“At least pretend you’re happy to see me.”
“I’m stunned is all.”
“You don’t strike me as a person who stuns easily.”
She stood. She had on a transparent black vampire shirt, complete with a filigree lacework neckpiece worn over form-fitting black jazz pants. A pair of over-the-knee, bacon-colored Chinese Laundry boots completed her ensemble.
“You sure know how to make a girl feel all fuzzy and wanted.”
She walked to the door and closed it. Then she came over and put her arms around my neck.
“I’ve never done it in a Sheriff’s office.”
“And you’re not going to start now.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
She kissed me and despite myself, I kissed her back. She looked at her watch. “Do you live nearby?”
“It’s a small town.”
“If I left now, how long would it take me to get to your place?”
“Five minutes. Eight tops.”
“You’re sure about not doing it here.”
I nodded.
“What’s the address?”
I wrote it down.
“I’ll meet you there,” she proposed.
“You mean now?”
“You have something better to do?”
She pulled her car keys from her pocket and dangled them in front of me. She pointed to her watch and winked at me.
“Eight minutes,” she teased and left the office.
Marsha Russo appeared in my doorway. “Who’s the babe?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I already know, just in case you take me for a total moron. You realize you’re making a huge mistake.”
“You think?”
“You stand a very good chance of her doing considerable damage to your reputation, both personally and professionally.”
“I do.”
“You know this.”
I nodded.
“And you don’t care.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to damn well put a stop to it.”
“Liar.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because of the look in your eye.”
“What look?”
“Male pattern stupidity.”
Chapter Thirty-two
In hindsight, I believe it happened because I was distracted and less diligent than I might otherwise have been.
I paid little attention to the Harley lowrider that moved swiftly along the second floor of the County Courthouse parking structure where my Wrangler was parked.
I had yanked the door open when I spotted two riders dressed in black, both wearing dual visors and full face helmets, the rider in back holding a .357 Magnum revolver.
I almost managed to duck out of the way when he fired, but the hollow point bullet slammed into my left shoulder as I dived for cover. The assailants kept going.
I was able to wrest the cell phone from my pocket and call Wilma, but, although help arrived within minutes, the Harley had vanished.
Johnny Kennerly was the first to show up, having run to the parking structure directly from the office. He had barely begun to examine my bloody wound when the medics arrived and took over. They did their best to stanch the bleeding. They loaded me into the ambulance for the five-minute drive to Freedom Adventist Hospital, where I was rushed to the emergency room and moments later, into surgery.
The bullet narrowly missed an artery and lodged in my shoulder. It did a fair amount of tissue damage, which the surgical team was able to repair once they removed the bullet.
“You were lucky,” Dr. Alan Klein said when he paid his postsurgical visit. “If we hadn’t gotten to you when we did, you’d likely have bled out.”
I’m sure I said something clever but I was too sedated to remember. I awakened later to find Marsha Russo sleeping upright in the chair beside my bed, an open book on her lap, her hennaed red hair a mess.
I was attached to several drips and my shoulder was bandaged. I must have been on painkillers because it felt as if songbirds had nested in my brain. I struggled to remember what happened and to identify where I was.
Marsha sensed I was awake because her eyes fluttered opened and she stared at me for awhile. Then, in a voice husky with sleep, she whispered, “Say something.”
“Is that you, Bob?”
“Very funny. Do you remember anything that happened?
“From the look of things, I’d say I was shot.”
“You were. Do you know who did it?”
“He was wearing a helmet.”
“Why?”
Despite being weak-voiced and dopey, I couldn’t resist joking. “Because it’s required by law.”
I was aware of Marsha shaking her head. When I opened my eyes again, my father was sitting in the chair. “What’s up?” I said.
“You are. How do you feel?”
“Lousy. What are you doing here?”
“Worrying.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. This must be awful for you. Go home.”
“You’ll be pleased to know the doctors say you’re in no danger.”
“All the more reason for you to go home.”
When I opened my eyes again, Johnny Kennerly was in the chair. “What day is it?”
“It’s still Thursday.”
“Why am I so gaga?”
“Morphine.”
“Why?”
“They don’t want you suddenly leaping out of bed and trying to find the guy who shot you.”
“I’m not likely to do that.”
“They want to make certain.”
“Stop them.”
“Stop who?”
“The idiots who are keeping me sedated.”
“I’ll look into it.”
When I awakened again, I was less batty and attached to only one drip. Sunshine streamed through the window. No one was sitting in the chair. There was a call button attached to the bed sheet and I pressed it.
Within moments, a severe-looking older woman in a nurse’s uniform appeared, holding a small plastic cup of apple juice.
