The Third Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery

by Hendricks, Gay

  “Ah, shit,” Gus said, but I could tell she was smiling. “You really are one of the good guys, aren’t you? It’s almost enough to make me consider switching teams.” Another clink and swallow. The edges of her voice were starting to go slurry on her. “So, I’m thinking we should join forces on this Baja thing, Mr. Buddhist Cop-who-likes-dykes. Nobody else around here seems to give a flying fuck, y’know?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Ask me anything you want. I’ll give you an answer, unless, you know, it compromises my dead-in-the-water investigation.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “So, what were those anomalies you picked up?”

  Silence. Maybe I’d gone too far.

  “Okay,” Gus said, “but this is in absolute, total confidence. We’re talking Fourth Amendment issues. Congress tends to go nuts over this kind of stuff.”

  “Got it.”

  “A couple of things don’t add up. Mainly, a UAV picked up some heat.”

  “I’m sorry, UAV?”

  “Unmanned Aerial Vehicle. A drone. Homeland’s been known to loan out the occasional UAV to the DEA, Customs and Border Protection, local police—but you probably know that already. And even us, once in a blue moon. Certain drones are equipped with heat sensors—infrared radiation imaging, like that—and the Feds have been deploying them more and more along the U.S.-Mexico border, all the way from Southern California to Texas. Mostly to identify grow houses, though they’re also interested in tracking unauthorized crossings, illegal drug and weapon smuggling, that sort of thing.”

  “The Baja site’s a bit far south to qualify as a border, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, well, this whole area of border surveillance is pretty fuzzy legally. That’s sure to change. But you’d be surprised how many of these little mechanical peeping Toms are out there right now.”

  “How did Homeland Security get on board?”

  “They didn’t. This was a one-shot deal. Let’s just say I called in a favor and leave it at that.”

  I pictured Chaco’s portable pot-growing facilities, his pharmacies on wheels, and his mobile medical Airstreams in Culver City, all of them able to disappear overnight. This large, stationary building didn’t fit his M.O. “So, are you thinking someone is growing marijuana in there?”

  “No. For one thing, that requires major sources of electrical power. We’d have spotted those on our own. They did detect this odd extra heat somewhere in the general vicinity. But since, according to them, the heat wasn’t caused by growers, my bosses blew me off. Especially since the authorities down there not only weren’t concerned but told us to back off from the investigation. ATF isn’t exactly popular in Mexico, not since that last royal fuck-up.”

  “Any idea what caused the hot spot?”

  “Nope,” she said. “Willard insists it could be as simple as old hot springs running somewhere underground. He says, best case scenario, digging the hole for the slab probably jiggered something under the surface.”

  That sounded highly unlikely. “What’s the worst case?”

  Another long silence. “The worst-case scenario is why I drink instead of sleep at night,” she admitted. “But what I also keep wondering is, who dug that hole? Poured that foundation? Who put that building up there? It’s located in no-man’s land, on the boundary between Sinaloa and Tijuana cartel territory, but I’ve been hearing the odd rumor that Los Zetas might somehow be involved as well. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were all in cahoots. You know, conspiring. But who’s behind the conspiracy?”

  I inhaled deeply. If I spoke his name to Gustafson, I might be signing my own death sentence.

  Oh, well. As the Buddha says, death is inevitable.

  “Have you considered Chaco Morales?”

  “El Gato? He’s dead. Los Zetas, remember? They claimed responsibility. They even sent out a picture, I think.”

  “What if I told you his death was faked? That the cat has started yet another life? Because Chaco’s not dead, Gus. He’s … reincarnated.”

  Her laughter was skeptical.

  “I’m serious. He’s alive. I just saw him.”

  “But, how … ?”

  “He had surgery to change his appearance. He goes by the name Carnaté now.”

  “Holy fuck. Carnaté is Chaco Morales?”

  “And I’m sure he’s the guy behind that place. But as you said, not for growing pot.” I hesitated. I was tiptoeing into territory I could scarcely believe was true myself. “The thing is, Gus, I’m starting to think it’s some kind of medical facility, though I wouldn’t put it past Chaco to also be hiding something there. Something the rest of the cartels might want a piece of.”

