Karma (12 page)

“Okay, okay. So what happened when Padmasvana got here?”

“We started the temple. Of course, it was more modest than this. That was before Padma had a following. But we’ve found Berkeley to be a most receptive climate for Padmasvana’s message.”

I could imagine. Berkeley and the surrounding East Bay area had accepted the Black Panthers and the John Birch Society, the Symbionese Liberation Army and scores of lesser-known radicals. There were gay men’s rap groups, lesbian mothers’ groups and Baptist churches of all shades. The only place more open to fringe groups was L.A. Interesting that Braga hadn’t tried there.

Footsteps sounded on the basement steps. Without thinking, I poised my hand over my holster.

Braga smiled, savoring my discomfort. I followed his gaze to the door where two Penlops had stationed themselves.

Obviously, the knowledge of my presence had spread quickly through the complex.

I turned back to Braga. “What about the tea? How much do you make from that?”

He was still smiling. “Very little. It is our service to the community. But do feel free to check that again, like your colleagues did last year when the unfortunate Penlop passed from us. Here”—he flourished a tea label—“it’s packaged by Ho-Sun Teas in Chinatown. Thirty-one Drinnon Alley.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Braga.”

As I pushed past them, the Penlops looked questioningly at Braga but made no attempt to stop me. In the basement room, I looked again at the cartons of tea that lined the walls. Surely Braga couldn’t be using them for anything so obvious as smuggling—smuggling from San Francisco, yet!

But then, Braga was no master of subtlety. Unfortunately, not subtle wasn’t synonymous with dangerous.

Equally, unfortunately, it was now nearly four. Even speeding, I couldn’t catch the end-of-shift meeting. And Lt. Davis wasn’t likely to consider that Braga’s information made up for my oversight.

I hurried up the steps and across the courtyard toward my car and almost smacked into Heather Lee and Preston.

She wore what from a distance could have been taken for a Penlop robe—a full-length brick-red garment tied with a bright cord. But up close the resemblance vanished. Heather’s robe was silk. Whereas the Penlop garments hung loose, Heather’s was fitted and featured a very unPenlopian plunging neckline.

I hesitated, then decided arriving at the station at four-thirty was not much worse than four. “It looks like you’re taking the role of regent seriously,” I said.

Heather boosted the baby up, ignoring my comment.

“Preston is Padmasvana’s child, isn’t he?”

When she still didn’t answer, I moved to her side and looked at the child. He had olive skin, a round face and Padmasvana’s eyes. In Bhutan, he might not have been distinguishable as Padmasvana’s son, but here, with the suspects for paternity limited, there was little question. “That’s why you were so angry when Chupa-da moved into Padmasvana’s room, isn’t it? That’s why you said Preston had more right to be there.”

Shifting the child to her other arm, she said, “Yeah, okay. I didn’t want it to be public knowledge yet, but it has to come out eventually. This is Padma’s son, his heir, and the rightful person to follow in his footsteps. And if Chupa-da thinks he can just step in and take over he has another thing coming. I’m not going to let this baby be done out of his inheritance.” She strode back across the courtyard with me alongside.

“What do you plan to do?”

“I’m going to make sure Preston gets his proper place. I’m going to see that no ceremony goes on without his being there. I’m going to see that the Penlops understand who he is—and Braga too whether he likes it or not. I’m going to…” She had come to the ashram stairs. She paused momentarily, then, spotting Leah at the door, she bolted up the steps and deposited the baby in her arms. Noticing my ill-concealed skepticism, she said, “I’m
going
to do all those things. You think I don’t care about Preston. But you’re wrong, wrong. He’s my child, and I care about him. It’s just that tonight I have to go out.”

“And miss the ceremony?”

“There isn’t going to be any ceremony.”

“But I thought there would be memorials for days. Are you sure, Heather?” The idea of Rexford Braga’s missing an opportunity for another six hundred dollars was inconceivable.

“Of course I’m sure. Otherwise I wouldn’t be rushing back to my tepee to get dressed, would I?” With that she began to hurry back to the tepee.

I followed. “Where are you going?”

“Tonight is the Chattanooga Charlie Spotts concert. Didn’t you see the posters? Chattanooga’s really far out.”

