The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) (12 page)

Inside, an ancient twisted place un-kinked itself.

Every time I assumed an old wound was healed, it managed to reappear in my path. Was I doomed to always walk in circles?

A new thought percolated.
Maybe it’s not the same wound, but a higher version of hurt, which requires a higher version of healing. Maybe it’s not a circle, but a spiral.

I opened my eyes and stood, placed my hands in the prayer posture, and bowed toward Barbara Maxey’s final resting place.
I promise to listen for the next right action, the one that will bring meaning to your death.

Darkness had descended, a comforting cloak. Time to go home. I felt refreshed and recharged, as if I’d dropped yet another burden I hadn’t known I was hauling. I offered a second, telepathic bow of gratitude to Yeshe and Lobsang, back in the monastery.
Thank you.
Once again, my dharma-brothers had been right: I had needed to take a hike.

As I strolled toward my car, a cruising park ranger paused to lower his car window. “Any stragglers back there? Park’s about to close.”

“Nope. No stragglers. Just a couple of ghosts,” I said.

He nodded. “Plenty of those here. Don’t feed ’em they won’t bother you.”

Good advice.

C
HAPTER
12

The insistent buzz dragged me from a dreamless sleep. I grabbed my vibrating phone from the side table. Bill, calling from Bosnia, at three in the morning. Not a comforting combination.

“Mmff.”

“Sorry to wake you up, Ten, but I need your help with something.” Bill’s voice was loud, clear, and accompanied by a roaring sound, as if he were stationed inside a wind tunnel.

“Where are you?”

“Bathroom. Specifically, the men’s room in the basement of the central
policija
station here in Sarajevo. Not to worry—I’m not under arrest. I checked in with the locals as soon as I landed.”

“Good. I was worried about you.”

“No need. So listen, I, uh, I picked up some intelligence from the cops here. That’s where you come in.”

Picked up
was Bill-speak for reading something he picked up off of a random desk when no one was looking. I’d learned the art of half-truths from a master.

“Whatever you need,” I said. I was almost awake. I padded to the kitchen, filled the kettle with water, and set it on the stove to boil.

“Can you do some surveillance on a building for me? Soon? As in, now?”

I grabbed a pen and Post-it pad from my junk drawer. “Where?”

“Out by Van Nuys Airport.” He rattled off an address and I scribbled it down.

“What am I looking for?”

“Sasha,” he said.

“Wait, he’s here? In L.A.?”

“Maybe. At least, I don’t think he’s in Bosnia anymore. The last anybody here knew, he was on a bus, heading for the airport. And the other end of this alleged deal he’s investigating is in Los Angeles, plus, maybe, Seattle, I think? Whatever. The local cops seem to be all over it on this end. They’re trying to be helpful, or at least pretending to be. They even gave me a little office to use.”

“In the bathroom?”

He laughed. “Yeah, well the
policija
here are … well, let’s just say they’ve got many loyalties, not all of them mutually compatible. I’m pretty sure the whole building is wired up the wazoo, including my temporary office.”

“Right. Bugs.”

“Bugs. Probably for as long as there’s been bugging. I mean, hell, the Russians alone listened in on anyone and everyone they could, neighborly or not, back when this was all still one big happy Yugoslavia. I doubt if anybody was inclined to take out the wiring, even after Russia stopped being Russia.”

The kettle was whistling. I scooped loose leaves into a one-mug infuser and poured boiling water over the mixture of half-jasmine, half-green tea. The tart fragrance hit my nostrils like perfume.

“So anyway, long story short, here in the basement crapper they have a hot air hand-dryer that roars like a 747,” Bill said. “I’m using it as an artful disguise.”

“How do you know they didn’t bug the hand-dryer?”

“Smart ass. So, can you pay a visit to that address for me?”

“I can.” The caffeine hadn’t hit my bloodstream yet, but the prospect of a predawn excursion had already worked magic on my adrenals. Nothing short of a tranquilizer dart would get me back to sleep. “Do you have a picture of Sasha you could e-mail me?”

“Don’t need it. He looks just like me, only with dark hair.” His voice caught a little on the words
just like me.

