Missing Persons

by Michael Brandman

“Not nearly as big as the mess the Long family has gotten itself into.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Apart from the missing Catharine, it appears as if Barry, Senior, has lost everything.”

  “What everything?”

  “Every penny they own.”

  “How could that be possible?”

  “Ask Billy Goldman, who sends you his regards, by the way.”

  “He knows I’m ill?”

  “He knows everything about everyone.”

  “He does, doesn’t he? What does he say happened to the Longs?”

  “You know Oliver Darien?”

  “Know of.”

  “Seems he’s pulled a Madoff,”

  “He ran a Ponzi scheme?”

  “Broke the old man’s bank.”

  “Barry, Senior?”

  “He’s the surrogate for the whole shebang.”

  “Jesus.”

  We sat quietly for a while.

  “I haven’t been able to penetrate the facade,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My initial plan was to break into Long Pavilion with guns blazing but I’m guessing that’s not a winning tactic.”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Forensics confirms that Catharine Long was in one of the basement cells but there’s no way to establish whether or not she was there of her own volition.”

  “You think she camped out in one of those cells by choice?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Where do you think she is?”

  “Well, we know she’s not at the house. And I’d bet they wouldn’t be foolish enough to have stashed her at the Pavilion.”

  “But you’re not sure.”

  “I’m not. Too many mixed messages. Reverend Barry told us she was with his sister.”

  “His sister?”

  “Yes. We’ve yet to determine the sister’s whereabouts so we can’t confirm the Reverend’s statement. But we do know that if they are together, it’s not where he told us they were. And to further complicate matters, Murray Kornbluth claims he’s seen her but won’t tell us where.”

  “Upright and Uptight Kornbluth?”

  “One and the same. He can’t have made such a claim without being able to back it up. He’s an officer of the court, after all.”

  Burton smiled, conscious of how prone Kornbluth was to creating conflicts of interest regarding court-related issues and his own personal ones, and how he always managed to skate on all of them.

  I snapped him out of his reverie. “There’s also no way of knowing where he saw her and what condition she was in when he did.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Damned if I know. It’s all curious. Maybe she learned about the precarious nature of her family’s finances and, realizing she was standing on the unexpected threshold of financial ruin, she might have come unhinged.”

  “Meaning?”

  “God knows what she might be capable of doing, but from what little I know about her, having it out with her husband wouldn’t be an unlikely scenario.”

  “So you think they fought.”

  “According to what the nanny said, they were fighting regularly.”

  “And you think he became violent with her?”

  “I can’t figure him out. His veneer is as smooth as a baby’s ass, but there’s something unnerving about him. Did he really abdicate his finances to his father and brother? Did he know about the financial cliff they were going over?

  “And just who is this father, anyway, and what kind of relationship do the two of them have? If what Billy Goldman said is true, and Senior Long is the architect of their economic calamity, what’s he doing about it and what’s his state of mind? All that aside, however, the question still remains, where’s Catharine?”

  “So, how do you answer that question?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “How unlike you.”

  “I’m still at square one. The lawyers are stonewalling me. I have questions but no answers. If I don’t come up with something soon, I’m likely to be shown the door. Which could impact you.”

  “You think?”

  “It’s dicey.”

  “Let me tell you something, Buddy. You’re doing the right thing. You’re doing what needs to be done. These other clowns, Kornbluth, Lytell, Long Senior…they’re all in cahoots with their own self interests. Fuck ’em. You do what you have to do and fuck ’em all.”

  “That’s your advice?”

  “Rendered free of charge, too.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “We found her,” Marsha said.

  She had phoned me in my cruiser. “Found who?”

  “The sister.”

  “Where?”

  “Los Angeles. She goes by the name Maggie de Winter.”

  “de Winter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Married name?”

  “Wasn’t specified.”

  “How did you find her?”

  “I’m very good at my job.”

  “No one’s questioning that, Marsha. Still, how did you find her?”

  “Will it be our little secret?”

  I sighed. “Why does this have to be so hard?”

  “Google.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I Googled her. I also used Instant Checkmate. The trail led to Maggie de Winter.”

  “Is it accurate?”

  “You mean is a Google search accurate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course it’s accurate. What century are you living in?”

  “You’re certain she’s the sister?”

  “I am.”

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “She told me.”

  “Who told you?”

  “She did. I phoned her.”

  “You phoned her?”

  “Stop repeating everything I say. Yes, I phoned her.”

  “And she answered?”

  “No, the Pope answered. But he put me straight through to her. She confirmed her identity.”

  “To you.”

  “Of course to me.”

