Missing Persons

by Michael Brandman

  “She was. It’s one of the better Hitchcock films. It’s about lies and deception. Subjects not unfamiliar to me.”

  “And you adopted the name because…”

  “It saves me from being identified as a member of the infamous Long family. Protects me from being constantly accosted by religious freaks.”

  “So it’s not your married name.”

  “No.”

  “And you’ve never been married?”

  “Just like you. Why not?”

  I thought about that for several moments. “I can’t really say. I never had the urge. You?”

  “I never wanted to be tied down. To feel owned. Are you gay?”

  “No. You?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m glad we got that straightened out,” I said.

  She picked up a fallen pine cone and began pulling it apart. “She’s a smart girl.”

  “Catharine?”

  “Yes. She was onto them, and by the time Barry hit it big, a subtle distance had developed between them. She was conflicted. She was part of the act, but the act had grown to include their personal life. She had become a celebrity in her own right and, between you and me, she loved it. She gave birth to Three, who rounded out the pretty picture. The People’s Pastor. The People’s Pastor’s beautiful family. What a joke. The thing is, they had suddenly become rock stars and found themselves stuck with each other.”

  “Do you know about the financial debacle?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m economically tethered to the nest, you see. I came here on their dime and they foot all of the bills.”

  “So?”

  “One day it stopped. About three months ago. When I questioned my father about it, he told me the well had run dry.”

  “What about Hickey?”

  “The space man? The un-favorite son? You ever try talking to Hickey? He’s a total degenerate. I can’t believe we emerged from the same womb. What about girlfriends?”

  “What?”

  “Are you seeing anyone?”

  I started blinking rapidly. “I can barely see you.”

  “Very funny. Are you?”

  “No. You?”

  “No.”

  “What about your other brother?”

  “The most Reverend Barry Clueless? He bought the whole ball of wax. His head is so far up his ass he can’t see anything for the shit. What do you know about it?”

  “I’m hearing they got burned by a Madoff-style Ponzi scheme. Barry, Senior, is bringing every pressure he can muster to prevent the news from breaking before next week’s Celebration.”

  “Why?”

  “If the faithful were to learn the Reverend’s been taken, and for how much, he’s afraid Barry the younger would topple off his golden pedestal. He wants to believe the hordes won’t care, that they’re totally in his thrall, but the old bastard has become one nervous guy.”

  “And Catharine?”

  “My guess is she learned the truth and reacted to it. They either stashed her somewhere to keep her quiet or possibly even murdered her to ensure her silence.

  “Jesus,” she said. “I had no idea.”

  She stood and wandered out of the glen. I followed. When I reached her, she turned to me. I put my arms around her and she buried her face in my shoulder. After a while she leaned back and looked at me. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? Con men falling prey to other con men.”

  She moved closer, enough so that her mouth was nano-inches from mine. Her moist tongue darted out and slowly circled my lips, then pushed into my mouth. She exhaled a sweet, coffee-scented breath that ignited my senses. Her lips were remarkably soft and I kept on kissing them.

  Then she stepped away and headed for the road. She stopped and turned to look at me. “This is crazy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t know you. I have no idea who you are. All I know is that you’re a cop who’s investigating my family. This could never work.”

  She spotted a fallen pine cone and kicked it soccer style into the woods. “There’s also another reason.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’m trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “It’s complicated. I have responsibilities. Obligations. In an odd way, I’m spoken for.”

  “Which means?”

  “Let’s just say I’m unavailable and leave it at that.”

  ***

  I headed back to Freedom with the taste of her still haunting me. I knew I was heading into weirdness. Every ounce of rationality I possessed was flashing warning signals to that effect. But she was in my head and I wanted her.

  I hadn’t had feelings like these since I can’t remember when. I had nearly forgotten what obsession felt like and no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, I knew that if I pursued her, trouble and uncertainty were sure to be in my future.

  Maybe so, but for the first time in ages, I felt alive.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  When I looked at the clock, it read six-thirty and the phone was ringing.

  I answered it and found Johnny Kennerly on the other end. “What?”

  “How long will it take you to get dressed and meet me in front of your building?”

  “Why?”

  “We have a triple homicide.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Not much yet, but I’ll know more by the time you climb your ass into my cruiser. Five minutes?”

  “Ten.”

  ***

  “This won’t be pretty,” Johnny said.

  “Triples never are. What do we know about the victims?”

  “Two men, one woman.”

  “ID?”

  “Nothing official.”

  We were headed for the Freedom foothills, the most exclusive neighborhood in the county, with our siren screaming.

