Smile Now, Cry Later (Chuck Restic Mystery Book 1)

by Paul MacDonald

  I called Easy Mike into my office the following morning. I worked over in my head what I was going to say to him, but in the end, didn’t need it. When he arrived, he threw his badge on my desk.

  “Well, it was a good run while it lasted,” he announced. “Any chance of a severance package?”

  I sadly shook my head.

  “Yeah, didn’t think so. Let me sign whatever form you got and I will get out of here,” he said without even a trace of anger.

  I hurried through all the protocols and legal documents. According to best practices, I was to escort him to the elevator and ensure he got on. I sheepishly led him out of the office to the lobby. I couldn’t let him go without him knowing how I felt.

  “Bad timing, Mike,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You probably weren’t aware but that partner you made the comment to has…let’s say, a few extracurricular activities outside of the office.”

  “I know he does,” he said and stepped onto the elevator. “Why do you think I said it?”

  Easy Mike said things everyone else was thinking but were too afraid to say out loud. He eventually found a job at the weekly city newspaper where his insolence was not only tolerated but fostered. He quickly made a name for himself exposing the hypocrisies of many a politician and business leader.

  “… mortgage fraud,” Easy Mike explained. “One of their scams is to get some pigeon to purchase a worthless, distressed property but with the promise that they are going to fix it up, turn it into some huge money generator. They get an appraiser who is in on it to over-inflate the price of the property so the pigeon can take out a huge loan against it. The loan money is supposed to go into repairs but instead it goes into everyone’s pockets.”

  “Except the pigeon who bought the place,” I added.

  “Right. And he’s on the hook for the loans.”

  I made a note to check the value of the property against the amount taken out in loans. Perhaps Ed had fallen into one of these neat little schemes. It certainly helped explain why he would have purchased the Deakins Building, a property that on the surface had very little value unless someone sold him on a fantasy scenario.

  Easy Mike promised to dig up whatever files he had on the AP and send them over to me. As we left the taco stand, he asked me about work.

  “It is what it is,” I said, not really sure what that meant. I didn’t want to get into a discussion on my recent career crisis only to have him throw gasoline on the fire by telling me I had wasted the last twenty-five years of my life working there. Instead, he surprised me, saying “I miss working there.”

  “Really? I thought you hated the place.”

  “Yeah, but I miss that corporate Asian trim,” he said. “How’s Amy Tran doing?”

  LOCATION, LOCATION, VIEW

  The Deakins Building sat west of the freeway on an industrial block close to the river. It was a two-story brick building built in the early part of the twentieth century as were many of the buildings on the street, recalling a time when Los Angeles still manufactured things. This part of Lincoln Heights was too far from the downtown revival so what could have been prime space for converted condos or artist lofts were now abandoned buildings with the occasional industrial warehouse.

  The building clearly hadn’t had a tenant in some time. The windows were boarded up and ragweed rooted out of the cracks in the concrete. A rusty chain-link fence topped with razor wire discouraged the addicts from making this their home. There was an old “For Sale” sign tacked to the fence with the contact information for GVK Properties. I took down the number. Circling the building, I found a spot where someone had managed to pry back a bit of the fence. I squeezed through the tight opening and proceeded up the old loading docks. All of the entrances were either boarded up or barred with heavy padlocks. There was a fire escape that I was able to access after pulling down the ladder with a discarded piece of rebar.

  There still was no access to the building itself but I was able to pull myself onto the roof and was greeted with a magnificent, 180-degree view of the downtown skyline. From this angle, City Hall and the Eastern Building perfectly framed the towering skyscrapers on Bunker Hill. Perhaps this building had some value after all. In Los Angeles the famous real estate axiom can easily be modified into “Location, Location, View.”

  Having no other way to snoop around the building, I headed back to my car. I dipped down to slip through the hole in the fence when I heard a woman’s voice.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

  I jumped and scraped my back against one of the clipped links in the fence. I looked around but didn’t see anyone.

  “I asked you a question,” the voice said again.

  I finally spotted its owner sitting in a parked sedan across the street. When we made eye contact, she got out of her car and walked over towards me. She kept her eyes on me the entire time even while crossing the street. She was dressed “corporate casual” which felt out of place on a Saturday in this industrial section of town.

  I tried to stand up but my shirt got caught on the fence and I couldn’t extricate myself. The more I tried, the more entangled I got. I finally gave up and answered the woman while still hunched over in the fence.

  “I was checking out the view,” I told her.

  “Who said you could do that?”

  “Well, no one,” I started to explain then realized there was no reason to answer her questions. I assumed an air of authority: “I’m not sure that is any of your concern.”

  “Oh really?” she smiled. It was a nice smile. Then it turned ugly. “Stand up. Turn around. Grab the fence and spread your legs,” she barked.

  “Huh?”

  She pulled back her coat and flashed both a detective’s shield and the gun that went with it.

  “Now!” she hissed.