  “Why would she confirm her identity to you?”

  “Because I told her I was from Publisher’s Clearing House. I said she was a winner.”

  “And so believing she had won some kind of prize, she made assurances to you that she was Maggie de Winter, nee Margaret Long.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I hung up.”

  “You what?”

  “I hung up. I had the information I needed. I saw no reason to carry on the conversation. Aren’t you proud of me?”

  “In an odd way, I suppose I am.”

  “Well, la di dah,” she said.

  “Marsha?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Did you get her address?”

  “I already had it.”

  “Google?”

  “Instant Checkmate.”

  “Did you confirm it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good work, Marsha.”

  “I’m just a cacophony of good work these days.”

  “Try not to let it go to your head,” I told her and ended the call.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I hadn’t been in Los Angeles since I’d moved back to Freedom. Upon entering the city limits, I suffered an unexpected twinge of nostalgia.

  I exited the 101 Freeway at Vine Street and went south, passing the Capitol Records building and the Pantages Theatre before turning onto Hollywoo
d Boulevard at Raymond Chandler Square where I drove past Fredrick’s of Hollywood, Madame Tussauds Wax Museum, and on to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, where I spotted Wonder Woman and Batman hustling the tourists.

  I made my way east on Sunset Boulevard and drove past the Cinerama Dome, The Hollywood Palladium, and the Henry Fonda, a jewel box of a theatre that originally brought honor to the memory of the great actor for whom it was named, but which was now a seedy rock ’n’ roll emporium.

  I turned onto Cahuenga Boulevard, spotted the Los Angeles Fire Department Museum and pulled into the parking lot it shared with the Hollywood Community Police headquarters where I had been stationed during my time as an LAPD homicide detective.

  I parked in front, content to simply sit there for a few minutes, fascinated by the comings and goings of the station, and those of the ramshackle bail bondsman’s office located directly across the street.

  This was the part of L.A. I knew, two short blocks from the apartment building where I’d lived, an anachronistic relic of the movie town’s golden era, now newly restored and part of a resurgent Hollywood with its mélange of shops, restaurants, and theatres, plus the Hollywood Health Club, where I had spent almost all of my downtime.

  As a result of its proximity to a phalanx of movie and TV studios, as well as a proliferation of major production entities, this burgeoning area had become home to show business upstarts, aspiring young people attracted to the new Hollywood with its low-cost housing and its high-profile history. Like me, many of them frequented the Health Club, all of us devoted to working out and hooking up.

  In hindsight, I realize that living here was a happy time in my life. Happiness, not as a passing change of emphasis, but as a constant condition. It was here I savored my self-made success and the shared esteem of colleagues and friends.

  Sitting as I was now, in the heart of my once-cherished neighborhood, I understood how much I missed it, and how much I yearned to return to it. As Randy Newman so famously sang, “I Love L.A.”

  I took one last look around, cranked up the Wrangler, turned right onto Sunset Boulevard and headed east.

  Maggie de Winter lived in the Los Feliz section of L.A., the newly fashionable eastside neighborhood at the foot of Griffith Park.

  She opened the door to her spacious apartment in the Towers, one of a pair of high-rise luxury buildings on Los Feliz Boulevard that offer panoramic views of Boyle Heights and the L.A. basin to the south, and the Hollywood Hills to the north.

  She gave me the once-over, assessing me from head to toe, an unabashed consideration of my person coupled with a frank sexual appraisal.

  I reciprocated.

  “Sheriff, right?” she said.

  “Close enough.”

  “Tall enough, too.”

  She stepped back to let me in. She was statuesque and leggy, narrow and lithe with proper curves in all the right places. She wore skin-tight black capri running pants, a yellow tank top, and red Nike sneakers. Her eyes were a deep blue. Her auburn hair fell in waves over her shoulders and she frequently brushed it away from her forehead. Hers was an aristocratic nose and I found it difficult to tear my eyes from her moist, sensuous lips. I was smitten, and she noticed.

  She led me to her kitchen where she offered coffee and Social Tea biscuits. I sat at a Formica-topped table. She stood with her back against the sink, the Griffith Park Observatory visible through the picture window behind her.

  “This is about my brother Barry, right?”

  “Your sister-in-law, actually.”

  “Yes. That’s what you said. I’m sorry. What is it about my sister-in-law that brings you all the way to L.A.?”

  She swept the hair from her forehead.

  I told her everything I knew.

  She picked up her cup, carried it to the table and sat across from me.

  “How tall exactly are you?”

  “Six-three.”

  Once again the frankness of her gaze caught my attention and ennobled me to return it.

