The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (21 page)

I pulled over and parked two blocks before their stopping place; my Shelby’s noticeable frame and color had me at a distinct disadvantage. Through my windshield, I could see this second lot belonged to a rundown church, its paint peeling and the cross on its roof tilted to one side, as if it, too, had experienced a rough night. I lifted my binoculars. The church’s sign was too faded and chipped to read, and it occurred to me I was looking at an abandoned house of God. Any praying going on inside wasn’t officially sanctioned.

A side door opened, and a young man with a thick billow of shiny black hair slicked straight back from his brow wheeled out a garment rack. He was about my size and shape, and also wearing the navy coverall uniform. His arms were covered in tats; he could be from the same litter of puppies as Manolo and Pedro. He leaned back on his heels, halting the rack’s progress, and the long row of black backpacks dangling from the top pole swung from side to side like bodies.

I snapped some photos, but I already knew the backpacks matched Sofia’s. Switching back to my binoculars, I zoomed in and, sure enough, spotted the telltale bulges of tracking devices sewn into the nylon at the base of the packs. Just then, a city bus trundled by and pulled over at a bus stop just past the church. The automatic doors opened and discharged a small army of chattering women in matching navy maids’ uniforms. They bustled into the lot. A second Metro bus followed suit, along with several junky cars and pickups, as more and more maids joined the growing throng.

My cell phone buzzed. Heather’s text was brief:
AT WORK. CALL ME
?

SOON
, I texted back, as a slight, bowlegged man a few years shy of 40 strutted out of the building with the cocky confidence and build of a bantam rooster. I was betting on this being Chuy Dos, the alpha fowl. He clapped his hands, and the women clustered around him. He was dressed Mexican
caballero
-style, with tight jeans, pointed boots with steel toes, a dazzling white shirt, and a straw hat. He removed the hat and held it over his heart. He began to speak. Some of the maids bowed their heads. I wondered if perhaps they were praying, until one of the women raised her hand and said a few words. Chuy Dos jammed the hat back on his head and talked heatedly, pounding his fist in his hand. Two more women chimed in, and he interrupted again, this time more calmly.

I wished I could read lips. I couldn’t tell if Chuy had dissension in the ranks or was just conducting business as usual. He clapped his hands a final time. The maids formed a line, and he distributed the backpacks, sliding them off the pole individually. His young assistant stood nearby, writing on a clipboard, as each woman collected her prize and climbed into her assigned van.

All aboard. The vans squeezed through the exit one by one, like cows through a chute. I decided to follow the last one out, and eased onto the street behind it. I trailed along without incident as the others peeled off. After several turns, we found our way onto the 10, heading west.

Once we were safely on the freeway, and I had put a few cars between us, I called Heather.

“Yes,” she said, her tone a little businesslike. Maybe one of her superiors was nearby.

“It’s me. Can you talk?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I have an organ-transplant question.”

“How romantic,” she said, but I knew Heather. She loved shoptalk, and there was an undercurrent of curiosity in her tease. “Mind you, anything I say about transplants will have to be theoretical,” she added. “I take organs out; I’ve never installed one.”

“No problem, I’m looking for basic information. Do you know how much organ transplants cost these days?”

“Which organ? And which hospital? More importantly, with or without insurance?”

“Actually, I was thinking black-market value, but now that you mention it, why would anyone in their right mind go that route, instead of doing it legitimately? Heather, can you hang on a moment?”

The van merged onto Pacific Coast Highway, and I wondered if I was going to wind up back at Mac Gannon’s. That would be interesting. I slowed down, once again allowing several cars to move between us.

“Okay,” I said. “Where were we?”

“You were wondering who might want to buy black-market organs,” she said. “My hunch would be rich people who need them. I’m guessing really wealthy people don’t appreciate all the rules that govern transplant medicine. Any medicine, for that matter.”

“What kind of rules?”

“You have no idea the hoops you have to jump through. And everybody has to jump. No exceptions. Hospitals like ours are very sensitive to bad publicity. We could lose all our funding if some mogul or other bought his way to the top of the list for a new liver, say, or lung or heart. Organ donation may be the last remaining situation, at least here in Los Angeles, where fame and fortune don’t buy faster results. You know the One Percent—they do not like to wait, period. My guess is they’d happily pay black-market prices if they could get that kidney or lung right now. Why?”

