The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery
Read The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery Online
Authors: Gay Hendricks,Tinker Lindsay
PRAISE FOR
THE THIRD RULE OF TEN
“Tenzing ‘Ten’ Norbu may be the most interesting PI in modern crime fiction. The Third Rule of Ten, the third book in the series, is beautifully written and intricately plotted, but as always, it’s the heart and soul of Ten that carry the greatest appeal, drawing the reader on a spiritual journey that is as satisfying as the climax. I loved this book.”
—Robert Ferrigno
,
New York Times
best-selling author of the
Assassin
trilogy
“The Third Rule of Ten
will grab you by the throat and not let go. In Tenzing Norbu, Gay Hendricks and Tinker Lindsay have created a Buddhist action hero (yes, there is such a thing) who is sympathetic, moral, and self-reflective. Crackling with wit, superbly drawn characters, and a blistering plot
, The Third Rule of Ten
will keep you going until you take a deep, meditative breath on the last page.”
—Diane Mott Davidson
,
New York Times
best-selling author of
The Whole Enchilada
“I loved it!”
—Jack Kornfield
,
author of
A Path with Heart
A
LSO BY
G
AY
H
ENDRICKS
AND
T
INKER
L
INDSAY
The First Rule of Ten
The Second Rule of Ten
The Broken Rules of Ten
(e-book only)
Available from Hay House
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®
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Copyright © 2014 by Gay Hendricks and Tinker Lindsay
Published and distributed in the United States by:
Hay House, Inc.:
www.hayhouse.com
®
•
Published and distributed in Australia by:
Hay House Australia Pty. Ltd.:
www.hayhouse.com.au
•
Published and distributed in the United Kingdom by:
Hay House UK, Ltd.:
www.hayhouse.co.uk
•
Published and distributed in the Republic of South Africa by:
Hay House SA (Pty), Ltd.:
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•
Distributed in Canada by:
Raincoast Books:
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•
Published in India by:
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Book design:
Charles McStravick
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use—other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews—without prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or deceased, is strictly coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hendricks, Gay.
The third rule of ten : a Tenzing Norbu mystery / Gay Hendricks and Tinker Lindsay. — 1st Edition.
pages cm. — (Dharma detective series ; bk. 3)
“A Tenzing Norbu Mystery.”
“A Tenzing Norbu Mystery.”
ISBN 978-1-4019-4167-3 (pbk.)
I. Lindsay, Tinker. II. Title.
PS3608.E5296T45 2014
813’.6—dc23
2013033279
Tradepaper ISBN:
978-1-4019-4167-3
17 16 15 14 4 3 2 1
1st edition, February 2014
Printed in the United States of America
Topanga Canyon, Calif.
May 22, Year of the Water Dragon
What have I done?
The cell phone in my pocket vibrated. I glanced at the screen and saw it was Bill Bohannon, my ex-partner. In that moment, it felt like light years since we’d been Detective II’s in LAPD’s elite Robbery/Homicide division. Now Bill was a Detective III, and I was about to become one of his cases.
“Hey,” I said.
Bill’s voice was thick with sleep. “I thought I told you to stay out of trouble. Your buddy Mike said something triggered the security system. Everything okay?”
I looked at the two still bodies.
“Not exactly,” I said. “I got two men down, one more wounded and at large.”
Bill woke up fast. “Two men down. How down?”
“As down as they can get,” I said.
Bill groaned.
“The kills were righteous,” I said, but I wondered if that was true.
A siren wailed in the distance, drawing closer. My night was about to get even more complicated.
“Bill, I hate to ask, but—”
“I’m on my way,” he barked. “Don’t say a word to anyone until I get there.”
Don’t say a word.
More secrets to keep. Mere days ago I had made myself a new rule: to be mindful of the darker side of secrets. To keep current with the truth, not just within myself, but also with those affected by my actions. And now I had manifested one of the worst truths I could ever have imagined.
The two lifeless bodies lay sprawled on the ground like a pair of indefensible reproaches. As I studied them, an ice cold wave rolled through my insides. I shivered.
What have I done?
TABLE OF CONTENTS
T
WO DAYS EARLIER
“
Ayúdame.
” The high-pitched voice was edged with stress and close, as if the owner’s mouth hovered an inch from my ear.
“Ayúdame.”
