The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) (9 page)

Then I saw Rosen’s house.

Whoa.

It loomed over the manicured landscape, a modern pile with stucco walls and a steel pitched roof. I parked the Mustang at the far end of the semicircular driveway next to what I guessed was a Bentley or Rolls; it was hidden under a custom weatherproof cover. As I crossed the outer courtyard, I linked eyes with a gardener, trimming an olive tree at one end of the drive. He was built like a fireplug, a swarthy Latino man in his late 50s with ebony eyes and a moustache shaped like a scimitar. He wore a narrow-brimmed woven straw hat. I nodded and smiled. He looked away.

The front of the mansion was dominated by a rough stone sculpture set within a circular pool of water. The sculpture was modern, free-form, a potent mass of gathered curves and angles, with suggestions of jutting wings. It strained upward, as if trying to take flight from the water: an eagle, maybe, or the mythical creature Garuda, frozen in mid take-off.

A beefy man in a dark suit stood at the front door watching me. Not fat beefy, strong beefy. I instantly dubbed him Señor Beefy.

I gave Señor Beefy a little wave. Why not?

Before I reached him, the front door opened. A slight, elderly gentleman in a red checked shirt and baggy tan pants, belted high and tight, waved Señor Beefy off and tapped his way to me, wielding a pair of canes like they were his own personal chopsticks. He was dapper and slim, about five foot nine, and he crackled with energy. A necklace of bright woven beads draped his neck and disappeared down the front of his shirt.

“Hello, sir,” he said, pumping my hand. “I’m Julius. Julius Rosen.” He peered through black-rimmed glasses. He had almost no wrinkles, and his thinning brown hair, swept straight back, was barely streaked with gray. The age spots on his hands, and the papery skin at his neck, indicated a man in his early 80s, but he looked 20 years younger.

I handed him my card. “Tenzing Norbu,” I said.

He barely glanced at it before slipping it into his pocket. Good, I wouldn’t be forced to explain the lack of an actual number next to the word “licensed.”

“What do you think?” he asked, holding one cane to my face. “I just got ‘em.”

His canes matched. They were painted black, and decorated with neon constellations.

“Galactic,” I said.

“I thought so.”

“I appreciate you seeing me.”

“Not at all. Not at all. At my age, I don’t get many visitors. I’ve stopped giving away my money, so that narrowed the field of suitors, and all my real friends have moved. Or croaked.”

I couldn’t help laughing. His eyes gleamed at me from behind the dark owl-like rings of plastic.

“Want to come in, or would you like to take a little tour outside, Mr. Norbu?” I glanced down. He was wearing leather walking shoes with Velcro straps.

“I’d love to look around.” I said.

“Great. Great.”

He gathered himself, as if for launching, and took off for the sculpture, waving his canes like the antennae of a giant insect. I had to trot to keep up.

“I had this piece created for my wife, Dorothy,” he said, stopping at the pool. “She was a great friend of this sculptor.” I nodded. My research this morning had revealed that his late wife had been a much beloved benefactor of the art world. The Museum of Contemporary Art downtown now owned several works donated from her private collection.

I studied the sculpture more closely. “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Fierce, like a winged goddess.”

“Interesting,” he said. “I asked the artist to capture my wife’s intensity. ‘Fierce.’ Yes. I’m impressed you picked up on that. Are you an art lover?”

I shook my head. “I enjoy art, but I’ve never taken the time to learn much about it. Something about this piece, though, reminds me of the slightly ferocious images painted on Tibetan thangkas.”

“You’re from Tibet?” Julius asked.

“By proxy,” I said. “I grew up in a monastery in Dharamshala, India. His Holiness the Dalai Lama set up there, after he escaped from Tibet, just ahead of the Chinese, in 1959.”

“Yeah, I remember all that. 1959. I was . . . “ His eyes drifted off. “I was 31 years old. You believe that?”

“I don’t,” my 31-year-old self said. “You look too young for that to be true.”

Julius reached both arms to the rim of the fountain. At first I thought he was just touching it, but then I realized he was leaning against the stone, his body oddly stiff.

“Mr. Rosen?” I said. His face was immobile, and his eyes stared fixedly at his hands, pressing against the edge. “Mr. Rosen, are you okay?”

His mouth tightened with some supreme effort, and then, just as I was about to call for help, he took a small, jerking step back, as if released from a spell.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “Parkinson’s. Makes you freeze at the worst damn moments. And please, call me Julius.” A series of harsh squawks sounded from his chest area. He fished up a pink metallic phone dangling from the beaded necklace. He opened it and held it in front of his mouth.

