The Fifth Rule of Ten

by Gay Hendricks

  My cell phone sang. Did changing ringtones so I didn’t kill myself qualify?

  “Hi, Jules.”

  “Hello, my one. How are you? I miss you.”

  “I’m pretty good.” And I was. “I miss you, too.” And I did.

  “So listen, I’ve got a huge favor to ask. Today is Martha and Bill’s day to see their marriage counselor, and usually I watch the girls, but I can’t, it’s too crazy over here. I know you have to work, but Martha’s desperate. It would only be for a few hours.”

  “Done,” I said. Twins. Maybe that counted as double.

  “You’re a saint. She’ll bring them to you. Then you can drive the girls here for the ceremony. Take the Subaru—I’ve got car seats. Thanks, love.”

  “See you tonight.”

  Tank was sleeping by his empty food bowl. He lifted his head.

  “See how easy that was?”

  He was unimpressed. For Tank, the only good deeds worth mentioning involve tuna juice or raw liver.

  Across the living room, my work phone was flashing. I hadn’t heard it ring while I was meditating. Maybe what I called excellent concentration was in fact acute sleepiness.

  I had three messages.

  “Detective Norbu? Lord Purdham-Coote. This is urgent.” No drawls, and not one iota of condescension—more like desperation. “Call me as soon as you get this message. It’s about Collie.” He recited two numbers, including one I already had. I opened a file folder and added the other to the contact list I’d started yesterday, just in case these odd events should evolve into a job.

  I listened to the second message.

  “Yeah, Tenzing Norbu? Yeah, so gimme a jingle. Purdham-Coote told me to call. Been his watchdog over here. For the kid, I mean.” The voice was blunt and scruffy. “I’m up early, and I’m up late. I fuckin’ never sleep, you wanna know the truth of it. Oh, I’m Bertie. Bertie Andrews.”

  Definitely not upper crust. More like working man’s white bread.

  On to three.

  “This is a message for a Detective Tenzing Norbu. This is Detective Chief Inspector Nigel Garfield of the City of London Metropolitan Police. That’s Garfield. Gee, ay, arr, eff, eye, ee, el, dee.” He rattled off a phone number, thoughtfully including all necessary city and country codes.

  I took a moment to enjoy the moment. A message from the London Metropolitan Police, aka New Scotland Yard. How many nights had I spent at Dorje Yidam seemingly huddled under a scratchy blanket with a flashlight, but in fact striding the foggy cobbled streets of London with my hero, pipes clenched in our mouths, connecting clues? Now the Yard was calling me. Life was growing more propitious by the minute.

  I dialed Lord P-C’s number first.

  “Yes! Yes! Hello! I’m here!” he said. The man sounded truly frantic.

  “Lord Purdham-Coote. Tenzing Norbu here, calling you back.”

  “Did Bertie call you, Detective Norbu?”

  “Bertie called and left a message, as did . . .” I found the name, “Detective Chief Inspector Nigel Garfield. And please, call me Ten.”

  “But you haven’t spoken to them?”

  “No.”

  “So you don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Cambridgeshire sent a couple of constables to search Collie’s room. He’s gone. They say the circumstances are suspicious. They’re assessing the risk now, but they’re not ruling out anything. I fear our son may be, oh God . . .” His voice broke.

  The image of Lord Purdham-Coote and his wife stared at me from the opened file, a portrait of invincibility. Nothing in their world could go wrong, because they held the reins. They were in charge. They knew how life worked. No one warned them, and they had yet to learn, that invincibility is an illusion born of fear and mocked by reality.

  The Buddha, too, had been born to wealth and anointed with power. But for him, prestige brought only pain. He’d sought different truths, and found the solution to suffering the hard way.

  Purdham-Coote’s suffering was no less valid because it was wrapped in cashmere.

  I directed unspoken words of compassion his way. May the suffering of the present lead you to a path of wisdom. May you have ease.

  “Please, will you help us?”

  “If I can,” I said. “I need to speak with the lead detective. Would that be Garfield?”

