The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) (34 page)

“Well, keep trying anyway,” I said. I disconnected. I glanced over at the laptop screen. Also completely silent. The feed was dead. I just hoped Mila wasn’t dead, too.

I closed my eyes.

“What are you doing?” Panic was shredding the borders of Sasha’s voice.

I opened my eyes and turned to him. “I know this seems counterintuitive, but I need to switch gears here. Move from planning to receptive mind. I need to let go of expectations. To listen for a moment. It won’t take long, I promise.”

I closed my eyes again.

Inhale. Exhale. Allow.

Our technology has failed.

Inhale. Exhale. Allow.

When has this happened in the past?

Inhale. Exhale. Allow.

A totally weird and seemingly random memory rose, shimmering and whole like a bubble, in my brain:
the last time I’d been to Providence Saint Joseph with Bill.
It was maybe three hours after Lola and Maude were born. I’d tiptoed into the room with two pink balloons and a bottle of champagne. Bill and I had only been partners for a few years, but he was already family. Martha was sound asleep, flat-out exhausted from the ordeal of twelve hours of giving birth to two six-pound babies. They were next to her bed, bundled side by side in a raised container with clear, Plexiglas sides, like a pair of cabbages in a crisper drawer.

Bill stood guard, marveling at the swaddled mounds. He was still in hospital scrubs.

“How’d it go?” I’d whispered.

“Fine,” he’d said, keeping his voice low. “Martha was amazing. A total trooper. Only one real scare. They had her hooked up to this high-tech monitor during the labor, you know, to make sure the babies weren’t in any distress. All of a sudden, all the nurses started to run around in a panic. I thought they were going to boot me out, you know, for emergency surgery. Never been so freaked out in my entire life.”

“So what happened?”

“They’d paged Martha’s doctor. He strolls in a minute later. Chinese guy, looks kinda like you, actually. Anyway, he checks the monitor, then, cool as you please, pulls a stethoscope out of his coat pocket. He listened all over her belly—front, back, top, and bottom. Then he folded up his stethoscope and put it away. ‘The babies are fine,’ he said. ‘It’s the machine that’s broken.’”

It’s the machine that’s broken.

I opened my eyes, sent a reassuring smile to Sasha, and pulled out my phone. Our machine might be broken, but I still had a good old-fashioned stethoscope up my sleeve.

Petar answered as if he’d been waiting for my call, although it was four in the morning over there.

“Monkevic! You read my mind!”

“Petar, we have a situation here.” I explained as succinctly as I could. “Our surveillance is down,” I concluded, “and my usual means of hacking into systems won’t work either. We have a kidnapping victim, and a trail that’s gone completely cold.”

“Maybe not completely,” Petar said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I find Josip Tomic. I stubborn, like you, Monkevic. I don’t like leaving things alone.”

My heart executed a handspring of hope.

C
HAPTER
30

“I reach Tomic, finally, last night. Good man. I first meet Josip—”

“Petar, please!” I broke in.

“Sorry, sorry, I like too much to talk. Tomic have big file on Stasics, like you think. And the Radovic boy, Sasha. Also grandmother, and mother. He say they are about to make raid, when Stasics leave country.”

“Interesting.”

“He know about Agvan, too. He say when your partner, your Bill come by, he leave out address of company, on purpose. He have children, too, feel sorry for parents when boy is missing.”

That cleared up one mystery.

“And he have more of them,” Petar said.

“More of what?”

“Addresses. Three more, in your Los Angeles. He think maybe they are houses, for putting the girls and boys, maybe.”

“I need them,” I said. “Right now, Petar!”

“Easy, Monkevic, easy. You check your phone, okay?” Petar said, and my cell phone simultaneously blurted a heads-up of an incoming text.

“Petar, you are the best,” I said.

“Maybe not best, but still pretty good. Okay.
Idi s Bogom.
Go with God, Monkevic.”

There were three addresses listed in the text: the first was in South Central, the 3600 block of Venice Boulevard and 6th Avenue, between Crenshaw and Arlington. I knew the area because I’d visited a Zen center very close by about six years ago, and the experience had made an indelible impression on me. My then-girlfriend Charlotte had dragged me to an excruciating dharma talk on “Never Leaving the Now.” I couldn’t wait to leave the talk.