“Just curious. So what’s a good transplant go for these days?”

Heather paused.

“Round figures,” I said.

“I’m not sure, Ten. I’d have to double-check.”

“Well, how about if you wanted to purchase an organ?”

“Hello? Not my bailiwick. I mean, I assume a donor-cycle organ is pretty valuable.”

“Donor-cycle?”

“Sorry. Morgue lingo. It’s what we call motorcycles. Almost all the best organs come from eighteen-to-twenty-five-year-old motorcycle crash victims. They’re the healthiest ones around, providing the kid hasn’t been hitting the alcohol and cigarettes too hard yet.”

Same with young gang members
, I thought. “So, who performs the transplants? With these black market organs, I mean?”

“Jesus, Ten! How on earth would I know that? All I do know is we’ve got one of the best legit guys right here at USC, on our hospital staff. Dr. Kestrel. Perfect name, by the way: he looks exactly like a bird of prey. I must have told you about him.”

“Dr. Kestrel? Don’t think so.” My neck tensed.

“He’s a legend, travels all over the world lecturing to other surgeons. The joke around here is that Dr. K. could transplant your soul without leaving a scar. All the nurses are in love with him. They think he’s a god; he’s that good with his hands.”

Had I found Heather’s Dr. K.? Did she, too, love him, or did she not?

I swallowed back something bitter-tasting. Now was not the time.

“Sorry I can’t be more help,” she said.

I remembered the question that had been nudging at me all week.

“Heather, you remember when you told me about that first banger, the one with all the knife wounds?”

“Of course,” she said.

“What did you mean when you said he was like the others, only worse? What others?”

“There’s been an upsurge in gang hits. At least we think that’s what they are. Young Hispanic males with neck tattoos and terrible knife wounds …”

“Heather, were they missing any organs?”

“Yes. Yes, they were.” Her voice faltered. “Oh, my God, Ten. What are you saying?”

The van moved into the left lane, as its turn signal blinked.

“I can’t explain. I’m so sorry, but I have to go. I’m on surveillance. But Heather?”

I took a deep breath. It was time.

“Can I come see you later? You know, to talk?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice quieter.

“I’ll call you as soon as I’m free.”

Her last words were “Be careful.”

I moved left as the van turned north up Sunset and accelerated, barely making the traffic light. As I passed the Self-Realization Center on my right, I mentally sent a greeting to the miscellaneous bodhisattvas within. The van snaked up Sunset, through the village of Pacific Palisades, veering right onto Bienveneda.

If memory served, that whole area was a nightmarish maze of tiny cul-de-sacs, but there was no other major thoroughfare to connect to on the other end. In other words, no way out. I continued up Sunset and pulled into the Temescal Gateway Park entrance to wait. Sure enough, the van reappeared on Sunset about ten minutes later. I followed again, at a cautious distance, as it turned south on Amalfi Drive. This time, I kept following. If I had to make a quick getaway, I knew I could head north and eventually hook onto Temescal Canyon and disappear.

Amalfi Drive parallels the Riviera Country Club, and I could practically smell the heady scent of self-satisfaction coming off all those perfectly tended golf course greens. The van passed several sprawling mansions before pulling into the circular drive of a heap of dark brown wood topped with green slate. The thick stand of eucalyptus and sycamore trees had been around long enough to cut off any direct Southern California sunshine.

I kept driving and stopped a few equally musty mansions further up. Why would anyone living in sunny Southern California choose to live in these places? Out came the binoculars. As I watched, a uniformed maid walked up to the front door, backpack in hand. The door opened, and she disappeared inside. The van pulled away, and I stayed back, allowing a spectacular dark green Bentley, the color of “rich,” to come between us. The Bentley turned left on Sunset, but the van and I continued north on Amalfi Drive, heading into the hillier part of the Palisades. The van made yet another stop, pulling into yet another circular driveway of yet another mansion, this one a three-story brick manor of ivied turrets and gables, fit for more than a few skeletons and ghosts.