  “House belongs to a guy called Oliver Darien. Ever hear of him?”

  “The financier?”

  “Is that what he is?”

  “I’ve heard a lot about him. Especially lately.”

  “How so?”

  “He was about to be indicted.”

  “For?”

  “Running a Ponzi scheme on a scale not dissimilar to Bernard Madoff’s.”

  We turned into the circular driveway of the Darien estate, a Tudor-style mega-home, constructed in the 1920s on ten-plus acres. Pines and heritage oaks towered over the property which boasted an Olympic-sized pool, a tennis court with stadium seating for thirty, and a three-hole putting green.

  Police barricades had already been erected in anticipation of a media frenzy. Crowds of gawkers were arriving, cluttering the street, clustering by the gate, many of them snapping photos and videos with cameras and cell phones.

  We were met at the mansion’s ornate porte cochere by Sheriff’s Deputy Al Striar.

  “It happened in the foyer,” Striar said. “We’ve sealed it off. Be better if you entered through the back of the house.”

  “Who found it?”

  “Housekeeper. When she showed up for work.”

  I frowned. “I’ll need the house quarantined. No one in or out. Nothing disturbed. Please arrange for a CSI unit. The coroner, too.”

  “Got it.” Striar reached for his cell phone.

  Johnny and I circled the house on a gravel pathway bordered with hedgerows and flower beds. We entered through the kitchen, a monument to granite and polished cherrywood.

  A local Freedom police officer guided us through an outsized living room that featured a collection of understuffed, uncomfortable-looking furniture, pale green walls, hand-designed moulding, and a muted yellow ceiling. We walked past a formal dining room that featured a ma
hogany table already set for twenty, and finally into the foyer, the scene of the crime.

  Morning light filtered through a pair of narrow, stained-glass windows that bordered the front door. A carpeted grand staircase with filigreed banisters led to the upper floors.

  Two bodies were sprawled out on the richly tiled floor. A third lay on the staircase. A fair amount of blood and tissue had been splattered everywhere.

  Directly in front of the main entrance lay a man’s body. He had been shot once in the head and had fallen backward, landing face-up on the black-and-white tile floor. He wore a blue terry cloth bathrobe and scuffed slippers.

  Behind him was the body of another man who had also been shot in the head. He, too, had fallen backward and lay spread-eagled at the foot of the stairs.

  Something about the body didn’t appear right to me. I knelt beside the fallen man to have a look. His hands caught my attention. The thumb and index finger of his right hand were both out of joint and lay askew. As did the thumb of his left hand.

  “That must have hurt,” I mused.

  I stepped carefully to the remains of a woman who lay sprawled across several steps of the grand staircase. She had been shot once in the chest. From the position of the body, it appeared as if she had collapsed and then slid headfirst down several steps.

  Johnny Kennerly looked up from the blood trail left behind by the woman. “What do you make of it?”

  “Looks like a surprise late night visit. Guy in the blue bathrobe opens the door and gets shot for his trouble. The other man is the intended target. Most likely he’s Oliver Darien. Probably came downstairs to see who rang his doorbell in the middle of the night.

  “From the look of it, I’d say the shooter makes him suffer a bit before dispatching him. Plays havoc with his hands. Thumbs wrenched out of their sockets. Fingers broken. Pretty nasty stuff.

  “Woman is likely Mrs. Darien, who also came downstairs to check things out. Each of the victims knew the shooter.”

  Johnny looked away from the crime scene and turned to me. “How do you know?”

  “Mr. Blue Bathrobe would never have opened the door to a stranger.”

  “What do we do now?”

  I motioned to Johnny and turned toward the rear of the house. “We let the forensics techs do their jobs and we evaluate their discoveries. I suspect the Staties and the Feebs will want in on this one. It’s bound to capture national media attention. Particularly if the Justice Department reveals its findings regarding Darien’s Ponzi scandal. Much too juicy a story to keep the big boys at bay.”

  “So?”

  “So, we welcome them with open arms and abide the events. I want to hear what Norma Richard has to say.”

  “The coroner.”

  “I want to know what more she learns about the condition of Darien’s body.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Darien was tortured. He suffered a great deal of physical abuse.”

  “Any ideas as to who might have done it?”

  “None I want to talk about.”

  “Because?”

  “This is just the beginning.”

  ***

  Marsha Russo answered her cell phone on the first ring. “Speak to me.”

  I asked, “Where are you?”

  “Off duty.”

  “Where off duty?”

  “That would be none of your business.”

  “What if I were in need of you?”

  “Are you?”

  “Crime scene techs are crawling all over the Darien estate collecting DNA.”