The second address was also near Venice Boulevard, but much farther west, in the no-man’s-land of shitty apartments and clustered, run-down cottages that hunkered like bums along the outskirts of Venice proper.

The third address was far more upscale, an address in Malibu, although it might be a million-dollar trailer on an empty acre of land, for all I knew.

I’d called upon Petar, my Sarajevo stethoscope. Now I needed muscle. I hoped Tory was as good as his word.

Sasha and I got to the Crenshaw location first, a squat, one-story brick-and-wood bungalow with a slanted overhang of a roof. The front carport was empty, the windows dark. A rusted, white wrought-iron fence enclosed the residence, low enough to vault easily.

“What’s that smell?” Sasha said.

The sickly sweet odor of deep-fried dough hung in the evening air like a wet, sugary towel. A Winchell’s Donut House, shaped like a cardboard box, occupied the corner of Venice and 6th. It must have just closed for the night—the building still emitted pungent evidence of its wares.

“S’up,” I heard from behind me.

My heart sank. I had asked for muscle, I hadn’t asked for G-Force. Now I was faced with a whole new dilemma.

G-Force had swapped his Pacer for Tory’s tricked out Escalade. He waved us into the backseat. The driver sat face-forward, as G-Force climbed in the passenger seat next to him. The interior smelled strongly of leather. Also, donuts. G-Force must have snagged some before the shop closed. A Winchell’s donut box balanced on the armrest between the two men, the fragrance irresistible. It was all I could do not to pounce.

“So. What’s the plan?” G-Force said.

“G-Force, I really don’t think you being here is …”

G lifted up a serious-looking MAC-10 automatic machine pistol, complete with suppressor.

“Check it,” he said.

Oh, boy.

Next, the driver, a compact fireplug of a guy, twisted to face us, cradling a Norinco 9 millimeter Uzi like it was a baby. Or maybe a baby hippo, with a 16-inch barrel snout.

“This here’s Chain-Link,” G-Force said.

“Chain-Link?”

“Used to do a little fencin’ on the side.”

Chain-Link smiled, flashing a gold-grilled fence of his own.

His upper lip was suspiciously powdered, and for a minute I thought I was dealing with a cokehead, until I remembered the donuts.

As Julie liked to say,
alrighty then.

That reminded me. I opened my phone and wrote Julie a quick text:
I’M SURE YOU’VE HEARD FROM BILL. DON’T WORRY. SASHA AND I ARE

What were we, exactly? I deleted the last four words.

DON’T WORRY. I AM OKAY. SEE YOU AT HOME LATER?

I found my fingers typing three more words, so innocent on the screen, so potent to the heart. I wanted her to know, in case I wasn’t okay. In case I never made it home.

“You ready to rumble,” G-Force said, “or you just plannin’ on shootin’ the shit with whoever?”

Chain-Link chuckled. His eyes were bloodshot, and even with the old-donut and new-leather smells, a faint whiff of something else, something grassy, reached my nostrils.

“Chain-Link, are you high?”

Chain-Link shrugged. “Nah. Bowl of weed, ’fore G picked me up. No big thing.”

“Chain love his weed,” G-Force said. “Take his edge off, people like him better.”

“I know what it’s for,” I said, my own voice edgy enough for all of us.

“Don’t worry,” G-Force said. “Chain ain’t gonna go off on anyone doesn’t deserve it.”

This was supposed to reassure me?

At least our arsenal, and with it our odds of survival, seemed much improved. I gave Sasha a quick lesson in how to handle the Airlite, thankful there wasn’t an extra assault rifle for him to get his novice hands on. Giving a 19-year-old a gun is like giving him a Harley and a bowl of cocaine. Begging for trouble, in other words. One of the lesser-known facts about shooting a weapon is that the sound itself resonates with a specific place in the male genitalia, that indeterminate area bridging sex and fear. Teenagers have an especially big zone of this in their developing bodies, so gunfire has a large drumhead to vibrate against. It feels good—so good the urge to repeat the sensation easily overpowers any other response, such as patience, or self-preservation.

I looked at my three cohorts. We were going into battle. Our outsides were armed. I wasn’t so sure about our insides.

“I want to say something out loud,” I said. “Something important. Chain-Link, try not to laugh.”

I’d learned this petition for insight from one of my elder lamas, who’d learned it from one of his elder lamas, during a time of terrible upheaval, violence, and revolt in his Tibetan monastery in Lhasa.

