Missing Persons
Page 5
Smaller quarters were carved out for use either as office space or accommodations for other members of the family’s entourage, and luminaries and visitors entertained by the Longs.
I made my way inside the Pavilion’s main entrance. The lobby featured a fifteen-window box-office; a gift shop brimming with Heart of Our Saviour products, including clothing, home furnishings, and souvenir geegaws; and three fast-food and beverage concessions.
Where photos of Jerry Seinfeld and Robin Williams once hung, were dozens of larger-than-life-sized renderings of Barry Long, Junior, captured in various poses of rapturous ecstasy, all of them for sale.
I hurried across the lobby and stepped through a pair of gilt-edged double doors into the arena itself, where I spotted numbers of workmen engaged in a variety of activities.
Scaffolding had been constructed on the stage and a pair of young men were attaching theatre-style lighting instruments onto a metal grid that would later be raised to the ceiling above. Beneath the stage was an orchestra pit where a man in a white uniform was tuning a Steinway grand piano.
I had just begun to circle the arena in search of the living quarters when I spotted a young woman wearing a plain black shift over a white button-down blouse hurrying toward me.
“Welcome to Long Pavilion,” she said breathlessly as she approached. “My name is Rosemary. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but the arena is closed. You need to step outside.”
“I was just looking around.”
“I understand, but I’m afraid you have to step outside just the same.”
She appeared to be in her mid- to late-twenties, plain-looking and self-conscious, devoid of makeup or any visible sense of personal style, but zealously earnest.
“Please.” She pointed to the nearest door and urged me to accompany her there. “I’m sorry, but because of the upcoming Heart of Our Saviour Celebration, the tours have been temporarily suspended.”
She edged me in the direction of the lobby.
“So I can’t look around?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Even just a little?”
“Again, I’m sorry.”
“Because of the Celebration?”
“Yes.”
“Can I at least purchase a picture or two of Reverend Long? My mother is such a fan.”
“I’m sorry. Nothing’s open.”
“She’ll be so disappointed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is there any way I can convince you to stop saying that?”
“Saying what?”
“I’m sorry. It sounds so insincere.”
She clearly didn’t know what to say next.
“Does the Reverend live here?” I asked.
“Here in the Pavilion?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to give out that information.”
“There you go again.”
“I think you should leave.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You.”
“But I’ve hardly seen anything.”
“I’m sorry.”
Chapter Thirteen
I drove slowly around the exterior of the Pavilion. In back, I noticed the stage door and beyond it, another separate entrance brandishing a sign that read, Private. No Admittance. Several cars were parked in assigned spaces. I pulled into a spot marked Visitor Parking and headed for the No Admittance entrance. I pulled the handle and, to my surprise, the door opened.
I stepped into a giant foyer, a large space containing any number of chairs and benches, lamps and tables, and walls adorned with billboard-size framed photos of the Reverend Barry looking toward the heavens, his arms outstretched, a rapturous smile adorning his face.
There were two other doors in the foyer. I tried the closest one, but it was locked. The second, however, wasn’t. I opened it and stepped into what appeared to be family quarters. I walked tentatively through a handsomely appointed living area and into an adjoining playroom, with teddy-bear wallpaper and undersized furniture. Toys and picture books were scattered everywhere.
A young man in a black suit walked swiftly in my direction.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “this area is off limits. You’ll have to leave.”
He took hold of my arm and attempted to hustle me outside. In response, I grabbed his wrist and twisted it backward, forcing him off balance and sending him plummeting to the floor.
“No touchee,” I said.
“Robert,” the man cried out.
Within seconds, two other men, also in black suits, came rushing into the playroom. These men were little more than thugs in suits. I understood why Rosalita Gonzalez feared them. Spotting me, one of them began yelling. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I was hoping to see Reverend Long.”
“You’re off limits.”
“The door was open.”
“It should have been locked.”
“But it wasn’t. Now that I’m here, couldn’t I have a moment with the Reverend?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Listen to me, pal. There are two ways you can leave. Either of your own accord. Or on a gurney. Your choice.”
“A gurney?”
“You heard me.”
He stepped closer to me.
“Okay, okay.” I raised my hands as if in surrender.
I turned and headed for the door. The man walked beside me. Once outside, he shoved me away. “Don’t come back. You’re no longer welcome here.”
“Not even for the Heart of Our Saviour Celebration?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s not a very spiritual attitude.”
“That your Jeep?”
“It is.”
“I’d advise you plant your ass inside it and then get the fuck out of here.”
The man took a step toward me.