“Well, looky here,” she said. “He’s awake.”
She removed the straw that was attached to the cup, punched it through the hole on top and placed it on the over-bed table in front of me.
“Fluids,” she admonished. “Fluids are the key. Fluids lead to solids which in turn lead to getting out of here. You want my advice, drink fluids. Lots of fluids.”
She headed for the door. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake,” she said. “And taking the fluids.”
Chapter Thirty-three
I was released on the morning of my second day, accompanied by a private-duty nurse and a police escort. They helped me into my own bed. I was heavily bandaged and my left arm was in a sling.
I felt better although uncomfortable and in no small amount of pain. I tried my best not to down any of the little blue pills that sat next to the water carafe on my nightstand, but I wasn’t always successful.
Among the debris accumulated in my mailbox was a handwritten note from Maggie de Winter, postmarked Los Angeles.
“I waited,” she wrote. “You never showed. Probably for the best. You know where to find me.”
She hadn’t signed it.
I assumed the story didn’t have legs enough to appear in the L.A. media, so she likely had no idea what happened to me.
I drifted in and out of consciousness in a blue pill haze. I dreamed I had been set up. My misanthropic self insinuated it was no coincidence that Maggie and the shooter showed up at the same time. My idealistic self waved me off. I slept fitfully.
In addition to a supply of non-genetically modified Whole Foods snacks and meals, Johnny Kennerly had also brought the morning papers.
The Darien murder was front page news in the L.A. Times, and according to Johnny, had been picked up by CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, and the four networks. The national dailies, also.
The story went viral on the Internet. The Huffington Post website reported that, according to reliable sources, Oliver Darien was to have been indicted on the very day he was murdered.
His victims, investors everywhere on the planet, expressed shock and outrage. The Attorney General promised a thorough investigation. FBI agents swarmed Darien’s offices.
In a flurry of late-breaking news, CNN reported exclusively that numbered among Darien’s victims were the Reverend Barry Long, Junior, and The Heart of Our Saviour Ministry.
The talk shows were soon overbooked with suppliers telling tales of having been shortchanged or stiffed entirely by the Longs, of providing the Ministry with significant credit lines, which resulted in failed businesses and incipient bankruptcies.
Efforts to reach Reverend Barry Long, Junior, or his father, had thus far proved fruitless.
My thoughts constantly tracked back to the shooting. Although my memory was faulty, something about it stuck in my mind.
The vision of the motorcycle bearing down on me kept playing over and over in my head. Something was familiar about the driver but I couldn’t quite place what it was. Just when I hit the threshold of figuring it out, it faded.
Lying around the house didn’t agree with me. In no time I was out of bed and feeling claustrophobic. Cranky, too. When Johnny offered to drive me to the office, I accepted.
The nurse helped dress and load me into a cruiser. Once at the station, I was greeted warmly and everyone did their best to make me feel welcome and loved.
I was sitting at my desk, surrounded by a coterie of deputies, all clambering to tell me what they had been up to in my absence.
When it was Al Striar’s turn, he mentioned the research he had done at my request regarding Milton Pfenster. As soon as he spoke the name, I knew it was him.
Milton Pfenster was the driver of the Harley.
Chapter Thirty-four
We maneuvered the winding driveway to the Long family manse and when we reached the parking level we were once again greeted by Jeffrey Bruce.
As I stepped out of the cruiser, assisted by Johnny Kennerly, Jeffrey stared at my arm which was wrapped in a sling. “What happened?”
“I fell.”
He looked at me dubiously. “Okay. What can we do for you this time?”
“I’d like to speak with Milton Pfenster.”
“I’m afraid Milton is no longer with us.”
“No longer with you?”
“That’s right. He left.”
“You mean he quit his job?”
“I’m not certain he quit, but one way or the other, he’s gone.”
“He’s moved off of the property?”
“He has.”
“When?”
“I think it was last Tuesday. Yes. It was definitely last Tuesday.”
The day of the Darien killings. Johnny and I exchanged a glance. “May I see his dwelling?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like to have a look at the place where he was living.”
Jeffrey retreated into his thoughts for several moments. “I’m not sure I can permit that.”
“Jeffrey?”
“Yes?”
“Remember the last time I was here?”
“Who could forget?”
“Exactly. Would you like a repeat performance?”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“Let me put it this way. I could have one within hours, but I’d feel a whole lot less kindly toward you if I was forced to go through that exercise again.”
“What would I tell the Reverend?”
“What I just told you.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Jeffrey?”
“Yes?”
“Would you please show us Milton’s place?”
After several moments, he said, “Follow me.”