  “DCI Garfield. Yes. Collie’s temporary residence is at Queens’ College, and it looked like they might take the reins, but I persuaded everyone that the Metropolitan Police should retain supervision. This is his home. Our home. They know us here.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’ll call you back once I’ve connected with DCI Garfield.”

  “I pay well. Ask Bertie. I’m a man of my word.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  It was 7:30 A.M.—4:30 P.M. over there. Worth a try.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Nigel Garfield here.” His voice was firm, but not unpleasant.

  “This is Tenzing Norbu, calling from Los Angeles. I just hung up with Lord Purdham-Coote.”

  “Oh, hello. Yes. His lordship mentioned that he’d like me to coordinate things with you. In what official capacity, may I ask, are you connected to the Colin Purdham-Coote investigation?”

  “Official capacity?”

  “Sorry, yes, I just want to be sure we are following protocol.”

  “Protocol?”

  Nigel’s voice grew just the tiniest bit sharper.

  “Protocol. As regards your police department and ours, Detective.”

  Ah. “I’m afraid you may have been misled,” I said. “I’m not LAPD. I’m a private investigator. I work on my own.”

  The dead silence with which this information was greeted spoke volumes.

  “Well,” DCI Garfield huffed. “In that case, I’m not sure how I can help you, or his lordship. We are in the very early stages of this investigation. Time is of the essence, and we must spend that time wisely. I don’t see how talking to you is helpful. Do I make myself clear?”

  I took a deep breath in, and then exhaled slowly, allowing another long-held idealization to disperse with the out-breath. There were blowhards in New Scotland Yard, just like everywhere else.

  “Look,” I said. “I may have precipitated this situation, but I didn’t seek it out, it found me. Lord Purdham-Coote and his wife are extremely worried about their son. And I don’t blame them. Maybe his lordship was afraid if he told you the truth you wouldn’t talk to me. And it sounds like he had a point.”

  Garfield said nothing. I ploughed on.

  “I happen to specialize in mispers. I was also a member of the police force over here for over a decade. But whether or not I coordinate with my colleagues at the LAPD, including my ex-partner Detective Bill Bohannon, Rank Three, Burglary-Homicide, depends upon what I find in the course of my own investigation. Meanwhile, I would very much appreciate it if you could include me in yours. Who knows? We might actually help each other find Colin.”

  Garfield sighed, his version of taking a nice, deep breath. “I apologize,” he said. “I’ve spent the better part of the past fifteen hours talking, or rather listening, to Lord Purdham-Coote.”

  “Understood,” I said. We left it at that.

  “Shall we start fresh, Detective Norbu?”

  “I’d like nothing better.”

  “I understand you have evidence pertaining to the case?”

  “Potential evidence,” I said. I gave him the shorthand version of the envelope and its mysterious contents.

  “Actually, this is quite helpful,” he said. “When the university constables searched the boy’s premises, they weren’t able to locate his passport. His Oyster card’s gone as well but we’re already onto that.”

  “I’m sorry. Oyster card?”

  “Travel card. Prepaid, for public transportation. Bus, tramlink, light rail, national rail, and the Metro, of course. People mostly use them for the Tube.”

  “Ah. We don’t have Oyster card
s in Los Angeles. We barely have oysters.”

  “Ha! Good one. In any case, he topped up his Oyster card last month. We’ve asked London Transport to take a look at his account and report back to us once they’ve determined where and when he used public transportation over the past few weeks. Unfortunately, he seems to have left his ATM and credit cards behind. We have also learned, with a little help from his father, that Colin cleaned out his Bank of England account last week. Quite a healthy balance, in fact. All in all, we’re closing in on a fairly accurate set of time parameters regarding travel. Your information helps with the geography.”

  “May I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Isn’t it possible that Colin has just run away? His father seemed to suggest that his son’s past might have been somewhat troubled.”

