“There is one thing.”
I caught Marsha’s response from the corner of my eye. “I knew I should have gotten out when the getting was good.”
“When Reverend Barry was attempting to throw us off the scent, he said that Catharine was with his sister. Why don’t we cherchez la femme?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“See if you can locate the sister. Margaret, right?”
Marsha nodded.
“And while you’re at it, indulge me a little.”
“This is even worse than I imagined. Indulge you, how?”
“I want to know if any of these clowns have priors.”
“I presume you’re referring to Barry, Barry, and Hickham.”
“Correct.”
“And you want to know if any of them have a record.”
“Correct again.”
“And you want me to look into it.”
“You catch on fast.”
She smiled. “Years of practice.”
Chapter Seventeen
Eight police cruisers convened about a mile from the Long estate, accompanied by a Lenco BearCat Counter-Attack truck, complete with a battering-ram attachment, for use if necessary.
A light rain was falling when I gave the signal. I pulled out and led the procession to the main entrance, where I pressed the call button. It was quickly answered.
“Long residence,” a male voice responded.
“This is County Sheriff Buddy Steel. Please open the gate.”
There was only silence.
“Are you still there? Did you hear me?”
“I’m sorry. I’m alone here. I have no authority to let you in.”
“I’m in possession of a search warrant signed by Judge Ezekiel Azenberg. Please open the gate.”
After several moments, the voice said, “I can’t do that.”
“Should you continue to ignore my request, I’ll have no choice but to ram the gate.”
“May I at least see the warrant?”
“You may.”
“I’ll come right down.”
The intercom went silent.
We waited.
In short order, a young man came walking swiftly down the driveway. I got out of my cruiser and waited for him to arrive at the gate.
As he approached, I saw that it was the same young man who had greeted us on our first visit. I handed him the warrant through the bars of the gate.
“It’s Jeffrey, right?”
The man started and peered at me. “It is,” he said. “Thank you for remembering. Hardly anyone does.” He waved the warrant. “How do I know this is authentic?”
“Because I say it is.”
“And if I don’t open the gate?”
“Do you see the BearCat behind me? The one with the battering ram?”
Jeffrey took note of the Bear Cat, his spirits visibly sinking.
“That’s the alternative.”
“You mean you’d barge your way in.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Jeffrey stepped to the gate and punched in four numbers. The gate slid open. He moved back to allow the convoy to proceed.
I felt sorry for him, out of his league and over his head. “Get in. I’ll drive you up to the house.”
Jeffrey shrugged and climbed into my cruiser. I waved the BearCat off and proceeded up the winding driveway.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
“We’re going to execute a search of the premises.”
“They’ll make me pay for this.”
“For what?”
“For letting you onto the property. Hickey will go bat shit.”
“I presume he’s at the Pavilion.”
“They’re all at the Pavilion. Except me and Milton. And the maids.”
“Milton?”
“The estate manager.”
“Where is Milton now?”
“Somewhere out on the grounds.”
“Where?”
“I wouldn’t know. He could be anywhere.”
The procession arrived in front of the big house and parked in the motor court. No other vehicles were there.
I stepped out and called to Johnny Kennerly who had emerged from one of the other cruisers. “Let the games begin.”
Johnny raised his arm and seven officers scurried across the porch and into the house.
“Where did you last see him?” I asked Jeffrey.
“Milton?”
“Yes.”
“I saw him at breakfast.”
“And since then?”
“I don’t know where he is.”
I motioned to Al Striar, who was standing nearby. “Find Milton. Jeffrey here will direct you.”
I turned back to the young man. “This is Deputy Striar. Perhaps you could assist him.”
Nervous, Jeffrey began shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I’ll do my best.”
“What exactly is it you do here, Jeffrey? Other than answer the doorbell, that is.”
“I’m an intern. I was selected from among more than five hundred applicants.”
“Very impressive. What is it an intern does around here?”
“Lots of things. What I like best is working on the TV productions.
He smiled. I noticed anew his mouthful of oversized, glimmering teeth.
“Do you whiten them?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your teeth. Have they been whitened?”
“No, sir. They’ve always been like that.”
“Amazing.”
My tongue unconsciously poked around my own teeth in search of any potential cavities. “You’re lucky.”
“Genes.”
“Luck,” I countered.
Chapter Eighteen
The investigation began on the top floor. I joined the search team, which included Johnny Kennerly, Marsha Russo, and P.J. Lincoln.
The entire floor had been converted into a sort of dormitory, presumably for the resident staff. Ten rooms, five to a side, were separated by a narrow hallway, accessible only by a single staircase. Each room was painted in antique white and contained a bed, dresser, desk, two lamps, and an armchair. Not all of them appeared to be occupied.