  “I can’t,” I admitted. “I’m stuck.”

  She eyed me suspiciously.

  “I’m not lying,” I said and showed her where my shirt was hung up on the fence. She contemplated the situation then moved towards me to help. “If you maybe slip it back off the —”

  She didn’t slip anything. I heard the loud tear of my shirt being yanked from the fence.

  “Now stand up and face the fence.”

  “That’s my favorite polo,” I muttered pathetically.

  “Maybe you should have remembered that before trespassing on private property,” she said and removed my wallet. I could hear her pull my driver’s license out of its pocket. “Okay, Mr. Restic…” her voice drifted off. “Wait, are you the guy who’s been calling me all weekend?”

  It took me a while before I figured out what she was talking about. Then I remembered the card Ed’s father had given me and the woman’s voice on the message when I called the detective in charge of his case. “I guess you’re Detective Alvarado,” I said.

  “And you’re acting very suspicious, Mr. Restic.”

  “Listen, the family asked me to follow up on his case and to see if you’ve made any progress. That’s why I called you.”

  She didn’t look like she enjoyed being reminded of her lack of success on the case.

  “Are you a private detective?”

  It was the second time today I was asked that and the second time I regretted having to answer in the negative.

  “But the family asked you to get involved?”

  “Correct.”

  “Are you their lawyer?”

  Now I was getting annoyed.

  “No,” I said.

  Detective Alvarado didn’t know what to make of me. And I couldn’t really blame her. She decided to call the Vadaresian’s and check up on my story. She was able to get Ed’s son on the phone and explained the situation to him. As she listened to his response, her eyebrows arched.

  “So you’re saying you’ve never heard of this man?”

  “That little punk,” I whispered under my breath.

  “And you never as
ked for his help?” That cute smile came back to her lips. “Okay, well thank you for your time,” she said and hung up the phone.

  “He’s lying,” I said but it fell on deaf ears.

  “Maybe we should drive back to the station and talk this over.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “You could be if I wanted to.”

  “The old man asked for my help. I called you and got your voicemail. Maybe I should have left it there but I got curious and did a little digging —”

  “— and trespassing.”

  “— and found out some interesting stuff that could help out with the case.”

  “Then we’ll have a lot to talk about,” she said.

  We drove to Glendale in our separate cars after Detective Alvarado had taken my wallet and warned me not to be a hero. On the way I called my wife, Claire. This whole thing seemed innocent enough but one never can be sure. Claire didn’t do criminal law but she would know enough to help me out. Maybe I also wanted an excuse to see her. I got her voicemail and left a rambling message.

  The Glendale police station was a contemporary glass and steel structure that spared no expense when spending taxpayer’s money. Detective Alvarado led me through the lobby as various uniformed men eyed us. It felt oddly satisfying to imagine them thinking I was some mastermind criminal being led into his first of many interrogations. Of course, they may have just been ogling Detective Alvarado in her grey pant suit.

  I was led into a small interview room. There was no two-way mirror as I had hoped but there was a closed-circuit camera suspended from the corner of the ceiling. As we sat down I immediately launched into my defense.

  “That kid is lying,” I told her.

  “I know he is,” she said to my surprise.

  “If you know that about the kid then why am I here?”

  “You said you have information, so let’s hear it.”

  “Okay,” I said and launched into a recap of the last two days. I told her about Ed’s properties and dire financial situation. I broke the confidentiality agreement and detailed Ed’s compensation over the last five years. I also brought up my suspicion that he might be involved with Armenian Power and relayed Easy Mike’s idea that this could have been some sort of mortgage fraud scheme. She listened intently and nodded a few times.

  “Is that helpful?” I asked when I had finished.

  “Not at all,” she answered quickly. She must have picked up on my disappointment because she added, “It’s all good information but it’s nothing I didn’t already know.”

  “So you agree there might be foul play with the Armenian mob? That they may have done something to Ed.”

  “No, I never said that,” she corrected. “In isolation what you told me is accurate. But you are applying a narrative to the details that just doesn’t exist. Sure, the AP is working mortgage fraud scams along with a lot of other scams. I’ve helped put a dozen of their members away myself for similar crimes you are describing. But they didn’t have anything to do with Mr. Vadaresian’s disappearance.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because there’s no evidence to support it.”

  “What about this shady character I saw hanging out with the son?”

  “Half of the men in Glendale can be described like that man,” she shot back. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “And the kid pretending that he doesn’t know me?”

  “He’s a punk. Those were your words.”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that a guy like Ed is buying buildings in that part of town?”

  “You can’t build cases on things that feel odd,” she said. Detective Alvarado hesitated as if contemplating whether to share the information she was about to tell me. “There were other people involved in the purchase of that building,” she said but before I could say something she added, “and it wasn’t the Armenian Power.”

  “Who was it?”

  “It was a con job. Someone apparently convinced Mr. Vadaresian the Deakins Building was an investment opportunity too good to pass up and he fell for it.”

