The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) (7 page)

No, the only persons to gain from this were Angus and James Lunzy.

So that’s where I’d start.

“What do the nephews do, G-Force? If you know.”

“This and that. They mama leave them money when she die, too. Horace say they never been self-supporting and never will be as long as someone else there to pay.”

The net gain to Angus and James was $16,666.00 each. Was that enough money to contest Horace’s wishes? Sure it was. I’d seen people killed for a lot less. Once, when I was still a rookie on patrol, I’d arrived first at a scene to find a pair of dead bangers bleeding out on the floor of a Mexican restaurant. Double homicide and messy enough to make you swear off salsa forever. According to the bartender, they’d gotten into an argument about who was going to pick up the tab. Banger One apparently thought Banger Two had eaten more than his share of carne asada. When the homicide investigators emptied their pockets, they found rolls of $100 bills—a combined total of close to $10,000.

The unpaid bill came to $12.39. That was the first time I truly understood the insanity of the mind’s attachment to being right.

In this case, though, the culprit at first glance was pure and simple greed. Didn’t explain everything, but at least I had an initial clue.

“Can I keep these for now? I’ll need to make copies for my file.”

“’Course.” G-Force stood up. “Think you can get me my money?”

“I’ll try my best.”

“’Preciate that.” I’d forgotten how big G-Force’s hands were. He held out a paw, and I allowed my knuckles to be crushed.

As we walked outside, I had to ask.

“G-Force?”

“Yeah.”

“Why
Eskimo?
”

G-Force crossed his arms and leaned against the Pacer, smiling slightly. “It’s like this. Brother walks into a bar, says to the bartender, ‘No such thing as God.’

“‘Why you say that?’ says the bartender.

“‘Last year,’ man says, ‘got sent to Alaska on a job. Three days in got caught in a blizzard, worst one in a hundr’d years. Buried to my neck in snow, no food, no idea where I was at. So I prayed to the man upstairs, prayed my butt off, said I’d never do wrong again if on’y He save my freezing ass. But He lef’ me there to die.’

“Bartender just stares.

“‘What?’ brother says.

“Bartender says, ‘You here, ain’t you? You ain’t dead.’

“‘Yeah, well, ten seconds after I quit praying, here come an Eskimo. Give me food, take me to his igloo so I have somewhere to sleep.’

“Bartender shake his head. ‘You even dumber than you look.’

“‘What? I’m jus’ sayin’, God didn’t save me. Eskimo did!’”

G-Force punched my arm lightly. “Heh-heh-heh. Horace told me that story first time he come to Pelican Bay to visit. That Horace, he something else.”

As I breezed along the 101 North toward Conway Associates, I offered up my own petition to the Great Beyond: please, let this ridiculously good Friday afternoon traffic hold until I get to Westlake Village. Then I passed a pleasant, jam-free half hour identifying and appreciating all the Eskimos in my world. Chief among them was Bill Bohannon.

C
HAPTER
8

The long, narrow building, set behind a newly constructed industrial complex just off Agoura Road, was of pebbly stucco—squat, one-story, painted an uninspiring beige, and fronted by an equally long, narrow parking lot. Unlike its gleaming neighbors, this drab structure had been here for some time. In the distance, a sad little ridge of drought-scorched hills pretending to be mountains made for a depressing view. I parked my Neon at the far end of the lot. It was almost five o’clock, and I was exhausted. I swallowed a huge yawn as I scanned the immediate area for possible caffeine franchises. Not a one, not even a Starbucks. My plastic Starbucks gift card, a thank-you gift from a happy client, was burning a $100 hole, minus one Caffè Americano to go, in my back pocket.

Maybe on the way home.

Each individual business in the building was marked by a faded awning with stenciled numbers denoting the office address. I didn’t see any surveillance cameras, high tech or otherwise. Maybe these were not the kinds of businesses that experienced break-ins. I rechecked my text from G-Force as I strolled closer, and soon located the insurance firm almost precisely in the middle of the row of modest enterprises. The numbered awning, once navy blue, had faded to a color closer to purple. The business, its double doors of frosted glass etched with the initials CAII, was flanked by a tax consulting agency and a run-down fertility clinic, both of which triggered in me instant pangs of anxiety.

