The Silent Second

by Adam Walker Phillips

  “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 TV in my apartment. The news had no information but still dedicated the majority of the broadcast to the story. As I watched the image of a black plastic body bag being wheeled out to a coroner’s van, I hoped this wasn’t how Rafi would find out about his father.

  Everything fell into place 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 had 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 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 by any of Temekian’s people. I was given twenty-four-hour surveillance and a dedicated patrolman who watched over my block.

  Not wanting the unnecessary attention of constant police presence in and around my office, the senior executives decided it was prudent to grant me an extended leave from work. They were very accommodating, particularly when I pitched it as unpaid leave. I knew enough not to force their hand, and saving the firm money was always the easiest path to ingratiating myself with senior execs.

  I had endless conversations with detectives from both the Glendale and Los Angeles forces and even longer discussions with a police 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 in human resources, but he seemed so proud of his skill set 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 procession of cars made its way through the imposing 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 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.

  “Papik 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.”

  “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 until my father went missing. I’m not 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 being resigned to 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’ll 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, he 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.”

  Rafi took it in, then joined the others. I watched him move 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 Ed’s father-in-law. All of the mourners had dispersed, but he remained behind. He used the tree’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 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’d had more guests than there were 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 address 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’d returned from the kitchen.

  “Not a registere
d 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.

  “He knows him,” Cheli answered for me.

  “Let him speak for himself, detective. Why did he contact you, Mr. Restic?”

  “I’ve met Temekian a few times. He knows I was working with Ed’s family. He also knows I’ve uncovered information about him.”

  “He also sent his boys to straighten out your teeth,” Lopez added. “And now you’re such close friends that he trusts you to orchestrate his surrender?”

  It was hard to overlook the skepticism in his voice.

  “Why does every question you ask me sound like an accusation?”

  “I’m sorry if you’re interpreting it that way.”

  “Come off it, Detective,” Cheli shot back. “You know what you’re doing and it stinks.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “You have some hunch Mr. Restic is involved in these murders but you don’t know how, and instead of doing the hard work it takes to figure it out, you sit back and throw barbs and hope he says something wrong. That’s not good police work.”

  “What do you think, Terry?” Lopez asked Ricohr.

  “Who cares what he thinks!” Cheli exploded. “You can’t just sit here and blow me off like this. We’re on a joint task force between our departments. Let me know if you don’t know what the word ‘cooperation’ means and I will help enlighten you.”

  “Detective, I am just asking for someone’s opinion. Let’s not start a war over nothing.” Lopez turned back to Ricohr. “Well?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “There’s some deep thinking,” she muttered under her breath, which hopefully only I could hear. Ricohr didn’t take any offense.

  “I say we go there with numbers and take him down and see what he has to say in the room, like Detective Alvarado has suggested.”

  “Finally,” Cheli breathed dramatically.

  “Okay,” Lopez said, slapping his knee and rising to his feet. “Let’s talk about how we want to bring him in.”

  Cooler heads gathered around the coffee table and drew up the plan. I was to meet Temekian at the requested time in the parking lot. We worked out a signal for the detectives and uniformed officers who would be close by should I need assistance. I was instructed not to get into any car and not to let Temekian into mine. We were to leave in separate vehicles and drive to the station on Western Avenue. We, naturally, would never make it that far. Units would move in to take Temekian into custody as soon as he exited the parking lot.

  The detectives were meticulous in the details—they prepared a brief for the other officers that had all the information they could possibly need, including whether I was to be clean-shaven or with the slight stubble I was currently sporting. I made a note to shave before leaving for the rendezvous. I took comfort in the details, as if a long list of minutiae applied some sort of order to the chaos around me. If the three detectives had simply slapped their hands and said, “Let’s do this” without poring over a drawn-out plan, I would have felt a lot worse.

  We adjourned with a plan to meet at the high school parking lot a half-hour before the scheduled meeting time. We’d then go over last-minute instructions before proceeding to the home-improvement store. As everyone filed out, Cheli affectionately tousled my hair and gave some quiet words of encouragement, but they weren’t quiet enough—I noticed Detective Ricohr catch the gesture out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t say anything.

  I took a long, hot shower and shaved. After twenty years of shaving every morning at roughly the same time, an evening version of the same activity felt foreign. Even my face rejected the change in routine in the form of several rosebuds on my neck. I dressed in a shirt Claire had bought me for Christmas—the loudest, brightest shirt I owned and one I never wore. I headed out early in case there was traffic. There was always traffic.