  “Are you going to make an arrest?”

  “On Mr. Vadaresian’s case, no. But we know who they are and hope to get them before they can pull a similar stunt.”

  “This still doesn’t explain what happened to Ed.”

  “Mr. Vadaresian was in serious financial peril as you had described. He had recently lost his wife, he —”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Given his situation it is probably fair to assume that he copped out and killed himself.” She said it so coldly. After a brief pause she added, “I apologize if that was too blunt.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the family this?”

  “I did,” she answered. “They didn’t want to listen.”

  Apparently Ed’s father-in-law got very upset with her. If it was a suicide, he demanded to see a body to prove it.

  “What about that?” I asked.

  “The body will be discovered eventually.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We found Ed’s car parked in a lot up in Angeles Forest,” she explained. “We searched the area but didn’t come up with anything. It’s only a matter of time before a hiker stumbles upon the body. I guess the family didn’t tell you about that.”

  No, they hadn’t but it was starting to make more sense. A missing person can be a real burden on a family. Not only can the relatives not cash in on the person’s estate, they also must bear the costs of the estate lest they lose it to creditors. Until a body is found, or several years pass after which one can legally claim the person dead, the family must maintain the missing person’s life, which can be very expensive. The old man’s eagerness to find Ed was starting to make sense.

  “His father-in-law is sole beneficiary,” I told her.

  “I didn’t know that,” she said then felt the need to add, “I’m sorry.”

  “What for?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, you seem disappointed.”

  I was disappointed. The search for Ed was already over and with it went the perfect distraction to occupy my time and mind. I looked up at Detective Alvarado who was staring at me. She averted her eyes when I held her gaze.

  The door flung open, breaking the silence in the room.

  “I’m Claire Courtwright, Mr. Restic’s lawyer.”

  “Claire, it’s okay.”

  “Get your things, Chuck. We’re leaving.”

  “I don’t have any things,” I answered dumbly.

  “There’s no need for theatrics,” Detective Alvarado announced. “Mr. Restic and I were simply talking.”

  “And while y’all were talking, were his rights ever read to him?” The North Carolina drawl came out when she was angry.

  “There was no need to.”

  “Come on, Chuck,” she said and led me by the elbow towards the door.

  “Thanks, Detective,” I said on my way out.

  “Sure,” she replied with a wry smile.

  I thought of something and stopped at the door.

  “Detective, if you don’t mind me asking, why were you in that neighborhood today?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s far from your jurisdiction in Glendale and you yourself said Ed’s case was all but shut. So why were you hanging out in front of the Deakins Building?”

  She laughed.

  “You’d make a good detective, Mr. Restic.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “I was interviewing someone for another case and saw you skulking around the building so I stopped to see what you were up to.”

  “It has a great view,” I said.

  I apologized to Detective Alvarado for wasting her time and followed Claire out to the parking lot.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said. “I guess I over-reacted a little bit in calling you.”

  Claire brushed off my apology as she headed for her car.
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  “I’m not sure I want to know the details.”

  “Hey, do you have to run?”

  “I have to get back to a meeting.”

  “On a Saturday?”

  “Yes. And I’ve already lost time driving out here.”

  We hadn’t seen each other in weeks and here was Claire buzzing around as if the desire to avoid the topic of our crumbling marriage was propelling her into a sort of perpetual motion. I just wanted to slow everything down.

  “Claire, I’m asking for five minutes.”

  “You’re going to the function tomorrow, right? We can talk then.” And like that she flitted away without waiting for my reply.

  ELYSIAN FIELDS

  “Charity is entertainment for rich people,” Easy Mike liked to say.

  For five years I sat on the board of directors of a local non-profit that gave scholarships to college-bound Latinos. It was a very worthy cause and an extremely rewarding experience. It provided a wonderful boost to my self-esteem as only the selfless donation of time to a noble cause can do. It was also a terrific resume builder and a great venue to expand my circle of acquaintances. And the charity auctions at the museum and fundraising galas at some Holmby Hills mansion rivaled anything the entertainment industry put on, especially if a celebrity chef could be guilted into donating the appetizers. Somewhere down the list, after all the champagne and facility rentals were paid, a handful of deserving students were cut checks to help pay for their books.

  The success of a charity is often measured by the status of the people you can attach to it. I was a small fish when compared to the heavy hitters I rubbed elbows with. Of course, there was no bigger fish than Carl Valenti.

  Valenti had attained a status in life where he was widely known by just his last name. He made his fortune on land developments in Orange County where he incorporated cities out of citrus groves and dug planned communities into the hillsides above them. At one time he owned nearly three-quarters of the city of Irvine and was the founding member of the Southland’s Eleven-Figure Club. Valenti recently gained notoriety in Los Angeles for taking the Anytime USA feel of his suburban developments and translating it into concept shopping malls. The original mall was the site of the charity event.