The dormitory’s sloping ceilings were low, barely allowing room for a person to stand. Only a few had windows. Separate bathrooms for men and women were located at both ends of the hallway.
The occupants were present in two of the rooms. They were young women in their early twenties, each terrified by our presence. Both wore traditional housemaid’s uniforms. Neither spoke English.
I instructed P.J. Lincoln to find Raul Ybanez, one of the two Latino members of the San Remo Sheriff’s Department, and summon him to the mansion so he might interview the two women.
I wandered through the other rooms and found five that were lived in. I guessed they belonged to the security staff, most of whom had likely accompanied the Reverend to Long Pavilion. I tasked P.J. with inventorying the rooms and gleaning as much information as he could about the residents.
The floor below consisted of four separate suites, each opening onto a large and airy U-shaped landing that stood at the head of a grand staircase. Oversized casement windows provided natural light as well as ocean vistas.
Three matching crystal chandeliers hung in a line from the fifteen-foot-high ceiling. Groupings of ornate furniture were arranged on the landing. Gold-framed Western-style paintings adorned the walls.
The master suite included a large bedroom, double-sized bathroom, two adjoining dressing rooms, and an exercise room containing a treadmill, two stationary bikes, and a weight machine.
There was also a family room with a wall-mounted, wide-screen TV, a half-sized ref
rigerator, two coffeemakers, and a microwave.
I wandered around, searching for anything that might resemble a clue.
A child’s room held a single bed upon which rested a pair of stuffed animals. A bedside table had on it a copy of Margaret Wise Smith and Clement Hurd’s picture book, Goodnight Moon. A tricycle stood in the center of the richly carpeted floor.
There was a no-frills room with a queen bed and a bureau, on top of which were two photographs, one a close-up of little Barry III mugging for the camera, and the other a shot of an elderly man on whose lap the boy was seated. Young Three was all smiles, but the old man’s eyes projected a vacant stare. I guessed he was Catharine’s father.
An armchair and a reading lamp stood in a corner beneath a dormer window. A pile of books sat on a side table; the topmost of which was Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl. I presumed this was Catharine’s room.
I nosed through her closet, which held a neatly arranged wardrobe of dresses, skirts, jackets, various styles of slacks, jeans, and colorful tops. Two rows of fashionable shoes and sneakers were lined up in racks on the floor. An adjoining black-and-white-tiled bathroom was antiseptically clean. A wall-mounted cabinet held nothing out of the ordinary. Apart from a small jar of Advil, there were no medicines.
I stood silently for a while. The room revealed little of the woman who occupied it, except for the possibility that she slept apart from her husband.
I stepped into the exercise room. A towel was draped over the handlebar of one of the stationary bikes. Gym shorts and a wrinkled tee-shirt hung on a hook just outside the adjoining bathroom with twin sinks, a stall shower with six water spigots, a bidet, a high-rise toilet, and a large whirlpool bathtub.
The master bedroom featured a California king bed beneath a teak canopy frame, each side of which was adorned with hand-painted Japanese silk netting.
Dormer windows and double French doors opened onto a glassed-in patio and its pair of upholstered deck chairs, two cafe umbrellas, and a sensational view of the Pacific. A retractable ceiling exposed the room to the sun and salt air whenever desired.
A sitting area in the bedroom held a love seat, a coffee table, and a pair of leather armchairs. There was also a large walk-in closet, the size of a small country.
In addition to rows upon rows of hanging clothing, the closet contained a built-in mahogany bureau that stretched its entire length. A small chair and floor lamp occupied one of its corners.
One of the rows was devoted solely to blue jeans and work shirts. There were at least twenty pairs of starched jeans and a greater number of long-sleeved denim shirts. These were the Reverend’s work costumes. On a separate rack hung his designer suits, sport jackets, and slacks.
I rummaged through bureau drawers filled with dress shirts, sport shirts, sweaters, underwear, short- and long-sleeved tee-shirts, socks, sweatshirts, sweatpants, and track suits. Dozens of dress shoes, loafers, sneakers, and assorted footwear filled shoe racks.
The only other items that caught my eye were located in one of the bottom drawers of the bureau. There I found jars of personal lubricants, condoms in varying styles, and several vials of performance-enhancing medications. There was also a collection of pornographic videos.
“Looks like our Reverend has a taste for the hinky,” I murmured to myself.
I was just leaving the suite when Johnny Kennerly came rushing up the stairs.
“Buddy.” He was slightly out of breath. “I found something you need to see.”
Chapter Nineteen
I followed Johnny downstairs, through the kitchen and into a small pantry, inside of which stood a heavy wooden door, sealed shut by a pair of deadbolt locks.
“This is it,” he said.