  “And you want to know if any of it matches what’s on the gloves.”

  “You sure know how to put two and two together.”

  “You think I can assist the process?”

  “Nobody better than you.”

  “You know what they say about flattery?”

  “No. What do they say?”

  “Cute. Okay. I’ll get on it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The Shoe Barn.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m at The Shoe Barn.”

  “Because?”

  “A girl can’t have enough shoes.”

  “Hopefully this won’t be an inconvenience for you.”

  “Sadly the Uggs will have to wait,” she lamented and ended the call.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “What happened up there?”

  We were in my father’s office, a commanding room on the top floor of the County Courthouse, filled with heavy furniture and the souvenirs of a lengthy career.

  Pictures and awards graced bookshelves and walls, most notable among them photos of my father with President Reagan, Clint Eastwood, and the two-time Governor of California, Jerry Brown.

  Weakened, the Sheriff had settled into his ancient leather armchair.

  “Nothing I can prove,” I said.

  “But something you believe.”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “The killer gained uncontested entry to the house. It was the live-in houseman who answered the door. The killer was known to him.”

  “Okay.”

  “This was going to be a big week for Oliver Darien. The Justice Department had concluded its investigation and the Feds were preparing to bust him, which would seriously impact a whole lot of people. Billy Goldman told me the Long family was doing everything they could to stall the Darien indictment until after the holy hoopla Celebration. Afraid that once the story broke, the press, and the celebrants watching on worldwide TV, would respond negatively, not only with regards to the size of the financial loss, but to the fact that sacred funds were heavily invested, as opposed to being used for the benefit of the flock, as intended.”

  “Meaning the well could run dry.”

  “It could.”

  “You believe the Longs were involved in the Darien murders.”

  “I do.”

  “Because?”

  “Vengeance.”

  My father sat quietly for a while, deep in thought. Then he blurted, “Who?”

  “It could have been anyone in their circle. One of the hired thugs, perhaps. Even Hickey himself.”

  “Why Hickey?”

  “Coply intuition.”

  “But you have no proof,” he said.

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Leak it to the media.”

  “Leak the story of the Long family’s connection to Oliver Darien?”

  “Yes.”

  “Reveal their losses.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever it will do the most harm. I’m guessing CNN for openers.”

  “Why?”

  “Following so hot on the heels of the Madoff debacle, the murder of Oliver Darien is likely to dominate the headlines. The story could conceivably overshadow the news regarding the identities of the scam victims.”

  “Which is why you want to release their names now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which would guarantee the story hitting before the revival Celebration.”

  “There’s that.”

  “Which could do considerable damage to the Longs.”

  “We can only hope.”

  “And you want my blessing?”

  “You’re the Sheriff.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “Go for it.”

  Chapter Thirty

  My cell phone had a bunch of messages on it, one from the coroner, Norma Richard.

  “There’s good news and bad news,” Norma said when I reached her.

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “Darien was pretty beaten up.
You saw the hands. There was also significant bruising in the genital area.”

  “Suggesting?”

  “Torture. Someone kicked him in the gonads. More than once and exceptionally hard.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You think he was brutalized into divulging information?”

  “I’m the coroner, Buddy. That’s a detective question.”

  “Thanks, Norma.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “What’s the good news?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said there was bad news and good news. What’s the good news?”

  “I’m planning on taking the rest of the day off.”

  “For?”

  “Spiritual rejuvenation.”

  “Which means?”

  “I’m headed for the mall.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “There’s bad news and even worse bad news,” Marsha Russo announced when I entered the station.

  I picked up my mail and started perusing it. “What’s the first bad news?”

  “There’s no match.”

  I stopped looking at the mail. “I beg your pardon?”

  “There’s no DNA match for the gloves.”

  “They’re certain?”

  She nodded.

  “What about on the bodies? Oliver Darien’s, for example? Somebody beat him up pretty good.”

  Marsha picked up a sheet of paper from her desk and read aloud from it. “No DNA other than that of the victims themselves was discovered on the bodies.”

  I thought about that for several moments. “He was wearing gloves. Had to have been. His modus operandi. Remember the Rolex.”

  “So you think Hickey did it?”

  “I know he did. I just can’t prove it yet.”

  Marsha’s face registered a moment of consternation.

  “What’s the rest of the bad news?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t prevent it.”

  “Prevent what?”

  She pointed to my office. “You’ll see.”

  With a sideways glance at her I stepped inside where I found Maggie de Winter sprawled out on my desk chair, feet up, staring out the window. She swiveled around to face me.

  “This is a very good chair.”

  I looked at her.