Missing Persons
Page 11
“Pfenster?”
“No one seems to know where he is.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.” I replaced the receiver and was just settling in for some serious mulling when the intercom buzzed.
“Murray Kornbluth on four,” Wilma said.
“What does he want?”
“Press the button below the flashing light to find out.”
“Buddy Steel,” I said, having done as I was instructed.
“One moment for Mr. Kornbluth,” a nasal female voice said.
Within seconds, Kornbluth’s booming voice rang out. “You should have stayed in L.A.”
“Have you any other words of encouragement this morning, Murray?”
“What is it with you, Buddy? Every time I look up, I hear your name.”
“So, don’t look up.”
“Always the wise ass. Before my blood begins to boil, tell me about Burton.”
“It’s not good, Murray.”
“I heard Gehrig’s.”
“You heard right.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Call him. Kibbitz him up. Irritate him like only you can.”
“Will do,” he said. “I’m sorry about this, Buddy.”
“Thanks, Murray.”
After a brief silence, Kornbluth went on. “What is it with you and the Longs?”
“Meaning?”
“Why are you dogging them? What’s between you and Hickey?”
“Well, for starters, somebody shot me.”
“Listen, Buddy. You’re totally misguided if you think it was Hickey who shot you. Besides, he was out of the country.”
“He was out of the country four days ago?”
“Read my lips, Buddy. He didn’t do it.”
“Where’s Catharine?”
“Resting.”
“Resting where?”
“None of your business.”
“Of course it’s my business. First I get a reliable report that Catharine’s gone missing and may have been murdered. Then I hear the Longs are bouncing checks all over town. Barry, Senior, turns out to be a prime victim of Oliver Darien’s Ponzi scam and then Darien turns up dead. I also have reason to believe that the missing Milton Pfenster was driving the motorbike that carried the gunman who shot me.”
“May I respond to this ludicrousness?”
“Have I a choice?”
“It’s all bullshit, Buddy. Forget Catharine. She’s alive and well. She suffered a little psychological meltdown and she’s currently recuperating in a credible facility. It’s true that the Longs have had some financial reversals, but they’re on the rebound and fully intend to honor their commitments. As for the implication that any member of the Long family shot anyone…you, Oliver Darien, or the tooth fairy, for that matter…you carry forward with that line of inquiry and you’re going to buy yourself a career-ending lawsuit.”
“Oh, my God. I’m shaking like a leaf.”
“I’m not kidding, Buddy.”
“Hickey did it. And he knows I know he did.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He slammed the phone in my ear.
Chapter Thirty-six
We agreed to meet at The Malibu Inn, a small, luxury hotel located on the beach in the heart of the legendary Colony.
I had been cleared to drive and made the trip down the scenic Pacific Coast Highway in well under two hours. The manager upgraded me to an ocean view suite where I was now resting on the terrace, on one of the two lounge chairs, a gin and tonic sweating on the table beside me.
Maggie let herself in, gazed around the suite, dropped her overnight bag and joined me outside. “Isn’t this swell,” she commented.
We both stared at the gently rolling Pacific and at Catalina Island in the distance. She sat next to me on the lounge chair, then leaned over and kissed me.
“Mmm,” she said. “Gin.”
She was wearing a low-cut, lightweight sheath dress that provided a terrific view of her amazing body. She was about to climb on top of me when I winced.
A look of concern appeared on her face. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on. What is it?”
I told her.
“My God. That’s why you never showed up?”
“That and a battery of post-surgery narcotics.”
As I watched her consider this news, I was still wary about the possibility that she could have set me up. Her ardor was unaffected. “We’ll need to be very cautious.”
She stood and shrugged out of her dress. She wore only a thong. She reached for my hand and when I gave it to her, she placed it between her legs.
“I’d bet anything there’s a bed around here somewhere.”
“Would you like me to help you find it?”
“I would. And quickly, too.”
We spent the twilight hours wrapped around each other, paying little attention to the setting sun or the diminishing light.
We connected deeply and enjoyed the myriad plateaux we reached both separately and together. She was agile and learned, and after taking note of my damaged shoulder, she was also tender yet at the same time thrilling. It was all pretty good and I let go of my trepidation and surrendered to it.
At last she got up and wandered about the suite, turning on a few lights. She stretched and yawned.
“Were you planning to feed me?”
“Only if it proved necessary.”
“It’s necessary.”
“There’s a pretty nice restaurant downstairs.”
“Last one there is a monkey’s uncle.”
***
The stark wooden interior of the Malibu Inn bistro was softened by candlelight and muted music. It held just twelve tables, most of them empty. The waitstaff slipped unobtrusively through the room, anticipating and serving.
