The Silent Second Read online

  ADVANCE PRAISE

  “Just when you thought detective fiction had hit a plateau, along comes The Silent Second. Adam Phillips takes us into new territory, running a tight ship, sniffing out LA in detail, and then covering it with a steely patina of darkness in true noir fashion. This taut, smart, fast-paced thriller is from a fresh author to watch.”

  — Jim Heimann, executive editor at Taschen America and author of Sins of the City and Los Angeles: Portrait of a City

  “The Silent Second is Chinatown for the Human Resources Department. Full of humor, outrage, and suspense. Adam Phillips’s book is everything a thriller should be.”

  — Phoef Sutton, New York Times–bestselling author of Heart Attack and Vine and Wicked Charms

  “Beneath the surface of every corporate drone is a story waiting to be told. Adam Phillips solves the mystery hidden in each seemingly innocuous word, mannerism, and expression to expose another piece in this twisting puzzle. Surprising and funny, it turns out this HR professional also makes a damn fine investigator and tells a story that feels honest and fantastic at the same time.”

  — Sarah Cooper, creator of TheCooperReview.com and author of 100 Tricks to Appear Smart in Meetings

  “I love it when a writer ‘gets it.’ Doesn’t take him- or herself too seriously. In that sense, Adam Walker Phillips not only gets it, he takes it to a revolutionary, unique, and often hilarious, new level—all at the expense of several sleepless nights while burning through pages of The Silent Second, one of the most engaging and refreshing novels to hit the market this season. Think Monk meets Moonlighting, with a whole bunch of The Office tossed in for good measure—that is, a burned-out HR director who’s a hybrid of Marlowe and Michael Scott. Like me, you’ll laugh your ass off while immersed in the mystery.”

  — M. William Phelps, New York Times–bestselling author of Dangerous Ground: My Friendship with a Serial Killer

  “Bodies are piling up. It’s the ultimate people problem. This guy in HR can handle it.”

  — Joe Toplyn, Emmy-winning writer for Monk and Late Show with David Letterman and author of Comedy Writing for Late-Night TV

  “The real mystery here is how Phillips keeps elevating the suspense and the humor simultaneously.”

  — Bob Halloran, author of White Devil and Irish Thunder: The Hard Life and Times of Micky Ward

  Copyright © 2017 by Adam Walker Phillips

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all names and characters, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Other than obviously factual locations, all places are also products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by Prospect Park Books

  2359 Lincoln Avenue

  Altadena, California 91001

  www.prospectparkbooks.com

  Distributed by Consortium Book Sales & Distribution

  www.cbsd.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Phillips, Adam Walker, 1971- author.

  Title: The silent second: a Chuck Restic mystery / by Adam Walker Phillips.

  Description: Altadena, California: Prospect Park Books, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016053803 (print) | LCCN 2017012183 (ebook) | ISBN 9781945551055 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder--Investigation--Fiction. | Self-actualization (Psychology)--Fiction. | Private investigators--Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General.

  Classification: LCC PS3616.H4475 (ebook) | LCC PS3616.H4475 S55 2017 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016053803

  Cover design by Nancy Nimoy

  Book layout and design by Amy Inouye, Future Studio

  For Olivia

  CONTENTS

  MAMBA FOR MEN

  THE JEWEL CITY

  HOOK NOSE

  RED ZONE

  ARMENIAN POWER

  LOCATION, LOCATION, VIEW

  ELYSIAN FIELDS

  HE’S GONE

  LOVE WHAT YOU DO

  CLOCK RUNS OUT

  HEROES

  GIRLS IN SUMMER DRESSES

  MIRADA ARRASADORA

  THE STEAMER INCIDENT

  IT’S MUTUAL

  KNIGHTS ERRANT OF THE PURPLE CRUSADERS

  B&E

  CHOLOS LIKE DOO-WOP

  THE ARROYO

  WHAT’S IN A ZONE?

