I would sleep on things. No need to upset Julie tonight, or anyone else for that matter. Who knew if my demons were real or simply leftover fragments of old and broken fears?
“Are you coming back inside?” Julie’s voice was neutral, neither warm nor cool. It was the best she could do, too.
“In a minute.”
“Homer, come.” Homer trundled behind his mistress, just a few steps behind.
In the morning, I would jot down the sore spots in my awareness, the ones that seemed to trigger unease. They were lodged deep, like buried splinters. Eric would help me bring them to the surface. He would help me pull them out.
I crossed the garden to where Homer had been digging but nothing was there but clods of earth.
CHAPTER 23
A different set of bells rang me awake—my landline in the living room. The digital numbers on the bedside table glowed red: It was one o’clock in the morning.
Julie groaned and buried her head in the pillows.
I ran to the phone before voice mail kicked in.
“H’lo?” I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hello, this is Tenzing.”
“Detective Norbu? DCI Garfield. Sorry for the ungodly hour, but I thought I should let you know. We found him.”
“You found Colin? That’s wonderful news.” It was. Not for my bank account, maybe, but a found misper was always cause for celebration. “Is he okay? Is he back with his parents?”
“Sorry, what I meant to say is, we’ve zeroed in on his whereabouts. The Oyster card usage turned up a British Rail ticket from Cambridge to King’s Cross, at which point he took the Circle Line to Paddington. From there, he caught the express to Heathrow.”
“Alone?”
“I’ll get to that. We can now confirm he was at Heathrow based on two further pieces of evidence. NBTC, sorry, National Border Targeting Centre was able to check our information against outgoing passenger lists for the day of travel. Thanks to you, we prioritized flights to the States, with a possible final destination of Los Angeles. A passenger by the name of Colin Purdham-Coote II, or at least a passenger using his passport, departed London Heathrow on Virgin Atlantic Flight Seven on the day in question.”
“Quick work.”
“This kind of situation, we have to be quick.”
“And you’re sure it was him.”
“Yes. Because of the travel card, we were also able to pinpoint his arrival at Heathrow, and access CCTV for the times and terminals involved. We now have visual confirmation of Colin from numerous sources.”
“Wow.” I was wide awake now. I had also woken up my computer, and I pulled up the desktop calendar. “When was this, exactly?”
“Monday past.”
My chest reacted initially, lungs compressing from a feeling of heavy pressure beneath the clavicle. My pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
The body is always the first to know.
“Are you saying Colin flew into Los Angeles on Monday, June second?”
“Precisely.”
“What time did his flight land?” My voice was calm, but my heart was doing handstands.
“Let’s see. Fight Seven departed eleven twenty-five A.M., due to arrive Pacific Daylight Time two thirty P.M., but it was slightly delayed, and landed closer to three o’clock. Something else, and this is slightly worrying. When Colin entered London Heathrow, he was dressed casually. Blue jeans. T-shirt. Hooded jacket. But at some point after checking in and passing through security, he changed clothes. An airport security camera inside the gate shows him wearing a disguise. I’m not exactly sure how to describe it, but he was dressed like a . . . in, well, in some kind of . . .”
“Robe. Like a caftan. With a shawl over his head.”
DCI Garfield’s voice grew cold. “How on earth could you possibly know that, Detective Norbu? If you’ve been withholding information . . .”
“I was there,” I broke in. “I was at the international terminal in Los Angeles when Colin landed. Waiting at customs.” I realized how crazy this must sound. “DCI Garfield, I think I may have actually seen him. Not on purpose, of course. I was there to meet friends arriving on a flight from India.”
“That’s . . . that’s quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say, Detective?”
“Yes, I would.”
And suddenly I remembered why the long tunics on that group of shiny-eyed young people looked familiar. The sleeves were configured like Tibetan Buddhist robes—one long, the other exposing most of the arm. But the robe itself was a simple cut of cloth that required no wrapping or tucking. I had encountered caftans exactly like these last year, on Sasha’s grandmother, from Bosnia. Which made no sense.
