The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) (30 page)

Julie’s lips curved into a smile. “A nap sounds good.”

Was I misreading the glint in her gold-flecked eyes?

Maybe not. She slid off the stool, skirted the two sleeping animals, and in two steps stood right in front of me. She stretched, her arms toned from all those years of vegetable chopping. A light spray of freckles dotted her smooth skin.

A deep twisting sensation invaded my groin area, half-pleasure, half-pain. The tightness mounted to my chest, cutting off my breath. “Julie, it’s been over a year.”

“Me, too,” she said. “Way too long.”

My heart was trying to gallop straight through my rib cage. But I had to say my piece. “I’ve never forgotten what a wise, beautiful woman once said to me. At the time, I didn’t understand, but now I think I do.”

“What?” Julie’s lips were almost close enough to kiss. “What do you understand?”

“That the sum of a relationship has to equal more than the two parts. A healthy, intimate relationship, I mean. And for that to happen, each part has to take responsibility for its own happiness. Otherwise, it’s not worth doing.”

Julie’s breath brushed my cheek, like the flutter of wings. “Well, listen to you.” She stepped even closer, and we moved together as one, until we were pressed against the kitchen counter. Her mouth shifted to my right ear. “So, guess what? I have this idea for a restaurant, Ten. My own restaurant, I should say. I want to call it Julie’s Impromptu.”

“Good name.” I swallowed. The light scent of soap and jasmine on her skin was acting as an accelerant on my pheromones. “What kind of food will you serve?”

“Whatever I feel like making that day,” she murmured. “My plan is, intimate setting. Twenty or so seats. Maybe a semicircular counter, with the equipment right in the middle. That way, everyone can see me do my thing.”

I never knew a business concept could be so … so sexy.

“Impromptu,” she almost whispered. “In other words, spontaneous.”

“Spontaneous?” I interlaced the fingers of my right hand with hers.

“Spontaneous.” She interlaced our left hands, and pulled my chest against her soft but firm breasts.

“Whatever strikes you at the moment?”

“Whatever strikes me.” Her breath tickled my ear.

“So everyone has to let go of expectations?” I traded, moving my mouth to her other cheek. I kissed the fragile skin right beneath the lobe. “Sounds exciting. What about dessert?”

“Dessert’s a surprise. Sorry, but you’re just going to have to wait.”

“Until … ?”

“Until I’ve decided what to serve.”

And with that, she led me to bed.

We did sleep, eventually. But only after a delicious period of deep familiarity intermingled with fresh, new discoveries, and an early evening pause to feed and water the livestock, ourselves included. My phone beeped and buzzed, more than once, but I left it alone, and eventually whoever was trying to reach me did the same. The bedroom was dark by the time naptime had somehow morphed into bedtime. Our bodies nestled like twin spoons under the covers, an almost perfect fit.

“I missed you, Julie Forsythe,” I said. “I’ve been missing you for ages. I don’t think I realized how much until now.”

“Me, too, love.” Julie kissed my back, a sweet spot right between my shoulder blades. “Me, too.”

C
HAPTER
27

I parked on the street and climbed out of my Mustang to confirm that the low, level building of sand-colored brick, occupying a fraction of a block on West 106th Street, matched the address the “delegation” had left for me yesterday. I was way south of South Central, almost in Compton. Boxy single-family residences lined the quiet street. A few brave trees had taken root in tiny yards, here and there. Overhead, the tangle of telephone wires formed a crisscrossed canopy, strung between peeling utility poles.

I double-checked the number. I was in the right place.

To my left, the building ended in a small parking lot, adjacent to a smaller concrete playground. Children here had to make do with a single sandbox slightly bigger than a Kleenex box, plus two plastic picnic tables huddled close under tented blue canvas, the only source of shade. According to the sign, this portion of the building housed a Head Start program.

The rest of the structure plodded its way to the corner of 106th and Vermont. The windows were mesh grilles, all but one striped with metal bars. The middle window frame accommodated a very old air-conditioning unit, which was coughing and humming. A single white cross was tacked to the far edge of the flat roof, like an afterthought. I spotted another sign, this one enclosed in glass, on a strip of grass by the front sidewalk. The lettering was faded but legible: Grace Missionary Baptist Church.