  Garfield cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Is he missing, or merely absent? And if he is missing, what is the level of risk? All good questions. We do seem to have conflicting issues at play. On the one hand, we’re not dealing with a child, but rather a young man over the age of consent who seems to have left his current premises suddenly, but with no clear evidence of foul play. And yes, he does have a few minor blots on his record, although they have more to do with recreational drug use than anything more suspicious.”

  He delivered the information in a confident British accent. If I closed my eyes, he could be Holmes.

  “On the other, we have the son of a high-profile citizen and a potential target of blackmail, or worse. And it’s not been his pattern to go away without leaving word.” Garfield paused, as if weighing his next words. “We have a saying over here, Detective. ‘If in doubt, think murder.’ Far too often an unexplained absence is the first indicator of a much more serious event.”

  “It’s the same here,” I said, thinking back to all the times when “missing,” turned out to be “murdered.”

  “I haven’t shared that with Lord Purdham-Coote, I’m sure you understand why. But there’s more than one good reason for us to err on the side of caution. Preliminarily.”

  “So you’re treating him as missing.”

  “Yes. With a high level of risk, for the time being.”

  “Why high?”

  “How current are you with the phenomenon of online targeting, Detective Norbu?”

  “As regards victims of human trafficking? I know a bit.” The tangled snare of Indra’s Net moved across my vision. I knew more than a bit, after last year. I knew too much.

  “Well, yes, that, but I’m talking about something else. I’m talking about radical elements using social media to profile and then draw in vulnerable young men and women for their own political purposes. It’s becoming a real issue over here.”

  “Terrorists? Colin doesn’t strike me as the type.”

  “No, but then again most of our homegrown radicals don’t. We’re not ruling anything out, not yet. We consider every missing-persons investigation to be fluid, rather than fixed. Our approach tends to be cyclical and collaborative, as opposed to linear.”

  “That’s commendable,” I said. If it’s true, I thought.

  “Yes, well, that’s the hope, anyway,” he said, as if reading my mind. “Doesn’t always turn out that way in practice. But we try to adjust our strategies on a daily, if not hourly basis, and deploy resources accordingly.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “To summarize, as of now, Colin Purdham-Coote’s whereabouts have not been established, the circumstances of his absence are out of character, and he may be at risk. Until we locate him and hear what he has to say, we must remain flexible and open-minded as to the cause. Meanwhile, we’ve notified the UK MPB, as in Missing Persons Bureau, and the NCA, as in National Crime Agency. Sorry. Everything’s an acronym these days, have you noticed?”

  “I have.”

  “There you have the long and short of it.”

  I was impressed. They hadn’t even reached the 24-hour mark. Over here, we’d probably still be debating whether or not to fill out a preliminary missing-person’s report.

  “What’s next?” I asked. “Passenger manifests?”

  “Precisely. We’ve already placed him on the PIW, sorry, police information watchlist, and put in a request for information on his movements, in or out of the country. Anything shows up, we’ll access relevant CCTV for visual confirmation.” Garfield’s phone beeped. “I have another call coming in. I need to take it.”

  “I appreciate you being so forthright. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Not at the moment. If we’re looking at a cross-border or transatlantic situation, someone here will get in touch. And if Colin should happen to show up on your doorstep looking for his driving license, persuade him to give his parents a call. You’ll be saving her majesty a lot of money.”

  I could see why Lord Purdham-Coote didn’t want to let go of DCI Garfield. If I were Colin’s father, I’d feel the same.

  But if I were Colin’s father, I’d also want to leave no stone unturned.

  I called Purdham-Coote again. He answered on the first ring, as if his hand had been hovering.

  “Yes! Yes! Hello!”

  “This is Ten. I’ll take the case,” I said. “DCI Garfield is terrific, but if it turns out your son is over here, I’d like to get a head start on things.”

  “Excellent, Detective Norbu. Excellent. Shall we start with an advance of, say, two thousand? Pounds? I believe that’s over three thousand dollars. I can wire it today.”

  It was a start. Maybe not a 100,000-fold, but 15-fold, give or take. Which was a whole lot better than nil.

