“Chuck, check the name on the article you’re reading.”
I scrolled back to the top of the page — I was quoting from an article he had written three years ago.
“Cast a light on the power structure that shapes this city and you quickly realize they’re a small, tight-knit group with few rotating members,” he explained. “It works because it lets you get things done quickly without the obstacles of a classic bureaucracy. The great flaw in the system, however, is the same one that plagued the royal families — when you exclude new blood from entering your circle you end up having to fuck your sister.”
An incestuous relationship permeated everything about the affair that started with Ed’s disappearance. All the characters in this drama were integrally linked through the real estate game.
“We just need to figure out who’s screwing whom.”
Claire’s note again caught my eye, but this time I registered the overlooked detail of “Wed meeting.” A quick internet search returned a little-publicized event happening that afternoon: Notice of Public Hearing, Zone 8 Revisions.
“Looks like they’re going to actually have someone from the public in attendance,” Mike surmised.
I quickly invented a dentist appointment and hurried down the hill towards City Hall.
A LESSON IN CIVIC DUTY
The building was a large, white obelisk that once stood as the tallest structure in the city until the realization that horizontal sprawl can’t go on forever and eventually you have to start going up to grow. Looming above City Hall were the engineering feats of fifty-story steel and glass structures built on rollers and with flexible braces that could withstand the rocking and rolling of an 8.0 earthquake. They were the symbols of the new downtown. But despite the structures’ global brand names, the city didn’t cater to their high-powered tenants. City Hall may have been surpassed in height, but the institutional power of this city would forever be contained within its walls.
The public entrance led into a dimly-lit lobby marred by the now-required row of metal detectors and security lines. The stone floors had a warm patina that could only come from decades of floor wax and weekly polishing. Original wall sconces and colored shades cast the area in a cathedral-like hue that, when paired with the subtle echoes from the coffered ceiling, gave one a sense of urgency to find your seat before mass started.
I found my way to the creaky elevators and the fifth floor where the public hearing was being held for the requested zone changes. It was your typical municipal government forum. The room could hold a hundred people but only seven actually showed. That didn’t stop them from using microphones to speak to each other even though the entire group sat within a twenty foot radius.
“Sit anywhere?” I asked the security guard who manned the door.
He slowly looked at the completely empty rows of chairs and then looked back at me. His eyes were mere slits like a man in perpetual half-sleep.
“Yes,” he answered. That one word seemed to drain him of what little energy he had left to keep him upright.
“I guess you aren’t expecting a big turnout,” I joked and headed for a seat. Apparently it wasn’t common for a member of the public to actually attend a public forum because as I chose my chair in the last row I realized I was being watched intently by the seven committee members at the dais. They eyed me suspiciously over their reams of papers and binders. Two members whispered in hushed tones with their hands over their microphones like a U.S. Senator looking for the proper wording from his aide.
The agenda was long and convoluted and mostly read aloud by an overweight technocrat in a rumpled suit and a voice that could cure insomnia. The zone change was somewhere near the end of the list of things they had to discuss, so I had to endure a full hour of motions, seconds, and approvals. The bureaucrat was a special breed of middle class American quite distinct from his corporate cousins. Both were sentenced to a life’s work of quiet oblivion but where the corporate cogs fabricated their relevance through mission statements and anniversary milestones, the bureaucrat resigned himself to an existence of little consequence and instead focused all of his efforts on accruing tenure so as to retire with maximum benefits.
“Item 752b,” announced the clerk, “proposed revision of municipal code as pertains to division 621, Zone 8.”
I jolted upright as the blood coursed back through my body. The technocrat had somehow managed to lull me into deep REM sleep. I quickly scanned the room. There were two new people in attendance. The first sat at the conference table before the dais. He wore a casual blazer that looked expensive, an open-collared shirt, and smart, tortoise-framed glasses. It was a look that only the very young or the very wealthy could pull off. Even the overhead fluorescent lights couldn’t wash out that wonderfully golden tan that one got from yachting or playing tennis.
The only other person to join the hearing was Claire. We caught eyes and acknowledged each other through a look. Or, more accurately, I stared and she glared.
“Mr. Carlson?” the clerk announced to the gentleman at the conference table. It was his signal to speak. As Carlson read through his motion, I got the sense that he didn’t understand the language or have a grasp of its content. One of the council members even had to correct him a few times. At one point the clerk asked if there were any objections to the requested revision. I found myself being stared down by all six members of the committee. Carlson slowly turned in my direction as well. Claire trained her eyes on the floor as if in prayer that I wouldn’t speak.
But I felt the need to say something. Exactly what I should say was a mystery. I took my time making my way forward to the microphone set up in the aisle.
“Hello?” I said and tapped the microphone to see if it was on.
“Go ahead, sir,” instructed one of the council members. “State your name and occupation, please.”
“Charles Restic, Human Resources Manager,” I said and watched as Carlson wrote down my name.
