The Third Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  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.”

  I didn’t tell her this, but whatever evidence I found as a private investigator through pretexting would be inadmissible in any court of law. “I’m not going to take away anything from you,” I said. I would pass this information along
to Bill, but that would be the extent of my intrusion.

  “You’re not?” She stared, her features as motionless as a lizard’s.

  “No. I just needed to see what was in the backpack. You can keep it.”

  “Oh,” she said, sounding genuinely relieved. “Well, then.”

  “But I do have some questions. What is your maid’s name?”

  “Maria.”

  “Maria what?”

  She waved the question off. “Garcia? Gonzales? You’ll have to ask her. I pay the agency directly. In cash.”

  I stored that particular piece of information for later. I indicated the drugs. “And does the agency provide these every week as well? For cash?”

  “I’d prefer not to say.” She lowered her voice. “Confidentiality agreement.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “But I’m not addicted,” she went on. “If you’re careless, these pills can get a real grip on you. I watch how many I take. I have extraordinary self-discipline.”

  “I believe that.”

  “I wouldn’t have married and buried four husbands if I didn’t have will power.” Her perfectly pointed nose quivered, as if daring me to challenge her.

  “And this method of purchasing painkillers, it’s legal?”

  Her eyes blinked twice, allaying my earlier concern. But rather than answer, she changed the subject. “I’m sorry, Detective. Where are my manners? Would you care for a little something to drink or eat?” Her hands fluttered. The way she was eyeing her stash, I suspected she had some other snack in mind for herself.

  “No, thank you, I’m fine.” I excused myself and stepped into the kitchen as Hilda et cetera, et cetera, et cetera Sweeney grabbed the vial of Oxy and disappeared up the curved wooden staircase.

  I found Maria hunched over a clunky old-fashioned cell phone, a discarded sponge and spray bottle on the counter next to her. She shoved the phone in her uniform’s front pocket as I walked to her side.

  “Hola, Maria. ¿Habla inglés?” I asked. She gave her head a shake, her body language somewhere between a scowl and a cringe. I pointed to her pocket.

  “¿Teléfono? Who were you just calling? Chuy Dos?” She shook her head again, a little too quickly, and a red flush crept up her neck. Some people should never try to lie.

  Well, maybe she was lying about speaking English as well.

  I tried again. “Maria. Do you speak English?” I enunciated each word slowly. “Tell … the … truth … and … you … won’t … get … into … trouble. Trouble. Do you understand? Comprende?”

  She glanced at the kitchen door. “No trouble, please, señor,” she whispered. “No leave country. Chuy Dos, he promise.”

  My mind started to race.

  “Chuy Dos has promised to keep you here, in America?”

  “Si. We working for Chuy Dos. He making us legal.”

  “Working as a maid, cleaning houses?”

  “Si. Cleaning. And also,” she nodded toward the doorway, “bringing the drogas.”

  Why was she telling me this? My inner alarm went off. I grasped her arms, my grip firm.

  “Were you talking to Chuy Dos, Maria? Just now, on the phone?”

  Her eyes filled, and I felt terrible, but I had to know.

  “What did you say to him? Tell me, Maria,” I ordered, raising my voice slightly. I stepped away and pounded my right hand into my left fist, as I had seen Chuy Dos do earlier. It worked.

  “He tell us to look for white man! I tell him white man coming here,” she cried. “In this house!”

  I took off, charging up the hill to my car, even as a small part of my brain had to chuckle. I’d been called a lot of names since moving to Los Angeles but never “white man.”

  I fired up the Shelby. Which way, which way? North or south? I decided to retrace my path toward Sunset and pulled off at Chatauqua to watch and wait. Within moments, Chuy Dos’s two favorite burly enforcers screamed by, the driver’s meaty paws gripping the steering wheel. I counted three breaths and peeled down Chatauqua until I was safely on the coast highway and headed for Topanga Canyon Boulevard once again. My mind frantically rearranged the tiles on this complex mosaic of a case.

  I had encountered a period of several fallow months between leaving the force and fulfilling the numerous legal and professional requirements necessary to become a licensed private investigator. I’d used the unexpected free time to read up on a few things, including starting your own business. I needed help if I was going to start my own; “How to be an Entrepreneur” was nowhere to be found in Dorje Yidam’s Buddha-centric curriculum. To my surprise, I’d found that I really enjoyed studying entrepreneurial success stories. And now I couldn’t help but admire the business model coming into focus before me, even as it horrified me: procure an army of illegals willing to do anything to achieve legal status and have them deliver drugs to upscale clients willing to pay anything for a high-quality product and absolute confidentiality. Quality and privacy. With a start, I realized my own little business promised clients the same two services.