  “A medical facility?”

  “Yeah. But, it’s weird, right? I mean, why would he … ?” Our minds did the same math.

  “Oh shit, Ten. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I think I am.”

  “What’s the one kind of building that is absolutely off limits to any kind of military attack, ever? Geneva Convention–prohibited.”

  We said it together: “A hospital.”

  We were both stunned into a temporary hush.

  “So let me ask you again,” I said, breaking the silence. “What’s the worst-case scenario?”

  “WMDs,” she said, her voice reluctant. “Even saying that out loud makes me think I should have my head examined. Do you know how hard they are to purchase, much less hide? Why haven’t we seen anything, heard anything from the Mexican authorities? Shit, from anybody? Where’s the chatter?”

  You really don’t know, do you? You really don’t know how far the greed reaches.

  So I told Gus about my worst-case scenario: a gang of gangs. An über-cartel, with its own telecommunications system and sophisticated weaponry, bribing its way deep into the political and financial systems of both countries; a hydra reaching its feelers easily between borders, with Carnaté as its head.

  After a long silence, Gustafson let out a long sigh, as if she’d been holding her breath.

  “Sorry you called?” I said.

  “Yeah. But also relieved. At least I’m not crazy. Or if I am, at least there are two of us.”

  We were winding down. A final question plucked.

  “What’s the other discrepancy?” I said.

  “Sorry?”

  “You said two things didn’t add up.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, this may not mean anything, but it looks to me like the foundation they dug and reinforced might have been bigger than the building they constructed, by maybe a dozen meters, extending west.”

  “Interesting.” I carefully filed that information alongside the rest of our conversation.

  “I’ve got some major digging of my own to do, Ten. I’ll be in touch. You take care, okay?”

  “You, too. Be well.”

  “And Ten?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just so you know, if I was straight, you’d totally be my type, too.”

  I disconnected with a smile on my face but a cannonball of dread forming in my belly.

  I had to get a full night’s sleep. I’d been averaging less than three hours a day. I switched my cell phone to mute, drank a full glass of water, opened the window, and climbed beneath the covers. Tank leapt to the bottom of my bed and settled on top of my feet. I let him stay there, enjoying the feeling of dense weight, of warmth.

  I nudged at him with my toes, breaking the mood. He rolled off and settled in the crook of my knees with a contented purr.

  “Good night, Tank,” I said. “Sleep tight.”

  An image of my ex-girlfriend Julie, gently caressing my face as we lay side by side, arrived unannounced. I let the impression float away, like a bubble. May you be safe. May you be happy. Then my mind must have changed channels, because the last thing I remembered as I coasted into sleep was a big, white building with something lava-hot bubbling underneath, liquefying its foundations.

  CHAPTER 20

  The dist
ant, insistent ring of my office phone broke through my fog-filled brain.

  “Mmmph,” I groaned. I sat up and checked the time: 4:39 A.M. I had been dead to the outside world for almost seven hours.

  Whoever was calling my landline this early should know better. I lay back down.

  No one calls at this hour unless it’s urgent.

  I swung my feet to the floor. Maybe it was a false alarm. Or maybe pushing the noodle around had finally changed my luck.

  I felt my way through the dark living room to my desk and grabbed the phone. My eyes widened at the glowing ID of the caller. “Clancy?”

  “Ten, what the hell?” Clancy’s hushed voice was clenched with tension. “You turn off your phone, or what? I’ve been calling you all night!”

  “Sorry.” I tapped caller ID, and sure enough, Clancy had called the office number twice already. I must have slept through everything until now. “So what’s up?”

  “Some weirdness,” he said. “Weirdness you might be interested in. Having to do with Chuy Dos and Goodhue.”

  “Back up, back up. What are you talking about? I thought you wanted out.”

  “I did. Then I changed my mind. Short version? I been watching the Chuy Dos operation on my off hours. Something stinks about this whole McMurtry deal, Ten, and I hate being that dude, the one who bails. I figure, what I do on my own time is my own business. Screw the hours, you know? This is about finishing what I started.”

