The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) (2 page)

“Good story. We were open casting for a dope dealer when in saunters Bronco. Bronco Portreras. Think early Banderas meets Robert Pattinson, plus tats, minus the fangs.”

I must have looked as baffled as I felt.

“Hot,” he clarified. “I’m just sayin’. He nailed the reading, too. Anyway, the insurance company balked, because it turns out it wasn’t an act. He really was dealing dope. Everybody wants to be a star, know what I mean? A week later, when Harper didn’t come home from school, I logged onto her Facebook page. Bingo. She’d put a link to Bronco’s audition on her wall, posted it on YouTube, too. He’d already gotten like twenty thousand hits.” Marv’s voice grew wistful, probably envisioning yet another gilded statuette that got away.

“So you tracked her down?” I prompted. It was almost ten o’clock at night. Way past Tank’s bedtime.

“Yeah. He’d given his contact information to the casting agent. A crack dealer, leaving his digits on file. Dumber than a stick, right? I found Harper and him in his loft downtown, high as kites on weed, coke, maybe a little E. I threw a coupla grand at Bronco to shut him up, dragged her sorry ass home, and cut off her allowance until further notice.”

It seemed to me that Marv was better equipped to deal with his daughter than I was, and I told him so.

“Not anymore,” he said. “She’s blocked me. Fuckin’ privacy settings. My wife and I can’t get on her page. And she won’t answer her phone.”

Marv’s mouth twisted, and for a flash I saw the ruthless producer whose reputation for intimidation, especially when crossed, was legendary, even in an industry known for bullies. Then it was gone. His face sagged. With his grizzled day-old beard and loose jowls, he looked like a disappointed mastiff.

“Please,” he said. “She needs to come home.”

“Why not go to the cops?”

“Are you on crack? This whole thing would go viral before the cops even left the building.”

I had one last question.

“How did you get my name?”

“I talked to one of your buddies down at police headquarters.”

I immediately thought of my ex-partner, Bill. He was always worrying about my finances.

“Bill Bohannon?”

“Who? Nah,” Marv said. “The Captain. Told him I needed a private detective, someone discreet. He told me you’re more than discreet. You’re some kind of Buddhist monk. Tight with the Dalai Lama and all. That right?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“So, you into poverty, then?” Marv’s expression grew shrewd.

“Five grand a day, three day minimum,” I said. “Plus expenses.”

He wrote me a check then and there. Three days, prepaid.

With that kind of discretionary income, you’d think he could afford mouthwash.

Whump!
Tank thudded onto my lap, startling me out of my reverie on the deck. He draped his chunky body across my knees. I scratched under his chin, and he made a deep, gentle
prrrttt
sound. He tilted his head and eyed me, lids half closed, as if to say, “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Where was I?” I asked Tank. He flicked his tail like a whip.

“Right. Potholes.” Like the Randy Newman song says, “God bless the potholes down on memory lane.”

Devouring contraband mysteries every night as I hid under the covers of my monastic pallet in Dharamshala, I tended to romanticize the life of a detective. I’d open Raymond Chandler, read “Down these mean streets a man must go,” and picture dark, smoky alleys with music drifting out of open windows, and beautiful women leaning in doorways, their long legs toned, their eyes glinting at me. I say “me,” but in my mind back then I wasn’t a skinny Tibetan teenager living in a Buddhist monastery, with a shaved head, maroon robe, and sandals. I wasn’t Lama Tenzing Norbu. In this fantasy version of me, I lived in a big city. I solved crimes. I was armed, and I was dangerously good at what I did. Fedoras were involved, as well as a sexy car and sexier gun. My street handle was “Ten.”

A lot like my current life, come to think of it, though I discovered I look ridiculous in a fedora.

Anyway, the mean streets in my imagination didn’t have potholes the size of garbage cans threatening to break my Toyota’s axle and hijack one of my kidneys, like the ones en route to finding Harper Rudolph that night.

After Marv left, my first and only call had been to Mike Koenigs. It was late, close to midnight, so he’d be having breakfast right about then. Mike is my personal “information security contractor”—according to Mike the word “hacker” is now considered passé, if not slightly insulting. I helped him out some years back, keeping him out of federal prison for dabbling with someone else’s data. In return, he was my go-to man for digital matters, big and small.

“Can you get past Facebook blockades?” I asked.

“Boss, where’s the love? Where’s the respect?” he replied. “Name?”

