Read Online The Green Lama: Scions (The Green Lama Legacy Book 1) by Adam Lance Garcia - Free Book Online Page B

of books lining the walls. “Does he read all these?”
    “Not all at once, and usually one page at a time.” “Now that’s interesting,” she said, ignoring Tsarong’s quip. “By every account, our friend Dumont is little more than an immature womanizer who won’t crack open anything that doesn’t have two legs and here he is with more books than the Library of Alexandria.”
    “Only a few more,” Tsarong said dryly. “Would you care for some tea?”
    “Coffee. Late night, early morning.” “I’m afraid Mr. Dumont doesn’t drink coffee.” “Millions of dollars and he doesn’t drink coffee,” she said to herself. “Now if that isn’t suspicious, I don’t know what is. Fine. Tea, whichever is caffeinated. Sugar. Milk. Let’s pretend we’re in America for five minutes.”
    “Very well, Miss Dale.” Tsarong allowed himself an exasperated sigh before walking off to the kitchen.
    Alone, Betty spun around in the chair and rapped her knuckles against the desk. There was something off about this place, skewed sideways and warped like a funhouse mirror. To the untrained eye, everything about Dumont’s penthouse seemed right and proper. But despite the countless shelves of books filling the walls floor to ceiling, the golden Buddha, his desk, and a few chairs, Dumont’s study was incredibly Spartan. Where was the liquor cabinet, the Louis V style chairs, the countless artifacts collected from his travels? That was what was expected. She knew Dumont didn’t smoke, but there wasn’t even a damn ashtray in sight. This felt less like the penthouse of a millionaire playboy and more like what she imagined a monastery to be. She glanced at the desk and noticed a small, yellowed piece of paper taped to the wood. She looked to make sure she was still alone before carefully moving aside another bit of paper covering the copy. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she read over the three-sentence newspaper clipping about three young children shot down while disembarking the S.S. Held.
    Betty fell back in her chair. “Son of a bitch…” she whispered, remembering Dumont’s piercing blue-grey eyes the night before. “He looks at it every—”
    “Tulku !? ” a panicked voice suddenly resounded around her. “Tulku ! Are you there?!”
    Betty shot up straight, clumsily knocking various sheets of paper over the newspaper clipping. “Um… Yes. Hello?”
    “Who is this?” the voice asked just as Betty was beginning to believe she had tumbled down the rabbit hole.
    Betty frowned. “Who is this?”
    “I asked you first.”
    “Yes, but technically you called me. If that’s what you did,” she added under her breath, nervously looking at the walls. There had to be speakers and a microphone hidden somewhere…
    “It’s Clayton,” the voice eventually answered. “Is this Evangl?”
    Betty’s mind raced. Evangl? Evangl who? The only Evangl she knew was that prissy Evangl Stewart-Brown who had been kidnapped by the Crimson Hand back in the day. “Yes,” she replied, affecting her best upper classaccent, which she assumed was vaguely British. “Yep. It’s me. Hello.”
    “Where is the Tulku ?”
    “The tool-kool is um… He’s ah… um…” she stuttered as she dug her notebook and pencil out of her purse. “Out tool-kooling. Can I help you, um… Clayton?” She rolled the named over and over in her mind. Clayton! Clayton? Who did she know named Clayton? Surely not Ken Clayton the actor?
    “Tell him he’s got Jean. The bastard’s got Jean!”
    “He does?” Betty asked as she rapidly scribbled into her notebook. “Who’s got Jean?”
    “I—He didn’t exactly stop to introduce himself, Evangl,” Clayton said, frustration pouring through each word. “It was all punching and shooting and then a little bit of head meet wall.”
    “Did you get a good look at him?”
    Clayton hesitated. “He had black eyes and his face…”
    “Black… eyes…”
    “Are you writing this