I flashed him my most sincere smile, then climbed into the Wrangler and drove off.
Chapter Fourteen
At the Hall of Justice reception desk, I asked the attendant for the whereabouts of Judge Ezekiel Azenberg’s chambers. After checking my credentials, she provided me with the information.
I climbed three flights of stairs and located Room 305. There was no identifying sign on the door. Hesitant to enter unannounced, I knocked twice. After several moments, Judge Azenberg appeared in the doorway.
“Yes,” he said.
“Judge Azenberg,” I said. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Buddy Steel.”
“Do I know you?”
“You probably know my father.”
“Burton Steel?”
“Yes.”
“Come in. Come in.”
Judge Azenberg stepped aside so I could enter. Once we were seated, the judge said, “What brings you to my chambers, Mr. Steel?”
“Buddy.”
“Buddy, it is.”
“Forgive me for showing up unannounced, but something’s come up that might be worthy of your attention.”
Judge Azenberg looked at me questioningly. He wasn’t a young man, but he had about him an air of youth. He wore a gray V-necked cashmere sweater over neatly pressed blue slacks. He had a full head of white hair. Smile lines adorned the corners of his mouth.
“It’s about the Reverend Barry Long, Junior,” I said.
“What about him?”
I explained the circumstances that prompted my visit.
“And you want me to issue the warrant?”
“I do.”
Judge Azenberg sat silently for a while. “How certain are you about this?”
“Certain enough to believe that something untoward is going on in his universe.”
“And you believe he may have killed her?”
“I’m not willing to go that far. I have no proof she’s dead. But she’s missing and my efforts to find her are being thwarted by the Reverend and his associates. I don’t appreciate it and I very much want to take it to the next level.”
“Which would be a search of their premises.”
“Yes.”
“What is it you expect to find?”
“I’m not exactly certain. I don’t expect to discover any foul play, but there might well be a clue or two lying around that could point me in the right direction.”
“The right direction being?”
“The one leading to Catharine Long.”
Judge Azenberg sat in quiet contemplation for several more moments. “All right. Send me the paperwork. I’ll sign it.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
“No need for thanks. I’m persuaded by your argument and, equally as important, by your concern for the welfare of Mrs. Long. As we used to say in law school, ‘agis quo adis.’”
“Which means?”
“Do what you have to do.”
Chapter Fifteen
The directory in the lobby listed the Rosin & Rosin Advertising Agency as occupying offices on the top floor of the four-story office building located in downtown Freedom.
I stepped off the elevator and pushed through the glass doors that led to the agency’s outer office. An unmanned receptionist’s desk stood guard over the entrance to the inner sanctum.
The walls of the small waiting room were formed of smoked-glass panels that were backlit from inside. An industrial gray three-seater sofa was positioned in front of one of the panels, along with a side table, a square-based modern lamp, and a wooden rack that held a number of haphazardly arranged magazines.
I stood in the empty room for several moments, then walked past the receptionist’s desk and through one of the smoked-glass doors. Inside was a narrow hallway separating a handful of cubicles, each of them doorless, featuring glass-paneled walls. I peered into each cubicle searching for signs of life. The occupant of one of them looked up when I appeared.
He was forty something, bearded and shaggy haired, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved Polo shirt over which he wore a red fleece vest. “Did you bring the check?”
I didn’t respond.
“Did Ms. Lebersfeld give you the check?”
I shrugged.
“You’re from Lebersfeld and Klein?”
“No.”
“You’re not here with the check.”
“Correct.”
Now the man didn’t say anything.
An attractive young woman materialized from one of the nearby cubicles, wearing a pale gray hoodie over black tights, carrying with her several pages of advertisement mockups. She shifted the pages in order to hold them more easily. “Who exactly are you?”
“Buddy Steel.”
“What can we do for you, Mr. Steel?”
“Sheriff Steel.”
“Sheriff?”
“Of San Remo County.”
“Shouldn’t you be wearing some kind of uniform? You know, by way of identification?”
“I have an aversion to uniforms.”
She exchanged glances with the shaggy-haired man.
“Please forgive us. We were expecting someone else. I’m Pippa Rosin and this is my husband, James.”
I nodded to each of them.
James Rosin leaned forward. “What brings you here, Sheriff Steel?”
“My never-ending quest for information.”
“What kind of information?”
“You’re listed as the ad agency for the Heart of Our Saviour Ministry.”
Rosin glanced at his wife, then at me. “That’s correct.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“A bad time for what?”
“A chat.”