A Buddhist survival cry, in a way.

“May we learn essential lessons about injury or death through insight, rather than personal pain,”
I said.

“A-men,” G-Force added, with enthusiasm.

We climbed out of the Escalade and stood on the sidewalk, looking at the bungalow, a squat shadow in the evening gloom. Still no sign of life.

“What’s your feeling?” I said.

“Look deserted,” G-Force said. “Look like nobody home.”

I decided to case it on foot anyway.

“Anybody have a flashlight?”

G-Force found a black Maglite, about as big as a cigar, in the glove compartment.

“Stay here. Watch my back.” I slid the Maglite into my pants pocket. Using both hands, I hurdled the wrought-iron fence and marched to the front door, as if I belonged there. I found a small round button of a doorbell, and pushed. A tinny buzz echoed inside. After that, silence. There was a narrow walkway along the right side of the house. I moved along it until I reached a window. The curtains were pulled, but not completely. I pressed my face close to the glass and flashed the cone of light over the interior.

A living room. Orange shag rug, a couple of plastic chairs, a moldy-looking sleeping bag in the corner. An upholstered velvet sofa, its arms shiny from wear, with a few tufts of cotton ticking protruding from the frayed material. A camera-less tripod. A card table, upon which were stacked several laptops. Next to them, two more desktop computers, a digital video recorder, and a shoebox-size carton filled with flash drives.

I had seen enough.

I would send this address and information to Federal Agent Gus Gustafson, as soon as we found Mila.

I leapt the fence a second time, and shook my head. G-Force could see by my face that whatever was back there didn’t warrant further discussion.

I fed the next address into my iPhone. Sasha and I led in the Tahoe, G-Force and Chain-Link followed. We took the 10 West toward the ocean and exited on Lincoln Boulevard. We drove into the flats of Venice. By now, night had dropped a curtain of dark over the entire city.

G-Force and Chain-Link joined Sasha and me on the sidewalk.

“Stay here,” I said again.

This stucco cottage was close to derelict, walls peeling, roof tiles cracked and buckled. No doorbell, and my sharp knocks went unanswered. It, too, looked deserted, but when I aimed the Maglite inside a side window, I could see it was very much occupied. There was furniture in the living room, and evidence of food in the kitchen. A light was on somewhere.

“Hello? Anybody there?”

The light went out.

I heard a sound, a door slamming, and ran to the back of the house. A slight figure was running full speed down the narrow back alley that paralleled homes, toward Venice Boulevard. I was about to give chase, when I heard something else—a child’s soft cries, from inside.

I ran into the wide-open back door.

“I’m here. I’m here,” I called out in the dark. “You’re safe now!”

My Maglite illuminated the source of the sound, a bedroom with several small cots crammed into tight rows, like a crowded, hellish dormitory. The floor was littered with potato chip fragments. A child-size set of pajamas lay crumpled on the floor.

My flashlight caught a glint of reflected glass. Empty syringes.

Please, please.

And the light found them: a cluster of small bodies huddled together in the corner, like a litter of kittens trying to survive a storm. There were four little boys—two fair-skinned, two dark.

Their eyes. Their eyes were pools of terror.

“Hey, little men,” I heard behind me.

G-Force hunkered down, his voice as gentle as silk. “Hey, there. Everything gonna be okay now. I bet you hungry. You hungry?” He held out the opened Winchell’s donut box, still half-full.

One by one, they crept from the corner, drawn by the sweet smell of donuts and sweet sound of kindness. They each took a donut from the box and nibbled, terrified, as if expecting a blow to fall at any moment. G-Force didn’t push it. He placed the box on the floor and sat quietly nearby, his hands clasped. He was a natural with these children, and they slowly seemed to realize he meant no harm.

The universe had resolved my dilemma, and in a perfect way.

I crouched on the other side of G-Force.

“I need you to do something for me,” I said, handing him Gus’s name and scribbled phone number. “Call this number; it’s an FBI agent, and a friend. She’ll know what to do next. G, can you stay with these boys? Make sure no one else comes for them.”

G-Force started to shake his head.

“Listen. You just got free of trouble. I am not landing you in more of it. This other thing, it isn’t your fight, okay? You need to move ahead with your dreams. I’m taking the gun, for the same reason. Are we clear?”