The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery by Gay Hendricks & Tinker Lindsay

Author:Gay Hendricks & Tinker Lindsay [Hendricks, Gay & Lindsay, Tinker]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook, Fiction, Private Investigators, book, General, Mystery & Detective
ISBN: 9781781803226
Google: NW6YAgAAQBAJ
Publisher: Hay House, Inc
Published: 2013-08-16T23:55:59+00:00

CHAPTER 16

I stood on the deck, breathing in the early morning smells of the canyon—the minty bite of eucalyptus, the faint hint of sea and salt. A lone bird warbled in the distance as a light, fresh breeze feathered my cheeks. Heather had left at dawn, after a hurried mug of my best Sumatra. She had an early autopsy to attend at the USC hospital, but I was guessing she was glad for the excuse to slip away. Our physical connection had been intense, more intense than I, at least, had expected. Both of us had woken up shy. But I didn’t feel any regret, and if her warm kiss and promise to call me later meant anything, she didn’t either. I considered that huge progress, at least on my part. I inhaled deeply, released a long, full out-breath, and went inside for a second cup of dark-roasted ambrosia. Maybe I’d finally have time to check out the contents of the Robinsgrove’s trash bags before Bill got here. Surely they held a clue to Marv’s demise.

But my fax machine began to buzz and chirp from my office area. Zigo’s first regiment of information had arrived. A series of pages marched end to end out of the machine and into the tray. When the whirring stopped, I riffled through, counting five pages in all.

The first three pages were typewritten, that is to say, hammered out on an actual typewriter; faint, spidery script, old-fashioned and neatly looped, filled the final two pieces of paper, indicating a personal hand from long ago. As for the actual contents, I was stumped. Zigo had neglected to mention his information was coming in the motherland’s mother tongue, and they don’t teach German in Dharamshala.

“Hey, Tank,” I called into the bedroom, and tried out the only two words I knew. “Spreck-en-zee Doitch?”

Tank’s silent retort was interrupted by the familiar clunk of Bill’s cop shoes, crossing the deck to my kitchen door. Just like that, my morning ease evaporated.

Bill stepped inside, a half smile on his face. “Was that the good doctor’s car I passed driving up here?”

“Maybe.”

“She makes house calls?”

“Maybe.”

“Can I tell Martha?”

“Not on your life.”

He chuckled, and I felt like I might survive this conversation after all.

I poured him a coffee, choosing the black-and-white mug he’d given me for my last birthday—he’d snagged it from the county coroner’s odd little homicide-related gift shop. At the time, we had shared a good laugh over the skeletal Sherlock, pipe clamped between exposed jawbones.

Bill blew across the rim, sipped, and grunted with appreciation. We stood awkwardly in the kitchen.

“Let’s sit outside,” I said.

We sat facing the ocean, hidden under a blanket of early morning mist.

“It’s so quiet here,” Bill said. “I’ve forgotten what that’s like.” He sighed. “Ten . . . “

“No, let me go first,” I interrupted. “I need to say some things before I lose my nerve.” I breathed through the knot of fear, a hardened ball in my belly. “I realized something, after we hung up yesterday.

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