“I’m not a big believer in coincidence, are you, Detective?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that. In my experience, the more in tune I was with my inner compass, the more my actions seemed to attract synchronicity. But this . . . ?
“No,” I said. “I don’t believe this is a coincidence.”
The memory sharpened. Irena Radovic had been dressed in the gray tunic-like robe the first time I met her, at Bill’s house on the Fourth of July. She hid inside her fog-colored robe and head scarf and spoke barely a word, but her grim satisfaction was palpable as she witnessed her daughter Mila shattering Bill and Martha’s world. And a month later, in a long blue tunic the color of ice, Irena had taken her own life. Her eyes, too, had gleamed with devotion but the shine of absolute surrender couldn’t conceal an underlying madness.
“Do you have any explanation offhand?” Garfield’s voice was still guarded.
“I think Colin arrived as part of a group, if that helps. There were several young men and women wearing the same kind of robes.”
I gave Garfield a shortened version of why I was at the international terminal and what I saw. He was still not satisfied, understandably.
“To recap: you just happened to be there when Colin landed, and his driving license just happened to be delivered to you in an envelope the following morning? I’m sorry, but it’s most peculiar.”
“I have to agree.”
He thought. I waited.
“I would be more suspicious but for the fact that you set everything in motion by calling Lord Purdham-Coote in the first place. And as far as I know, you haven’t mentioned the word ransom. But this strains credulity.”
“I am as mystified as you are.” I changed directions. “How about his fellow travelers? Any red flags? I have someone at Homeland Security I could call.”
“Let me worry about that. Meanwhile, Detective Norbu, I suggest you think long and hard about your part in all of this. You may not be directly involved, but you are involved nonetheless. We’ll talk again later.”
I sat in the semidarkness for several minutes, my mind racing from one end of this new trail of information to the other. But I was faced with too many fragments of fact, and not enough mental clarity to piece together anything coherent. I tiptoed back into the bedroom, set the alarm on my phone, and crawled under the covers carefully, so I wouldn’t disturb Julie or Tank. I fell into a troubled sleep.
CHAPTER 24
The cell phone vibrated like a trapped bee.
No.
I swatted it silent.
3:30 A.M.
I can’t.
C’mon, Ten, you used to do this all the time when you were a novice lama on kitchen duty.
Tank’s round mask of silvered fur rose from the foot of the bed, green eyes unblinking, a feline moon. I sent him a silent message: not time for breakfast yet. Message received. He lowered his head to his paws and closed his eyes.
I resisted the temptation to do the same, to draw Julie close and sink back into sleep.
Coffee. The only thing that would make this better was coffee.
I pulled on sweatpants and yesterday’s T-shirt and added a hoodie from the closet. The season of early-morning fog was upon us, and the canyon would cling to its cool air until well past dawn.
In the
kitchen, I filled the kettle with filtered water and set it on the burner to boil. A small mason jar awaited on the counter. I unscrewed the lid and inhaled the rich, earthy scent of Ethiopian beans, roasted to smoky perfection—the last of my personal stash of politically incorrect coffee. The coarsely ground beans were the color of tobacco and the consistency of steel-cut oats.
I’d rescued my abandoned French press from the back of a kitchen shelf—an expensive gift to myself after closing the deal on the Topanga Canyon house. My mother had owned one just like it in Paris. I’d make myself very small on my kitchen stool as she swore at her cafetière, trying to force the mesh plunger. Desperate to treat her hangover with scalding-hot caffeine.
Making a great cup of coffee might not be rocket science, but it was science nonetheless. Basically, there were three phases, however you chose to brew: immersion, dissolution, and diffusion. Just like the three phases of the lama’s journey from ignorance to wisdom: slow brewing as a devotional path.
When your mind is trained to seek, everything is practice.
The first step, immersion, was crucial. Saturating the grounds released the carbon dioxide trapped in their cells. Total concentration provided the ideal environment in which to bloom.
