The First Rule of Ten by Gay Hendricks and Tinker Lindsay Read Free Book Online Page A

Passed a small cluster of people surrounding a young woman racked with sobs. Passed an elderly man, sitting, staring blankly ahead, at nothing. Took a deep breath in, then out. Mortality is hard to face, but impossible to avoid. Me? I’d been trained to view the inevitability of death as a goad to living a more meaningful life—by showing compassion to others, for example. I only wish it were that easy.
    I headed for the morgue.

C HAPTER 6
    Death wears many masks, and I’ve seen more than my share: from the smiling visage of an esteemed lama who, after a lifetime of compassion for all sentient beings, passed peacefully while seated in an advanced state of meditative luminosity, to the gaping stare of a young gangbanger, cut down in his neighborhood war zone by a blunt act of violence. I was at that scene within moments, and his dark spirit still circled his place of death like an angry raven.
    Then there’s my first. The death that marked me for life. When I found my mother, she was lying in a heap on the floor, her once-beautiful face mottled and puffy, misshapen from the toxic mix of prescription drugs washed down with a liter of Bordeaux. The stink of stale vomit and alcohol clung to her like a stain. I am still haunted by it . The cologne of death.
    “Ready?” Tatum asked.
    I nodded.
    The attendant tugged the sheet to just below the chin. Barbara Maxey’s features were pale, yet somehow defiant as well. Death had robbed her of her ruddy complexion but not of her fine bone structure. I shivered in the chill, antiseptic air of the morgue as I scanned her face. No visible signs of trauma, at least that I could see. I wanted to ask the morgue attendant to pull the sheet lower, but something told me to wait.
    I turned to Tatum and nodded again.
    “That’s her, then? Barbara Maxey?”
    “Yes. That’s the name she gave me, anyway.”
    Morris passed over a long-expired California driver’s license. Barbara smiled back at me, many years younger, glowing with the bliss of the newly clean and converted. She must have just joined the cult.
    “That’s the only I.D. she was carrying,” Morris said.
    “What was the cause of death?”
    They said nothing. I waited.
    “You want me to show him?” the attendant said, glancing at the cops.
    They were silent.
    “Guys,” I said, “I’ve only been a civilian for forty-eight hours. Give me a break.”
    So Tatum did. He nodded to the attendant, who drew the sheet down below her collarbone.
    The bruising was massive, and unmistakable; clear hand marks encircled Barbara’s slender throat. The larynx area was especially discolored, a violent contusion of purple and black. Whoever did this had been brutal about it. I took a few breaths to quell the surge of nausea in my gut.
    “Finished?” the attendant asked. The cops nodded, and he draped the sheet over her face. He took a moment to smooth out the wrinkles. I appreciated that he did that.
    I still held her license in my hand. I met Tatum’s eyes.
    “Can I have this?”
    He frowned. Government-issued identification of any decedents was usually returned to the issuing agency for disposal.
    “I’ll destroy it within the day. I promise.”
    Tatum glanced at Morris. Morris shrugged a halfhearted consent.
    “Thanks.”
    I pocketed the license.
    Tatum walked me out. He was through with me, but I still had a few questions.
    “Where did you find her?” I asked.
    “Topanga State Park. A couple of early-morning joggers spotted her. She was in a sleeping bag, set back a ways, near the creek. Looked like she’d spent the night up there. Or I should say part of the night. The ME says time of death was probably around 3 A.M. this morning.”
    We had reached my car. Tatum’s eyebrows arched. I could see him trying to figure out how the hell a guy like me had a car like that. It happens a lot—’65 Shelby Mustangs in mint condition are pretty rare. Then his cell phone beeped, pulling him back to reality. He’d have to leave this