I pictured Bill—tall, lanky, firm chin—added thick brown hair and subtracted a mustache. “Other than his one call to Mila, has anybody heard from him?”

“Not that I know of. I haven’t been able to get hold of Mila today. She’s not answering her cell phone.”

“So, how do you even know he’s back here?”

“I don’t. I told you. But it’s the best shot I have at the moment. The guys upstairs seem to think Sasha’s somehow gained access to the same information they have on these bastards. The bad guys weren’t the only ones following Sasha’s blog. But this address is all, and I mean
all,
I could get my hands on. I need eyeballs and boots on the ground.”

The whole thing sounded a bit desperate, but I kept that opinion to myself.

“When are you coming back, Bill?”

“Not sure. I want to check out my end here a little more first. You can reach me on my cell if anything comes up. I’m set up for calls, and the reception’s better than home. You’re coming in clear as a bell. Crazy, right?”

“You’re talking to a man who just got his first smart-phone a couple of years ago. It’s all crazy to me. I’ll be in touch.”

I changed into black jeans, a black T-shirt, a black baseball cap, and black Nikes. I added a black windbreaker. I unlocked the gun safe in my closet and retrieved my newish 11-ounce Smith & Wesson Airlite, black matte finish, but a rosewood grip. What can I say? I’m a sucker for wooden handles. The compact revolver looked more like a popgun, but the seven rounds of .22 Magnum bullets it could hold told a different story entirely. My Wilson Combat would always be my first choice for hazardous duty, but this little guy was better suited for small jobs of an unknown nature.

What was I forgetting?

Right. Tank. I scooped dried cat-kibble into his bowl. Unless absolutely necessary, he wouldn’t budge until 6
A.M.
or eat until 7, but knowing how these things work, I took precautions in case the exception happened.

I closed the door silently behind me. Tank clocked in at close to 18 hours of snooze-time almost every day. Resting was one of his spiritual superpowers, and I tried, as much as possible, to avoid disturbing his practice with my own comings and goings.

Traffic was sparse, and 25 minutes later I was taking the Sherman Way exit off the 405. I spotted my goal seconds before the brisk, sunny female voice on my phone’s GPS told me my destination was ahead, on my left.

This was apparently my week for long, low industrial buildings. As I drew closer, I noted this one was the color of wet cement. The area, with its close proximity to an airport, must be a freight destination—I’d passed several similar warehouses as I approached. The side facing me appeared to house at least half a dozen businesses. Loading bays with roll-up doors divided the one-story structure, all of them dark, deserted, and sealed up tight. No lights inside. No trucks or cars outside. If something was happening, it was happening on the other flank of the building.

I checked for higher ground to use as an observation point. There wasn’t any.

My Neon executed a neat, tight 180 and I retreated several blocks before cutting over to approach the building again from a different angle. As I edged closer, the little hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stood up.

Someone’s watching me.

An LAPD car slid out of the dark alley I’d just passed and pulled directly behind me. I checked my rearview mirror. Two uniformed officers in the front seat. Back seat, empty. The passenger-cop reached out an arm, and the sharp, single
woot
of the siren made me jump, even though I knew it was coming. The officer at the wheel gestured me to the side of the road. I pulled over and sat still, hands in plain sight on the steering wheel.

So far, not so good.

Nothing happened for 30 seconds or so, and I used the time to slow my breathing. I assumed they were running my plates. Finally, the driver’s side door opened and expelled a burly cop straight out of central casting, as Bill liked to say. Mustache? Check. Steely eyes? Check. Beer and donut-belly making a slow creeping escape over his belt? Check, check, check. He hitched his pants, unsnapped his holster, and approached my window with the slow swagger that says
I got all the time in the world, asshole.
“License and registration, sir.”

I handed them over, along with my business card, which included my private investigator license number. His breath was more of a slow wheeze. He studied everything, double-checking that the names, and I, matched. At least he was LAPD. I tried, but couldn’t recall meeting a single cop from the Van Nuys division. No names to drop. I’d have to rely on my innate Tibetan charm.

He lowered his meaty face to window level.

“Private detective, huh? You working a case?”

“Yes,” I said.

“What kind?”

Technically, this was none of his business, but I was pulled over on a deserted street in his jurisdiction in the middle of the night. Not the ideal time to remind him of that fact.