“Did you have a comment?” asked another council member. They were increasingly becoming annoyed by my presence.
“I do,” I said.
“The floor is yours.”
“Can I ask a question to Mr. Carlson?”
“You will address all comments to the committee and the committee will determine whether to pursue any further questioning of Mr. Carlson.”
“Well, that doesn’t make much sense,” I muttered, not entirely meaning to say it out loud.
“Mr. Restic, we ask that you respect the time of everyone in this room and please get on with your comments.”
“Okay, fine,” I said. “I believe there are improprieties involved with this zone change that you should be aware of.” I rattled off all the details Mike and I had discovered in as coherent a fashion as one could expect having been put on the spot on such short notice. During my five-plus minute speech not a single committee member took notes. When I finished, all six members at the dais stared at me and said nothing. We remained in that uncomfortable silence for nearly half a minute until one of the members finally spoke up.
“Are you finished?” he asked.
“Well, did you understand what I just laid out?”
“We did,” he remarked. “Have you concluded your remarks?”
“I, I don’t know. Are there any questions?”
“There are none. Have you concluded your remarks?” he repeated.
All eyes in the room willed me to state that I had finished. There seemed to be no debate over what I had said but also no real acknowledgment of the facts I had brought to their attention. It was an unsatisfying conclusion. Just as I was about to confirm that I was done, the tired voice of the security guard a few feet from me whispered, “Request a formal review.”
I looked over at the security guard. He appeared half-asleep and stared dully at some spot on the far wall. I don’t think anyone else in the room heard him. I leaned back into the microphone. “I’d like to request a formal review of the proposed change.�
��
Apparently my somnolent friend was a bit of an expert on procedural rule for those simple words sent the council into a tizzy. I believe I heard Claire curse me out from across the room.
“Could you please repeat that?” asked one of the committee members but the woman to his right cut him off.
“What are you making him repeat it for? We all heard it,” she said with grave annoyance.
The clerk took the councilwoman’s lead and pronounced a deferment of approval on the proposed change until a formal review of the revision was completed.
“Wait,” said a befuddled Carlson, “What happened?”
“By rule we must conduct a review by an independent party.”
“Well, how long is that going to take?” he asked.
“Sixty days.”
* * *
“You’re acting like a child,” Claire remarked as we made our way through the lobby and around the security checkpoint.
“If exposing the truth is deemed childish then I am happy to take up the mantle,” I replied.
“Come down off the cross. We need the wood.”
“That’s Mike’s line,” I told her.
She stopped and stared me down.
“Now it makes sense.”
“What does?”
“Why you’re making an ass of yourself in public forums and generally acting like an overall nuisance. Is this Mike’s doing?”
“No.”
“It sure smells like him.”
Her tone was grating. She reverted into lawyer-mode. “What is your interest in The Arroyo?”
“Stop speaking to me like it’s a deposition. And you know why I am interested. Because it’s connected to Ed’s disappearance.”
“There’s no proof of that.”
“Come off it, you know there is. And the more you play dumb, the stronger the connection gets. Did you architect the zone change?”
“I would choose another word to describe it, but we did have input on the final decision.”
“Why?”
She paused. “It would be beneficial to our client. And it’s perfectly legal. We would never knowingly put our client in any risk of future legal complications.”
“What about Langford? Have you worked with him?”
“You know I have,” she said.
“On the Deakins Building?”
Another pause. “Yes.”
“Do you know Ardavan Temekian?”
“No.”
“Are you involved in any deals with properties on Holcomb Street?”
“Where? No, I don’t know those properties,” she said. “Now who’s making this out to be a deposition?”
“How well do you know McIntyre?” I asked.
“Why?” she asked warily.
“Come on, Claire, I’m not an idiot. I know about you two. But how well do you know him?”
“You have no right to ask me these things.”
“Claire, these guys are not kids. They play a grown up game and they play pretty rough. Look at what happened to Ed. To Langford. Three thugs broke into my home and beat the living shit out of me the other night. Because I’m finding stuff out that someone doesn’t want me to. And you see how they handle those situations. Don’t get yourself wrapped up in something you will later regret.”
“Todd doesn’t have anything to do with…with that murder. With whoever attacked you.”
“Glad to see you and Todd know each other so well that you can read each other’s thoughts.”
“Screw you, Chuck.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Claire suddenly got very aloof.
“Apparently you can’t accept this marriage ending.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I shot back.
“Why else are you running around doing everything in your power to annoy me? I’ve moved on, Chuck. And none of this is going to change that.” Like a good defense attorney she stopped speaking when she knew she was ahead. But Claire was Claire and couldn’t resist the urge to pile on. “One more thing,” she said by the exit. “Break into my house again and you’re going to get your ass bitten off by a Doberman.”
THE ACQUARIUM ON THE HILL
The black sedan with just its parking lights on idled in front of my apartment. I walked up to the passenger door, but the driver never got out. I was forced to knock on the window.
