Missing Persons

by Michael Brandman

Chapter Forty-two

  It was the opening night of the three-day Heart of Our Saviour Celebration and the roads in and out of Freedom were jammed. License plates from nearly every state in the union and from Canada could be found in the Long Pavilion parking lot which, at nine a.m., was nearly filled.

  Tailgate parties were underway and the air was rife with the aroma of grilled, smoked, and roasted meats. Although alcoholic beverages were technically forbidden, coolers packed with ice and beer were visible.

  It was a brisk California day with an unseasonable chill in the air. Scarves and sweaters were in abundance. A number of bonfires, burning in large receptacles, attracted children who stood staring at the flames and senior citizens in search of warmth.

  Food trucks of every stripe were up from L.A., ready to feed those who were not part of the tailgate culture. A Ferris wheel and several children’s rides had been set up in a corner of the lot. A handful of midway games accompanied them.

  Despite the festive atmosphere, many of the attendees could talk of nothing other than the Oliver Darien debacle and its impact on their beloved Reverend.

  As was his custom on Celebration days, Barry Long, Junior, was in seclusion. Entrance to the family quarters was forbidden. Backstage passes for staff and crew were essential.

  The Long family security team was out in full force, some stationed on the periphery of the Pavilion, others patrolling the parking lot. An elite force stood ready to tend to the Reverend and his family when they appeared.

  At the County Courthouse, I greeted my team of deputies along with a cadre of police officers on loan from nearby townships that had been assigned to the Sheriff’s Department for the duration of the festivities. The squad room was filled to overflowing with uniformed officers and plainclothes detectives, all armed, some brandishing stun guns and tear gas canisters.

  Four groups of officers had assembled, each under the leadership of a Sheriff’s Deputy, each poring over every detail of their assignments. At six p.m., they would deploy to Long Pavilion, where they would await the signal to move in.

  Promptly at seven p.m., the convocation, as delivered by Pastor Leonard Handel, would keynote the Celebration.

  I stood beside Johnny Kennerly and watched as the Heart of Our Saviour Choir performed several rousing spirituals that raised everyone’s energy level. Celebrants stood and sang along with the choir. Several young people danced in the aisles.

  Then came Barry Long the Third, all three and a half feet of him, who joined the choir in an upbeat rendition of “Nearer My God to Thee.” The boy was dressed in a smartly tailored blue suit, adorned with a red-and-white polka-dotted bow tie.

  He sang with childish enthusiasm, but without much skill. When the song was over, he bowed deeply, then ran off stage.

  He was followed by his father, the Reverend Barry himself, whose entrance brought the crowd to its feet. The ovation went on for several minutes, during which the Reverend prowled the stage like some kind of feral beast, grabbing hands, touching foreheads, soaking up adoration as if it were his due.

  He spoke for nearly an hour. His message was consistent with what I had seen on the DVD. He claimed to be a simple preacher whose devotion to those in need had earned him the ear of God. No mention was made of the financial debacle nor the vast sums of money that had been lost.

  As he arrived at the pinnacle of his performance, with arms outstretched and eyes focused heavenward, he dropped to his knees and immersed himself in prayer.

  Suddenly Barry Three toddled onto the stage and stood beside his father. He was quickly followed by Catharine, whose appearance brought the crowd to its feet in total frenzy. She wore a full-length white gown. She was pale and moved hesitantly, seemingly disoriented.

  Reverend Barry strode swiftly to her side to assist. With their arms around each other, they walked to center stage. Barry Three ran to them and hugged tight to his mother. The family portrait complete, the Longs stood together, basking in the adoration of the assembled.

  Catharine’s entrance was the signal. Down each of the fourteen aisles marched two of my officers, led by Johnny Kennerly. They climbed onto the stage and swiftly moved to surround Catharine, who appeared even more confused and bewildered by what was taking place. Three remained glued to her side.

  I watched Johnny produce an arrest warrant and hand it to Catharine Long. I couldn’t hear what was being said but when I saw Johnny speaking directly to her, I knew he was reciting her rights.

  Several officers ushered Catharine and Three from the stage, edging them toward the exit.

  As the Reverend looked on, a number of Long family security guards moved as if to intercept the procession. They were stopped in their tracks by a rush of additional police officers.

  A hush settled on the Pavilion as the faithful watched the unfolding events, uncertain as to what exactly was taking place.

  Once Catharine, Three, and the officers were out of the building, the crowd erupted. Celebrants began yelling and stamping their feet. A number stood weeping. Several followed the officers outside and watched as they loaded Catharine and Three into one of the many squad cars that stood in wait.

  Then, with sirens blaring, the vehicles raced off into the night.

