The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery by Gay Hendricks, Tinker Lindsay
Authors: Gay Hendricks, Tinker Lindsay
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half-eaten plates of abandoned food. Most especially, no cell phone in sight.
“How many electrical outlets in your place?” I asked.
“Five,” he said. “No, sorry, six. Three in the main room, two in the kitchen area, and one in the bathroom, stuck behind the toilet for some reason. I have to use an extension cord to charge my shaver and toothbrush.”
I was in the bathroom in three steps. I got down on all fours. Sure enough, an iPhone was charging, resting on its back on the stained linoleum behind the toilet. I had forgotten to bring any latex gloves, but I had a handkerchief in my back pocket. I used it to recover the phone and charger.
I made a second assessment of the apartment, this time slowly and by foot. There was a small stack of unopened mail—mostly flyers, it looked like—on the kitchen counter, but I left it alone. Private mail, unlike phones, was not to be touched by private investigators, not under any circumstances. The same goes for garbage, unless it’s been moved to the curb, and after the alleged break-in, the whole apartment qualified as trash. Nothing else jumped out at me, and I was fine with that. One, this was Sofia’s place, not Clara’s, and two, I had a feeling all the answers I needed were already wrapped inside my handkerchief.
I gave Carlos a business card. “Call me if either Sofia or Clara shows up, okay?”
“You think I should let the cops know, in case Sofia’s missing, too?”
“Definitely report the break-in. As far as Sofia goes, it’s up to you,” I said. “But unless she’s a minor or has Alzheimer’s, you can’t even file a missing person’s report until she’s been gone for twenty-four hours. Hopefully she’ll be back by then.”
Carlos stowed my card in his wallet. He fished a pen from his other pocket and put out his hand. “Got another one?”
I did.
He scribbled his name and phone number on the back and returned it to me. “Let me know, man, if you need me for anything. That Clara’s a nice lady. She reminds me of my abuela , my granny, you know?” He frowned at the upended room. “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” he said.
I didn’t either, but I wasn’t ready to say it out loud.
As I walked outside, I debated asking the Armenian death squad if they had seen or heard anything suspicious. I looked up at the balconies. The old men, with their impassive, smoke-wreathed stares, were as promising as a row of cement blocks. I took a step in their direction anyway, and as one, they seemed to melt back into their apartments. I was too hungry to pursue them further.
I drove straight to Langer’s Delicatessen, at Seventh and Alvarado. I didn’t care if the entire LAPD force was there to bear witness—after years of watching Bill inhale pastrami across the booth from me, I was finally going to have a number 19 all to myself.
Langer’s was closed. I hit the steering wheel in frustration. By now, I was so hungry I couldn’t think in a straight line, so I drove home on autopilot and had my mouth full of raw almonds before I had even set the keys down on the kitchen counter.
After two very unsatisfying bowls of cereal—I usually shopped on Sundays, and there weren’t too many choices in my cupboards—I gargled with tap water and poured myself a Belgian Chimay. Time to do my part in supporting those busy little Trappist monk-brewers. The first sip was a perfect meditation, all on its own. By the third, I was finally myself.
I pulled out Clara’s cell phone, still wrapped in my handkerchief, and used a corner of cotton to carefully swipe it on. This was a bare-bones iPhone: no e-mail activated and only the basic apps that came with the phone. I pulled up her most recent telephone activity. There were maybe 20 outgoing and incoming calls displayed on the screen, but only 3 sources. The majority of the calls were to or from either a 661 area code or a 213, identified as Señora Bets and Sofia , respectively. The third number was
“How many electrical outlets in your place?” I asked.
“Five,” he said. “No, sorry, six. Three in the main room, two in the kitchen area, and one in the bathroom, stuck behind the toilet for some reason. I have to use an extension cord to charge my shaver and toothbrush.”
I was in the bathroom in three steps. I got down on all fours. Sure enough, an iPhone was charging, resting on its back on the stained linoleum behind the toilet. I had forgotten to bring any latex gloves, but I had a handkerchief in my back pocket. I used it to recover the phone and charger.
I made a second assessment of the apartment, this time slowly and by foot. There was a small stack of unopened mail—mostly flyers, it looked like—on the kitchen counter, but I left it alone. Private mail, unlike phones, was not to be touched by private investigators, not under any circumstances. The same goes for garbage, unless it’s been moved to the curb, and after the alleged break-in, the whole apartment qualified as trash. Nothing else jumped out at me, and I was fine with that. One, this was Sofia’s place, not Clara’s, and two, I had a feeling all the answers I needed were already wrapped inside my handkerchief.
I gave Carlos a business card. “Call me if either Sofia or Clara shows up, okay?”
“You think I should let the cops know, in case Sofia’s missing, too?”
“Definitely report the break-in. As far as Sofia goes, it’s up to you,” I said. “But unless she’s a minor or has Alzheimer’s, you can’t even file a missing person’s report until she’s been gone for twenty-four hours. Hopefully she’ll be back by then.”
Carlos stowed my card in his wallet. He fished a pen from his other pocket and put out his hand. “Got another one?”
I did.
He scribbled his name and phone number on the back and returned it to me. “Let me know, man, if you need me for anything. That Clara’s a nice lady. She reminds me of my abuela , my granny, you know?” He frowned at the upended room. “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” he said.
I didn’t either, but I wasn’t ready to say it out loud.
As I walked outside, I debated asking the Armenian death squad if they had seen or heard anything suspicious. I looked up at the balconies. The old men, with their impassive, smoke-wreathed stares, were as promising as a row of cement blocks. I took a step in their direction anyway, and as one, they seemed to melt back into their apartments. I was too hungry to pursue them further.
I drove straight to Langer’s Delicatessen, at Seventh and Alvarado. I didn’t care if the entire LAPD force was there to bear witness—after years of watching Bill inhale pastrami across the booth from me, I was finally going to have a number 19 all to myself.
Langer’s was closed. I hit the steering wheel in frustration. By now, I was so hungry I couldn’t think in a straight line, so I drove home on autopilot and had my mouth full of raw almonds before I had even set the keys down on the kitchen counter.
After two very unsatisfying bowls of cereal—I usually shopped on Sundays, and there weren’t too many choices in my cupboards—I gargled with tap water and poured myself a Belgian Chimay. Time to do my part in supporting those busy little Trappist monk-brewers. The first sip was a perfect meditation, all on its own. By the third, I was finally myself.
I pulled out Clara’s cell phone, still wrapped in my handkerchief, and used a corner of cotton to carefully swipe it on. This was a bare-bones iPhone: no e-mail activated and only the basic apps that came with the phone. I pulled up her most recent telephone activity. There were maybe 20 outgoing and incoming calls displayed on the screen, but only 3 sources. The majority of the calls were to or from either a 661 area code or a 213, identified as Señora Bets and Sofia , respectively. The third number was
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