“Where’s your neighbor with the music,” she called from the living room. “I’m in the mood for the old, sad ones!”
“He usually doesn’t come on stage until after ten,” I shot back. I tossed the empty bottle into the recycling bin that was already overflowing with newspapers and cans. It couldn’t possibly take any more so I hefted the crate and slipped out the back door of the kitchen to where the large bins were lined up in the alley. I created such a ruckus emptying the contents that I never heard him approaching behind me.
“Hey,” he said and put a heavy hand on my shoulder.
I nearly spun out of my shoes when I saw him — the unmistakable mug of the brute who kicked my ribs in a few weeks back. He was alone this time, except for the gun he clutched in the hand not digging into my shoulder. I was about to shout, but he raised the gun towards my lips, instantly silencing them.
“Shut up,” he said. “Shut up and you don’t get hurt.”
I assumed that the reason I wasn’t lying face down in a pool of my own blood was that he hadn’t come to kill me. I remember a prison camp survivor telling me that even as a young boy he learned to tell who the killers were just by looking at their eyes. This one looked dumb but he didn’t look like a murderer. At least I hoped that to be the case.
“What do you want?” I asked quietly.
“They say we can trust you,” he began.
“Who’s we?”
“Ardavan didn’t kill those people they say he killed.”
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“Someone has.”
“If he didn’t kill anyone, tell him to turn himself into the authorities so that he can clear his name. Why all this running around?”
The thug shook his head like an ape.
“Can’t trust them.”
“You can’t trust whom? The police?”
“He wants to make a deal,” he announced.
“You just told me he didn’t kill anyone but now he wants to negotiate a plea?”
“He knows things,” he droned.
“Knows things about what?” I shot back, annoyed. The fragmented speech grated on me. It showed in my voice. “Make some sense.”
“He knows what happened to Vadaresian.” The hairs on the back of my neck pricked up. “He was there when he got killed.”
“Where?”
“At that building,” he answered but exactly which building I was not sure. “Ardavan wants a deal.”
“Look, I’m not a lawyer and I’m not the police. I can’t be making deals. Even if I did they wouldn’t amount to anything. He needs to turn himself in and if all that you say is true, then he can work out a deal.”
“He is afraid. He wants you to meet him and then he will go to the police. He will call you with the time and place.”
“Chuck?” Cheli’s voice rang out from the back door of the apartment. “Where are you?”
The thug was already backing up.
“Where was Vadaresian killed?” I whispered after him.
“I told you,” he replied. “At that building.”
The thug took off running towards the end of the alley. He curved around the corner and disappeared into the night.
“What is going on?” Cheli asked me.
“I think I know where Ed is,” I answered.
CADILLAC MAN
Having been stripped of her role on the prescription drug case, all Cheli had left was Ed’s disappearance. And at that she threw everything she had.
When I recounted the discussion I had in the alley, she immediately got on the phone and started making calls. The first was to another detective in her department. The second was to Detective Ricohr to discuss how we wanted to approach it when Temekian called to meet. She then called a meeting for the next day with the head of Glendale homicide.
“He’s not going to like it but he better damn well give it to me,” she told me as she hurried out of the apartment. The request was expensive, and it wasn’t immediately approved. Cheli wanted a cadaver dog and excavation equipment to dig up Ed’s body out of the Deakins Building. Both came with big price tags. Her director initially balked at the idea due to a combination of a tight budget and Cheli’s recent failures. There was also the issue of the building explicitly being named by Temekian’s associate.
“He said ‘that’ building, right?” Cheli grilled me for the hundredth time after the alley encounter. “He didn’t say ‘the’ building but ‘that’ building.”
“Correct, he said ‘that’.”
“It has to be Deakins,” she stated.
“Are you sure?”
That’s exactly the question she got from everyone she spoke to. And the more she answered it the more convinced she became. One day turned into two and still no approval. At one point Cheli offered to pay for some of the services herself from her own pocket. There still was no approval. Another day passed and then I got the call.
“Tomorrow, 8 a.m.”
“You got the approval?”
“I can’t talk now,” she whispered. “Let’s just say I played the Latina card and it worked.” The power of a racial discrimination lawsuit again proved its worth. At least this time it was towards a good cause. “See you in the morning.”
The following day we gathered at the Deakins Building. It looked like a construction site. There were several pick-up trucks with industrial tool boxes in their beds. An excavator like the kind you rent at the local home center idled out in the street. The diggers wore fluorescent vests and hard hats. The detectives wore suits and tried not to muddy their shoes. This was the first time I was at the Deakins Building since my encounter with Cheli when we first met. It all started here and hopefully it was going to end here. It was a cool, gray morning with a thick layer of cloud cover that seemed to press down on the entire city. I sipped coffee from outside the fence and watched the proceedings.
Ed’s father-in-law arrived a short while after I did. He was accompanied by another Armenian man who had similar facial features and whom I assumed was his brother. Rafi was not with them. I had left several messages on his phone that all went unanswered. I even drove out to Glendale the previous night to the residence he’d been staying at but he wasn’t home. I told the woman who answered the door that I wanted to talk to Rafi and that he should call me as soon as he got the message. He never did.