Sated both sexually and now gastronomically, we sat sipping the last of our Prosecco beneath a canopy of glistening stars.
She placed her empty glass on the table. “We’ve certainly managed to avoid talking about the elephant in the room.”
“Meaning?”
“Whatever in the hell it is that’s going on with you and my family.”
“I thought you had distanced yourself from them.”
“You can only distance yourself so far when you’re tethered financially.”
“So you’re in touch with them.”
“Only with my father. He wants to know why you’re dogging them.”
“Where else have I heard that same expression?”
She didn’t respond, which helped raise my suspicions. “You’ve spoken with Murray Kornbluth.”
“He is the family solicitor.”
“Why do I have the feeling we’re suddenly treading on thin ice here?”
“Why do you?”
“Because I’m conducting an investigation that involves them.”
“Which Murray claims is groundless.”
“I knew this was a mistake.”
A pair of newcomers entered the restaurant and were seated next to us at a window table.
Maggie ignored them. “I told you I was trouble.”
“I didn’t realize it was that kind of trouble.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know, Maggie. I’m more than slightly nuts about you. What we just did only heightens those feelings.”
“And you think I don’t share them?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What exactly did you say?”
“I may have misled myself. It wouldn’t be the first time. I somehow thought you existed in a universe separate from them. Now I see I was wrong.”
“Why would it matter?”
“Don’t go all ethics on me, Buddy. I told you things with me are complicated. I said I had obligations. Now you’re on your high horse looking down at me and talking ethics. You think this was a mistake? Well, so do I.”
She flashed me a look of exasperation, stood and sighed theatrically. “Give me five minutes.”
“For what?”
“To collect my things.”
She stepped over to me, knelt down, and kissed me. “At least we’ll always have Paris.”
She looked at me for a moment, then left.
I sat alone.
I paid the bill and checked out of the inn.
I got home at around two and knocked back enough gin to allow me to put her out of my mind for a while.
Chapter Thirty-seven
“State Police located Milton Pfenster,” Marsha Russo said when I arrived at the office.
“Where?”
“Hikers found him in a ditch in a section of forest just south of Big Sur.”
“Living?”
“Not anymore.”
“How?”
“Initial reports suggest a motorcycle accident. Body was in tatters, victim of some kind of wild animal attack. Not a whole lot left of him.”
“Charming.”
“You think he was murdered?”
“I do.”
“Because?”
“He knew too much.”
“What now?”
“I need to talk with the Sheriff.”
***
It wasn’t a good day for the Sheriff. He was having difficulty with his speech. His slurred words couldn’t keep up with the pace of his thoughts.
We were in the den, where he was swaddled in a blanket and seated on his favorite chair in front of a fire that needed more wood. “Would you put a couple logs on the fire for me, Buddy?”
“Sure thing.”
Using a pair of metal tongs, I hoisted two quartered sections of pine logs from the stack beside the stone fireplace, and placed them on top of the smoldering fire. It wasn’t long before they burst into flame.
“That’s good,” he said. “Thank you.”
I sat back down and we stared silently at the fire for a while.
“So, what would you do?” I finally asked.
“It’s a tough call. So much speculation. Such a sensitive time.”
“Because of the Celebration?”
“Because of everything. To my surprise, I’m being told there’s a fair amount of sympathetic concern for the Reverend. It’s likely he’ll throw himself on people’s mercy and his flock will be more than inclined to cut him some slack.”
“Because?”
“He’s young. He’s got a family. There’s a case to be made that his involvement was peripheral. His stated purpose is to bring God to those who need Him most. He’ll likely argue that the money-changers never figured in his thinking.”
“And you believe that?”
“What I believe is irrelevant,” my father said. “I also suspect that Murray Kornbluth has a surprise lurking up his sleeve.”
“Such as?”
“Such as producing Catharine at the most opportune moment.”
“The opening session.”
“That certainly qualifies as an opportune moment.”
“And Barry, Senior?”
“It might take some time, but unless you can prove he was directly involved in the murders, he stands a pretty good chance of skating.”
“He masterminded it. Milton Pfenster and Hickey carried it out.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. Revenge is a qualifiable motive. The Long family never planned on being broke again. Money was their ticket to respectability and position. The size of their loss will catch people’s attention, and the fact that the money wasn’t being applied where it was supposed to be applied will more than likely draw critical scrutiny by the media.”
“So?” my father said.
“There’s something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. I can smell it but I can’t see it. I need some help.”
“From me?”