  A LESSON IN CIVIC DUTY

  THE AQUARIUM ON THE HILL

  CINDER BLOCKS

  WHISPERING PINES

  CADILLAC MAN

  THAT COLOGNE AGAIN

  A FINE MESS

  THE UPWARD TURN

  THE BETTER GOOD

  THAT OLD ROUTINE

  RIALTO

  EL PRINCIPE AND HIS COURT

  SMILE NOW, CRY LATER

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MAMBA FOR MEN

  My first and only interaction with Ed Vadaresian was over an excessive-cologne complaint. An administrative assistant and mother-to-be on the thirty-second floor was unable to complete her daily functions because of debilitating headaches she suffered throughout the day. She attributed the headaches to a heightened sense of smell brought about by her pregnancy, and to the overwhelming scent of Mr. Vadaresian’s cologne. It appeared that his simply walking past her cubicle sent her reeling with sharp pains behind her left eye for which the only respite was a long nap in the darkened back seat of her Subaru.

  The complaint was quickly escalated to my desk after an initial review warranted involvement from senior management. The administrative assistant had hit the trifecta for trial lawyers: lesbian, African American, and over forty. Throw in pregnant and she attained a legendary superfecta status, which most HR executives never witness in their entire careers.

  The administrative assistant was well known to our department. In her brief four-year career she had lodged a total of seven complaints, including the one against Ed. They ranged from the ludicrous (serving Aunt Jemima syrup at the annual pancake social was a direct assault on her as a woman of color) to the extremely ludicrous (a request to eradicate the phrase “low-hanging fruit” from our lexicon as it was offensive to women of a certain age). She also had an issue with tardiness, failed to meet many of her deadlines, and overall was a consistently inconsistent performer. All of this, however, was irrelevant when it came to the complaint that she lodged against Ed.

  Human Resources exists not as a “resource” for associates (the term “employee” was eradicated decades ago from corporate offices) but as a way for corporations to limit exposure to lawsuits. The majority of programs, counseling, and conflict resolution services all worked toward a single goal: avoid getting sued. A decade ago I unveiled a new concept at the company called the “Mother’s Room” (it was renamed “Resting Room” after a complaint by a single-parent dad). This was a dedicated room on every floor where a mom could go to relax, or if she was breast-feeding, to pump milk in private. Each room contained a small cot, a mini-fridge for the milk, and a phone in case of emergency. Publicly, we wanted to encourage a healthy work/life balance and smooth the difficult transition from having a child to returning to work. Privately, we witnessed an alarming spike in maternity-fueled legal actions and figured the costs of maintaining a seven-by-five room with an Army cot paled in comparison to the cost of attorney fees and cash settlements on unhealthy workplace lawsuits. There is no justice in Corporate America, only the len
s of the liability framework.

  So when the excessive-cologne complaint was lodged by a low-performing associate with a history of mental instability against an associate who had a long, respected track record of adding value to the company, we had no choice but to bring Ed Vadaresian in for some feedback.

  “Have a seat, Ed,” I said, leading him to the little, round table in my office. I closed the door to give us some privacy but immediately regretted it. The combination of bergamot orange and myrrh with a healthy dash of gasoline was lethal on the nasal cavity. The first thing I noticed was a dull, numbing sensation high up in my nose between my eyes. I got the light-headed swirls of a nonsmoker taking his first drag.

  “Am I in trouble?” he asked.

  “No, you’re not in trouble,” I told him as my eyes began to water. “There’s an issue that’s been brought to our attention that we need to clear the air on.”

  But before I could launch into it, he started to cry. His shoulders heaved as he tried to compose himself. Attempts to breathe sputtered into short gasps for air.

  Ed was in his early fifties though he looked younger. Like a lot of Armenians he was in that “forever forty” camp of men that age early but reach a form of stasis and they seemingly stop getting older. Ed worked in our Office Services division, which was a catchall group that handled everything from mail delivery to ergonomic evaluations. He was a workhorse who still lived by the old adage of hard work and respect for the people who pay you. He hadn’t realized yet that he was more valuable to the company than the company was to him.