  It was the unmistakable combination of burnt orange and diesel that initially gave me pause. I was instantly brought back to that afternoon in my office—Ed admitting he used the Resting Room for personal calls, wiping away a tear with his thick, hairy finger, calling me “Mr. Restic.” For a few seconds I was actually there in my office. But what I struggled to comprehend was why the smell of Ed’s awful cologne was now in my own car.

  Then came the voice from behind me.

  I was so startled my foot jammed down the accelerator and the engine whined in a piercing shriek as only a hybrid car can do. Luckily, I was still in park or I’d have driven the car right through my neighbor’s fence and into his chicken coop.

  “Take it easy,” Temekian instructed. “Just do what you were supposed to do.”

  “I’m not sure what that is,” I said.

  “What did the cops tell you?”

  “We’re meeting at the Burbank High School parking lot.” “What time?”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  “We have time. Take the 5,” he instructed. “And give me your cell phone.”

  I fished my phone out of my pocket and handed it to him. He was scrunched down on the floor of the car with his feet extended to the spot directly behind me. In that position he had a clear angle of me and could watch all of my moves.

  We took Griffin over to the freeway on-ramp. There was a bottleneck at this portion of the freeway where the road dipped and curved around downtown and crossed two major mergers with the Santa Monica Freeway and the Arroyo Seco Parkway. I eased my way into the sea of red taillights and inched along with the rest of the tide. The hybrid was on electric power now and unsettlingly quiet. For once I wished I had a gas-guzzler with a big engine to provide a little noise. Instead, I was left to contemplate the situation while listening to the uneven breathing coming from the back seat.

  “What’s going to happen tonight?” the voice asked eventually. “At the parking lot.”

  “I’m supposed to meet you and convince you to come with me to the Burbank police station.”

  “And what if I don’t want to?”

  I thought over my response and decided there was no use trying to make something up. “The police are going to arrest you before you get out of the lot.”

  “They’re going to kill me,” he said.

  I caught a brief glimpse of Temekian, his face illuminated by a big rig’s lights as it changed into our lane behind us. The rig made one more move to exit, and Temekian was again in darkness. The face I saw looked much younger than I remembered. It stared disconsolately at the car floor.

  “Don’t do anything foolish and you won’t get hurt,” I advised. “They just want to talk to you. And by foolish I mean trying to run, or fighting your way out. The word is you are armed and dangerous.”

  “That’s what they said?” he scoffed. “Now I know they are going to kill me.”

  “No one is getting killed if we just do what we’re supposed to do. Are you armed?” I asked.

  “You think I’m going to give them an excuse to shoot me?” he answered. I assumed that meant he wasn’t, but I couldn’t assume he was telling the truth. It did put me a little more at ease, however.

  “Why don’t we just call the police and tell them I’m bringing you in.”

  “No. Drive to Burbank like I said.”

  We crawled along a little farther then came to a dead stop.

  “Why do you think they’re going to kill you?�
� I asked.

  “Because they are in on it.”

  “In on what?”

  “Everything,” he said.

  My mind raced with possibilities. It was well established that Valenti’s influence extended deep into the power structure of this city, but it had never crossed my mind that it might include the police. It was a fantastic allegation but one I couldn’t dismiss outright. I rattled off the names of the players, from Valenti to Claire to McIntyre—anyone who was remotely connected to Ed’s disappearance. Nothing registered until I got to one name.

  “Yeah, I worked with him,” Temekian responded when I asked him about Langford. “I helped him on some jobs. He fixed up apartments in bad neighborhoods and sometimes there were people living there who didn’t want to get out.”

  “So you helped them. Is this what you did on Holcomb?”

  “Yeah, that fat guy was stubborn.” He laughed. “Took four of us to get him off that chair. He sweated so much he was slippery to hold onto. Big fat fish on the floor.”

  “Why did Langford buy those buildings?”

  “I don’t know. Because he wanted to make money?”

  “Was he buying for someone else? Does the name Salas mean anything to you?”

  “Salas? No, I don’t know a Salas. Langford paid me in cash, and that’s all I care about.”

  “Did Langford hire you to work on Ed?” I asked. This time Temekian was silent, so quiet that I glanced into the back seat to see if he was still there. “What happened to Ed?” I repeated.

  “They want to blame me for everything,” he said, sulking.

  Over the years in my role in Human Resources, I’d noticed a trend among the guilty; they would succumb to a sickening level of self-pity in the moments immediately after being caught. We labeled it “WIM” for “woe is me.” During WIM, associates would lament the decisions that got them there and then apply those decisions to some seemingly long list of misfortunes they had suffered. While admitting fault, they also deflected blame by attaching their actions to some higher force at play. Listening to Temekian sulk felt like textbook WIM.