Pushing back the flap of the tepee, she strode to the clothesline inside and extricated the sequined cowboy outfit. “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to make the concert. I was really bugged.”

“You thought Leah wouldn’t be able to watch the baby?”

“Nah. Why wouldn’t she watch him? She likes that type of thing. She really gets off on picking up after people and being the big comforter. Besides, what else would she do? I mean, if she didn’t have this place and all those pimply adolescents running around needing her, what would she do? She’s lucky to have Preston to take care of. Someday when Preston is famous, when he’s more famous that Padmasvana, she’ll get a lot of points for having done a little something for him.”

Heather slipped off the silk robe, revealing a silver lace bra and matching panties. She sat down at the dressing table and began rubbing cream on her body.

I had the feeling she’d almost forgotten I was there. “Heather,” I said, “why does Braga bring in so much tea?”

She rubbed the cream on her thigh. “Who knows? Chupa-da gets the stuff. He rides off into the sunset in the Padma-bus.”

The Padma-bus. I had seen the multicolored old VW van.

Somehow I hadn’t considered Chupa-da, the monk, as a licensed driver. “Only Chupa-da goes?”

Heather finished the leg and began one arm. “Yeah, I think at the place where he buys it they only speak Chinese. Braga doesn’t speak Chinese. He has a hard enough time in English.” She laughed. “Besides, it’s Chupa-da’s thing. He thinks it’s a big deal, driving to San Francisco.”

“But what does the temple get out of the tea?”

Heather finished one arm and paused. “Jeez, Officer. The stuff’s two dollars a box, you know. And twenty-four Penlops push it every day.”

“And that’s all?”

Heather shrugged and turned her attention to the remaining arm.

I considered insisting. The obvious move was to stroll across the courtyard and open a few of those cartons. But it was nearly five, getting dark. The wind was picking up and all signs pointed to the first heavy rain of the year. Katherine Dawes would be hurrying home from the Oakland Assessor’s Office.

I
SPENT TWENTY MINUTES
in the entryway at the commune under the nervous eye of the same hostess before Kitty Dawes appeared. When she arrived from work, she looked like a young woman from the middle economic stratum of the Bay Area. She had long brown hair, and wore a western shirt and jeans.

I introduced myself. “I need some information about Self-Over. I understand you’re one of the students there.”

She hesitated. Wariness appeared to fight with eagerness to proselytize. The latter won. “I was in the first Self-Over class. That was four years ago. It changed my life.”

“How so?”

She led me up the sagging staircase, through an array of toys, paper bags and general clutter on the landing, to a surprisingly comfortable room at the end of the hall. I settled in an over-stuffed chair as she continued her tale of self-improvement, i.e., any situation can offer some thing for Number One. When she wound down, I said, “Are you still seeing Garrett?”

“Oh, yes. There’s a continuing program. You can go back to support groups and you can even have private sessions with Garrett.”

“And that’s what you do?”

She beamed. “Yes. I meet with Garrett at least once a month.”

“And do…?”

“We talk about my progress. How I’m dealing with my life. How things are better. What opportunities there are that I should be aware of.”

“Does Garrett meet with all the graduates so often?”

Her smile grew wider, and I felt sure I was on the right track. “I doubt it.”

“You must be important to him. Maybe more than just a student.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘just a student.’ ”

I nodded. Damn it, I was forgetting the lingo of the game. Now I’d have to spend time reassuring her. “Perhaps as one of the founding students, I mean…”

She smiled again.

“When did you last meet with Garrett?”

“Last night.”

“And before that?”

“Let me see.” She pulled a date book out of her purse. “You learn to keep records when you work in the assessor’s office. Garrett says that’s good. It keeps you from missing things. He says working in the assessor’s office has been good for me. Ah, wait here. Last month, the twenty-third.”

I stared. That was two weeks ago. “Not since then?”

“That’s still more often than a lot of people see him.”

I lowered my voice. “Kitty, it’s important that you tell me the truth. If you were with Garrett and don’t want people to know…”

“Hell, my old man wouldn’t care, if that’s what you mean. Garrett’s not like another guy, you know. It’s not like that. I’d tell you if I’d been there more. But you see, I’m handling my own problems now and I don’t need to go so often. I usually go once a month, unless…”

“Unless?”

