The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) by Gay Hendricks Page B

Clancy, and thrown on my blue-striped cotton shirt, there was no meditation window left. I would have spent the entire sit looking at my watch anyway.
    I checked the gauge on the Mustang. Her tank read empty. Well, guess what, so was mine.
    I worried this knot of a thought as I pulled into a 76 station. I had quit the LAPD in part because the bureaucratic demands had left me with a constant sense that I would never catch up, that there were never enough hours in a day.
    What was my excuse now?
    I needed to take a good long look at how I was spending, or wasting, time. Usually when I feel like there’s no time, it really means I haven’t made time for myself . I decided to explore this topic further, soon. As soon as I had time.
    Clancy’s black Impala was parked a block south of the Robinsgrove’s front entrance. I circled around and tucked my Mustang in a private church lot just north of the apartments. The last thing I needed was one of Bill’s little cop-helpers eyeballing my car in the vicinity—might as well wave a flag announcing my continued interest in this case. I strolled back to the Impala and tapped on the passenger window. Clancy leaned across and opened the door. I slipped inside. A fresh supply of empty Styrofoam coffee cups and a few crumpled receipts littered the seat. I set the pile of trash on the floor.
    A vague idea plucked at my brain but refused to materialize.
    Clancy reached behind and pulled up a smallish square camera, weighted down with a howitzer of a telephoto lens.
    At my questioning look, he volunteered, “Canon Mark IV. This baby burst shoots at up to ten frames per second. It’s a beautiful thing.”
    “What about the tuba on top?”
    “I like keeping a low profile. With this 500mm Sigma and a 2x extender I can shoot from a quarter mile away if I want to.” He patted his lens. “eBay,” he said, “back when I still had scratch.”
    “Can I see the shots?”
    “Sure. No other paps around, that I can see. They must have moved on to greener pastures. So far I’ve caught maybe twenty-five in-and-outs. Here.”
    Clancy pulled the compact flash card from his camera, plugged it into an adapter and slotted it into a laptop he’d retrieved from the back seat. Soon, a series of images marched in little squares across his screen. Sure enough, here comes Harper up the sidewalk, checking over her shoulder. Punching a code into the apartment entrance pad. Maybe talking to someone, couldn’t tell from the back. Entering. A few men and women of various ages and ethnicities followed, entering or exiting the Robinsgrove. They alternated between the elderly and the young-and-hip, what Mike calls doo-dah metrosexuals. And then Harper, leaving, head down, hat pulled low.
    Clancy started to close the laptop.
    “Wait,” I said. I scrolled ahead to a familiar pair.
    Sully and Mack: bent close to the security speaker by the entrance, and then pushing through the front entrance, buzzed in by the manager, no doubt. How did they do it? They were famous for always showing up right after last call at the bar, or just missing the moment when the bad guy confessed. And these were the lead detectives on Marv’s case. Poor Bill. A few photographs later, out they came again, scowling. I wasn’t interested in the S & M show, though. It was the other residents who piqued my curiosity.
    “Really good work,” I said. “Now, I have a big favor to ask you. It may be a dead end, but . . . “
    I passed over the printouts of significant people from Marv’s past, downloaded from Mike’s research.
    “These are the major players in Marv’s world. Producers. Actors. That kind of thing.”
    He shuffled through the images. “Okay?”
    “Any chance you can stick around here for a while longer? See if these jibe with anyone?”
    “You mean figure out who let Harper in?”
    “Smart man.”
    “Why not?” Clancy stretched and smiled. “Beats circling Keith Connor’s hideaway or Brad Pitt’s gated estate