Missing Persons
Page 7
The building was an example of the International style of architecture, constructed in the early 1940s and molded mostly from what were then considered modern materials—concrete, glass, and steel. It was more utilitarian than artful, more serviceable than aesthetically pleasing.
I entered the flat-roofed building and climbed the stairs to the second floor where I found a highly polished American cedar door that bore the legend, Long & Long, Inc., in gold serif letters. A gold-rimmed spy hole was cut into the door. A bell and speaker were carved into the frame.
I rang the bell.
“Yes,” a disembodied male voice responded.
“Is this Barry Long’s office?”
“These are the offices of Long and Long.”
“Inc.”
“Excuse me?”
“The sign on the door says Long and Long, Inc.”
After several moments, the buzzer sounded and the door popped open.
I was greeted by a nerdy young man wearing an inexpensive, ill-fitting seersucker suit. He peered at me through the thick horn-rimmed glasses that dominated the upper half of his face. The glasses rested on an aquiline nose above a pair of pencil thin lips. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for Barry Long, Senior.”
“And you are?”
“Buddy Steel.”
“Does Mr. Long know you?”
“He does not.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“You’re out of luck, then.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s not here.”
“When do you expect him?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Would you mind if I waited?”
“Do what you want, Jack, but we close at five.”
“Is he likely to be back before then?”
“I just got finished telling you I don’t know when, or even if, he’ll be back.”
“What are the odds?”
“The odds?”
“The relative probability of the event occurring.”
“I know the definition of odds.”
“So, what are they?”
“You know what, pal? I don’t think I like you.”
“Everyone says that.”
“Why don’t we just agree that Mr. Long isn’t coming back today and leave it at that?”
“But what if he did?”
“Did what?”
“Come back.”
“Then you wouldn’t be here to see him, would you?”
“Not unless I chose to wait.”
“If you did that, you’d be waiting outside. You’re no longer welcome here.”
“I get a lot of that, too.”
“Well, you got it again.”
The man opened the door and held it for me.
“May I leave my card?”
“I don’t think so. Mr. Long won’t want to see you.”
“Without even knowing what it’s about?”
“Out,” the man said.
I gave him my most fearsome look. “Tell him Sheriff Steel was here to see him.”
“Sheriff?”
“That’s right.”
“If you’re a Sheriff, why aren’t you wearing a uniform?”
“Because I don’t like them.”
“Yeah, right. Whatever. Leave.”
“Are you always this pleasant?”
“Only to non-uniformed Sheriffs.”
He pointed me to the door and slammed it closed behind me. Once outside, I heard the tumbler click and the lock fall into place.
Chapter Twenty-one
Wilma followed me into my office carrying a handful of phone messages.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Alfred Wilder and Her Honor. Not necessarily in that order.”
“I’ll bet you made number one on each of their speed dials.”
“The big-time, at last.”
Alfred “Skip” Wilder picked up my call immediately.
“It’s a shit storm here,” he said.
“I hope you’re wearing boots.”
“Don’t start, Buddy. Lytell’s livid. He’s already phoned half the judges in the building trying to find out who authorized the warrant.”
“Azenberg.”
“What?”
“Ezekiel Azenberg. He authorized it.”
“This is serious, Buddy. The Long family is threatening to sue.”
“Sue who?”
“San Remo County. You.”
“A fearsome turn of events.”
“For you, it might well be.”
“Listen, Skip. We were well within our rights to seek the warrant. There’s a whole lot of strangeness going on.”
“Such as?”
“The disappearance of Catharine Long, for openers.”
“The family denies that claim.”
“Then why don’t they show her to us?”
“They’re claiming your investigation is an invasion of their privacy.”
“Like hell it is. Has anyone called your attention to the money issues?”
“What money issues?”
“The Longs are stiffing their suppliers.”
“Meaning?”
“The Ministry has stopped paying its bills.”
“Over what period of time?”
“Several months.”
“Maybe they’re on an extended pay schedule.”
“And maybe pigs fly.”
“What did your raid produce?”
“They’ve got three prison cells in the basement.”
“So?”
“Forensics is examining the DNA to determine whether Catharine may have been held in any of them.”
“Forensics might be able to determine whether or not she was in a cell, but they’ll never prove she was held there against her will.”
I listened as Wilder’s alleged outrage turned smug.
“You’ve got nothing, Buddy. I know it. Lytell knows it. Murray Kornbluth knows it and he’s gunning for you. He doesn’t much like you and he’s planning to take you down a few notches.”