  “Why would you think I have any knowledge of what might have happened to my sister-in-law?”

  “Something your brother said.”

  “Which was?”

  “He said she was staying with you.”

  “He lied.”

  “She’s not staying with you?”

  “Never has. Never will. I have very little contact with my family.”

  “Have you any idea why he would say such a thing?”

  “I have no idea why my brother says or does anything. We don’t get along.”

  “Because?”

  “Why don’t we just leave it at that.”

  She vanished into her thoughts for several moments. Then she returned and smiled at me.

  “I guess it was a waste of time.”

  “What was?”

  “Your visit to L.A.”

  “Not really. I wanted to get out of Freedom. The drive helped clear my head.”

  We sat quietly for a while.

  “What is it you do here?” I asked.

  “Would that be a Sheriff question or a personal one?”

  “Personal.”

  She nodded. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “What if I just want to extend my visit with you?”

  “Do you?”

  “Would you mind if I did?”

  “Would you like to go for a walk?”

  “Do you always answer a question with a question?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  She caught my grin and self-consciously whisked the hair from her forehead. “Where?”

  “In the park?”

  “Okay.”

  I stood. She stood close to me.

  “You really are tall,” she said.

  “Is tall unusual?”

  “For me it is.”

  “Because?”

  “I’m six feet.” She looked up at me. “I won’t want to talk about my family.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you want to know why?”

  “Only if you want to tell me.”

  “Maybe on our walk.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  We meandered up Hillhurst Avenue, which melded into Vermont Avenue, and two blocks later we were in the park. True to form, the Los Angeles weather was a knockout. The sun was high in a cloudless sky. The air was only slightly moist. We wandered in and out of the shade provided by ancient heritage oak, ficus, and dogwood trees. We circled the edge of a nine-hole golf course, passed half a dozen tennis courts, and strolled up a winding, pothole-pocked roadway that had long been closed to automobile traffic.

  We found a wooden bench in a shady glen amidst a stand of towering pines and grabbed the chance to rest awhile, sitting side by side. Maggie gulped down water from a plastic thermos, then offered it to me. I took a large swallow.

  “You’re not afraid,” she said.

  “Of?”

  “The consequences of investigating powerful people who wouldn’t hesitate to come after you.”

  “Like members of your family?”

  “I don’t want to talk about my family.”

  “No.”

  “What, no?”

  “I’m not intimidated by them.”

  “By my family.”

  “Yes.”

  She put the bottle to her lips and drank deeply.

  “What is it you do?” I asked.

  “About what?”

  “About work.”

  “You mean do I have a job?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m an online reporter. A blogger.”

  “What do you blog?”

  “I’m always on the lookout for socio-economic trends and I report on
them. My goal is to get out in front of the next big thing and then advise my clients as to how they might capitalize on it.”

  “I have absolutely no understanding of what it is you just said.”

  “I’m a futurist, a prognosticator.”

  “Which means?”

  “Do you know anything about social media?”

  “No.”

  “No wonder you don’t understand. You’re a Luddite.”

  “And proud of it,” I said. “Do you make great sums of money doing what you do?”

  “Not hardly. The blog hasn’t exactly caught fire yet. But my hopes remain high.”

  A sudden wind kicked up, blowing down through the hills, rustling the trees and stirring the air. A spot of debris caught me in the eye.

  Maggie leaned closer to me and examined the eye, which had begun to tear up. She spotted the dirt speck. “Blink,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Blink. Rapidly.”

  I did.

  She pulled a Kleenex from her purse and as my tears intensified, she delicately dabbed the bottom of my eye with it. The speck adhered to it.

  “Gotcha,” she said.

  She dried my tears with the Kleenex. She was very close and her scent swept over me. Neither of us moved.

  Then she sat back, rolled the Kleenex into a ball, and threw it back into her purse.

  I guess she’d made up her mind about me because she decided to open up regarding her family. “They’re grifters.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My brothers. My father, too. Basically they’re small-time con artists who managed to hit it big. My brother, Barry, found a con for which he was ideally suited. He developed it, and with help from my father, expanded it.”

  “That’s a pretty cynical thing to say.”

  “Not if you think his piety is phony.” She turned to face me. “Are you married?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “No. Have you ever been married?”

  “No. You?”

  “No.”

  “So, what’s with de Winter?”

  “You mean my name?”

  “Yes.”

  “An alias.”

  “Why?”

  “I use it for my blog.”

  “Why de Winter?”

  “Joan Fontaine.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The movie Rebecca. Joan Fontaine was Mrs. de Winter.”

  “Mrs. de Winter was a character in the movie?”