My eyes snapped open, but my body knew better than to move. The muted light pressing through the bedroom window announced it was almost dawn. My eyes shifted right. The space by my side of the bed, where a woman in distress—a woman in distress who spoke Spanish—should be standing, was empty. I lifted my head and quick-scanned the rest of the bedroom. Empty. I rolled onto my left side, facing Heather. As usual, sometime during the night she had inched to the rim of the mattress and manufactured a rumpled bunker of bedclothes, within which her breath rose and fell in the steady rhythm signifying deep sleep. Her sloped silhouette was beautiful. I reached across the bed to trace my fingers along her curved side, but pulled my arm back. In the months we had been officially together, I’d learned at least one very important lesson: Never, ever wake up a forensic medical examiner on her one day off.
At my feet, the feline puddle of fur and whiskers called Tank was equally still, so it wasn’t his
meow
I’d heard. Finally, I checked the small monitor on my wall, which was connected to a series of small cameras outside—my electronic eyeballs on any intrusive dangers. Nothing. No one else was here, inside or out. I was hearing things, experiencing some kind of auditory hallucination. Great: one more item to add to my list of worrisome new behaviors.
Sunday or not, sleep was no longer an option. I slipped out of bed and pulled on a baggy pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved, cotton T-shirt. Tank lifted his head. His green eyes narrowed in the soft light, observing me as I dressed. His whiskers twitched—the equivalent of a cat shrug. He curled like a cashew, tucked his nose between his paws, and went back to sleep.
I tiptoed into the living room, grabbed the plaid blanket Heather had recently added to the sectional sofa, wrapped it around my shoulders, and padded through the kitchen and outside to the deck, careful to deactivate the Guard-on system first. After several months of living with this ridiculously expensive and hypervigilant organism of panoramic cameras and outdoor sensors, digital alerts and interconnected alarms, I was finally getting used to the thing. I still didn’t know whether to thank or curse my late client Julius Rosen for bequeathing me such a high-tech, über-expensive security system. It arrived with a handwritten note in Julius’s tiny, crabbed writing—one more symptom of his advanced Parkinson’s. “For my friend Tenzing Norbu,” the note read. “I deeply regret putting you on the radar of certain people and hope this will give you the protection you need and deserve.”
When “certain people” include Mexican drug lords, four miniscule outdoor cameras and two indoor digital screens don’t exactly add up to safety, but in the end I appreciated the gesture. At $6,000 a pop, there was no way I would have paid for a Guard-on system myself. In any case, apart from a few startled raccoons, one terrified jogger, and several accidental triggers by me, nothing had yet proved cause for alarm. So to speak.
I shivered and pulled my blanket tighter. The canyon was draped in its own blanket, this one of thick mist—the southern California June gloom had arrived early this year. A coyote chuckled. Another replied. Soon a jumble of feral wails and eerie shrieks filled the dawn air, like a chorus of frightened women.
Ayúdame.
I rubbed my arms and did a brisk stomping dance to shake off my mood. I had a big day ahead of me. No reason to start out, as my mother, Valerie, used to put it, “on a bummer.”
A warm body brushed against my ankles.
“Hey, Tank. Change your mind?”
I bent down, enveloped 17 pounds of sleepy cat in a wool blanket, and hauled the dense bundle up to my chest.
The coyote cries faded into silence. The mist thinned. Watery early morning sunshine barely pierced the layers of fog and darkness. Topanga Canyon seemed especially secretive today, as if unconsciously crossing her arms tight, holding any private thoughts deep in her shadowy folds.
She’s hiding things. Just like me.
I should meditate
, I thought.
It’s been a few days.
I should contact Yeshe and Lobsang. Ditto.
Even as I noticed these thoughts, I knew I wouldn’t take the actions. I also knew it hadn’t been days. It had been weeks, enough weeks to qualify as months. This was my new method of justification, ever since I’d returned from India: When in doubt, deflect. Avoid. Hedge the truth. Some might call it dissembling. I preferred to think of it as being mindful of my need for privacy, for allowing the time and space to figure things out for myself. I had ceased writing Yeshe and Lobsang letters. Technology, combined with their move back to Dharamshala, made snail mail redundant. But my retreat from communication had little to do with computer networks. When I had written them letters in the past, the simple act of putting pen to paper meant I was willing to connect with my feelings and listen to my heart. Not now. I preferred not to look closely at anything uncomfortable right now. Grief takes on its own form of healing—everybody says so.