Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

They weren’t scared. They weren’t suspicious. They were … absent. Like optimism had long since left the premises.

“May I come in for a moment?”

Wesley roused himself enough to shake his head. “We can talk here.”

A teenager with a stringy ponytail and a face pocked with acne slouched into the foyer to suss out the situation. One look at the three of us and he rolled his eyes and wheelied out of there as if we were contaminated. And Martha wonders why I don’t want kids.

Freda and Wesley listened as I explained that I was a private detective looking into an issue with royalties. The moment the word royalty came out of my mouth, I saw anticipation surge in Wesley’s face.

“You found something? You have money for us?” he said. He put his arm around Freda and squeezed. “Well, hallelujah. It’s about time.”

I felt a stab of anger at TFJ amp; Associates, for putting me in this position. Once again, I was bearing bad news.

“I’m not representing TFJ and Associates. I’m investigating them. For possible fraud.”

“I don’t understand,” Freda said. “We haven’t heard a peep about the royalties in a long time. Now you show up talking about fraud? I’m confused.”

Wesley’s shoulders slumped. “Maybe you’re confused,” he said. “Not me. Nothing’s changed.” He walked back into the house. From behind, he looked like an old man.

Freda’s eyes followed him, darkened with sorrow. She fingered a gold cross hanging around her neck as she turned back to me. She coughed the deep, hacking cough that told me she was, or had been, a heavy smoker. “Don’t mind him,” she said. “Now, what’s this fraud business about?”

I told her my suspicions concerning Florio’s dealings with Zimmy Backus and Buster Redman. She smiled slightly when she heard the two names.

“I never met Zimmy, but me and Buster, we did a few shows together.” The look in her eyes told me she was drifting off into memory-land.

“Did you get a visit from a Tommy Florio?” I asked, reeling her back.

“Sure did. We signed a contract with him last year. He was supposed to go after some money he claimed the record company had stolen. Since then, nothing.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, “how much was he talking about?”

“Well, he said it could be a hundred thousand dollars. I found that pretty hard to believe. I never had but two songs you could call hits.” She coughed again. “Sorry. Last of the flu. I’m not contagious.”

Freda glanced back at the house. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “I still have to put supper on the table.”

I thanked her for her time. Wesley had long since disappeared inside, and I didn’t think he’d mind if I left without saying good-bye to him.

I ruminated in my car for a minute or two. My conversation with Freda led me to one inescapable conclusion, and it was the same conclusion I’d reached after talking to Beulah Redman: Buster and Freda were worth a lot more dead than alive. Mike hadn’t yet found an insurance payout to TFJ from Buster’s death, but I was reasonably sure one would turn up. On the good-news side, Freda’s policy had been in effect for a year and she was still very much alive, and Buster’s death was uncontested.

What if there wasn’t any foul play involved? What if Florio took out the policies because Buster was old, Freda was a smoker, and Zimmy was a recovering addict? It made payouts a pretty good bet. Maybe what they were doing was shady, but not actually illegal. I needed to know more before I could make a realistic assessment of everything, especially whether Freda was in any immediate danger.

As I reached for the ignition, doubt flickered a warning in my gut and my hand paused.

Why threaten Zimmy, then? Follow the First Rule, Tenzing. Don’t let the tickle come back as a gut-punch. Here’s a perfect opportunity .

I climbed out of the car, hurried to the front door, and knocked before I could talk myself out of it. As I waited, I scribbled my cell phone number on the back of an envelope. I was going to need business cards soon.

Wesley opened the door, his eyes lifeless. I handed him the envelope.

“Call me if Tommy Florio gets in touch,” I said, “or for any other reason. You both take good care, okay? I mean it.” Wesley’s eyes met mine, and for a moment his face brightened, as if remembering what mattering to another human being felt like.

It was nearly 11:00 when I finally turned off the highway onto the gravel road I hoped would lead to the Children of Paradise headquarters. I’d arrived here without a hitch; now I just had to figure out what the heck I was hoping to accomplish.

If I were back at the monastery, I’d already be asleep at this time of night-we were in bed by nine and up at four. But the Children of Paradise were not exactly a conventional religious community. What would they be doing at this hour? This being Southern California, they might not even be climbing out of their hot tubs yet.

I rolled along the gravel past acres of trees planted in rows. Fruit trees, maybe. It was hard to tell. The branches were bare, and the withered trunks, washed by moonlight, looked forlorn and ghostly. I wondered if this was their normal state, or if they had been attacked by some disease. Maybe they had simply succumbed to the recession like everything else.

My tires crunched down the road for a little over three miles when I spotted a broken-down building to one side. It was divided into stalls that looked like they had once stabled horses. A quarter mile farther along, a driveway was blocked by a padlocked gate. A hand-lettered wooden sign nailed over the entrance announced:

CHILDREN OF PARADISE SANCTUARY Visitors by Appointment Only 661-555-9040

I punched the digits into my cell phone. I had no intention of calling them tonight, but who knows what Mike could do with a phone number?

I decided to drive past the sign, in hopes of discovering another point of entry. Sure enough, within half a mile I spotted a little dirt road on the right. I turned onto it, killing the headlights, and bumped my way along deep ruts, finally steering my way up a small incline. I parked at the summit and was treated to my first view of Paradise.

I took off my windbreaker. Slipped my holster over my left shoulder and nested the Wilson safely under my arm. Put my windbreaker back on. I pulled a Maglite XL100 out of the glove compartment, fed it fresh batteries, and stashed it in my pocket. Added my Microtech H.A.L.O.-a knife favored by film crews as much as cops-for good measure. I didn’t necessarily expect any trouble, but when you’re nosing around other people’s property in the dark, there’s a certain comfort in having a mini-arsenal within reach. I turned my car around, aiming its nose for the exit, stepped outside, locked it, and moved closer to get a better look.

This particular Eden was definitely a down-market version, the rustic model where angels occupied canvas yurts. Beyond the waist-high fence, set at the base of the hill, I counted eight of the domed tents, each about 20 feet in diameter. The structures were dark and quiet. Toward the rear of the compound loomed a larger yurt, nearly twice the size of the others. Light glowed from its windows.

I patted the comforting contours of my underarm cannon and vaulted the waist-high fence. It felt good to be back in action. I hadn’t realized how much I missed the hum and buzz of adrenaline in my bloodstream. This particular high was even better than the standard cop-speed, because what I was doing was not, shall we say, strictly legal. In my mind I heard Bill’s voice chiding me: “Not strictly legal? Try one hundred percent illegal.” I thanked him and proceeded down the hill toward the yurts.