The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page A

computer lived and slept oddly angled on my long, flat desk. I sat down and woke up the beast with one light tap of the finger: magic. I located the case file marked Marvin Rudolph, and opened and printed out my report for Bill. An eye-watering yawn escaped. I’d changed my bed this morning in a burst of virtuous housecleaning, and the crisp sheets were calling to me.
    Don’t do it. Don’t do it, Tenzing. You haven’t been asked, and you’re not getting paid.
    My hand snaked over and grasped my mouse. I called up my new best friend and assistant, Dr. Google. I entered Marv Rudolph’s name and pressed SEARCH . My eyes widened. Marv had been a very busy boy over the last several years, not to mention the six months since I’d met him.
    News of his death was just hitting the Internet, but I skipped past those items to earlier articles—I prefer to get my facts on a celebrity’s sudden demise from those who actually know what they’re talking about. Scanning other relevant subjects, though, I managed to deduce that Marv Rudolph, who had been considered “finished” five years ago, was now “back.” His photograph was everywhere, often in a tuxedo, arms around various luminaries from the worlds of entertainment, civics, and politics, most of whom I didn’t recognize. I did note that Keith Connor and Marv seemed to be together a lot this past month, promoting Stung, their just-finished film. From what I could decipher, the “buzz” on Stung was good, no pun intended. I also found several earlier articles trumpeting a small “indie” film Marv was casting right around the time he hired me to find Harper—a reinvention of the Romeo and Juliet story called Loving Hagar . But then all mention of it seemed to have just disappeared.
    Things that disappear interest me. I put in a quick call to Mike. It was just late enough for him to be awake, working on his second cup of coffee.
    “Yo,” Mike answered.
    “Mike, I have a request.”
    “Cool,” he said. Mike was a man of few words before midnight.
    “Can you look into the past five years of Marv Rudolph–produced film projects, including any that got dropped? I need to know details, if possible: who backed him, who backed out, who he was in bed with, who he might have pissed off. That kind of thing.”
    “What’s ol’ Marv done now?” Mike drawled over the tapping of keys. There was a pause. “Oh, oops. Bummer. So I’m guessing you need this ASAP?”
    “Yes, please. And Mike, I may have to defer payment on this one. Sorry. Just keep track of your hours.”
    “No worries, boss.” Mike yawned. “Later.”
    I hate asking people to work on spec, but Mike was earning six figures as a high-tech data-retriever these days, and he’d probably be in prison doing push-ups if it weren’t for my early intervention. I wasn’t too concerned.
    I returned to my screen. When I’d Googled images of Marv, one particular press photograph from two years ago appeared again and again. A portly, tuxedoed Marv, arm and arm with a thin woman who resembled Harper, only older and more muted, smiled into the camera. They stood next to a distinguished older man and his gaunt but elegant companion. This second woman had the hollow eyes and turbaned head that suggested a long battle with an illness, probably involving chemotherapy treatments. I opened the article. The Rudolphs were at a charitable event, apparently raising funds to renovate a Bel Air synagogue, Temple Beth Adel. I squinted at the caption under the photograph. “Marv and Arlene Rudolph greet fellow Temple Beth Adel supporters Julius and Dorothy Rosen.” Julius Rosen: even I had heard of him. His name was plastered on museums and theaters, up there with arts benefactors like Dorothy Chandler and Eli Broad. I printed out the photograph and accompanying article.
    Next, I zeroed in on a news item from last year, an incident involving Marv’s notorious temper and a paparazzo called Clancy Williams. It seemed to include