  “It’s about the Mother’s Room, isn’t it?” he blurted out. “That nice Chinese lady—”

  “Asian American,” I corrected.

  “—on thirty-two saw me come out yesterday. I only used the phone once because I left my cell at home.” He rubbed his eyes with one of his thick fingers. “I promise I won’t do it again, Mr. Restic.”

  The unnecessary formality of addressing me as “mister” even though I was younger than him telegraphed the fear behind the promise. Associates had good reason to distrust Human Resources. A simple word like “issue” could be the death knell of a career. One minute you are chatting about this non-event, and two weeks later you have a case built against you. Some Tuesday before noon you receive an unexpected “Got a sec?” call, and suddenly you are down in HR signing papers that seal your termination. In a job that had few redeeming aspects, this was among the worst.

  My co-manager and office neighbor, Paul Darbin, relished it. He’d linger on phrases such as “not meeting expectations” to give them the gravitas of a life sentence. He sometimes paced behind a seated associate like he was a Stasi interrogator. When interviewing associates over a complaint, he’d wait until they finished talking before slowly, and very deliberately, writing a note on his pad that he’d cover with his other hand. One time I snuck a peak at his notebook and discovered he was writing out his grocery list.

  “This isn’t about the phone in the Mother’s Room,” I told him, though the thought of the original complainer stumbling upon Ed as she tried to use the special room was enough to make me think it should be.

  “It’s not?”

  “No. We’ve received a complaint that I want to talk over with you.”

  “What kind of complaint?” he asked with trepidation. “About my work?”

  “No, not your work,” I said and realized how incredibly inane this whole thing was. A man who had done nothing wrong now had to be humiliated with all the formality of a federal deposition. Protocol dictated I document everything, including the Mother’s Room phone admission, but I cast it all aside and just told him the truth.

  “Ed, you’re wearing too much cologne.”

  He looked legitimately befuddled. “Someone complained about my cologne? Why would they do that?”

  “Well, for one it’s an awful scent. Two, the person who complained might be certifiably insane.” The latter comment was reckless and undoubtedly would come back to haunt me but it had been brewing for years. I was starting to verbalize what I had questioned all along—there was so little worth to a life spent avoiding lawsuits.

  “You really don’t like it?”

  “Ed, I’m telling you that stuff is awful. What’s it called?”

  “Mamba for Men,” he answered, and the image of a white-fanged cobra coiled around a twisting bottle sprang to mind. “The young lady at the counter said it was perfect on me.”

  “They get paid to lie,” I explained. “How many spritzes do you use in the morning? And be honest.”

  “Two,” he laughed, which meant five.

  “Okay, make it a half spritz and we should be fine.”

  He nodded, but I could see something else was on his mind. “About the phone in the—”

  “I didn’t hear anything, Ed,” I said as I led him to the door and welcomed the fresh air from the hallway. Ed turned to me and shook my hand, ever the professional. “You’re a good man, Mr. Restic.”

  “No, I’m not,” I said. “But I’m trying.”

  Two weeks later, the man who never called in sick, who several times a year was forced to take time off when he hit his maximum accrual of vacation days, didn’t show up to work. One unexcused absence turned into two, then a week’s worth, and Ed Vadaresian was officially declared a missing person.

  THE JEWEL CITY

  Corporations have a regenerative quality that allows them to adapt to any internal disruptions, and as such, Ed’s duties were seamlessly absorbed by other associates with nary a hiccup. Once again the myth that “this place will miss me when I’m gone” was dispelled. Policy dictated that Ed’s unused vacation days were drained before being placed on leave without pay, which was partially subsidized by the state of California. That ran out after two and a half months, and Ed Vadaresian was summarily removed from our books.