Okay, maybe Tory Wiggins had given up the high life after all. Returned to his roots, so to speak. Maybe the “delegation” was in fact his “congregation.”

I parked in the empty lot, my bright-yellow Mustang as conspicuous as a giraffe. I strolled up the sidewalk to the front entrance, a heavy metal double-door, like you’d find at an indoor gymnasium or pool. The packet of cash felt bulky and uncomfortable in my pocket.

A hulking man with ebony skin sat alone in the front pew of the plainest, oddest place of worship I’d ever visited, the decor more Home Depot than anything else. The ceiling tiles were pebbled, the ceiling itself very low. The flooring was dull-gray industrial carpeting. No sign of crosses or statues anywhere. Instead, what looked like a pilfered segment of wooden banister provided railing for the two makeshift steps leading up to a raised dais. A plywood lectern faced the room, a microphone clipped to the front lip.

“Mr. Wiggins?”

He stood and turned, a towering refrigerator of a man. “You must be Tenzing. Thanks for coming.” The deep rumble of voice reached me by way of undulation, like a bowling ball traveling its wooden alley. “Come on up. Take a seat.”

I moved up the center aisle, flanked by maybe 20 rows of pew. My feet scuffed the carpet. At the front, I slid across curved wood until I was maybe a foot away. Tory’s neck was as thick as my thigh. His black hair was close-cropped, and well-salted with gray. His eyes were so dark they swallowed up the pupils, but they shone with intelligence. Only a fool would underestimate this man’s physical or mental prowess.

“Is this your church?”

“Used to be.” He shot me a look, as if daring me to make fun. “I like to come back here now and then. Helps calm me down.”

“I like it,” I said. “Simple. No nonsense.”

He gave my forearm a light cuff. Well, light for Tory. To me, it felt like an anvil landing. He could have snapped the humerus bone in two like a twig, if he’d so chosen. G-Force was lucky he’d wound up with nothing more than a fat lip.

“I know some about you, Ten. G-Force told me a little, and I’ve done more digging on my own.” Tory’s words rolled from his mouth like polished marbles, each one distinct and refined. Either he’d worked hard to drop the ghetto slang, or he’d never embraced that way of talking to begin with.

I could well imagine a voice like his filling this space with a godly thunder.

“I know you like to solve problems for people,” he continued. “I know you can run hot at times. I also know that you’re chasing some bad men right now. The worst kind of men.” He tipped his head, studying me. “But now that you’re here, up close and personal, I sense something else.”

More silence from me. I wasn’t going to help with this instant psychoanalysis.

“You like to clean up your little piece of the world. You’re after justice above all, even if it means bending the rules. Even if it’s the kind of justice they don’t necessarily dispense,” Tory waved vaguely toward downtown, “over there at the courthouse.” His smile seemed tired. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

I couldn’t. He wasn’t wrong, not completely.

“Though maybe that’s just you on a good day. On a bad day, who knows? If you’re like me, on a bad day maybe you’re a self-righteous prick.”

I had to smile. Tory rewarded me with his own gold-toothed grin.

“Thought so,” he said.

“Okay, Mr. Wiggins,” I said. “Enough mapping out of my deficiencies. What are we doing here?” I pulled out the bundle of money. “Besides you trying to talk me into taking a job I don’t want to take.”

“Relax,” Tory said. “How about we just take a couple of deep breaths first? Before we get into all that. Isn’t breathing what you monks are supposed to be good at?”

Reformed drug dealer or not, Tory gave good advice, and I complied. I inhaled, testing the atmosphere. The air inside the empty church, while warm and slightly stale, was still flavored with the unmistakable purity and weight of a space that has received a steady diet of prayer and praise, directed to a higher power. Its spirit-infused density reminded me of the old prayer hall at Dorje Yidam. I inhaled and exhaled again. Around me, the empty, whispering pews seemed to settle as well, as if accepting an invitation to experience a deeper peace and silence.

“Tell me about Yolanda,” I said.