I gave him Harper’s name.

Pause.

“Okay, I’m on.”

I waited.

“Hunh. She’s posting as we speak. Whoa. Some serious partying pictures.” Mike let out a long, low whistle. “Is that Keith Connor?”

“Keith who?”

“Ten, even you must have heard of the guy. He was the lead singer for Blue Heron. Ex-rocker-turned-actor? Bad-boy heartthrob? Daily fodder for TMZ?”

Oh.

“She says here, and I quote, ‘Keith’s place is off the hook.’”

I heard light tapping.

“Yeah, and guess what? He’s about to start work on a film produced by Harper’s daddy, Marvin. Seven-digit salary. No wonder Keith’s gigging it up.”

Half the time I have no idea what Mike is actually saying.

“Can you give me his address?”

“Give me a mo’. Celebrity cribs are tricky.”

In Mike-time, a mo’ usually equals two deep breaths, in and out. Sure enough . . .

“Okay, here it is.” He gave an address on Hartley Crest in Beverly Hills. “I’m also sending you a link to Keith’s IMDB page.”

In another moment, my iPhone screen was filled with a Caucasian male, late 20s, light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a reddish sexy demibeard that looked like he’d “forgotten” to shave for exactly the right number of days. He was gazing to his left, scowling slightly. He may have been going for a bad-boy heartthrob effect, but to me he just looked silly.

I sent Marv a text:
LOCATED HARPER AT PARTY IN BEVERLY HILLS. ON MY WAY THERE. STAY PUT.

I grabbed my Wilson Supergrade from the gun safe in my closet and headed out.

First decision: which set of wheels to use? I quickly settled on my faithful workhorse, the Toyota-that-would-not-die, but not without regret. I hated leaving my real car, the thoroughbred, stabled at home, but a bright yellow ‘65 Shelby Mustang lends itself to surveillance about as well as a maroon monk’s robe would.

There wasn’t much traffic at that hour. Soon I was lurching along Wilshire Boulevard, traversing my way into Beverly Hills. I would be at Keith’s soon, if the drive didn’t put me in traction first.

I know. Beverly Hills and cracked pavements don’t seem to mix. And in fact, if you take Sunset Boulevard, the minute you approach Beverly Hills proper, the pavement magically loses its pockmarks as a thick profusion of multicolored flowers suddenly burst into bloom along the medians. Like an A-list actress, that area of Beverly Hills wouldn’t be caught dead in public without makeup and blond streaks. But drop south of there and it’s one big bad hair and acne day.

According to the latest city infrastructure assessment, there are over half a million unfilled potholes in Los Angeles at any given time, and maybe a dozen patch trucks to deal with them. Once a year the mayor announces Operation Pothole, and maintenance crews fan out across the city to patch and plug. They usually manage to repair 30,000 holes over a single weekend. That’s 30,000 down, 470,000 to go. It’s like doing battle with a wrathful Tibetan deity, the kind with never-ending multiple arms waving thunderbolts and skulls. When I was still a rookie on traffic detail, one jaded city official put it this way: “Potholes, like diamonds, are forever, son. So you tell me, how do you stop forever?”

Welcome to my brain when I’m driving around, dodging troughs, working a case.

I checked the map on my phone, zigzagging my way north and west, and eventually turning onto the bumpy byway known as Hartley Crest, set in the wooded hills off Benedict Canyon, where the houses are in the four-million-dollar range. As my beater car and I labored up the steep, winding street, a dim drizzle of wet fog slimed my windshield. The Toyota had a bum wiper on the driver’s side, which I kept forgetting to replace.

I started passing high-end luxury coupes and SUVs parked nose-to-tail along the narrow road. Considering the company, maybe I should have taken the Shelby after all. I squeezed into a space between a dark blue Mercedes and a silver Infiniti. I considered grabbing the .38 Super out of the locked glove compartment, just in case, but thought better of it. First of all, technically, I wasn’t allowed to carry it yet. Secondly, guns and teenagers don’t mix. I climbed out of my car and took a moment to collect myself.

A bottom-heavy hip-hop beat shook the night.
Boom Boom thud, Boom Boom thud, Boom Boom thud.
Raucous laughter. A girl’s high-pitched bray. I had found the party.