“The locked door.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s strange. There’s a door on the far side of the kitchen that leads to the basement. It’s unlocked and accessible. It’s a pretty large basement. But I can’t figure out where this door leads. And why it’s double-bolted.”
“Our master key doesn’t fit?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Let’s blow the sucker.”
I unholstered my Colt Commander and shot. “Fire in the hole,” I shouted.
Johnny stood back and covered his ears. I fired two shots, each disabling one of the deadbolts. The noise was considerable.
“That ought to do it.”
Once down the stairs behind the door, we found ourselves standing in a large chamber that contained three prison cells, each with a heavy metal door into which a small barred window had been implanted. The door to one of the cells hung open.
I stepped inside. It was small and windowless, disagreeably musty and dank-smelling. It held a cot bed and a single canvas armchair. A toilet stood in one of the corners. A sink hung on the opposite wall. The cot was made up with two sheets and a brown woolen blanket. There were no visible traces of anyone having recently occupied it.
“What do you think?” Johnny asked, looking around.
“Why would anyone have three jail cells in their basement?”
“It’s weird.”
“Beyond weird.”
“Maybe they were constructed before the Long family moved in.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but why would the cells be so well maintained? Why is the bed freshly made?”
“So what do you want to do?”
“Before this scene becomes polluted, I want a forensics team in here. I want to learn whether Catharine Long was ever in any of these cells. I want them to examine the wood, the concrete, the fixtures and determine how old they are. That should tell us if the Longs had them built.”
“And then what?”
“We abide the events.”
From the top of the stairs, Al Striar called down to us. “Buddy?”
“Yep.”
“Milton’s waiting in the kitchen.”
***
He was a large man in his middle years, two hundred-plus pounds, with a slouchy posture and tobacco-stained teeth.
He had big features, a bulbous nose, oversized ears, large lips, and huge hands. He wore a bleached work shirt tucked into stained overalls. Around his waist was a service belt on which were attached weathered tools, including a hammer, several screwdrivers, and a heavy-duty wrench.
He was enveloped in a cloud of malevolence.
“Your name is…?”
“Milton Pfenster,” he said.
“Fenster with an ‘F’ or Phenster with a ‘Ph’?”
“With a ‘Pf’. But the ‘P’ is silent.”
“What is it you do here, Mr. Pfenster?”
“Mostly handy work. General repairs. Stuff like that.”
“Are you aware of the three cells that exist in the basement of the house?”
“Yes.”
“Is it your job to service those cells?”
“Service them?
“Clean them. Maintain them. Stuff like that.”
“No.”
“So, mostly you’re restricted to the outside of the house, is that correct?”
“Mostly. Yes.”
“But you know the Longs.”
“Somewhat.”
“Do you know Catharine Long?”
“She says hello to me.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“You mean now?”
“Yes.”
“No, sir.”
“Were you ever present during one of their fights?”
“What fights? You mean Reverend and Mrs. Long?”
“Yes.”
“I never saw no fights. I never saw much of anything going o
n in the house. Like I said, I’m mostly an outdoors person. I make sure the landscaping is up to snuff. I look out for the cars. I check the perimeter. That kind of stuff.”
“Nothing regarding the actual house?”
“Plumbing sometimes. Heating. Stuff like that. Oh, yeah. And the swimming pool, too.”
“You live here?”
“On the grounds, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I do. There’s a small cottage down near the stables that’s mine. I mean, I don’t own it or nothing. I just live in it.”
“I see. Thank you for time, Mr.…”
“Pfenster.”
‘That’s right. Pfenster.”
“Milton Pfenster.”
“The ‘P’ is silent,” I said.
We stood awkwardly for several moments.
Then I asked, “Military?”
“’Nam. Persian Gulf.”
“Rank?”
“Staff Sergeant.”
“Thank you for your service, Sergeant Pfenster.”
“That’s kind of you, Sheriff. Most people couldn’t care less.”
After he left, I summoned Al Striar.
“I want to know everything there is to know about Staff Sergeant Milton Pfenster.”
“I’m all over it,” Striar said.
“I even want to know why the ‘P’ is silent.”
Striar flashed me his dead-eyed stare.
I returned it with one of my own, and said, “Just kidding.”
Chapter Twenty
“The Hart Building,” Marsha said.
I was heading back to the station in my cruiser. “What about it?”
“It’s on Third and Lucy. In the financial district.”
“So?”
“It’s home to Long & Long Financial Services, Inc.”
“Barry Long?”
“Senior. And Hickham Long.”
“What’s the exact address?”
“1013 Lucy.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Have a look.”
“Don’t do anything foolish, Buddy.”
I clicked off the call and concentrated on finding the Hart Building.
Lucy Street turned out to be more of an oversized alleyway than a legitimate thoroughfare. I found number 1013, and parked at a meter.
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