Read Online The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) by Gay Hendricks - Free Book Online
Authors: Gay Hendricks
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also too perfect-looking to be real.
Roland Conway, Jr. took the other chair and angled his body firmly to block any view of his empty desk.
He doesn’t want me near that computer.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Norbu?”
I held up the insurance documents. Best to get straight to the point.
“You can tell me why you are stiffing my client, G-Force.”
His expression hardened. “I already told you …”
“Comma or no comma, you guys don’t have a leg to stand on, and you know it as well as I do.”
He licked his lips and swallowed. His Adam’s apple rose and fell.
What is he so afraid of?
My gut rang like a bell. A clear answer, the kind I have come to trust as truth. I voiced the message out loud.
“Are you being forced into this decision by Horace Latimore’s nephews, Roland? Are they blackmailing you?”
He stood.
“This meeting is over,” he said. “And unless you or Mr. G-Force can afford what it will cost to legally contest our finding, so is his claim. Tell your client if he doesn’t like my decision, he can sue me.”
I arose from my chair, bowed slightly, and left his office without another word, an alternate plan already forming. First, I checked on Grammar-pants. She remained thoroughly engaged in her typing. I reached in my pocket for the Starbucks gift card. I bent it into an L-shape while moving, in silence, to the emergency exit. I leaned against the panic bar until the door cracked open slightly and slipped the bent card between the spring latch and the jamb. Hopefully, somewhere outside this building, a small green edge of plastic was sticking out like a tongue. I let the door return to a closed position, soundlessly. With any luck, the card would hold. With any luck, I hadn’t just destroyed 95 dollars’ worth of free coffee.
I stopped by the front desk on my way out. Miss Grammar-pants was now intently reading her computer screen as she scrolled.
I peeked.
Facebook posts. So I wasn’t interrupting the rolling wheels of commerce.
“May I ask you a question?”
She turned to me, her mild features arranging themselves into a pleasant-enough smile.
“Is CAII family-owned?”
“Family-owned, family-operated,” she said. “We’ve been in business for over sixty years. Mr. Conway, Sr.’s father started the company. After he died, Mr. Conway took over, and then Roland, Jr. joined his father, straight out of Cal Poly graduate school.”
“Are you a Conway, too?”
“Almost.” She held up her left hand. A small diamond winked at me. “I’m engaged to Roland the Third. He’s just finishing up business school at Cal Poly.”
“Just like Dad. Very impressive,” I said.
“Oh, yes. It’s a wonderful company to work for. We’re known for our excellent personal service. Look!” She motioned to the wall of plaques proclaiming said superior service, both civic and otherwise.
“Very impressive,” I repeated.
I smiled my thanks and left. CAII’s website said the offices closed at six, so I didn’t have long to wait. I hunkered in the cramped front seat of the Dodge, out of eye-view, and tried to keep from falling asleep. Soon, an older, rotund version of Roland Conway, Jr. left the premises. The father’s remaining strands of hair, more platinum than sandy, had been reduced by time to a feathery horseshoe of fringe. Junior’s future.
He claimed a dark-blue Audi sedan and took off. Roland, Jr. was next, ear pressed to his cell phone. He climbed into a dark-maroon version of the same Audi. I jotted down the plate numbers, just because. Finally, the female future-Conway locked up and left. She climbed into a lowly Honda Civic with a dented door. Maybe she’d get an Audi for a wedding present.
I moved the Neon to the far end of the lot, by the Dumpsters. I waited for another hour, meditating with one eye and one ear open, which meant not very successfully, and then I waited some more. The sky began to darken slightly, turning the distant hills into smudges of dark
Roland Conway, Jr. took the other chair and angled his body firmly to block any view of his empty desk.
He doesn’t want me near that computer.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Norbu?”
I held up the insurance documents. Best to get straight to the point.
“You can tell me why you are stiffing my client, G-Force.”
His expression hardened. “I already told you …”
“Comma or no comma, you guys don’t have a leg to stand on, and you know it as well as I do.”
He licked his lips and swallowed. His Adam’s apple rose and fell.
What is he so afraid of?
My gut rang like a bell. A clear answer, the kind I have come to trust as truth. I voiced the message out loud.
“Are you being forced into this decision by Horace Latimore’s nephews, Roland? Are they blackmailing you?”
He stood.
“This meeting is over,” he said. “And unless you or Mr. G-Force can afford what it will cost to legally contest our finding, so is his claim. Tell your client if he doesn’t like my decision, he can sue me.”
I arose from my chair, bowed slightly, and left his office without another word, an alternate plan already forming. First, I checked on Grammar-pants. She remained thoroughly engaged in her typing. I reached in my pocket for the Starbucks gift card. I bent it into an L-shape while moving, in silence, to the emergency exit. I leaned against the panic bar until the door cracked open slightly and slipped the bent card between the spring latch and the jamb. Hopefully, somewhere outside this building, a small green edge of plastic was sticking out like a tongue. I let the door return to a closed position, soundlessly. With any luck, the card would hold. With any luck, I hadn’t just destroyed 95 dollars’ worth of free coffee.
I stopped by the front desk on my way out. Miss Grammar-pants was now intently reading her computer screen as she scrolled.
I peeked.
Facebook posts. So I wasn’t interrupting the rolling wheels of commerce.
“May I ask you a question?”
She turned to me, her mild features arranging themselves into a pleasant-enough smile.
“Is CAII family-owned?”
“Family-owned, family-operated,” she said. “We’ve been in business for over sixty years. Mr. Conway, Sr.’s father started the company. After he died, Mr. Conway took over, and then Roland, Jr. joined his father, straight out of Cal Poly graduate school.”
“Are you a Conway, too?”
“Almost.” She held up her left hand. A small diamond winked at me. “I’m engaged to Roland the Third. He’s just finishing up business school at Cal Poly.”
“Just like Dad. Very impressive,” I said.
“Oh, yes. It’s a wonderful company to work for. We’re known for our excellent personal service. Look!” She motioned to the wall of plaques proclaiming said superior service, both civic and otherwise.
“Very impressive,” I repeated.
I smiled my thanks and left. CAII’s website said the offices closed at six, so I didn’t have long to wait. I hunkered in the cramped front seat of the Dodge, out of eye-view, and tried to keep from falling asleep. Soon, an older, rotund version of Roland Conway, Jr. left the premises. The father’s remaining strands of hair, more platinum than sandy, had been reduced by time to a feathery horseshoe of fringe. Junior’s future.
He claimed a dark-blue Audi sedan and took off. Roland, Jr. was next, ear pressed to his cell phone. He climbed into a dark-maroon version of the same Audi. I jotted down the plate numbers, just because. Finally, the female future-Conway locked up and left. She climbed into a lowly Honda Civic with a dented door. Maybe she’d get an Audi for a wedding present.
I moved the Neon to the far end of the lot, by the Dumpsters. I waited for another hour, meditating with one eye and one ear open, which meant not very successfully, and then I waited some more. The sky began to darken slightly, turning the distant hills into smudges of dark
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