The door opened and a tall man in overalls walked in.

Kitty turned, relief evident on her face. “This is David,” she said. “My old man.”

“David Allbright,” he said, extending a hand with a confidence and ease that seemed out of place in this building.

“We’ll only be a couple of minutes,” I said. “I was just asking Kitty about Self-Over.”

“Oh, yeah.” He flopped on the sofa next to Kitty. “Great thing, Self-Over. That’s where Kitty and I met. Really been a big help to both of us, but particularly to Kitty. She still sees Garrett.”

“You were going to tell me what you talked about, Kitty.”

The look of wariness was back on her face. She stared at David, waiting for him to answer for her. I wondered what, indeed, Self-Over had done for her.

“Besides your personal growth,” I insisted.

Still she hesitated. “Well, we talk about my job.”

I started to remind her she’d already said that, then stopped. “What, specifically?”

“Well…”

“About the assessor’s office? About taxes?”

“Well…”

“Go ahead, Kitty,” David said. “There’s nothing wrong with what you’re doing.”

“You won’t tell my boss,” Kitty pleaded. “I don’t think they’d understand. There are funny little customs at the office.”

“If it’s not illegal, we don’t tell anything unnecessary.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure.”

She pulled her feet up under her. “Okay. I have a special arrangement with Garrett. You see, there’s a list of properties with delinquent taxes. You probably know this. If your taxes are delinquent for five years, the property automatically reverts to the state.”

I nodded.

“Two years before that there’s a list published.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, at that time a lot of real-estate people read the list and buy up pieces cheap. Anyone can do it. Anyone can see any of our records any time. You could walk in there tomorrow and ask for records and see how long the taxes were overdue. It’s easy to find out about a specific property. But it’s not so easy to find out
all
the properties that are going to be on the delinquent list.”

“So?”

“Don’t you see?” All her hesitation was gone. “If someone doesn’t pay taxes for three years, getting slapped with late charges all the time, there’s a reason, and it’s usually because they don’t have the money. And they might be willing to sell the property below market value.”

“And Garrett Kleinfeld wanted to know who those people were?”

“Yes. He had a deal with a realtor. I don’t know how many they bought up. I forget. But it must have been quite a few.”

“And what do you get out of this?”

Now she beamed again. “Before I went to Self-Over, I would have given Garrett the information just because I thought so much of him. But I’ve really learned to watch out for myself. Other people pay five hundred dollars for the group meetings and private sessions. Mine are free.”

I stood up. “One last question. Did you tell Garrett about the Padmasvana temple property?”

She looked puzzled. “I don’t know. I just have addresses, and I see so many I never remember them.”

It was well after six when I arrived at the station. I checked my desk, finding nothing new concerning the murder, signed a couple of forms and threw out the latest message from Nat. How long would he be willing to eat with his fingers in order to get the satisfaction of possessing the conjugal stainless? And come to think of it, why, after all these months, had he suddenly developed this passion for reclaiming it? That had not occurred to me before.

Banishing thoughts of domestic problems, I considered how to handle the thornier problem of having missed the staff meeting. Lt. Davis’s office was down the hall. Many times I had approached it with considerable trepidation, but none more so than now. Its very tidiness made me uncomfortable. And the lieutenant had the habit of observing a case so closely that he found seventeen small but necessary things left undone. More than once I’d left that office feeling incompetent. But the cases did get done, swiftly.

Now I decided to give him the meat of the Kitty Dawes interview, and hope. “Lieutenant,” I said as I sat on the hard chair, “it seems there is a long-standing business relationship between Garrett Kleinfeld and Vernon Felcher.”

As I recounted what Kitty Dawes had told me, he sat back, fingering his mustache, eyes half closed, as if capturing the picture under those dusky lids.

When I had finished, he said, “And what do you conclude from this, Smith?”

“As far I know, it’s legal and probably quite profitable. I’d suspect Kleinfeld is getting a bit more than reduced rent in Felcher’s building.”