“I’m shaking like a leaf. All he has to do is produce Catharine.”
“It’s not going to happen. Kornbluth is saying she’s got emotional issues.”
“That’s a load of crap.”
I took Wilder’s silence as insinuation the conversation had come to its end.
“I’m not done, Skip.”
“When Lytell sticks his fork in you, you will be.”
“Meaning?”
“You and me, Buddy. We’ve been friends since high school. I’m very concerned about what this might cost you.”
“I’ll take my chances. This fish stinks from the head and I intend to prove it.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Wilder ended the call.
Chapter Twenty-two
I was shown into the private dining room of the investment banking firm Elliot J. Goldman, LLC, one of California’s top financial institutions, handling nearly a billion dollars of client assets.
Its chairman, Billy Goldman, son of the late founder, stood to greet me when I entered. The dining room was on the main floor of the converted town house in which Goldman lived, and also served as the Freedom adjunct of the company’s sprawling banking and trading facility that was located in San Remo City.
Goldman was an elegantly attired, handsomely coiffed gentleman in his late sixties, who appeared to have been spawned in an age when good manners and civility counted for something. Everything about him boasted of proper breeding, understated elegance, and, of course, money.
I had met Billy Goldman in my you
th. His home had suffered a break-in and a number of his personal treasures, including a pair of Picasso drawings, had been stolen.
My father played a key role in locating those items and bringing the thieves to justice. I frequently accompanied him in those days and was witness to how he solved the crime and earned the Goldman family’s trust and friendship.
Billy pointed me to the chair across from him at the smartly laid, linen-covered table set for two.
“Thank you for seeing me here,” Goldman said. “I have to admit that I rarely leave the premises these days. I hardly ever get to San Remo. The older I become, the less mobile I am. By choice. Comes with the territory, I suppose.”
An unobtrusive butler stepped quietly to the table and poured steaming hot coffee from a silver pot into my gilt-edged Lenox china cup. He placed a tray of sweeteners and a pitcher of milk in front of me. He offered a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, which I accepted gratefully.
“It’s nice to see you again, Buddy,” Goldman said. “I’ve been hearing some unfortunate rumblings about the state of Burton’s health. Is there any truth to them?”
“Unfortunately, there is.”
“Gehrig’s?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. How is he doing?”
“He’s a fighter.”
“Always was. Will you send him my regards?
“He’ll be pleased.”
Goldman nodded. “What brings you?”
“My never-ending search for truth and justice.”
“How unusual.”
“In this instance, you’re the only person I know who might possess it.”
“The information you’re seeking?”
“Yes.”
“Might I inquire as to what that might be?”
“Are you familiar with the Long family?”
“You mean the Barry Long family?”
“I do.”
“Amazing,” Goldman said.
“What’s amazing?”
“Either you’re prescient or you’re in the know.”
“In the know about what?”
The butler entered carrying a pair of dishes, each covered with a sterling silver lid. He placed one in front of me and the other in front of Billy. He removed the lids with a flourish, revealing plates filled with scrambled eggs topped by shredded cheddar cheese and scallion slivers, accompanied by generous portions of home-fried potatoes. He also put small serving pitchers containing catsup and hot sauce in the center of the table. After receiving a signal from Billy Goldman, the butler quietly slipped out of the room.
“Please start,” Goldman said.
“It looks wonderful. Generally, I breakfast on burnt coffee and stale donuts.”
“Ah, the policeman’s special.”
“Exactly.”
“Hopefully, you’ll derive a larger measure of nutrition from this breakfast.”
“Hopefully, my system can handle it.”
Goldman smiled and dug in.
“What were you saying about being prescient?”
“There’s a disturbing buzz on the street.”
Goldman wiped a small piece of egg from the corner of his mouth. “It has to do in part with the Long family.”
“Meaning?”
“Have you ever come in contact with Oliver Darien?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Darien and Company?”
I shook my head.
“Ollie Darien is one of life’s great conundrums. He built one of the most talked-about investment brokerages on the West Coast. He handles untold amounts for loyal clients who swear by him and his results. He manages to top the market averages on a regular basis. He accepts clients only by invitation. He’s made himself into a living legend.”
“And?”
“Does this description put you in mind of anyone else?”
“Bernard Madoff?”
“Bingo. Can I swear you to secrecy, Buddy?”
“You already know the answer, Billy.”