“Are you here for me?” I asked as the window rolled down.
The driver was an elderly Latino man with dyed hair slicked straight back. He wore the standard attire of a white, starched shirt and black pants. The interior of the car smelled like vanilla air freshener.
“Are you Mr. Restic?” he asked me.
“I am.”
“Then I am here for you.”
He made no move to open the door for me. Neither did he give any indication of where I was supposed to sit. Since I have a natural discomfort with the vestiges of hierarchy and a class system, I sat in the front seat. It was clearly the wrong choice.
“You’re welcome to sit in the back,” he offered.
I got the call that Valenti wanted to meet me the day after the incident at the public hearing. Mike and Cheli were with me in my apartment when the unregistered number came up on my cell. I assumed Claire had given it to them. We were recapping an eventful day that had Easy Mike placing calls to all the participants in this drama with the hope of getting quotes for his soon-to-be-published article. Everyone stuck to the script. Carmen Hernandez fell back on “affordable living for the under-served.” For McIntyre it was all about “job creation” and Councilman Abramian spouted off concerns about “the dangers of high-density projects.” When the call came, the young woman didn’t ask me to meet as much as she instructed me when the car would arrive to pick me up.
“I’ve been summoned,” I told them. “Anyone want to join me?”
Mike declined. He had a lead on the buyer of the properties on Holcomb — the elusive Salas. Cheli also had a conflict and had to meet with the Assistant District Attorney over Temekian’s upcoming arraignment.
“I guess I’m going solo, then.”
We caught a light on Griffin and were forced to wait at the intersection. At this time of night there was little traffic and even fewer pedestrians. A homeless man with a shopping cart full of mementoes crossed in front of our car. He paused in the headlights to stare at us. His gaze went from the driver to me and then back to the driver.
“I give up, officers!” he shouted.
The driver scowled and swept his sedan dangerously close to clipping the shopping cart. He ran two more red lights before we reached the freeway.
“How long have you worked for Mr. Valenti?” I asked.
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye then slowly brought his gaze back to the road. “A long time,” he replied.
“You must have seen a lot over that time,” I said.
“I haven’t seen nothing,” he replied curtly.
“What’s Mr. Valenti like?” I probed further.
His silence clearly indicated there would be no more idle chit-chat. We drove the rest of the way in silence. We glided across the flats of Los Angeles to the Westside, where we took the 405 North a few exits then fell into the tree-lined streets of Beverly Hills. From there we worked our way up to the top of Benedict Canyon and Mulholland Drive.
The driver instinctively guided us along the dark and winding road. It felt like he could do this drive with his eyes closed. We eventually took a cut off that was all but invisible from the street. This led to a large gate that opened automatically as the town car approached. A uniformed man stood watch in a small, well-lit structure nearby. We tracked a narrow driveway lined with looming cypress trees that stood like tin soldiers in silhouette against the night sky. Then the house appeared before us.
It was a magnificent structure of glass and stone and undulating waves of polished steel that represented all that was wrong with form over function. Two ton ste
el girders muscled into twisted shapes jutted out over the canyon and served no other purpose than the aesthetic. Every section had dedicated accent lights. The spectacle would make Hollywood cinematographers blush.
I found myself in awe more at the volume of material that went into the building than of the building itself. It was as if they encased the entire structure in burnished steel for no other reason than “because I can.”
I waited for instructions but received none.
“Good talking to you,” I said as I got out of the car and headed towards the main entrance. I took the few steps up to the twelve-foot wood door that was either teak or mahogany and most certainly expensive. Through the glass panel on the side of the door, I saw a young woman patiently waiting in a cushioned chair in the foyer. Before I could ring the bell, she sprang to her feet and hefted the giant door open. She wore a tight-fitting sweater and pencil skirt. She had cold blue eyes and such perfectly white teeth that they almost looked fake. In business, your brand was determined by how others perceived you. Placing this little minx at the front door sent a clear message — Valenti ran an elegant, sophisticated operation that could rip your face off with a single swipe.
“Welcome, Mr. Restic,” she purred and led me into a large room just off the foyer. “Can I get you a sparkling mineral water, cappuccino?”
“Do you have any organic soda?” I asked, if for no other reason than to be an ass in the face of pretension.
“Mango or blackberry?” she countered.
“Strawberry?” I tried again.
“I’m afraid we ran out,” she replied.
“Thank you,” I said, sounding disappointed. “But I think I will pass.”
“Very well,” she replied and drifted out of the room.
I looked around the impressive space. The entire far wall was floor-to-ceiling windows, a massive sheet of non-reflecting glass that gave the illusion that you were out in the open air. I drifted over like a leaf in a slow-moving stream. The entire city of Los Angeles lay at my feet — from the garish lights of the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica pier to the grid work of suburban dreams across the great plain of the city to the lighted matchsticks of the downtown skyscrapers winking in the far distance.
Smile Now, Cry Later (Chuck Restic Mystery Book 1) Page 14