Again Rosin looked at his wife. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You must think us terribly rude. Please have a seat.”
“A seat would be good.”
Rosin pointed to the two visitors’ chairs in front of his desk. I sat. Pippa sat beside me.
“May we offer you anything?” Pippa asked.
“Thank you, no.”
“A Coke? Some coffee?”
“I’m good, thank you.”
James sat back in his comfortable-looking armchair. “Okay,” he said, “shoot.”
“You do the Ministry’s advertising?”
“We do.”
“What exactly does that entail?”
James smiled. “Ordinarily, we prepare whatever ads the Ministry might require for the promotion of any of their events. For instance, we created the ad campaign for the upcoming Heart of Our Saviour Celebration. We devised multimedia spots and promos to appear on television and in print.”
“Commercials.”
“You might call them commercials, although we much prefer to refer to them as media messages.”
I nodded. “Can you tell me where can I see these media messages?”
Rosin looked at Pippa. After several moments, he said, “We’re expecting them to begin appearing shortly.”
“You mean I can’t see them now?”
“That’s correct.”
“Doesn’t the Celebration take place next week?”
“It does.”
“Forgive my ignorance, but don’t media ad campaigns generally begin appearing well in advance of the actual event?”
“Normally they do, yes.”
“And this one?”
“This one’s an anomaly,” James said.
“In what way?”
Neither of them said anything. They exchanged glances.
“Am I missing something here?”
“The ad campaign can’t begin airing until the commercial time is paid for.”
“Like eating in a fast-food restaurant.”
“Excuse me?”
“You pay before you eat.”
James smiled. “Something like that, yes.”
“So what you’re saying is the airtime hasn’t yet been paid for.”
“That’s what I’m saying, yes.”
“May I ask a dumb question?”
“Feel free.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why hasn’t the ad space been paid for?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Do you have a good answer?”
“That’s the point. We don’t have any answer.”
“I’m going to assume you’ve billed the Ministry for the cost of the space.”
“We have.”
“And they haven’t paid you?”
“Correct.”
I didn’t say anything.
James took a deep breath. “May I speak candidly, Sheriff Steel?”
“I would certainly hope so.”
“The actual campaign began airing two months ago. As per the pre-approved media plan. We opened with a blitz. We peppered the airways and the print media with Celebration advertisements. We also bought a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of television time. We advanced the funds for these buys. Exactly as we had done in years past. We’ve had a long relationship with the Ministry, so we made the buy on its behalf and then billed them for it.”
“And they didn’t pay.”
“We didn’t become alarmed until our second billing went unanswered. We’re a small agency and don’t have the assets to cover the sizable amount we fronted.”
“What did they say?”
“You mean the Ministry?”
“Yes.”
“That’s just it. They didn’t say anything. They never responded. Our reserves were quickly exhausted. We were forced to lay off our staff. We’re now
looking at possibly closing the agency.”
“Did you tell this to anyone at the Ministry?”
“We told it to everyone at the Ministry. Those who would speak with us, that is. We were never able to make contact with either the Reverend or his brother.”
“Hickey.”
“Yes. Hickey was our principal contact.”
“And he refused to take your calls.”
“Not only that,” Pippa said, “when James showed up at his office unannounced, he refused to see him. He sneaked out a back door, the son of a bitch.”
“So what happens now?”
“God only knows. We’ve spoken with a lawyer, but without assets, we’re unable to afford his fee. We’re trying to raise enough money to cover it.”
“Wouldn’t this be an open-and-shut case?”
“You’d think,” Pippa said. “But without a signed authorization to spend the money on the Ministry’s behalf, the lawyer said there’s no assurance we would successfully retrieve our loss.”
“Yikes.”
“Yikes, indeed,” James said.
The three of us sat in silence for a while.
“Why do you think they didn’t pay you?”
“Although it’s hard to believe,” Pippa said, “I think they’re experiencing some kind of financial meltdown.”
“You know, someone else told me there were rumors they were delinquent in paying their suppliers.”
“You mean it’s endemic?”
“It might be.”
The Rosins sat silently for a while.
“Shit,” James said.
“Exactly,” I echoed.
Chapter Sixteen
Marsha Russo stuck her head into my office and bellowed, “Show time.”
I looked at my watch. “I don’t get it.”
“What don’t you get?”
“This whole thing. I don’t understand what happened to Catharine Long. I can’t figure out why they’re having financial issues. None of it makes sense.”
“Ours is not to reason why…”
“That’s very helpful, Marsha.”
“What do you think is going on?”
“I’m totally clueless.”
“What else is new?”