“There’s a rumor flying around that Ollie Darien is about to be indicted.”
“For?”
“Ponzi scheming.”
“Like Madoff?”
“Exactly like Madoff. And, in all likelihood, with the same results.”
“Meaning?”
“A tremendous loss of presumed wealth for his clients.”
“How does this affect the Long family?”
“Barry Long, Senior, is Ollie Darien’s closest friend.”
“So?”
“It’s being whispered that Barry, Senior, invested every penny he and his family own with Ollie. Not only his cash assets, but it’s also rumored he converted all of his real estate holdings into cash and forked that over to Ollie as well.”
“Leaving him with?”
“A headache the size of Montana. He’s ruined. Once it becomes public, every so-called friend and donor will be out the door quicker than a Clayton Kershaw fastball.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Reasonably sure.”
“Why hasn’t it been made public?”
“The Justice Department is insistent upon verifying every possible allegation. We’re hearing they’re days away from announcing.”
“You’re sure about Senior Long?”
“He’s scrambling, Buddy. As I mentioned, the word is already on the street. Senior Long, as you refer to him, is trying to dump as much of his Darien holdings as he can.”
“And?”
“The buzz is ahead of him. He’s gotten no takers. He’s fucked.”
“Yikes.”
“Exactly.”
“What happens to him?”
“Armageddon is what happens to him. And to his family.”
“Despite the funds that the ministry brings in?”
“You can only imagine how his flock will react when they learn how cavalier The People’s Pastor has been with the people’s money. It’s one thing to give it away, it’s another to piss it away.”
“You think the spigot will run dry?”
“I do.”
“Because?”
“Once faith is breached, it’s damned near impossible to regain.”
“What’s the best they can hope for?”
“That the news doesn’t break before their annual Celebration.”
“Can that happen?”
“You mean can the Justice Department be persuaded to hold the story?”
“Yes.”
“It’s possible. You never know in whose pocket any Washingtonian resides.”
“So what’s next?”
“We wait and see. But one way or the other, it’s still Adios, Barry.”
“Meaning?”
“The harder they fall…” Goldman said.
Chapter Twenty-three
“Bingo,” Marsha Russo exclaimed when I returned her voice message.
“Do you think you could you be more explicit?”
“Hickham Long.”
I waited.
“Grand larceny.”
“He stole something?”
“A Rolex.”
“He stole a watch?”
“A very pricey watch.”
“From?”
“Nordstrom, the department store.”
“Where and when?”
“Glendale, California. June, 2000.”
“When he was how old?”
“Just nineteen.”
“And he was charged?”
“He barely made the age cut, but yes, he was.”
“And?”
“Bailed out by his old man.”
“But the charges are still on the books.”
<
br /> “They are. Glendale police even had the gloves he wore during the holdup.”
“Bingo, indeed. Anything on the others?”
“You mean Barry and/or Barry?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing on either.”
“Just Hickey.”
“Just him. Yes.”
We were silent until Marsha spoke again. “I inquired as to whether Glendale might lend us the gloves. I suggested we’d like to run some matching DNA tests.”
“And?”
“They arrived by special courier.”
“You mean you have the gloves?”
“Yep. They’re calfskin. Like buttah.”
“Why would they do that?”
“You mean send us the gloves?”
“Yes.”
“Two possible reasons.”
“Which are?”
“Well for openers, they like me. They really like me.”
“And the second reason?”
“The case was cleared long ago. The Glendale police officer was surprised they still had the records, never mind the evidence bags. They were happy to send them. Otherwise they were likely to toss them.”
“Where are they now?”
“Waiting in a safe place.”
“Waiting for what?”
“To match a sample of Hickham Long’s DNA in an incriminating context. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“I never said that.”
“But you’re hoping that sooner or later it will.”
“Better sooner.”
“Better never.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know you have a jones for this guy, Buddy. From that day at his brother’s house. But this whole Long thing is loaded.”
“Loaded with?”
“Stuff you don’t even know about. These bozos are lawyered up and they have considerable juice.”
“So you’re suggesting…”
“I’m not suggesting anything. All I’m saying is that sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie. I’d hate to see this puppy jump up and bite you in the ass.”
“Duly noted,” I said. “Thank you.”
Chapter Twenty-four
“Sounds like you have yourself one fine mess,” my father said.
He and I were sitting in his study in the late afternoon. Glints of reflected sunlight projected off the roiling sea.