Next, dissolution: the solids confined in the cells needed to dissolve into the hot water solvent, like pure thought dispersing into consciousness.
Finally, diffusion: all that concentrated flavor spread throughout the surrounding liquid, creating the beverage some called coffee that I called the absolute made manifest. Bliss. The bhakti path to joy. I no longer practiced it personally, but I believed in its worth.
I filled the bottom of the press with about two inches of the coarse grind.
I snatched the kettle off the burner before its faint whistle became a scream. I found the stopwatch function on my phone and pressed “Start.” I let a full 30 seconds pass before pouring. With a lighter roast I would have added the water right off the boil.
Why was I there when Colin landed?
I filled the beaker carefully, stopping a few inches below the rim.
Glanced at the stopwatch. Total saturation, commencing now.
Where was he going?
Breathe in to the count of 10, breathe out to the count of 10. In to 10, out to 10.
The stopwatch read 01:15:33. Perfect.
Why did I have his license? Who brought it to me?
I gave the mixture a thorough stir. Dissolution. The grounds swirled and circled before gradually settling to the bottom of the glass cylinder. The process calmed my own whirling thoughts.
I placed the lid on the press, plunger rising out of it like a flagpole.
And what about the blocked call, the whispered message, We’re here?
Two minutes had passed. I moved on to phase three, diffusion.
I set the timer for eight minutes and again pressed “Start.” The countdown began.
I set my questions aside. Time for my own act of diffusion.
I moved the phone to the kitchen table, where I’d set out a legal pad and my favorite Space Pen. It was silvery and sleek, like an elongated bullet. It worked underwater, in extreme heat or cold, upside down, and even in zero gravity, should the opportunity arise.
Stop procrastinating, Ten.
07:00. Seven minutes left. And, GO.
I rolled the pen between my thumb and forefinger.
Just start. Start anywhere.
I wrote down space pen. Then, I love my space pen. Idly, I crossed out the word pen. Replaced love with need. I read the new sentence.
I need my space.
My hand flew across the page: I need my space. Never alone. Always lonely. Wedding invitations. Orphan. No family. Pressure. For ever and ever. Failure. Chasing failure? No. Being chased. Following. Being followed. Being followed by my failure. Why?
I checked the timer.
Four minutes left.
The dream. Don’t forget the dream.
Tower dream. Every few days now. Why do I keep having it? Why can I never reach the top floor?
Tank jumped onto my lap and kneaded my thighs.
“Hey, buddy.”
Bindi, I wrote. Then, Who is she?
My pen hovered.
It’s time. Time for what?
The writing gave me a sense of control. I had a list. Questions to place at Eric’s feet like offerings.
A jangling sound startled me. I checked my phone. Timer done. I reset, giving myself another minute.
Julie.
My chest tightened. I didn’t want to write anymore. But I did.
What if I can’t?
This time the alarm was my liberator.
I jumped upright, dumping Tank. He yowled.
“Sorry. Don’t want to overbrew.”
I hurried from the unsettled thoughts once again clouding my brain.
I depressed the plunger, trying to maintain a steady pressure that was both gentle and deliberate. As the dark brown liquid rose, the grounds descended.
The plunger tightened under my palm. I backed up an inch. Let more grounds settle before resuming.
Good coffee could not be forced or rushed.
Good coffee required absolute commitment.
CHAPTER 25
Lord Purdham-Coote had faxed the completed contract overnight. I scanned the print. No changes to the terms of employment, and he had signed and dated the last page, as of today. I filed the form in my legal documents folder.
It was 11:30 A.M. over there. Not too early, not too late. I had two overseas calls to make. First I’d reach out to the hand that was feeding me.
I used my business line.
The double ring went immediately to voice mail.
“Lord Purdham-Coote, this is Ten. Please call me when you get this. If I don’t answer here, try my cell.” I recited both numbers and hung up. It rang immediately.
“Lord Purdham-Coote?”