  “I get it. So where are you?”

  “I’m not sure. Somewhere east of Inglewood. Culver City, maybe? I was watching that GTG van lot—more like dozing than watching—when something woke me up. A loud voice—urgent, you know, like “don’t fuck this up, it’s important.” It was Goodhue, hollering orders at Chuy Dos outside the office building. Goodhue must have driven in while I was catching some zzz’s. Anyway, he jumped back in his Benz and booked it out of there. Didn’t get my act together fast enough to tail him, so I decided the next best thing was to stay put. I couldn’t reach you, a’right? But it paid off.”

  He paused to take a breath. I remembered to do the same.

  “Twenty minutes later, here come two of Chuy’s men, the clipboard dude and another one I didn’t recognize, and they jump in a van and take off. So I follow, and next thing they pull up next to some sort of mobile home, parked in an empty lot. Crib looks like an Airstream but not, you know? I’m here now, keeping an eye.”

  “Does it have the GTG logo on the side panel? Did you get the license plate?”

  “Yeah, got the license. And yeah, the logo’s on the panel. You can’t miss it. There’s nothing else in the lot. Now the van’s just sitting outside, engine idling. I’m parked a block away, waiting to see what happens next. I’m telling you, Ten, there’s some weird-ass business going down.”

  I was back in my bedroom zipping up my jeans, phone wedged between my left shoulder and ear. “Tell me exactly where you are,” I said. I pulled on my running shoes.

  “Lemme check.”

  I grabbed my iPhone from the side table to enter the address.

  “Okay, says I’m on Mesmer Avenue … damn!”

  “What?”

  “This dude in, in fuckin’ scrubs, just ran out of the trailer and handed over some kind of fuckin’ … Jesus, some kind of cooler, I think! The van’s taking off. What do I do?”

  “Follow them!” I said. “I’ll meet you there!”

  “But—?”

  “I know where they’re going!”

  I wasted two minutes circling the room with choppy, directionless steps. My brain was on fire.

  Okay. Okay. Slow down.

  The action felt counterintuitive, but I took two slow breaths and stretched my arms as high as they could reach before bending forward until I touched the floor with my fingertips, then lowered myself even further and pressed my opened palms against the hard wood, the first of two sun salutations. The elongated breathing and body movement created just enough mental space for me to focus.

  Passport. Gun. Cash.

  I unlocked my closet safe and retrieved all three.

  Tank.

  I moved to the kitchen and scraped a full can of cat food into Tank’s bowl.

  Bill.

  I called Bill from my car, winding my way up and over the hill to the 101. With no traffic, I could be downtown in 20 minutes. I’d done that once already this week.

  Bill’s “hello” was more of a verbalized groan of despair than a greeting.

  “Bill, I need you to track down an Airstream, white with the logo GTG on the panel. It’s parked in an empty lot on, uh”—I read my phone—“somewhere on Mesmer Avenue in Culver City. I don’t have the exact address. Pretty sure the vehicle is one of Chaco’s mobile medical units I was telling you about. With any luck it’s still there. We’re talking possible homicide, but send an ambulance just in case, okay?” I took a deep breath. “I think the victim may be Clara Fuentes.”

  “Got it.” Bill knew me well enough to translate the tone in my voice as life or death situation. “What about you? Where are you headed?”

  “Hawthorne airstrip,” I said. “And don’t ask.”

  Then I checked on Clancy.

  “We’re already on the 405, heading north,” he said. “These fuckers mean business. I didn’t know a Ford tank could move this fast.”

  I floored the Shelby, praying the highway patrol officers were all in bed where they belonged. I was four blocks away from the airstrip in Hawthorne when my phone chimed, at the exact moment I spotted Clancy’s Impala in the middle of the street, hazard lights flashing. I slammed on the brakes. Just in front of the Impala, the black van rested on its left side, like a tired puppy taking a nap. Orange construction cones were scattered across the street like giant pieces of candy corn, leaving the jagged gap in the asphalt exposed. The skid marks told a frantic story. A speeding van swerving too late to avoid a giant pothole; a hungry pothole swallowing up a rear tire, causing the van to tip over. For once, I was glad the city hadn’t done its job.

