The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) by Gay Hendricks

information for later corroboration.
    “Anyway,” she said, “I went right back to sleep. The next thing I knew, it was light out, and those two detectives were ringing the doorbell. That’s when I realized Marv never came home.” A small “oh” escaped her mouth, and she curled tighter, around the pain.
    “And where did your husband say he was?” Bill said.
    “Some sort of business meeting, he said. I really don’t know.”
    “Did your husband seem preoccupied in any way? Worried about something, maybe?”
    “No. No, in fact he’s seemed much happier lately. Excited about his new movie, of course. And he loves awards season, all the parties and premieres. Especially now that he feels successful again. He’s been out almost every night. It’s that time of year.”
    Bill scribbled a few more things. He looked up from his notebook.
    “Right. Now, Arlene. You were given some details by Officers O’ Sullivan and Mack, concerning an . . . injury to your husband’s body, yes?”
    A rush of blood turned her throat pink. “They said someone took his skin,” she whispered. “Is that how he died?”
    “We’re still not certain how he died, I’m afraid.”
    She waited, anxiety coming off her in waves.
    “The piece of skin was removed from your husband’s inner forearm. Someone seems to have cut something off of there. Do you know what it might be?”
    Her flush deepened, staining her pale skin. How odd. She looked ashamed.
    She made a small choking sound and started to gasp for breath. Bill shot me a “do something, we’re losing her” look.
    I squatted in front of her, a little awkwardly, as if she were a small child. “Breathe, Mrs. Rudolph. Breathe.” I took a deep inhale and exhale, hoping it would prove contagious, like a yawn.
    It seemed to work. Arlene, too, took a deep shaky breath, and let it go. We breathed together for a few moments. I should have quit while I was ahead, but I decided to go one step further.
    “That’s right,” I said. “Just feel what you’re feeling.”
    She stiffened, aiming her words at the floor like darts. “How am I supposed to know what I’m feeling? One day I’m sitting here doing what I’ve done every day forever, and then my doorbell rings and I’ve got some strangers telling me my husband’s dead, maybe murdered, and now I’ve got another one saying somebody defiled him, tore off his skin!” She met my eyes, a wild-eyed look. “Can you imagine that?” Her voice rose. “Can you?”
    “No,” I said. “There’s no way I could ever know how that felt.”
    She ignored me and turned to Bill.
    “Somebody cut his tattoo off his arm? Is that what you’re saying?”
    Bill and I met eyes. Bingo.
    “I’m afraid that’s it,” Bill said. “Please, Arlene, can you tell us about the tattoo?”
    “Numbers,” she said. “Numbers.”
    “Numbers? Do you happen to know what they were?”
    “No,” she whispered. “No. I, I can’t . . . “ She started to twist the heavy gold wedding band on her finger. “It was wrong of Marv to violate his body like that. Terribly wrong. I told him so, but he wouldn’t listen.”
    “Was this recent?”
    “Two years ago.”
    “And you’re sure you don’t remember the numbers?”
    Her face cleared. “I wrote them down.” She excused herself and hurried upstairs.
    “Violate his body? That seems a little harsh,” I said.
    “I think tattoos are taboo for Jewish people,” Bill answered. “Same reason they don’t want autopsies . . . “
    Arlene came back downstairs, a piece of lined note paper in her hand. She gave it to Bill. He copied some numbers off of it and handed the paper to me. I wrote them down as well: 481632.
    She took back the paper and stared at the numbers. “Now I remember,” she said. In a singsong voice she recited, “Double four, makes eight. Double eight, makes sixteen. Double sixteen, makes thirty-two. I used to be a whiz at numbers when I was Marv’s bookkeeper, back in New York. When