The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) by Gay Hendricks Page B
Authors: Gay Hendricks
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Maybe these were not the kinds of businesses that experienced break-ins. I rechecked my text from G-Force as I strolled closer, and soon located the insurance firm almost precisely in the middle of the row of modest enterprises. The numbered awning, once navy blue, had faded to a color closer to purple. The business, its double doors of frosted glass etched with the initials CAII, was flanked by a tax consulting agency and a run-down fertility clinic, both of which triggered in me instant pangs of anxiety.
I pushed against the doors and stepped inside. The temperature was a good 15 degrees cooler than the afternoon heat behind me. Despite its lofty title, Conway Associates Insurance, Inc. was underwhelming. The space was maybe 900 square feet, longer than it was wide, with a small reception area up front and a smaller conference room to my left. I counted two more frosted glass doors, closed, leading into what I assumed was a pair of private offices, one on the right side, in no-man’s-land, and one at the back, facing the direction of the hills. I also noticed an emergency exit in the back—the old-fashioned kind complete with a metal panic bar.
One wall boasted several framed, fading endorsements from local clubs and businessmen’s associations. No sign of a security system in place here, either. No infrared, ultrasonic, or microwave detectors. No photo-electronic beams. No nothing.
The overall impression was of an enterprise struggling to stay afloat.
A youthful, plump woman with thin wire-rimmed glasses and an erect back perched behind a curved Plexiglas desk, tapping a computer keyboard industriously. Her hair was light brown and twisted, rope-like, into a bumpy knot on the top of her head, Siddhartha-style. She presented me with a sweet smile.
“May I help you?”
I recognized her voice: Miss Grammar-pants.
“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Conway?”
“Senior or—”
“Junior.”
She tap-tapped again, and frowned at her computer.
“I’m sorry, did you have an appointment?”
I glanced behind her at the two doors, one to my right and one at the back. I had a fifty-fifty chance.
“Thanks, he knows what this is about,” I said over my shoulder, and headed right, for door number one, the one in no-man’s-land. Junior didn’t get the mountain vista, I was betting.
As I entered, the man inside startled like a deer. He half-rose behind his desk while one frantic hand clicked and moved the mouse of a large desktop computer. The computer pinged, and then fell silent. Roland Conway, Jr.’s pale-blue eyes met mine. His were rinsed hot with something. Irritation, maybe?
No. Fear.
He stepped around his desk.
“I’m sorry. Who are you?” The deep voice belonged to someone much heftier than the man before me. One of Mother Nature’s little tricks, to keep her entertained.
I put out my hand.
“Tenzing Norbu. We spoke earlier, Mr. Conway.”
He ran his right-hand fingers through his hair, pushing back thin bangs. They resisted his efforts to tame them and flopped back onto his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I wasn’t expecting any appointments this late.”
I waved at the door vaguely. “A misunderstanding,” I said. “No need to apologize.”
His jaw muscles tightened. He wanted to say more, but good manners, like good grammar, are hard habits to overcome, something I was counting on. He gave my hand a damp squeeze and herded me into one of two small armchairs set against the wall to one side of his desk. I sat and looked around the Spartan room, no bigger than a monk’s quarters. The walls were empty and painted an insipid green. The industrial carpet was gray and flecked with tiny blue-and-green accents, like confetti. Between the armchairs, a small, pie-shaped table held a single eight-by-ten silver-framed photograph of a beaming clan, of Conways I assumed, in all their multigenerational glory. Many rows of smiling, straightened teeth. Next to the photograph sat an orchid,
I pushed against the doors and stepped inside. The temperature was a good 15 degrees cooler than the afternoon heat behind me. Despite its lofty title, Conway Associates Insurance, Inc. was underwhelming. The space was maybe 900 square feet, longer than it was wide, with a small reception area up front and a smaller conference room to my left. I counted two more frosted glass doors, closed, leading into what I assumed was a pair of private offices, one on the right side, in no-man’s-land, and one at the back, facing the direction of the hills. I also noticed an emergency exit in the back—the old-fashioned kind complete with a metal panic bar.
One wall boasted several framed, fading endorsements from local clubs and businessmen’s associations. No sign of a security system in place here, either. No infrared, ultrasonic, or microwave detectors. No photo-electronic beams. No nothing.
The overall impression was of an enterprise struggling to stay afloat.
A youthful, plump woman with thin wire-rimmed glasses and an erect back perched behind a curved Plexiglas desk, tapping a computer keyboard industriously. Her hair was light brown and twisted, rope-like, into a bumpy knot on the top of her head, Siddhartha-style. She presented me with a sweet smile.
“May I help you?”
I recognized her voice: Miss Grammar-pants.
“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Conway?”
“Senior or—”
“Junior.”
She tap-tapped again, and frowned at her computer.
“I’m sorry, did you have an appointment?”
I glanced behind her at the two doors, one to my right and one at the back. I had a fifty-fifty chance.
“Thanks, he knows what this is about,” I said over my shoulder, and headed right, for door number one, the one in no-man’s-land. Junior didn’t get the mountain vista, I was betting.
As I entered, the man inside startled like a deer. He half-rose behind his desk while one frantic hand clicked and moved the mouse of a large desktop computer. The computer pinged, and then fell silent. Roland Conway, Jr.’s pale-blue eyes met mine. His were rinsed hot with something. Irritation, maybe?
No. Fear.
He stepped around his desk.
“I’m sorry. Who are you?” The deep voice belonged to someone much heftier than the man before me. One of Mother Nature’s little tricks, to keep her entertained.
I put out my hand.
“Tenzing Norbu. We spoke earlier, Mr. Conway.”
He ran his right-hand fingers through his hair, pushing back thin bangs. They resisted his efforts to tame them and flopped back onto his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I wasn’t expecting any appointments this late.”
I waved at the door vaguely. “A misunderstanding,” I said. “No need to apologize.”
His jaw muscles tightened. He wanted to say more, but good manners, like good grammar, are hard habits to overcome, something I was counting on. He gave my hand a damp squeeze and herded me into one of two small armchairs set against the wall to one side of his desk. I sat and looked around the Spartan room, no bigger than a monk’s quarters. The walls were empty and painted an insipid green. The industrial carpet was gray and flecked with tiny blue-and-green accents, like confetti. Between the armchairs, a small, pie-shaped table held a single eight-by-ten silver-framed photograph of a beaming clan, of Conways I assumed, in all their multigenerational glory. Many rows of smiling, straightened teeth. Next to the photograph sat an orchid,
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