  The accident must have just occurred. Clancy was climbing out of his car, phone to his ear, but otherwise the street was deserted. He saw me and waved, ending his call and cutting off my chiming ringtone.

  The front passenger door in the van pushed open, and Chuy Dos’s young clipboard attendant, dressed in his navy GTG coveralls, clambered out, grabbing the door handle for balance. He dropped to the ground and landed in a clumsy heap. His forehead sported a large, rapidly swelling purple bruise, and his eyes were dazed.

  “How’s the driver?” I called out to Clancy, who had reached the van. He cupped his eyes and peered through the windshield.

  “He’s okay,” Clancy replied, giving me a thumbs-up. “Conscious. Breathing. No blood. Just trapped, it looks like.”

  Good. I had a few minutes. Time to make my own luck. Time to pick up the noodle with my bare hands.

  I ran to the other guy, who was still on the road where he’d landed, though he’d pushed himself into a seated position. His arms hugged his raised knees. His body was starting to shake, and he was muttering to himself. I got close and checked his vital signs. His pulse was thready, his skin damp and clammy.

  “Higado,” he said. “Higado. Higado.” Whatever that was, he needed it badly.

  “Call 911,” I yelled to Clancy. “This one’s going into shock! And bring a blanket if you have one!”

  I unzipped his coveralls and awkwardly peeled them off him. Clancy ran to his car and returned with a rumpled flannel sleeping bag—a P.I.’s best buddy for long surveillance gigs.

  I wrapped the soft sleeping bag around the victim’s trembling shoulders.

  “Now what?” Clancy said.

  “Now, you stay put until help comes.”

  “What about you?”

  I stepped into the coveralls and zipped them over my clothes, windbreaker, and shoulder-holstered gun. They fit fine.

  “I’m going fishing,” I said.

  I jogged over to the
van, where the front passenger door hung ajar like a wayward wing. I hiked up and over the opening and leaned inside to take a look. The wide eyes of the driver, still belted behind the steering wheel, blinked up at me from below. I hoped he was confused enough by the accident that his addled brain would see my uniform and take me for another courier, sent by Chuy Dos.

  “Higado?” I said, my voice urgent.

  He pointed next to him. A white plastic box with a black lid and handle, slightly bigger than a picnic cooler, was wedged at an angle between the seat and the dashboard. Every cell in my body ratcheted up to a state of high alert. ORGAN TRANSPLANT: HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE was stamped in red on the side of the container.

  Even though I had guessed what was going on, I hadn’t completely believed it until I read those words. So it was true. Chaco was stripping gangbangers for parts.

  I shimmied farther until I was bent in half at the waist and somehow grasped the black handle with my right hand. I tugged. The container wasn’t heavy, maybe five pounds, but the angle made retrieval impossible. I needed help, but I didn’t know how to ask for it.

  And then I did.

  “Ayúdame!” I gasped to the driver. “Ayúdame!” He freed one arm from the seat belt and pushed as I pulled. Two more tries, and I had it.

  I speed-walked to my car, the cooler cradled to my chest as I sent its contents good thoughts. I had no idea what protocol to follow when transporting live organs, but I figured a little loving-kindness couldn’t hurt.

  In five minutes, I was at the airfield. I parked on the far side of the lot. Goodhue’s Mercedes was there. Then I heard a loud phut-phut-phut, and a cream-and-striped helicopter, lights flashing, lifted skyward and took off. Hopefully, Goodhue was on it. That would make my job a lot easier.

  I paused to pat my chest and underarm, making sure my gun was snugly tucked away in the shoulder holster. My passport and extra money were also safe and sound. What was I forgetting?

  Gus.

  I set the cooler down gently, unzipped my coveralls, fished out my phone, and pressed her number. Her voice mail picked up right away. She must have turned her phone off. I decided to text her instead: BAHA IS ON. TEN.