Tory closed his eyes. His voice was like a low growl. “I don’t know how that girl got such a claim on my heart, but she did. Child was shattered by her mother’s death, and I felt responsible.” He corrected himself. “I
was
responsible. Not directly, but still. I tried to help her, raise her like my own, but nothing worked. Yolanda was broken. A perfect target for a man like Bone.” On his lap, his hands curled into fists. They looked like big hams. He glanced over. “That’s what kills me, you know? I could always spot the broken ones, too, back in the day. When I was on the lookout for easy marks.” He seemed to drift off for a moment. “He inked his name on her, you know. Over her heart. Branded that child, like she was his cow.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I truly am. But I don’t think I can help. My investigation into trafficking has nothing to do with local gangs.”

“I understand, I do.” His voice grew urgent. “But I’ve been hearing some things. Things about Crips getting together. Pimps joining forces, not just with each other, but with big-time traffickers from other countries. Bad men. No, more than bad. Evil.”

My antennae pricked. “What other countries?”

“Thailand. China. Russia. All over.” Tory scrubbed at his head with his meaty palms. “I hate this shit! Can’t wrap my head around the wrong of it, you know?”

“I feel the same way,” I said.

“I know I made my own mistakes,” he said. “I justified my actions because it was mostly weed. Told myself it was just business, that nobody ever took another’s life under the influence of bud, no matter how high the grade. But I was still breaking the law. And Yolanda’s mother, she was a victim of that lawless life, a life I helped perpetuate.” Tory bowed his head for a moment, as if weighed down by remorse. “I accept that. But I can’t accept what’s going on now. The way we are enslaving our own flesh and blood, in the name of commerce.” He turned, his eyes genuinely full of pain. “The way I see it, any girl—white, black, yellow, born here or somewhere else—if she’s selling her body to line someone else’s pocket, she’s a slave. She’s hurting. She’s in pain. And even if she isn’t mine, she’s somebody’s Yolanda.”

He nudged the stack of money back across the pew. “Please, Tenzing. Please take the money.”

I took it, if for no other reason than to ease the tidal waves of agony emanating from the big man.

“And if you need help, tell G-Force to give me a shout. I’ve still got muscle I can call on, people that owe me.”

I snorted. “Your delegation?”

His look was amused. “So you spotted that trick. Those two guys? They’re church deacons. And the Escalade’s from another life. Still, it got you here, didn’t it? Takes a hothead to know a hothead.” He stood and offered his hand. “The offer stands. Call if you need anything.”

“Okay,” I said. “I will.”

As I pushed open the heavy door to the outside world, Tory’s parting words reached me, low and laced with regret.

“I just want to know she’s okay,” he said.

Slowly winding east along the residential boulevards so I could hook back onto the freeway, I opened my phone to call Julie. I wanted to make sure last night had happened. That she was real, that
we
were real. As I scrolled for her number, my phone vibrated in my palm.

She was calling me. I put her on speaker.

“Hey!” I said. “Are you still at the house?”

“I wish.” Her voice sounded tinny, her stress evident. “I’m at Martha and Bill’s. Can you come over? The shit may be about to seriously hit the fan.”

“What’s going on?”

“Mila and Sasha just landed at LAX. They’re headed to the house. And they’re asking for you.”

“I’m on my way.”

I realized I’d never checked my messages from last night, so I pulled over right before the Harbor Freeway on-ramp. First, my favorite ex-paparazzo, Clancy: “Yo, Ten, it’s been like a graveyard over here. Nobody in or out for two full days. No people. No vehicles. Certainly no vans or school buses. Either I got the address wrong, or everybody’s taking their summer vacation. I’m telling you, this is not a going concern. Let me know if you want me to stay put.”

I called Clancy right back.

“Yo.”

“It’s me, Ten. Take a break, okay?”

“Sorry I couldn’t help.”

“No, this does help. Nothing happening may mean something else did.”

The second message was from Mike, and landed like a lead ball in my belly: “Boss. When you get this, call me. Some serious, serious shit going down.”

Mike rarely showed emotion, but his voice was stitched tight with something close to fear. I checked the time. He’d be dead asleep. I called anyway. His voice mail picked up. I disconnected and called again. He answered the third round of rings.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“Mike, Ten. Sorry, I …”

“No, s’good you called. Hang on.”

I waited as face-washing, toilet-flushing noises happened.

“Okay. I’m officially functioning.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not really sure.” These words rarely came out of Mike’s mouth. “So, when was the last time you checked that Agvan site online?”

“Night before last. Why?”

“Because it’s shut down.”