“So you believe it, too.”
“He has been after this story for weeks,” she started. “You said it yourself that he drives himself into the ground when he gets a good story. Maybe he wants to come back down after charging hard for so long. Maybe he’s been addicted all this time but he hid it from you. How well do you really know him, Chuck? We all think we know each other, but in reality we know so little.”
She was starting to convince me, and I hated myself for it.
“But my opinion doesn’t matter,” she continued, “I’m not on the case, remember? This is LA Homicide, not Glendale. I’m just a bystander, like you.”
I couldn’t tell if Cheli’s frustration was born out of an inability to help me or because she was sidelined in a case that mattered. Perhaps it was a little bit of both.
The rush of travelers slowed as the dying summer sun dimmed in the windows. The wall sconces clicked on and cast the station in a sort of weary sadness.
“All these people rushing off…” Cheli observed, leaving out whatever unsatisfactory conclusion should finish it. “I’ll take that drink now,” she said.
When we both had fresh drinks, we raised our glasses in a toast to Mike. The alcohol helped bring some reason back into my head.
“I guess I have to acknowledge one flaw in my theory,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“If this is one big, long chain like I believe, with Valenti sitting at the top as the puppet master, he couldn’t have had Mike killed.”
“Why not?”
“Because his hired gun is sitting in a Glendale jail.”
Cheli’s eyes narrowed.
“He was released on Wednesday,” she said.
“He was? Why?”
“Because the DA didn’t think we had enough to get a conviction,” she said, and I could tell it pained her to admit it. “She said we jumped the gun on the arrest.” Although Cheli used the plural article it was clear that criticism was directed solely at her. “I’ll get him,” she resolved.
“So Temekian had the opportunity to kill Mike. Now what?”
“Run a ballistics test on the gun that killed Langford with the one that killed Mike. Same shooter, same gun.”
WHISPERING PINES
At the very south end of Glendale, on a series of rolling hills dotted with acacias, black oaks, and towering pines, sits an expansive cemetery. A century ago, the vision of a dreamer turned these scrabbled hills into a peaceful stretch of land with more shade per square inch than anywhere in the city outside of a parking garage. Ponds are well stocked with cattails and wading birds. Statuary dots the landscape with endless portrayals of nymphs and cherubs and other half-naked figures. It’s a fabricated landscape that feels as authentic as anything Walt Disney could have dreamed up.
I grew up dreading cemeteries, with their tall granite walls dripping green-gray with moss and their headstones fighting hopelessly against the pull of gravity. But here you were instructed to find inspiration. Each knoll was themed and clearly marked with signage to clue visitors, and permanent residents, where they were. “Sunrise Slope” naturally faced east toward the dawn of day. “Everlasting Love” stood in the shadow of hundred-year-old oaks, while “Slumberland” was a quiet recess nestled on the northern slope, where you had to strain your ears to hear even the faintest trace of traffic noise. “Babyland” was a stretch no one should ever have to visit in his lifetime.
Mike’s final resting place was in a section called “Wee Kirk o’ the Heather,” a name shared with one of the early and famous wedding chapels in Las Vegas. Mike would have found that amusing. An aunt on his mother’s side picked it out and made all the arrangements. Mike didn’t have any close family, and I was grateful that this sweet woman did all of the planning. There was a short service in a small stone church that was said to be patterned off some famous village landmark in Scotland. It held ninety, but only fifteen showed up. You could easily spot his journalist friends with their extended waistlines, sallow skin, and suits that looked like they’d been rolled in balls and stored in steamer trunks. There was little fanfare around Mike’s murder, despite his being somewhat of a public figure. He was a legitimate journalist for a small-time rag. Perhaps if he’d been a fixture on the local channels he’d have elicited a larger showing.
After the service, Cheli and I and the small group of mourners moved outside, where a perfectly dug hole awaited. I marveled at how precise the sides of the hollowed-out earth were and wondered what kind of machine was used to create that. A few more words were spoken, and then the casket was lowered slowly into the ground. More words, a few spoonfuls of dirt from a pristine hand trowel, and the whole thing was over.
Mike’s elderly aunt thanked me for coming and apologized for having to rush off. She lived in Lancaster and wanted to get on the road before traffic hit. Soon enough it was just me, Cheli, and the groundskeepers. Out of respect, they had patiently waited for the entire party to disperse before concluding the job. We headed back to our cars to give them the space they needed to finish burying my friend. Leaning against the hood of my car was Detective Ricohr.
“You were right,” he said to Cheli. “The bullets match.”
I studied his face. “What else?”
“The lab came back with some partial prints on the bag that held the pills. They won’t hold up in court, but it’s enough to ID the person.”
“Temekian?” she asked.
“We have a warrant out, but he’s disappeared. He won’t get far.”
“No he won’t,” she confirmed. “Sounds like we’re teaming up on this?”
“We both want the same guy,” Ricohr acknowledged.
“Then let’s get after it,” she said.