  When I learned of Ed’s termination, I decided to break from policy and personally deliver his belongings to his family. It seemed unnecessarily callous to mail a trove of his effects to loved ones still searching for answers. But I had another reason to take the drive out to Glendale.

  I’d begun to fear the weekend. While most associates counted off days like cartoon prisoners—“Three more days till Friday!”—I viewed the approaching two days off with particular dread. It all started with my separation from Claire. Without the distractions of meaningless office tasks, I was left to ponder how it all fell apart. Dropping off Ed’s belongings provided at least a short respite from that inevitable contemplation of a failed marriage, after which I could never come up with an explanation.

  I grabbed several boxes and headed down to Ed’s floor. A fifteen-year career at the same desk can generate quite a lot of stuff, and I anticipated hoarding levels of accumulation—folders of corporate memos that had never been read, a fifty-photograph collage of newborn twins, enough potted bamboo plants to open a kiosk in Chinatown. But Ed’s desk was remarkably sparse. He had few personal items, and those he had lacked anything remotely unique to him. There were fifteen years’ worth of corporate appreciation—all crystal, all from Tiffany, all engraved with his name and anniversary year. Other than that, there was a pile of non-work-related paperwork and an extra brown belt I assumed was for those days when he forgot to wear one. All of his belongings fit comfortably in a standard file box.

  I walked to the elevator lobby with the contents tucked under my arm. I was growing unnecessarily morose carrying the accumulation of a man’s career in such a small box when my co-manager Paul came sauntering into the lobby.

  “Hey Chuck, what you got there?”

  Paul kept a ponytail but none of the ideals of the counterculture. Like a lot of other ex-hippies, he seemed more interested in telling everyone else what they were doing wrong than actually living what he preached.

  “I’m going to drop Ed Vadaresian’s belongings off to his family,” I told him.

  “That’s cool,” he said as the elevator chimed and we stepped in. “Who
’s Ed again?”

  Until you learned the shortcuts in Los Angeles, you never felt like you belonged. I took surface streets out of downtown and avoided the freeway rush hour at its usual crawl. I sped around Dodger Stadium through Elysian Park, and came up the back way along the LA River. I crossed over one of the concrete bridges and wound my way into Glendale.

  The city was one long, sloping hill from the lowlands of the LA River basin to the top of the San Gabriel foothills. Once a bastion of white Protestants, Glendale transformed drastically over the course of the last fifty years. The city’s immigrants settled into neat little rows like a cross-section of the earth’s strata exposing millennia of climate change. At the bottom were dark swaths of newly arrived Central Americans, which quickly gave way to soft patches of Filipinos and then Persians. As you moved farther up the hill you hit a broad stretch of Armenians crammed into the tiny houses and apartment complexes near the downtown. At the very top perched a rarefied group in the foothills, where the air was thinner and the skin several shades lighter.

  When I came to Los Angeles some twenty years ago, I settled in Glendale for the cheap rent and proximity to my office downtown. Everyone assumed I was Armenian because I lived there. Correcting them was inevitably followed by the question, “Why would you live in Glendale if you didn’t have to?”

  Ed’s house was on one of the flat, grid-like streets that slashed through the area south of the freeway. The house itself sat in perpetual shadow from the large apartment complex next door. I parked my car among a sea of late-model luxury sedans that didn’t align with the less-than-modest neighborhood.

  There were several Armenian teenagers in overly designed shirts milling about on Ed’s front porch. Fashion and grooming took an unusually high priority among the younger generation of Armenian men. They tended to have an effete obsession with appearance that resulted in entire days spent at the gym, the nail salon, and the mall.

  I grabbed the box of Ed’s belongings out of my trunk and headed up the concrete walk. I scanned the group and tried to figure out which one was Ed’s son. I didn’t have much time to guess because as soon as they saw me approaching they scattered like mercury from a broken thermometer. No one ran—they all just glided away. The only one left was a thinner, hairier version of Ed, who also shared his father’s predilection for too much cologne.