I caught eyes with the old man, and he came over to greet me. We shook hands. He looked to the sky at the grey blanket and said, “I hope it is over after today.”
I nodded and placed a supportive hand on his shoulder. His brother silently led him back to the car.
The man of the hour, or “beast” of the hour, was a sweet-looking yellow lab from a volunteer sheriff’s group called L.A. Search Dogs. They assisted with earthquake rescues and the occasional lost day-hiker who got turned around in the miles of park that ringed Los Angeles. They also helped with cadaver searches.
“She loves things that smell bad,” I overheard her handler say to one of the uniformed police officers. The lab was outfitted in a canvas vest and short leash. She was anxious to explore the grounds in and around the Deakins building but had to instead cool her heels while the crime scene unit methodically went through their instructions on how the process was going to work. In short, stay off the grounds and let them handle it.
Cheli was in the lead, but I could tell she was anxious. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and when I asked about it, she made a comment about the cool weather. It was left unsaid between us, but a mistake here was going to cost her a career.
“All right,” Cheli announced to the group once the C.S.I. unit was done with its introduction, “let’s bring the dog in.”
The group created an opening for the yellow lab and her handler to pass. There was an initial excitement as the dog began sniffing around the fence and the area directly beyond the main gate. The handler had divided the area into a grid with zones and sub-zones and methodically worked the dog over each.
It was agonizing to watch. With each jerk of the dog’s head the group collectively leaned forward to see if this was finally it. Every time, though, it was a dead bird or a half-eaten chicken wing, in which case the handler had to scold her dog before continuing with the search. The novelty wore off very quickly and the gawkers at the fence turned their attention to their phones and some drifted back to their trucks for a quick nap.
Cheli surveyed the scene with some other detectives from the force. No one did much talking, least of all Cheli, who stood stoically. It pained me to watch her watch the search. It was as if she was willing with all her strength for that dog to find something to prove her right. The longer the search went without results, the smaller the group around Cheli became. The detectives melted away and formed other groups, smaller this time. Their collective gaze gradually shifted from the yellow lab and her handler to Cheli, who in a mere forty-five minutes went from the center of attention to a solitary figure standing off to the side.
There was something in his gait that caught my attention. The cadaver crew had changed dogs and had moved to the back of the building out of our sightline from the street. Most of the bystanders were elsewhere, and I was left alone at the fence. I saw the man come around the corner and quick-step it over to an unmarked police car where he furiously began typing into the unit’s computer. I shifted my gaze back to the building where more people emerged. They were animated and started barking out orders to some of the excavation crew. The old man suddenly appeared at my side and strained his eyes to see what was going on across the way.
“Is this it?” he asked me.
At that moment Cheli appeared from behind the building. Her arms were no longer crossed tightly across her chest. He hands now sat squarely on her hips as she spoke to another detective. We caught eyes, and she gave me a brief nod and an even briefer smile.
“I think it is,” I told the old man.
* * *
They played that same overhead shot on loop for the better part of the day. It showed nothing other than a few dark figures scurrying in and out of a giant, white tent that covered the spot where they found the body. I watched the rest of the proceedings on the television in my apartment. The news had no information but still dedicated the majority of air time to the story. As I watched them broadcast the image of a black, plastic bag being wheeled out to an awaiting coroner’s van, I hoped this wasn’t how Rafi found out about his father.
Everything fell into place rather quickly from there. The family produced dental records which they matched to the body found at the Deakins Building and thus confirmed the identification. The coroner concluded that Ed died from a single shot to the back of the head. He also suffered blunt force trauma to the base of the skull before he was shot. Ballistics was able to recover the bullet that killed him and it matched the same gun that was used to kill both Langford and Mike. Ed had been buried in a shallow grave in a recess behind the building. No other evidence of any significance was recovered from the scene. Ed’s case was officially changed to a homicide.
The attention then shifted to me. Three days had passed and still there was no attempt to contact me. Attempts to locate the thug who confronted me in the alley turned up fruitless. I was given twenty-four hour surveillance and a dedicated patrolman who watched over my block. I finagled an extended leave from work, mainly from my knowledge of the system and knowing what strings to pull. I had endless conversations with detectives from both the Glendale and Los Angeles forces and even longer discussions with a staff psychologist who briefed me on the nuances of negotiations. I wanted to tell him this wasn’t anything I didn’t already know from my years of corporate remediation but he seemed so proud of his skillset that I let him think he, and he alone, owned it.
I didn’t see much of Cheli during that time outside of the official meetings we had regarding the case. She went from persona non grata to lead investigator in a matter of hours. It was a stunning reversal and the capper would be to bring Temekian in for the three murders. I was both elated at her turnaround and disappointed that it came at the expense of our time together.
The authorities eventually released Ed’s body to his family. A full service was held two days later, and I reluctantly found myself back at the same cemetery where Mike was buried.