  I’d make my second donation the minute we hung up.

  “I’ll fax you a contract,” I said. “I have a small commitment to take care of this afternoon, and then I will focus all my efforts on finding your son Colin.” Twin-sitting might not be a priority to any other private investigator, but I knew better. Karma can turn on a dime.

  “I am so appreciative,” he said. “Naturally, I had Bertie look into you. He assures me you have had a good bit of success in this area. And Detective Norbu, so far we’ve kept the vultures at bay. I’m sure this goes without saying . . .”

  “I will be completely discreet.”

  “Thank you. Use this line. It’s unlisted. We are hoping against hope to keep our situation out of the tabloids. Those people are shameless. And now the Yard is considering bringing someone on from counterterrorism. In case . . . well . . . it’s all so worrisome. Lady Purdham-Coote is shattered. Completely shattered.”

  “I’ll do my absolute best.”

  “Please.” His voice faltered. “Please do that.” He hung up.

  I would spend the next few hours entering the relevant information into the databases of both NamUs and the FBI’s National Crime Information Center. I would check the local hospitals, as well as the morgue, for possible matches. I would put together and prioritize a list of tasks for myself and catalog any further questions for the Purdham-Cootes; Bertie, my London doppelganger; and DCI Garfield, my new best friend. I wanted to be ready, should Collie turn out to be here, as the presence of his driver’s license suggested.

  DCI Garfield was clearly an extremely competent detective, and my ego was eager to take on the challenge. But the adrenaline now fizzing through my body was not about winning a competition. I had opened myself to passion again, to doing what I did best and loved most.

  CHAPTER 19

  Maude stood just inside the kitchen, red hair tamed into braids, fingers in her mouth. Behind her, Lola pressed her face against the screen door, eyes pinned on her mother’s van in the driveway. Martha made an awkward three-point turn in the narrow space and drove slowly away, wheels crunching on the gravel.

  Maude unplugged her mouth.

  “Where’s Homer?” she said.

  “He’s with Aunt Julie. You’ll see him later.”

  She replugged for a quick charge of self-soothing, her eyes scanning the kitchen. Out came the fingers.
“Where’s Tank?”

  I pointed. Maude shifted her head to find Tank sprawled at the base of the kitchen window, the tip of his tail flicking.

  Lola finally turned from the door. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, but she mustered a small smile.

  “Uncle Ten?”

  “Yes?”

  “I need to tell you sumping.”

  “Okay.”

  “I need to tell you that Momma needs you to babysit us because she and Daddy have to go talk to a special lady.”

  “I see. Is that what your mother told you?”

  “Yes. Because Momma and Daddy have . . . they have . . .” Lola frowned. “What do they have again, Maude?”

  Maude freed up her mouth. “Tissues,” she said.

  “Because Momma and Daddy have tissues,” Lola repeated. Her lower lip pushed outward. “Uncle Ten, is that a bad thing? To have tissues?”

  Oh, boy. We weren’t even 10 minutes in.

  “I can’t say if it’s bad or good, Lola. But I’m pretty sure everybody has them at some point or other. I know I do.”

  That seemed to satisfy both girls.

  I set today’s ground rules. Rule one: only two cat treats each for Tank. Rule two: no burying the Buddha statue outside, although rearranging the contents of my altar table was okay. Rule three: only 15 minutes of playing trampoline on the bed. (That one might have to stay between them and me.)

  They decided on jumping first, which was fine by me. It gave me a chance to revise, print out, sign, scan, and attach a PDF of my adjusted standard contract to Lord Purdham-Coote.

  I could hear the twins’ squeals of laughter over a series of loud thumps.

  “Ten more minutes,” I called out.

  I checked messages, but the circuit between here and the UK had gone silent. Neither Bertie the Sleepless nor Scotland Yard’s best had picked up earlier when I called, and they had not answered my voice messages since. Maybe they’d found their own leads and were loathe to share. Maybe they resented having a Tibetan American half-breed added to the team.

  Maybe I should stop being so paranoid.