“Shut up!” he barked, and snapped it shut. He smiled at me. “Don’t worry, it’s a recorded reminder. Almost time for my mid-morning pills. Shall we?” And he scuttled back toward the house.

I had to walk quickly to keep up. Suddenly, he veered onto an impeccably raked pathway of rose-colored gravel. He waved one cane at a circular structure set in the far corner of the side lawn. “That’s what I call my workshop. Come see.” We crossed the lawn at a brisk clip. The gardener, now on his knees trimming vines, looked up at our crunching footsteps. He touched his hat to Julius.

“Good morning, Señor Manuel.
Como estas?
” Julius said.

“
Muy bien,
Señor Julius.”

“Everything’s looking beautiful, as always, Manuel.”

“
Gracias
.” As Julius caned his way past, Manuel’s eyes followed him.

When we reached the cottage, Julius leaned over and un-Velcro’d his straps. He stepped out of his shoes and opened the door. Following his lead, I slipped off my slip-ons and walked in behind him.

My breath caught. The room was round, and completely white—ceiling, walls, and carpeted floor—except for a black, curved easy chair on a chrome-painted stand, located, like the pupil of an eye, right in the center. Next to the chair was a low, white table with a silver framed photograph on it. My eyes adjusted to the muted light. The interior design was masterful. Somehow the all-white décor was fully textured and diverse. The white of the carpet interplayed magically with the soft light off the walls, creating a sense of airy openness. I felt I was standing in a cloud.

Julius beamed. “So what do you think?”

I shook my head. “I’m not thinking, just feeling.”

“Feeling what?”

“Wonder,” I said.

“Wow, kid, you’re on fire this morning!” Julius said. “I assigned three different designers the task of creating a room where I could think. This was the winning design. Know what she called her concept? ‘A Room for Wondering.’”

“Wondering,” I said. “Where I come from, we call it meditating.”

“I call it using the noodle, though wondering works, too, because the things I like to think about don’t usually have answers.”

He swayed in place a little. A small droplet of saliva slid down one corner of his mouth and landed on his collar. “Excuse me,” he said. He fished out his phone, pushed a button, and had a low conversation with someone on the other end. He tucked the phone back inside his shirt. “Sorry. Pill call.” A confused look crossed his face. “Where were we?”

“Using your noodle?”

Julius shook his head. He crossed the room and opened a large closet, gesturing for me to come over. I grabbed a second easy chair—this one, all white. Following his instructions, I parked it, facing his, and sat. He lowered himself into his own chair, settling into the curved contours. He picked up the photograph, touching the glass gently.

“My wife, Dorothy, was a force of nature,” he said. “And a joy to behold—as full of life as anybody you’d ever want to meet.”

I sensed the air in the room grow heavy. I just listened and breathed.

“I was twenty-four when we married, and she was barely nineteen. We had fifty-six years. She was all I ever needed.”

He handed me the black and white photograph. A vibrant young woman with dark hair, flashing eyes, and a wide smile gazed up at the camera, her lashes long and thick.

“Beautiful,” I said, handing it back.

“It was just a day, like any other. Until she asked me if I’d seen her cup of cocoa. ‘Cocoa?’ I asked. ‘I’ve never seen you drink a cup of cocoa in your life.’ Her voice was so patient. ‘You know mama brings me a cup of cocoa this time every day.’ Then she put her hands to her temples and let out a cry. I’ll never forget that cry.”

I said nothing. He’d tell me more if he wanted to.

“The tumor was right in the middle of her brain. It took her from full of life to no life at all in three months.” He tucked his chin in slightly, to hide the trembling.

There were no words, so I bowed, honoring his grief with my body. He seemed to appreciate it. He fixed his attention on me. His eyes flashed with what I could swear was anger. “I’m old, but I’m not useless. I’d like to give you some pointers, maybe save you some trouble over the next thirty or forty years. Interested in some advice from an
alta kaka
?”

“An
alta . . .
?”

“Sorry. Yiddish for ‘old fart,’” he said.

“Yes. I am definitely interested,” I said. Julius reminded me of the older lamas in my monastery, not the rigid ones, but the sage few who seemed to grow in wisdom, vigor, and flexibility as they aged. After a lifetime spent in meditation, they radiated the kind of power that came from confronting life head-on, with no illusions. They were living proof that wrestling inner reality is as challenging as confronting the outer one.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Bill, probably. I ignored it. I didn’t want to break the mood. It felt like we were moving onto sacred ground of some kind. I wanted to see where all of this was going.