I pushed against the doors and stepped inside. The temperature was a good 15 degrees cooler than the afternoon heat behind me. Despite its lofty title, Conway Associates Insurance, Inc. was underwhelming. The space was maybe 900 square feet, longer than it was wide, with a small reception area up front and a smaller conference room to my left. I counted two more frosted glass doors, closed, leading into what I assumed was a pair of private offices, one on the right side, in no-man’s-land, and one at the back, facing the direction of the hills. I also noticed an emergency exit in the back—the old-fashioned kind complete with a metal panic bar.

One wall boasted several framed, fading endorsements from local clubs and businessmen’s associations. No sign of a security system in place here, either. No infrared, ultrasonic, or microwave detectors. No photo-electronic beams. No nothing.

The overall impression was of an enterprise struggling to stay afloat.

A youthful, plump woman with thin wire-rimmed glasses and an erect back perched behind a curved Plexiglas desk, tapping a computer keyboard industriously. Her hair was light brown and twisted, rope-like, into a bumpy knot on the top of her head, Siddhartha-style. She presented me with a sweet smile.

“May I help you?”

I recognized her voice: Miss Grammar-pants.

“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Conway?”

“Senior or—”

“Junior.”

She tap-tapped again, and frowned at her computer.

“I’m sorry, did you have an appointment?”

I glanced behind her at the two doors, one to my right and one at the back. I had a fifty-fifty chance.

“Thanks, he knows what this is about,” I said over my shoulder, and headed right, for door number one, the one in no-man’s-land. Junior didn’t get the mountain vista, I was betting.

As I entered, the man inside startled like a deer. He half-rose behind his desk while one frantic hand clicked and moved the mouse of a large desktop computer. The computer pinged, and then fell silent. Roland Conway, Jr.’s pale-blue eyes met mine. His were rinsed hot with something. Irritation, maybe?

No. Fear.

He stepped around his desk.

“I’m sorry. Who are you?” The deep voice belonged to someone much heftier than the man before me. One of Mother Nature’s little tricks, to keep her entertained.

I put out my hand.

“Tenzing Norbu. We spoke earlier, Mr. Conway.”

He ran his right-hand fingers through his hair, pushing back thin bangs. They resisted his efforts to tame them and flopped back onto his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I wasn’t expecting any appointments this late.”

I waved at the door vaguely. “A misunderstanding,” I said. “No need to apologize.”

His jaw muscles tightened. He wanted to say more, but good manners, like good grammar, are hard habits to overcome, something I was counting on. He gave my hand a damp squeeze and herded me into one of two small armchairs set against the wall to one side of his desk. I sat and looked around the Spartan room, no bigger than a monk’s quarters. The walls were empty and painted an insipid green. The industrial carpet was gray and flecked with tiny blue-and-green accents, like confetti. Between the armchairs, a small, pie-shaped table held a single eight-by-ten silver-framed photograph of a beaming clan, of Conways I assumed, in all their multigenerational glory. Many rows of smiling, straightened teeth. Next to the photograph sat an orchid, also too perfect-looking to be real.

Roland Conway, Jr. took the other chair and angled his body firmly to block any view of his empty desk.

He doesn’t want me near that computer.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Norbu?”

I held up the insurance documents. Best to get straight to the point.

“You can tell me why you are stiffing my client, G-Force.”

His expression hardened. “I already told you …”

“Comma or no comma, you guys don’t have a leg to stand on, and you know it as well as I do.”

He licked his lips and swallowed. His Adam’s apple rose and fell.

What is he so afraid of?

My gut rang like a bell. A clear answer, the kind I have come to trust as truth. I voiced the message out loud.

“Are you being forced into this decision by Horace Latimore’s nephews, Roland? Are they blackmailing you?”

He stood.

“This meeting is over,” he said. “And unless you or Mr. G-Force can afford what it will cost to legally contest our finding, so is his claim. Tell your client if he doesn’t like my decision, he can sue me.”

I arose from my chair, bowed slightly, and left his office without another word, an alternate plan already forming. First, I checked on Grammar-pants. She remained thoroughly engaged in her typing. I reached in my pocket for the Starbucks gift card. I bent it into an L-shape while moving, in silence, to the emergency exit. I leaned against the panic bar until the door cracked open slightly and slipped the bent card between the spring latch and the jamb. Hopefully, somewhere outside this building, a small green edge of plastic was sticking out like a tongue. I let the door return to a closed position, soundlessly. With any luck, the card would hold. With any luck, I hadn’t just destroyed 95 dollars’ worth of free coffee.