“Yes, from you. The size of the Long family losses has yet to be revealed. I want to know how much they lost. And more importantly, I want to know how those losses reconcile with the income they declared with the IRS.”
“Because?”
“If I’m right, it won’t add up.”
“Was there anything else?”
“I need access to Oliver Darien’s datebook. I want to know who he met with and how frequently over the last weeks of his life.”
“Feds control those records now.”
“But you can access them.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you know all the big fish.”
“Why would you think the big fish would tell me anything?”
“Because you’re Burton Steel. That’s why.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
When you’re born and grow up in a small town, everyone knows you. They know all about you. Their opinions of you are formed early in your life and are damned near impossible to change.
I was my father’s son. I was dutifully at his side whenever the occasion called for it. We were anything but close, but were frequently together.
Johnny Kennerly was his protégé. He and I were aware of each other from an early age, but kept our distance. Although we both grew up in Freedom, it was on opposite sides of the tracks. We went to different schools and our circle of friends was dissimilar. So it was a surprise when he pulled me aside and told me that someone we had both known from the past wanted to set up a meeting with us.
Feliciano “Chanho” Pineda had also grown up in Freedom. He was the son of El Salvadoran immigrants who worked hard to make a good life for their family. As a kid, Chanho had been gang-affiliated, but he became an athlete of some repute. Johnny and I knew him because we were all gym rats and had made each other’s acquaintance on various basketball courts throughout the county.
Although Chanho left the gang when he was accepted at Cal Poly, he remained close to many of his gangland associates, and over time, played an important role in helping rehabilitate a number of them and assist in their efforts to achieve legitimacy. He was a member of the Mayor’s Community Relations Task Force and was greatly admired in the neighborhood.
He was jumbo-sized, having added weight once his playing days were over. A flattened nose, the victim of any number of beneath-the-boards encounters with meaty hands and flying elbows, haphazardly adorned the center of his large face. His restless brown eyes were guarded, his manner wary.
I joined him and Johnny at Lesnick’s coffee shop. They were drinking shakes. I settled for black coffee.
“Looking good, Chanho.” We briefly hugged. “It’s been too long.”
“You still got game?”
“In my dreams. Regardless of what anyone tells you, it is the legs that go first.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Chanho has some information he believes might be of interest,” Johnny said.
“I’m all ears.”
“There’s some heavy shit going down in the community,” Chanho said.
“Okay.”
“I’m telling you this in confidence. We’re clear on that, right?”
“Yes.”
“You know I used to be a member of the Blackbirds.”
“I do.”
“Do you know the Blackbirds have developed a working relationship with a faction of the Sinaloan cartel?”
“I’ve heard the rumors.”
“Well, there’s a tangle. It seems the Birds are owed a significant amount of money by one of their associates. A local guy.”
&n
bsp; “For?”
“An investment they made with him.”
“What kind of investment?”
“The local guy had been financing some drug-related activities for the Birds.”
“Such as?”
“This and that. It’s not really relevant.”
“Okay.”
“They trusted him. They made some dough together. So when he offered the brothers a chance to be a part of what he described as a non-risk, short-term financial bonanza, they went along with him. Some of the money they invested belonged to the Sinaloans.”
“And the Sinaloans sanctioned the investment?”
“That’s the tangle. They knew nothing about it.”
“You mean the Birds invested cartel money without their knowledge.”
“Yes.”
“I’m guessing that was a mistake,” I said.
“Big mistake,” Chanho said. “The local guy disappeared. So did the money.”
“And?”
“The Birds were forced to inform the cartel they couldn’t pay them on time. The cartel doesn’t value nonpayment. The blood between them and the Birds started running bad.”
“Is there a punch line to this anecdote?”
“I was relating this story to Johnny and when I mentioned the local guy’s name, he lit up.”
“Hickham Long,” I interjected softly.
Chanho glared at Johnny. “You told him?”
“Johnny never said a word.”
Chanho turned back to me. “How did you know?”
“Figures. It’s on the street that the Longs got taken for a bundle. They owe everyone.”
“That’s what we’re just now learning. The Sinaloans are livid. They’re demanding their money. They’re threatening retribution. They red-flagged this Long guy. Their soldados are out hunting for him. Now they’re dropping hints that they might even take out a few members of Hickey’s family, one by one, until they cough up the dough.”
“Taking out, as in…?”
“Ceasing them.”
I considered this for a few moments. Then I queried, “The cartel thinks the Long family still has money?”
“Seems their accountant reached out to the Birds. He asked them to ease up for a few days. Said Hickey’s got a bead on enough money to make them whole.”
“Who’s the accountant?”