the chart.