standards.
As I sat down he tapped his finger on the desk. “What have you got, Smith?”
I started to review the case, but he stopped me. “I’ve read the reports.”
“Well, then,” I said, “this afternoon I saw Leah deVeau, the housemother, and Chupa-da, the guru’s assistant. Padmasvana may have lived simply, but Chupa-da isn’t doing anything to curb his taste for luxury.” I went on to describe the attic room. “I asked him about the symbol on the knife.”
Lt. Davis flipped through the reports until he came up with the one from the lab. Looking at the picture of the symbol, he asked, “What is it, some Buddhist sign?”
“Not according to Chupa-da. He says he’s never seen it before.”
“Check it out, Smith. It may be something he just doesn’t know. Go to the library. There are plenty of Buddhist places here in Berkeley; check with them. Get in touch with the consulate.” He leaned forward, fingering his mustache. “The consulate. Smith, the Indian Consulate in San Francisco has already called here, you understand?”
“The Indian Consulate?”
“Bhutan doesn’t have a consulate. India handles its foreign affairs.” He waved off any further comment. “Naturally the consulate keeps a close eye on news about nationals under its jurisdiction. They are very concerned. This is no family knifing. They’ll be getting in touch with the monastery in Bhutan right away. You see what I’m saying, Smith? This has got to be cleared up quickly. You see the paper this morning?”
Without comment, Lt. Davis extracted the paper from his desk drawer and smacked it down in front of me. The headlines were: “Guru knifed in Berkeley.” Beneath was a picture of Padmasvana. The smaller print said, “Police Say No Leads.”
The lieutenant eyed the smaller print, his lips turning down. “Not good. For today, Smith, I will deal with the press. I expect you to get me something to tell them.”
“Yessir.”
“Smith. You’ve got Pereira. Howard can assist. What else do you need?”
“Nothing right now, sir. It’s under control,” I said with more certainty than I felt.
“One final word,” the lieutenant said as I stood up. “This has got to be cleared up before Sunday. Now we’ve just got the newspapers and the consulate to deal with. By Sunday we’ll have every church in Berkeley wondering if the police are giving them proper service. You see what I’m saying?”
“Yessir,” I said as I moved out the door.
When I got to my desk, Howard was there.
“Where’s Pereira?” I demanded.
“You’re in a grim mood.”
“Pressure from above.”
“Like I told you, Jill, this is no ordinary murder. The pressure’ll only get worse.”
“Thanks.” I sat down. “Have you seen Pereira?”
“Connie went for coffee.”
“Shit.”
“It’s not that bad.” Howard grinned sheepishly. It was his pun look.
His mood was contagious. “I didn’t mean to growl,” I said. “Much as I would love a cup of coffee—even the Donut Shop’s coffee—the last thing I need now is to have Davis spot me sitting here having a leisurely break.”
“Okay, I’ll drink yours. And what do you want me to do on the case? I’ve got time.”
“Would you see what you can find on Garrett Kleinfeld, the Self-Over founder? And the temple?”
“You know I love research!” Patting my shoulder, he moved down the aisle.
I turned my attention to my in box, glancing through the papers, finding nothing new on the case. There were two frantic messages from Nat, but the stainless could wait. The whole set had cost only twenty dollars. I left a note for Pereira, asking her to see what she could find out on Braga from the LAPD, and to check the libraries for any clue to the marking on the knife, and headed downstairs to the motor pool.
For myself I had saved the questionable task of another visit with Braga himself. But when I arrived, the temple was still empty. As I headed across the yard to the ashram, I
As I sat down he tapped his finger on the desk. “What have you got, Smith?”
I started to review the case, but he stopped me. “I’ve read the reports.”
“Well, then,” I said, “this afternoon I saw Leah deVeau, the housemother, and Chupa-da, the guru’s assistant. Padmasvana may have lived simply, but Chupa-da isn’t doing anything to curb his taste for luxury.” I went on to describe the attic room. “I asked him about the symbol on the knife.”
Lt. Davis flipped through the reports until he came up with the one from the lab. Looking at the picture of the symbol, he asked, “What is it, some Buddhist sign?”
“Not according to Chupa-da. He says he’s never seen it before.”
“Check it out, Smith. It may be something he just doesn’t know. Go to the library. There are plenty of Buddhist places here in Berkeley; check with them. Get in touch with the consulate.” He leaned forward, fingering his mustache. “The consulate. Smith, the Indian Consulate in San Francisco has already called here, you understand?”
“The Indian Consulate?”
“Bhutan doesn’t have a consulate. India handles its foreign affairs.” He waved off any further comment. “Naturally the consulate keeps a close eye on news about nationals under its jurisdiction. They are very concerned. This is no family knifing. They’ll be getting in touch with the monastery in Bhutan right away. You see what I’m saying, Smith? This has got to be cleared up quickly. You see the paper this morning?”
Without comment, Lt. Davis extracted the paper from his desk drawer and smacked it down in front of me. The headlines were: “Guru knifed in Berkeley.” Beneath was a picture of Padmasvana. The smaller print said, “Police Say No Leads.”
The lieutenant eyed the smaller print, his lips turning down. “Not good. For today, Smith, I will deal with the press. I expect you to get me something to tell them.”
“Yessir.”
“Smith. You’ve got Pereira. Howard can assist. What else do you need?”
“Nothing right now, sir. It’s under control,” I said with more certainty than I felt.
“One final word,” the lieutenant said as I stood up. “This has got to be cleared up before Sunday. Now we’ve just got the newspapers and the consulate to deal with. By Sunday we’ll have every church in Berkeley wondering if the police are giving them proper service. You see what I’m saying?”
“Yessir,” I said as I moved out the door.
When I got to my desk, Howard was there.
“Where’s Pereira?” I demanded.
“You’re in a grim mood.”
“Pressure from above.”
“Like I told you, Jill, this is no ordinary murder. The pressure’ll only get worse.”
“Thanks.” I sat down. “Have you seen Pereira?”
“Connie went for coffee.”
“Shit.”
“It’s not that bad.” Howard grinned sheepishly. It was his pun look.
His mood was contagious. “I didn’t mean to growl,” I said. “Much as I would love a cup of coffee—even the Donut Shop’s coffee—the last thing I need now is to have Davis spot me sitting here having a leisurely break.”
“Okay, I’ll drink yours. And what do you want me to do on the case? I’ve got time.”
“Would you see what you can find on Garrett Kleinfeld, the Self-Over founder? And the temple?”
“You know I love research!” Patting my shoulder, he moved down the aisle.
I turned my attention to my in box, glancing through the papers, finding nothing new on the case. There were two frantic messages from Nat, but the stainless could wait. The whole set had cost only twenty dollars. I left a note for Pereira, asking her to see what she could find out on Braga from the LAPD, and to check the libraries for any clue to the marking on the knife, and headed downstairs to the motor pool.
For myself I had saved the questionable task of another visit with Braga himself. But when I arrived, the temple was still empty. As I headed across the yard to the ashram, I
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