A slight young woman climbed out of the van. Dark brown skin, a single black braid coiled around her head like a garden hose. Her uniform hung loose on her frame. She rang the doorbell, backpack in hand, and I timed it so I could catch sight of the person who opened the door as I slowly rolled by. I prayed the van driver was too preoccupied with his multiple maids and backpacks to notice me skulking around. I was definitely pushing my undercover limit by now.

The occupant of the home was elderly, perhaps 75, spider-thin and elegantly dressed in crisp navy trousers, a striped blouse, and a matching navy sweater with polished gold buttons. She took the backpack from the cleaning lady and patted her on the arm as they walked inside. I pulled around the corner and parked on a side street, Casale Road. Channeling Tank, I licked my palms and attempted to bring a little order to my hair. I grabbed a wrinkled sport coat stashed on the fiberglass shelf in the back of my Shelby for just such emergencies. I slipped it on, took two deep breaths, and walked back to Amalfi Drive. Using a tree trunk to shield myself, I checked the driveway. The van was gone.

I jogged the 20 yards or so to the front entrance. The doorbell echoed inside, as if in a hollow chamber. The door opened, and I was face-to-face with the refined, elegant, but freakishly unlined features of the elderly woman. The air inside was stale, as if she hadn’t opened a window in decades. She squinted at me. Large tortoiseshell glasses magnified a startled pair of turquoise eyes, and her hair was a fine puff of pure white. “Yes?” she said, peering closer. Her smile was glued to her face like a postage stamp. “Do I know you?”

“No, ma’am,” I said.

“Was I expecting you?”

“Probably not,” I said, stifling a smile at this odd question.

“Oh. Well, then.” Confusion flooded her eyes, although her smooth forehead, startled eyebrows, and frozen smile didn’t change. I wondered if this was what Heather meant by having some “work” done. The total absence of wrinkles was disconcerting. Could she even blink?

“Do I know you?” she asked again, and I realized she might not be operating with the full complement of mental skills. A small movement caught my attention, and I turned. The maid hovered in the kitchen doorway, watching me with dark eyes. I flashed my P.I. license, snapping my wallet shut too quickly to make out details. The maid melted away, as She-of-the-frozen-smile patted her heart with one hand.

“Oh, dear,” she said.

I waded right in, pretexting like the fallen ex-monk I am. In my most authoritative cop-voice, I said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to have to search the contents of the backpack you just received. I have reason to believe it may contain illegal contraband.”

She made a small, whimpering sound, shooting a panicked look at the backpack, set on a glass-topped table nearby.

“I’m Detective Tenzing Norbu. What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Hilda Shwartz Billingham MacRae Sweeney,” she recited obediently, as if answering a roll call.

“I’m sorry we have to meet like this, Miz, uh, Miz Sweeney, but I’m just doing my job.” I could almost hear Bill guffawing at the clichéd cop-speak. I held out my hand.

She reluctantly passed me the backpack. I noticed this one had no TSA lock.

I unzipped it and neatly stacked the contents onto the table: one wrapped cellophane package of marijuana; two baggies containing about 20 Xanax bars each; 30 or so Oxycontin pills in a clear plastic vial; a third baggy of pale green pills I couldn’t identify on sight but looked suspiciously like Ecstasy. Also, two dishwashing sponges, a pair of rubber gloves, and a spray bottle of blue liquid, all of which I ignored. I calculated the value of the prescription drugs in my head. Not exactly Sofia’s bonanza, but I had a feeling that her bloated stash, probably skimmed and stored over time, may have been one of the things that got Sofia killed. According to Manolo, Chuy Dos had little appreciation for jacking.

Assuming all this was for tiny Hilda Sweeney, though, she was a fairly serious doper. Now I had my answer as to how anyone could tolerate living in a BelAir mausoleum. Xanax, anyone?

Suddenly a more authoritative version of Hilda Sweeney pushed through the over-sedated brain cells. “Young man, can’t you find anything better to do?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Can’t you go arrest some real criminals, instead of taking away the one source of relief I have?” A single tear escaped, and she brushed it away. “I have acute arthritis, not to mention chronic fibromyalgia. I am in some degree of pain every waking moment of my life, ranging from extreme to excruciating. That contraband, as you put it, is the only thing that makes my world remotely tolerable.”