Ed’s service was a much grander affair. A long processional made its way through the large, iron gates on a late Wednesday morning. The car that held the coffin slowly wound its way up the main lane and dipped and rose from knoll to knoll until finally coming to rest at the back side of the cemetery on “Resurrection Slope” which overlooked Highland Park.
Swarms of dark suits and black dresses tromped down the blue-green hill to the gravesite and left dark footprints in the wet grass. Ed’s father-in-law got lost in a whirlwind of hugs and double-kisses. He was clearly the chief mourner of the day. It took me some searching from the roadside to spot Rafi. The boy stood apart from the main group and watched the proceedings like an outsider even though it was his father they were putting to rest. I made my way down the hill and sidled up to him.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I told him and extended a hand which he took casually in his. He kept his eyes fixed on the group surrounding his grandfather.
“Patek is in all his glory today,” he said. “He spared no expense on the service. Look at the flowers, the casket. I think he even paid for the silk lining even though no one would see it. Were you at the memorial dinner?” he asked me, knowing that I wasn’t. “You should have been. What a spread. We closed down Carousel Restaurant on a Saturday night. Everyone gave speeches. It was touching,” he added.
“They’re going to get the people who did this to your father,” I said.
Rafi finally pulled his gaze from the mourners to look at me. “What does it matter when they do?” he asked. “Does it change anything?”
“Probably not, but it can give you some closure.”
“I never heard that word before until my father disappeared. I’m not even sure what it means.”
I regretted the use of the mourning clichés. Rafi didn’t hold it against me, but I had hoped I could have been more supportive and not just another babbling, amateur psychotherapist talking about grief and overcoming loss. The boy was in a precarious spot. Parentless at a young age, growing further away from the extended family, and already showing signs of resignation at what life had dealt him.
“Was that lawyer able to help you?”
“In the end I decided not to call him,” he told me. “It’s just money. I will be all right without it.”
It was the first thing he said that wasn’t tinged with anger or resentment. It was the kind of decision that tends to come at an age much older than Rafi’s — some people just have to grow up faster than others. Rafi said he would be fine, and I believed him. I offered my help and told him to call me whenever he wanted. He thanked me. As I walked off to join the others, Rafi called back to me.
“You know he wasn’t perfect,” he said.
“Nobody’s perfect,” I told him.
“But he was a good guy?” he said more as a question than a statement, like he was searching for validation to a belief long held but never uttered.
“Your father was a good man,” I said.
Rafi took it in, then joined the others. He found himself next to an older woman in a dark dress and coat. They spoke a little and then he let himself get wrapped tightly in her arms.
After the service, I crossed over the hill to where Mike was buried. The sun had burned off the marine layer and it dappled the lawns with patches of gold. This was the most death I had been around in my life. And I didn’t like it. Anything in excess, even exhilaration, will eventually make you sick. I turned around before I got to Mike’s grave. I wanted to be around the living again.
As I returned to my car, I noticed a solitary figure standing under one of the giant pine trees. It was the old man. All of the mourners had dispersed, but he remained behind. He used the t
ree’s trunk to help steady himself as he looked out over the city. From that spot he was able to look across at all of the major hills on the eastern side of Los Angeles: Montecito Heights at the bottom, then moving north to Mount Washington, Highland Park and Altadena, La Cañada high up in the foothills, and finally, the Glendale highlands. The thousands of houses that dotted the hillsides sparkled in the fresh morning light. The old man gazed at them for a long time. He then shook whatever thoughts had entered his mind and slowly made his way back down to his car.
It was a valiant effort but he still couldn’t mask his disappointment; he still looked like someone who had to return a Cadillac.
THAT COLOGNE AGAIN
I got the text later that day.
“It doesn’t smell right,” Detective Lopez commented as we huddled in my living room. This was the first time I had so many guests and there weren’t enough chairs for everyone to sit. Cheli paced the room like an anxious cat, while Detective Ricohr spoke with someone on the phone in the kitchen.
The text simply stated an address and time. The location of the meeting place was a home improvement store in Burbank and the time was to be several hours after they closed.
“An empty parking lot makes total sense,” Cheli started to explain, but Detective Lopez didn’t let her finish.
“Anything?” he asked Ricohr who returned from the kitchen.
“Not a registered number,” he replied. “Looks like a pay-as-you-go phone.”
“He wants to see if Mr. Restic is alone,” Cheli continued.
“The man is turning himself in,” Detective Lopez countered. “Why would he care if this fellow here is alone or has the entire LAPD behind him? We’re supposed to be worried about his motives but he seems more worried about ours.”
“He thinks he’s being scapegoated,” I added.
“A scapegoat doesn’t have all the evidence pointing his way,” Cheli replied. “He’s the lead suspect and a goddamn good one.”
“Which is why I don’t like this,” Lopez said. “When something doesn’t add up there’s usually a reason. Why you?” he shot in my direction.
Smile Now, Cry Later (Chuck Restic Mystery Book 1) Page 17