“Missing person,” I said. “Runaway kid.”

He handed me back my papers.

“I’ll let you know if I see any.”

Was he joking? I met his eyes. They were hard as flint.

“Okay. Thank you, Officer.” This seemed to mollify him a little.

“So what makes you think the kid’s back here?”

I waved in the general direction of Van Nuys Airport and manufactured a semi-lie. “His father gave me a tip he might be squatting somewhere near the airport.”

He shook his head. “Like I said, haven’t seen anybody.”

I murmured another “thanks” and pulled away in my little Neon, feeling a bit like a runaway kid myself.

My exit route took me straight past the back of the building. Bingo. Three vehicles were parked in front of one of the bays. Narrow windows blazed with fluorescent light from inside.

And two upstanding members of the Van Nuys LAPD were still trailing me, a block or two behind.

Time to call off my surveillance project for the time being. I connected with Sherman Way again and headed back toward the freeway. The police car peeled off, and I lost sight of it.

The freeway ramp rose to my right. At the last minute, I drove past it, motivated partially by stubbornness, and partially by a sudden, acute need for human fuel.

Sadly, at this hour, Taco Bell was my only choice, but at least it had its own private lot. I parked and walked inside to study the menu, a symphony of bad choices. Finally, I settled on a low-fat bean burrito (fresco style) and a Diet Pepsi to go—the memory of that Van Nuys officer’s bulging fast-food belly was still a little too “fresco” on my own mind to go wild. While I waited for my paper bag of food, I pondered his odd response when I’d said I was working a missing persons case. Most officers’ first reaction would be to ask for more information: “Boy or girl?” or “What’s the kid’s name?” or “When was he reported missing?” This guy didn’t seem interested in anything beyond moving me along.

And why didn’t the second guy get out of the patrol car and move to the passenger side of my car, also standard procedure for that situation? What kind of uniform lets his partner carry out a middle-of-the-night stop solo, with no visible backup? There was no reason to stay in the car, unless you didn’t want to show your face.

I climbed back in the Neon, unwrapped my burrito, and took a bite of beans, onions, red sauce, and
pico de gallo.
Not too bad. I poked my straw into the plastic cup lid and washed the burrito down with a long pull of slightly metallic carbonated liquid. At moments like this, Dorje Yidam felt like a world—and several lifetimes—away.

I chewed and swallowed bite two, this one not nearly as satisfying, for whatever reason. I couldn’t decide if my suspicions were useful intuitions or just middle-of-the-night paranoia. I’d been awakened partway through a sleep cycle and sent on a crazy, potentially dangerous errand. The combination of fatigue and adrenaline could be manufacturing fear-vibrations where there was nothing to fear. Wouldn’t be the first time my body chemistry induced expectations of danger as my mind turned a routine cop-stop into a criminal conspiracy.

As novice lamas, we were urged to be mindful at all times, to concentrate on choosing right thoughts and right actions. The right action for most people was to return home, get some rest, and make a new plan. The wrong action? Circle back under the freeway, park my car on a dimly lit side street, and attempt a stealth approach on foot. Wrong, and unwise.

But I was no longer a lama, I was a P.I.—and I had already come all this way.

I found a perfect spot, not far from where I’d been pulled over. A mere seven-block walk through a series of alleys would eventually spit me out close to the building. I checked my revolver cylinder, confirmed seven rounds, and tucked the Airlite into the right pocket of my windbreaker. I pulled the baseball cap low over my forehead. As I made my way into the gloom of the first alley, a chilly breeze brushed against my back. I always forget how cool Southern California predawns are, even in midsummer.

I paused at every block to look for my Van Nuys friends, but they must have finished their shift, and so I continued the slow creep from alley to alley, hugging the shadows, until I reached my goal. There were still lights on inside and three cars parked out front: two black luxury SUVs and a BMW sedan with tricked-out wheels.

I squinted to make out the sign on the door:

Agvan Supply, Inc.
“We Supply the Very Best”

If this was indeed a human trafficking operation, somebody had an ironic sense of humor. And if somebody had an ironic sense of humor and was in the human trafficking business, that person was very dangerous.