Julius frowned. “Where are they?” He peered at me. “I am getting to the point. I promise, Mr. Norbu.”

“Ten,” I said.

“Ten.” He swayed again.

“No hurry,” I added.

Tiny beads of sweat started to form on his forehead. He let out a little moan.

“No hurry? Maybe when you’re thirty.”

Shoes crunched on the gravel path. Whatever Julius’s advice was, it had come and gone. There was a tap on the door, and a tiny woman, Hispanic, early 60s, in a light blue housekeeper’s uniform, padded inside on stockinged feet, holding a tray of little paper cups and a glass of water. Sharp eyes glared at me from underneath a fringe of metallic gray hair. Right on her heels, a younger Hispanic woman in a crisp, tailored pantsuit carried a bulging red nylon sports bag. She’d kept her ankle boots on. When she saw me, her eyes widened for an instant.

She set her bag on the table, unzipped the top, and lifted the lid like a trunk. Clear plastic pouches and adjustable compartments overflowed with medical supplies of every kind—syringes, patches, bandages, blood-pressure cuffs—I even spotted a small oxygen tank. The woman was a walking emergency room. Triage to go.

Julius had a small army of Latin Americans caring for him.

“Ladies, this is my new friend, Ten. Ten, these are the ladies who keep my PD at bay. Otilia and Dr. Alvarado.”

Otilia held the tray out in front of Julius. He dutifully tipped a series of pills into his mouth, washing them down with sips of water.

“Thank you, Otilia,” he said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She gave Julius a smile of pure affection, then shot a look at Dr. Alvarado, as if to make sure she understood who was at the top of the pecking order.

“Mr. Rosen, would you prefer some privacy?” Dr. Alvarado said. Otilia crossed her arms. She wasn’t budging.

“Yes, maybe that would be better,” Julius said. His voice sounded weaker, even a little shaky. “Otilia, take Mr. Norbu into the house, please. Dr. Alvarado and I will join you there in a few minutes.”

We reclaimed our shoes out front. The silent Otilia led me back toward the house, her back stiff with disapproval, though whether at me or the doctor, I didn’t know.

My phone buzzed again. This time I answered.

“Hey, Bill.”

“Are you already there? Don’t tell me you started interviewing Rosen,” he barked.

“Steady, Bill. Deep breath, my friend. Not really. I mean I’m here, but we’ve just been chatting.”

“Good. Don’t. Not until I get there, okay? I’m on my way.” He hung up.

I shoved my phone in my pocket, a little harder than necessary.

Otilia waited at the front door of the main house like a tiny martinet.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I called. She wheeled around and disappeared inside.

I needed to take a stroll, let the heat behind my eyes dissipate. I walked all the way to one walled perimeter—a quarter-mile, at least—to an arbor of several dozen carob, pear, and oak trees. The wall was covered with thick hydrangea vines. Nearby was a two-story guesthouse, clearly built at the same time and by the same architect as the main house, with its own little garage. It was bigger than my actual home. I lingered at the edge of a fishpond, fat with koi, the red-orange color of sunset. My shoulder muscles loosened as I executed a sequence of long, deep breaths. Bill was under a lot of stress: first big case as a D-III; in-laws in town; press breathing down his neck. The light October breeze brushed against my cheeks, crisp and a little cool. I decided to give Bill the benefit of the doubt. He’d done so for me plenty of times in the past.

As I ambled back toward the house, the base of my neck prickled. I stopped. I scanned the lawns and terraced gardens. Lots of succulents. No people.

But the certainty that I was being watched trailed me like a shadow all the way to the front door.

C
HAPTER
8

Otilia whisked me into a cavernous living room, its oversized proportions warmed up by the reclaimed-wood floor and ceiling beams.

“You want coffee?” she asked.

“Thanks,” I answered, and she huffed away. I looked around. A Roman bust stared at me with blind eyes from one corner, and a modern painting, raw and bold—a skeletal figure with upraised arms and a barbed-wire crown—shook its fists at me from the other. Photographs of Dorothy, some with Julius, some alone, adorned every shelf and table, and a large oil portrait of his wife, still beautiful late in life, hung over the fireplace. On the mantel below was a small, framed black-and-white photograph of what I assumed to be Julius as a skinny, knock-kneed kid, a toddler in his lap. They shared the same big eyes.