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

particular mystery unsolved. He turned to go.
    “Detective Tatum.”
    He glanced back.
    “Did he say anything about the manner of death? Did you do a tox screening to see if any drugs were involved?”
    “Let it go,” Tatum said. “You’re off the clock. You don’t need that kind of garbage floating around in your head.”
    “Was she clean?”
    “Let it go,” he said again, and walked off.
    I crawled home through early rush-hour traffic, but I was grateful for the time to think. To remember. To plan. I had Barbara’s license. It should be enough.
    Tank greeted me at the door with the throaty, indignant complaint of a domestic quadruped that hasn’t eaten all day. I made up for it with his favorite: a squeeze of tuna juice, straight from the can, drizzled over his bowl of food like a benediction.
    I grabbed a handful of satsuma tangerines and moved to the deck to clear my head. I sat for some time, peeling the loose, leathery skins, popping tart sections of citrus into my mouth. Thinking. What did I miss? What would I have done differently, had I known I was meeting Barbara Maxey on her last day on earth?
    Tank wandered out and climbed into my lap. He burrowed close. Soon he was purring, his big body vibrating against my belly. I pocketed the peels. The citrus oil on my fingertips smelled tart, and bittersweet.
    I knew what was bothering me. I had sensed a couple of things during my brief time with Barbara. Sensed them, and dismissed them. Made wrong assumptions, because of old ideas that still ran me. I’d picked up an impression of weary despair she carried with her, as if she knew time was running out. Despair and a deep loneliness. And yet, and yet. That final set of her shoulders, that last, light wave from her as she headed down the road, pointed to a woman with a renewed sense of purpose. She had been at a crossroads, where hope and despair intersected. Perhaps if I had invited her inside for a cup of tea she might have unburdened herself. Gone in a different direction. She might have locked in on the hope-beam and ridden it to a pear farm in Oregon, rather than ending her days in an old sleeping bag in a park.
    As for me, I’d broken my First Rule, already. Ignored the nudge to know more. Rejected the light tickle of attraction. Because to embrace our similarities might lead to intimacy, and there was nothing more dangerous than that. She’d been honest with me. I hadn’t, with her. She’d taken a huge chance. I’d played it safer than safe. She’d followed a hunch. I’d ignored my own.
    And now she was dead.
    “There’s no such thing, Tank,” I said, stroking his back. His spine rippled and rolled beneath my palm. “There’s no such thing as a minor lapse of awareness. You’re either present with what is—right here, right now—or you’re someplace else.”
    A swell of regret washed over me. Tank lifted his head, then nestled closer. Well, I couldn’t change the past. But I could address the present.
    “Sorry, old boy,” I said, spilling Tank onto the deck. “Duty calls.” I walked into the kitchen, reviewing what I needed. I put the kettle on to boil. I checked the fridge. Sure enough, I had some leftover brown rice from the other night, so that was okay. The cakes might be a problem. Then I remembered the tin of home-baked cookies, delivered by Martha on Christmas Eve. I opened it. Nope. Empty, except for a few sugar cookie fragments, remnants of edible snowmen, dotted with green and red sprinkles.
    I stood for a moment, frustrated. And realized the solution was right in front of me, in the form of half a loaf of moist, spicy pumpkin bread. Every few months, I make a special trip to Carmen Avenue in Hollywood to visit the Monastery of the Angels: a cloistered nunnery, incongruously located a mile south of the famous sign. Set apart from the neighboring world of tinsel and greed, two dozen good sisters prayed year-round for the lost souls of the City of Angels, and baked year-round to