I passed between a pair of tall wrought-iron security gates, wide open and inviting any and all to enter, and picked my way up a driveway paved with antique cobblestones. Sherlock would have felt right at home. The house was a large two-story Mediterranean, stucco and red tile, with a second story turret. It looked like it had been built in the ‘20s and renovated this morning.

First things first. I tested the door to the attached garage. Unlocked. I looked inside. I was curious to see what an ex-rocker-turned-actor drove. I saw a gleaming black sedan I couldn’t immediately identify. I slipped inside. I had to take a look. Well, well, well. A Maybach 57 S. Maybe the most expensive car in the world. You don’t see that every day. I gave its flawless German features a respectful bow and continued on to the heavy, ornately carved front door.

The sound inside was deafening. I changed course—no one in the middle of that was about to hear the ring of a doorbell. I moved around to the manicured pool area in the back. Light spilled out of a large kitchen window. I took a closer look.

A young couple was engaged in a prolonged mouth-to-mouth exchange of oxygen and saliva. He had her pinned against a marble kitchen island, and she had her legs gripped around his waist like a monkey. Neither one paid me any attention as I slid open a glass door and slipped inside. I passed a row of gleaming, top-of-the-line appliances and moved into a large, arched entryway. To my right, a gigantic flat-screen television loomed over an oak-paneled den that was bigger than my house. Several young people, glassy eyed and still, were fixated by the flickering images on the screen. To my left was a step-down living room, where more kids sprawled on leather chairs and sofas, passing around an elaborate bong. If good looks were illegal, they’d all be locked up. I caught the eye of one young temptress, and she gave me a glazed once-over, followed by a dismissive smirk. I was barely 30, but already a fossilized life form to her, a curious leftover from the late Paleolithic. Ouch.

I scanned all the faces. No Harper. No Keith, for that matter. I mentally stepped into his shoes. If I were a rising hot actor about to hook up with my producer’s daughter, I’d want to do my hooking up in private. In the master bedroom, for example.

I bounded up the curved and carpeted marble staircase and was faced with three doors. Two of them were ajar. I headed for the closed double doors at the end of the hallway. I pressed my ear to the wood. Animated voices, one low, one high. Arguing? I cracked the doors open and spotted a muscular, naked man groping at a slight young woman, tearing her clothes off as she gasped and cried out. My mind screamed, “Two-six-one! Two-six-one in progress! Sexual assault!”

Adrenaline coursing, I threw open the doors and flung myself across the room. I peeled off the brute—Keith—and tossed him to the floor.

I turned to the victim—Harper—expecting to see relief and gratitude.

With a high-pitched scream, Harper launched herself at me, arms flailing. I had to hold her wrists aloft to prevent her from gouging out my eyes.

“Who are you? What do you think you are doing?” Harper shrieked. “I was about to fuck Keith Connor!
Keith Connor!
Are you
completely insane?!”

I moved to a window seat, well out of reach of Harper’s talons. Keith watched me from the floor with a kind of stoned curiosity. He was stark naked and seemingly too high, or uninhibited, to care. My eye was drawn to a blue heron, tattooed just above his groin.
Ooph
. I turned my attention to Harper.

“My name is Tenzing Norbu. I’m a private investigator,” I told her. “Your father hired me to find you and bring you home.”

“I hate you,” she said.

“Dude,” Keith’s voice piped up. “For real?”

I met Keith’s reddened eyes. “For real. Dude. And you should be ashamed of yourself,” I added. “She’s sixteen.”

His eyelids drooped. His facial expressions flickered as several fuzzy concepts formed their way into an unpleasant pattern:

Marv.

Movie.

Underage daughter.

Detective.

He sat up.

“Shit, man,” he said. “You really know how to mess with a guy’s buzz.”

Irritation made the back of my neck itch.
Entitled jerk.
I glared at him, daring him to make a move.

Keith remained unfazed. He looked at me with interest.

“So, what, you’re like Jackie Chan? Chinese or something?”

“Tibetan,” I snapped.

“Awesome. Save the yaks, right? Some guy asked me to sponsor one last year. So, tell me, what’s it like in the Land of Snows?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I replied icily. “I was raised in a monastery in India.”
Moron
.

He blinked in confusion.

I opened my mouth to continue. Then I closed it again. There was no point giving him a history lesson about China’s brutal takeover of Tibet. One: the systematic destruction of Tibetan Buddhist culture and the exile of thousands of monks and nuns happened more than 30 years before I was born. And two: China’s war with Tibet was not to blame for my current state of mind.