The First Rule of Ten Read Online Free PDF Page B

his release, I took him out for a cup of coffee.
    “You’ve got two doors in front of you,” I said. “Behind one is a pot of gold. Behind the other, a permanent bed at the Gray Bar Motel. Anybody as smart as you is going to either get very rich or spend the rest of his life dodging the law. Pick one.”
    Fortunately, he chose right. He was now earning over $150,000 a year as a security consultant—way more than me, by the way—making sure bank systems were hack-proof against guys like him. He was also able to make my life as a detective much easier.
    When Sherlock Holmes plied his trade, he and Watson often ventured out into the “thick, choking” London fog, as Conan Doyle described the dank atmosphere caused by the soft, bituminous coal burned during that time. I was filled with longing as I devoured those dog-eared paperbacks night after night, in my room at the monastery in Dharamshala, tracing their patient footwork through the cobbled London streets. Even the smoky miasma they inhaled seemed romantic. I prayed for the chance to rattle around an acrid city myself one day, collecting evidence.
    Okay, so cruising in a black-and-white during 78-degree sunny winter days isn’t exactly the same thing, but that’s the point; nothing ever stays the same. Much has altered since Sherlock’s time, and the biggest transformation is in how we do our detective work.
    Exit cobblestones. Enter the Internet.
    Sherlock might well have scorned such an instantaneous tool, dismissed it as lazy, but smart detectives nowadays, even the ones who work for the LAPD, make sure they’re on good terms with at least one computer jockey. In my case, whenever I needed my e-mail fixed, or Internet access installed, or a little discreet hacking of my own done, I had Mike on my speed dial.
    I guess you could say he was my own private Dr. Watson.
    “Earth to Ten. Earth to Ten. Come in, please.”
    I left Sherlock’s world and reentered the technical challenges of my own.
    I said, “So what you’re saying is, that fat, expensive data line I just installed is useless unless I upgrade.”
    “Maybe not. Toss me your text buggy.”
    “My … ?”
    “Your cell phone, boss.”
    I handed it over.
    He looked at it in disbelief. Handed it back.
    “Pleistocene-era, my man. And fugly to boot.”
    As I opened my mouth to protest, I heard the unmistakable choppy stutter of an old Volkswagen wheezing up the gravel hill that leads to my driveway.
    Two visitors in one day. Unheard of.
    Mike and I moved to the kitchen window. A rusted Volkswagen Beetle—the original model, the one you could fix at home, blindfolded—surged into my driveway, coughed once, and died. After a moment, the door creaked open and long, California-girl legs unfolded a lean body from the driver’s seat. She rolled her shoulders a few times, and stretched. As she turned to look at the house, her face was illuminated in the afternoon light. She was older than I’d first thought, already in her 40s. Her thick blond hair, threaded here and there with silver, was plaited into a long braid down her back. Her face and arms were tanned—the tawny color of sage honey.
    “Time warp. What a trip. She’s straight off of Yasgur’s Farm,” Mike said.
    “Who’s Yasgur?”
    Mike shot me one of his “Are you joking?” looks.
    “Yasgur’s Farm. Woodstock? 1969? Peace, love, and acid? Boss, you have some serious gaps in your cultural literacy.”
    Woodstock I had heard of. Missing that event was one of Valerie’s deepest regrets, or so she’d often informed me after several glasses of wine. It sat at the top of a long list of resentments she’d held against her estranged parents until the day she died.
    This lady did appear to have a strong vintage-hippie thing going on. Her yellow and brown paisley dress was long, loose, and flowing. She had a crocheted shawl around her shoulders, and her handbag was of Indian cotton embroidered with tiny mirrors that winked in the late afternoon