“Naw. This is Bertie. Bertie Andrews. Lord Purdham-Coote’s on another call. Saw it was you, told me to give you a jingle. Sorry I di’n’t call earlier. I just got back from Cambridge. I was under orders to wait. Until you were part of the team, like. Wotcha got? Good news, I hope.” His voice was graveled from nicotine and the words tumbled into a disorganized heap. I sorted through the pile before choosing an answer.
“No news yet.” I rubbed my eyes. “It’s three thirty in the morning. I’ve only been on the job for a few hours.”
“No need to get yer knickers twisted,” Bertie rasped. “I wasn’t implying anything. Gave you the thumbs-up, di’n’t I?” He paused, as if reassessing. “Yer a bit touchy, aren’t you? For a monk, I mean. Thought you’d be more like that bald bugger. Whatshisname. Gandhi.” A phlegmy laugh morphed into a fit of coughing. “Sorry. Fuckin’ cigs. Harder to quit than my ex, and almost as bad for me, though give ’er a few pints and she’ll be more than happy to tell you exactly how it was the other way ’round.”
I needed to redirect this conversation before it took us both to places better left unvisited.
“I have several questions, Mr. Andrews. And I’m sure you have more than a few for me.”
“Bertie. Call me Bertie. Mr. Andrews would be my dad, God rest his coal-black soul.”
“Anything further on your end? DCI Garfield and I talked earlier.”
“Hizzoner’s talking to Garfield right now. Fighting with him, more like.”
I waited. Bertie clearly loved to talk. I’d learn more by keeping my mouth shut.
“They want to drop it, don’t they? What with the postcard ’n’ all.”
“What postcard?’
“Came today. Kid sent his old man a fuckin’ postcard of palm trees and that tourist sign, like he was on holiday.”
“The Hollywood sign?”
“That’s the one. Only Collie didn’t say ‘wish you were here,’ did he?”
“Let me guess. Collie told his father not to worry. That he’s found a new family, he’s never been happier, and his
parents shouldn’t try to contact him.”
“Mate! Almost word for word!”
“Don’t be too impressed,” I said. “I live in Los Angeles, remember? It’s a mecca for megalomaniacs, religious and otherwise. I mean, Scientology owns half the city.”
“Yeah, I read about them. Bunch of bollocks. We wouldn’t let that wanker’s ship dock over here, way back when. Otherwise, who knows? Maybe they’d have their headquarters in the Tower of London.”
“I worked the Missing Persons Unit before I moved up to Burglary/Homicide,” I said. “I can’t tell you how many calls I took from frantic parents on the receiving end of messages like Collie’s. Calling off the family is a pretty standard first move for cults. Sounds like maybe he’s joined one.”
“Yeah, makes sense, given the robe and all. Trouble is now the Yard wants to bow out. Says Collie doesn’t need a deputy chief inspector, he needs a deprogrammer.”
“What does Lord Purdham-Coote say?”
“Well, he’s shittin’ bricks, i’n’t he?”
My eyes strayed to the yellow legal pad and my cursory notes for the session with Eric. I flipped to a blank page.
“Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Ask away, mate. Looks like he’s gonna be on with DCI Garfield awhile longer. Purdham-Coote’s used to getting his way. Won’t take no, will he?”
“Were you present when the constables entered Collie’s room?”
“Yeah. Lord P-C wanted me there—second set of eyes.”
“I understood from DCI Garfield that Colin didn’t take his cell phone with him.”
“iPhone. And no. They found it in his room. Sim card next to it, or what was left of it. Smashed it silly, di’n’t he?”
“Computer?”
“MacBook Pro. Under his bed, wiped clean as a baby’s arse. iPad’s missing, but in case you’re wondering, they’re saying he erased all his data remotely, and now no one can access shite. He had that find-your-phone thingy, but turns out, when you dump the data, you disable the other thingy that helps identify your devices. No data means no tracking. No tracking, no trace of Collie.” A note of admiration crept into Bernie’s gruff voice. “Kid did a wallop on us all, di’n’t he? Smarter than he let on.”
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