I stopped by the front desk on my way out. Miss Grammar-pants was now intently reading her computer screen as she scrolled.

I peeked.

Facebook posts. So I wasn’t interrupting the rolling wheels of commerce.

“May I ask you a question?”

She turned to me, her mild features arranging themselves into a pleasant-enough smile.

“Is CAII family-owned?”

“Family-owned, family-operated,” she said. “We’ve been in business for over sixty years. Mr. Conway, Sr.’s father started the company. After he died, Mr. Conway took over, and then Roland, Jr. joined
his
father, straight out of Cal Poly graduate school.”

“Are you a Conway, too?”

“Almost.” She held up her left hand. A small diamond winked at me. “I’m engaged to Roland the Third. He’s just finishing up business school at Cal Poly.”

“Just like Dad. Very impressive,” I said.

“Oh, yes. It’s a wonderful company to work for. We’re known for our excellent personal service. Look!” She motioned to the wall of plaques proclaiming said superior service, both civic and otherwise.

“Very impressive,” I repeated.

I smiled my thanks and left. CAII’s website said the offices closed at six, so I didn’t have long to wait. I hunkered in the cramped front seat of the Dodge, out of eye-view, and tried to keep from falling asleep. Soon, an older, rotund version of Roland Conway, Jr. left the premises. The father’s remaining strands of hair, more platinum than sandy, had been reduced by time to a feathery horseshoe of fringe. Junior’s future.

He claimed a dark-blue Audi sedan and took off. Roland, Jr. was next, ear pressed to his cell phone. He climbed into a dark-maroon version of the same Audi. I jotted down the plate numbers, just because. Finally, the female future-Conway locked up and left. She climbed into a lowly Honda Civic with a dented door. Maybe she’d get an Audi for a wedding present.

I moved the Neon to the far end of the lot, by the Dumpsters. I waited for another hour, meditating with one eye and one ear open, which meant not very successfully, and then I waited some more. The sky began to darken slightly, turning the distant hills into smudges of dark brown. Fluorescent office lights blinked off up and down the bland building. Worker bees left their hives, one by one.

My formative years in the monastery, marked by relentless routines, were challenging enough. I’d last ten minutes in a place like this.

Once the area had finally emptied of cars, I reached behind the seat for my go-to nylon sports bag of detective tools and fished out a pair of thin latex gloves; a small Maglite; and the poor man’s slim jim, also known as a wire clothes hanger. I also grabbed my dark-blue hoodie, good for cool nights, or clandestine jobs.

My phone pinged. A text from Bill:
HEADED BACK TO YOUR PLACE
.

So I’d guessed wrong again. Still, his return meant I wouldn’t have to face another round of feline tail-twitching and flattened ears.
HOME BY
10, I typed.
HELP YOURSELF TO WHATEVER. FEED TANK, PLEASE
?

I pulled on the gloves and hoodie and moved to the back of the building. It abutted an empty expanse of weedy and unkempt land fenced by industrial chain link and claimed by a blaring construction company sign. I was looking at the next Westlake Village lot slated for development. A narrow concrete walkway paralleled the stucco structure, and I jogged along its length until I reached the approximate middle. I aimed my flashlight at a few exit doors and found what I was searching for: a small piece of green plastic beckoned like a little flag, inviting me to enter. Score one for me.

I messed with the wire hanger until I had fashioned a narrow, triple-strength hook at one end. Pressing the protruding flap of card securely against the jamb, so it wouldn’t move or fall, I slipped the curved end of the hanger inside and jimmied it until I managed to catch the hook around the panic bar.

I had one chance to make this work.

I lowered to one knee and tugged downwards, keeping the pressure steady while leaning away from the door. Just as my mind was declaring how ridiculously lame this idea was, the door gave slightly, enough for me to use my fingers to widen the gap and then reach through to leverage the panic bar and pull the door open.

Seconds later, I was inside. My heart was racing. Even though I had checked for motion detectors earlier, my ears half-expected the harsh blare of an alarm.