I called out to them as they walked off. “Put the screws to him. I bet he gives up Valenti.”
“There’s no proof of any link between them,” he reminded me.
“He’ll talk. Trust me.”
As I was about to get into my car, I saw Claire across the way. She must have been standing there for a while. She walked over and joined me.
“Did you stay for the service?” I asked.
“I watched it from the road,” she said, tugging at her shirtsleeve. “I wanted to call you but, I don’t know…I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear from me. When we last talked, I said some things that I regret. I know you were his friend. I’m sorry, Chuck.”
“I’m glad you came,” I told her. That seemed to put her a little at ease. She leaned against the car by me.
“What is all this mess? All these people dying?”
“I don’t know. The police are still trying to figure it out.”
“Do you think Valenti is involved?”
“Yes, but no one really knows.”
“I can’t fathom how he could be,” she said, but her tone said she was starting to believe it. “You need to walk away and let the police handle it. Or you’re just going to get yourself killed.”
The last part sounded like a wife’s voice, something I hadn’t heard in a long time and now realized how much I missed.
We stayed there for a few moments, taking in the expanse of manicured lawns that seem to roll effortlessly off each hill. Down a short distance was a row of majestic pine trees that swayed gently in the afternoon breeze.
“What a strange place,” she said.
Temekian seemed to have melted away in the summer sun. Rumors abounded that he slipped out of the country through Mexico and was back in Armenia or Russia, but none of the rumors could be substantiated. Cheli gave me updates when she had them, but after the first few days they grew less frequent to the point that two weeks later when we met, we barely talked about it.
“They’re freezing me out,” she told me after the second glass of wine. I knew she was in a sour mood the moment she arrived at my apartment. It took my asking her for a progress report on Temekian to bring it all out.
“Who is?” I asked.
“Everyone. Ricohr,
that fat tub Lopez, the Feds. They’re all fucking me over.” I stayed silent to allow time for her to cool down. Instead, she looked at me contemptuously. “You don’t like this side of me, do you?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. I don’t like it either, but you do what you have to in order to succeed,” she said in an attempt to explain herself.
“I’m having trouble following you.”
“They took me off the case,” she blurted out, “and assigned some idiot to take my place.”
“Which case?”
“Temekian’s prescription drug ring. They say the Feds wanted to take the lead because of the Medicare fraud angle, but I know they wanted results and apparently I wasn’t able to deliver them. I think that DA had it in for me. There was room for only one chick on that job and she didn’t want me taking all the camera time. Not that she was camera-ready,” she added nastily. “I guess I deserved it for jumping the gun with the Temekian arrest. Someone in my situation can’t be making mistakes like these for long.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Am I?” she shot back.
“Yeah, and it’s crossing over into self-pity. That’s the side of you I don’t like.”
At least I managed to eke a smile out of her.
“I want to get drunk, Chuck. Will you get drunk with me?”
“Sure.” I moved to the kitchen to open another bottle.
“Where’s your neighbor with the music?” Cheli 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’d kicked in my ribs a few weeks back. He was alone this time, except for the gun he clutched in the hand that wasn’t digging into my shoulder. I was about to shout, but he raised the gun toward 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.
“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 in to the authorities so he can clear his name. Why the disappearing act?”
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 could, 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 some kind of 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 toward the end of the alley. He curved around the corner and disappeared into the night.
“What’s 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, Cheli threw everything she had at the one case left that mattered—Ed’s disappearance.
Five minutes after my encounter in the alley, Cheli was already working the phone. The first call was to another detective in her department. The second was to Detective Ricohr to discuss how we wanted to approach the Temekian meeting. She then called a sit-down for the next day with the head of Glendale homicide. She was going to make a big request of him. “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.
Her request was expensive, and it wasn’t immediately approved the next day. Cheli wanted a cadaver dog and excavation equipment to find Ed’s body at the Deakins Building and dig it up. 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 out of 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 for a good cause. “See you in the morning.”
The following day we gathered at the Deakins Building. 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.
There were several pickup trucks with industrial toolboxes in their beds. An excavator like the kind you rent at a 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. It had all started here and hopefully it was going to end here.
Ed’s father-in-law arrived a short while after I did. He was accompanied by another Armenian man, who looked like his brother. Rafi was not with them. I had left several unanswered messages on his phone. I’d even driven out to Glendale to the place he’d been staying, but he wasn’t home. The message I’d left with the woman who answered the door got no response.
I caught eyes with the old man, and he came over to greet me. We shook hands. He looked to the sky at the gray 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 rather the beast of the hour, was a sweet-looking yellow lab from a volunteer sheriff’s group called LA Search Dogs. They assisted with earthquake rescues and the occasional lost hiker who got turned around in the miles of trails in the mountains of 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 but had to 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 we knew that a mistake here was going to cost her her career.
“All right,” she announced to the group once the CSI 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 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 her 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 the man’s 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 quickstep 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, from which 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.
The Silent Second Page 16