***
The cabin Milton Pfenster lived in was little more than a shack. It consisted of a single living area plus a half-kitchen and a tiny bathroom. It appeared undisturbed since Milton’s departure. A fair amount of debris littered the hardwood floor. A few items of clothing had been left behind. Assorted magazines and newspapers lay scattered on the room’s only table and on a tattered armchair.
Johnny and I poked around but found nothing of note. We stepped outside. The cabin was situated in the woods, surrounded by pine and oak trees, as well as a plethora of indigenous greenery.
I circled the perimeter of the small structure and had I not nearly stumbled on it, I would never have seen the manhole cover that lay nearly invisible amid the tall grass and fallen leaves.
I called out to Johnny, who joined me. “What do you make of this?”
I kicked leaves and grass aside and pointed to the cover.
“Sewer line?”
“Not likely. I’m thinking the property would have wells and some kind of septic system.”
“Why the manhole, then?”
“Good question.”
“What say we find out.”
The grounds around Milton Pfenster’s cabin were as unkempt as the cabin itself. No landscaping attention had been paid in ages. Buffalo and Bermuda grasses grew wild and tall. Agaves, fuchsia, and desert mallows fought for space with monkeyflowers, sage, and California poppies. Horticultural chaos reigned.
Johnny went in search of something to remove the manhole cover. “There has to be some kind of device around here for prying it open,” he mused.
He began a slow turn around the outside of the cabin. He was on the other side of the structure when I heard him cry out, “Eureka.”
“Gold?”
“Better.”
He appeared brandishing a slender steel rod with a forked end.
By inserting the end into a pair of corresponding slits in the manhole cover, he raised it and slid it off. We looked inside and discovered a concrete-lined pit, wide enough for a man to traverse, with a metal ladder bolted to the wall. Johnny found a light switch near the top of the ladder. When he flipped it on, wall sconces illuminated the pit.
We stared at each other, considering. Inasmuch as my shoulder was still in a sling, I motioned for Johnny to do the exploring.
He climbed down the ladder. When he reached the bottom, he yelled up to me. “Holy shit!”
“What?”
“There’s a tunnel down here.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s fully lighted and paved. From the look of it, I’m guessing it leads to the house.”
***
I was standing with Jeffrey Bruce in the basement of the mansion, in the room containing the three cells, when a section of wall suddenly slid backward and Johnny Kennerly climbed through the opening. “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said.
A look of astonishment appeared on Jeffrey’s face. “Obviously you didn’t know about this,” I said to him.
“I had no idea any of this existed.”
“You mean the cells?”
“And the tunnel. I hope this will help you solve the mystery. Disappearing like she did is a worry.”
“Because?”
“People don’t just vanish. Especially when they’re her. She’s a good person. I’m scared for her.”
His comments were personal and heartfelt. It gave rise to some thought as to the nature of his relationship with Catharine. “I’m going to go out on a limb and surmise she’s okay,” I reassured him. “I’m also going to speculate the Longs built the tunnel. Most likely th
e cells, too.”
“Why, do you suppose?” Johnny frowned.
“Good question. What’s it like?”
“The tunnel? It’s high and wide. And there’s a storage area about halfway through.”
“For what?”
“You mean what would they store there?”
“Yes.”
“Just about anything, I guess.”
I turned to Jeffrey.
“There’s a back gate to the estate, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Tunnel like this would keep certain comings and goings confidential.”
I turned back to Johnny. “How fast can you get a forensics team out here?”
“As soon as I have authorization.”
“You have it.”
“I need it signed by Sheriff Steel.”
“I’ll have it faxed within the hour.”
Johnny nodded.
I turned to Jeffrey Bruce. “What was his ride?”
“Excuse me?”
“Milton Pfenster. What did he drive?”
“Some kind of Harley. Souped up, too.”
“You said you were an intern?”
“I did.”
“If I’m not mistaken, interns don’t get paid, correct?”
“There are other things besides money.”
“Meaning?”
“I was a student at the Valley School of Film and Television, which proved to be disappointing. My internship with the Longs has provided me with a great deal of hands-on experience. I’ve learned more here about the way the real world works than I ever did at Valley.”
“I’m sure that’s a benefit, but things being what they are here now, you might want to set your sights elsewhere.”
“I already have.”
Chapter Thirty-five
I sent Marsha Russo and P.J. Lincoln to the Pavilion in search of Milton Pfenster and Hickham Long, both of whom I wanted brought in for questioning.
She phoned me from her cruiser. “They’re gone.”
“Both of them?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find out where?”
“Hickey’s alleged to be somewhere in South America. Security officer says he’s the liaison between the Long family ministry and their TV partners south of the border.”
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