  Legal and moral issues aside, this distribution system was highly viable, the potential margin of profit enormous. And the cash-based economy meant other drug money could be laundered through the maids-for-hire business. “We Bring Clean to You,” indeed. Add to these the possible organ-transplant connection, not to mention who knows what other medical procedures, and you were potentially generating a lifelong need for prescription pain medication that you then would provide. All they needed to do was add babysitting and funeral homes (We Bring Serene to You?), and they’d have a perfect cradle-to-grave operation. As it was, the vertical became horizontal, the horizontal vertical, as business upon business stacked on and supported one another. Sitting high atop this very lucrative pyramid were guys like Carnaté. No wonder so many cartel leaders were popping up on the Forbes list of billionaires. With illegal models like these, they were easily taking home multiple millions every month.

  I shook my head at the intricacy. If drug lords—at least the ones who survived over time, like “El Chapo” Guzman, the late Pablo Escobar, and my personal nemesis, Chaco Morales—ever put the same energy and time they invested in creating and executing crimes into building a legitimate empire, they would probably be equally successful, without blood on their hands and a bounty on their heads. But who could truly understand the labyrinth of the criminal mind? The Buddha, maybe, but he was long gone, and as far as I know, he didn’t leave a teaching on this subject.

  Probably 98 percent of criminals are driven by poverty, addiction, and the misguided notion that they remain invisible while breaking the law. The L.A. jails are full of them, cycling in and out of locked pods, sure that things will be different, the next time.

  Then there are the remaining 2 percent, masterminds like Chaco. A rare and dangerous breed, he was truly evil—a modern Moriarty. His addiction was to power, his morality that of a highly intelligent, stone-cold killer.

  For me, Chaco was more than just a really bad, bad guy: he was the one who got away. I let him slip, even though I had him wounded on the pavement. It rankled me deeply, like a taunting itch I couldn’t quite reach.

  I clung to the idea of him, in a most un-Buddhist fashion.

  During Chaco’s fairly brief reign, at least during my interactions with him, he had built an impressive empire, one that rivaled Guzman’s and even Escobar’s. Chaco was obviously capable of what entrepreneurs call outside-the-box thinking. Now, apparently, there was a new dog on the block: Carnaté. This new model in front of me—using maids as dope distributors to the wealthy; carving up gangbangers to provide other rich clientele with desperately needed organs; manipulating people’s innate greed, on the one hand, and desperation on the other to loosen their moral fiber—had the fingerprints of another Chaco all over it.

  Heightened alertness tap-tapped the edges of my mind, coupled with a feather-tickle deep in my belly. I balanced on the borderland between excitement and fear.

 
; According to Bill’s sources, including the DEA, Chaco had completely disappeared off everybody’s radar, here and in Mexico. Then word came down from the Mexican Army, as well as Los Zetas, the Mexican crime syndicate: Chaco was dead.

  I didn’t believe it. Chaco and I were hooked at a level I might not understand, but I trusted my instincts on this one. I would know if Chaco Morales had died, as surely as I sensed he was still alive.

  CHAPTER 14

  I called Heather as I turned into my driveway.

  “How about Langer’s, say four o’clock? Can you get away that early?”

  “Perfect,” Heather said.

  Once home, I followed the advice I’d given Clancy and took a very long, very hot shower, scrubbing the past two days from my body with multiple rounds of soap and shampoo. I toweled off briskly and scraped what few whisker bristles there were from my non-white Tibetan cheeks. I was still bone-tired, with the charcoal smudges under my eyes to prove it, but at least my skin and hair were clean.

  I met my dark-ringed eyes in the mirror. “Are you really ready to tell Heather the truth?” I said out loud. “The whole truth?” Just the words alone made my stomach tighten and the inside of my mouth go dry. As I turned from my reflection, Tank wandered in and gave my ankle a light bump with his nose. He always senses when my emotions start gyrating.

  I reached for him, lifting him into my arms as I moved to the edge of my bed to sit.

  “Heather and I used to take showers together,” I told Tank. “I can’t even remember the last time we did that.”

  Tank turned his emerald green eyes toward me.

  “I know. It was so good, and now it isn’t.” I gathered up the loose fur on Tank’s neck, gave it a little tug, and then released it. “I’ve been trying, Tank. Really trying this time.”

  This was crazy. In the past week alone I’d been burgled, shot at, stalked, and struck with a pipe. Yet the thought of telling Heather the truth—of upsetting her, maybe even making her cry—was far more terrifying then any one of these assaults. My chest literally clenched with fear at the thought of what lay ahead.