  Chapter Forty-three

  In the chaos, accompanied by two Freedom police officers, Marsha Russo and I slipped backstage and headed for the family residence. The guard at the door was uncertain, but when we showed him our credentials, he stood aside.

  The family quarters, located on ground level, were plush, filled with ultra-modern designer furniture and high-end electronic gadgetry.

  We worked our way through the living area, den, dining room, and four separate bedrooms before arriving at the staff quarters located in the sub-basement level.

  Utilitarian and spare, this area housed an industrial-sized kitchen plus three small offices, a common room, and a pair of tiny bathrooms.

  We came upon a door bearing a sign that read No Entry.

  When our master keys proved useless, I instructed one of the officers to shoot out the lock.

  We pushed our way inside to a windowless great room, to be met by the alarmed stare of a small, nervous-looking, middle-aged man in rolled-up shirtsleeves and loosened tie, wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses.

  He was seated at a large oak desk, filled to overflowing with strewn papers and files. A number of large garbage bins, some half-filled with discarded paperwork, stood ready to receive more.

  The room was a mess. Dozens of file cabinets, some with drawers hanging open like gaping maws, spit out a chaotic tangle of paper and file folders. Torn and emptied cardboard boxes filled the metal shelving units that lined the walls.

  The man at the desk stood and glared at us. “This is private property.”

  “Not anymore it isn’t.”

  The man removed a pinstriped, navy suit jacket from the back of his chair and put it on. He picked up a black leather briefcase from the floor beside him and made a move for the door.

  “Would you be so good as to ID this person?” I said to the police officer who had accompanied us. “You might want to check him for any concealed weapons, as well.”

  The officer nodded and intercepted the wiry little man. “Wallet, please.”

  The man fished it out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the officer, who flipped through it. “Robert Albanis,” the officer said to me.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Albanis. I’m Buddy Steel.”

  “What is it you want with me, Mr. Steel?”

  “Sheriff Steel.”

  “Okay. What do you want with me, Sheriff Steel?”

  “What is it you do here, Robert?”

  “I prefer Bob,” he said.

  “Okay, Bob. What do you do here?”

  “I work here.”

  “Doing what?”
<
br />   “Stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Accounting stuff.”

  “You’re an accountant?”

  “Yes.”

  “What exactly are you doing with these papers and file folders?”

  “Destroying them.”

  “Because?”

  “They’re of no further use to us.”

  “To what do they relate?”

  “They’re business-related.”

  “And you’re destroying them.”

  “Yes.”

  I glanced at Marsha Russo who shrugged.

  “When exactly was it that you last spoke with Hickham Long?” I said to Bob Albanis.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “When did he tell you he had a bead on the money?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “This isn’t going well, Bob.”

  I turned to the police officer. “Would you please be so kind as to prepare Mr. Albanis for removal from the premises?”

  Albanis became agitated. “What do you mean removal from the premises?”

  “We’re taking you with us,” I said.

  “You’re not taking me anywhere. I’m an American citizen. I know my rights. I demand a phone call.”

  “And I’m sure you deserve one. But regardless of your citizenship, you get a phone call only if you’ve been arrested.”

  “What do you call this?”

  “An anomaly.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re not being arrested. You’re being held for questioning.”

  “Questioning? What kind of questioning?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  “For how long?”

  “For as long as it takes.”

  “You can’t do this.”

  “You think?”

  I nodded to the officer who took hold of Albanis’ arm.

  “I demand to know where you’re taking me.”

  “Do you like to dance, Bob?” I asked.

  “What do you mean dance?”

  “Have you ever heard of the jailhouse shuffle?”

  “What are you talking about? What in the fuck is the jailhouse shuffle?”

  “You’re about to find out.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  We stashed Albanis in Victory, a small town on the northernmost tip of San Remo County, in one of the police station’s four jail cells.

  I wanted enough time to question him on my terms and the jailhouse shuffle provided a way to keep him in custody without an arrest being made or charges being filed. He would be moved on a daily basis, sometimes twice a day, throughout the county penal system, always one step ahead of any potential detection.

  I left him to stew overnight about his current state of affairs and returned to Freedom. It wasn’t more than fifteen minutes after I’d arrived when I heard a commotion in the squad room. Barry Long, Senior, and his attorney, Murray Kornbluth, were steaming in my direction.

  Without waiting to be invited, they entered my office and planted themselves in front of me.

  Kornbluth prided himself on the elegance of his attire. He had on a blue-and-gray pinstriped Armani suit, a Turnbull & Asser pale blue dress shirt, and a pink Gucci tie. His black loafers were Gucci, also. Were it not for his frenetic manner, his simian features, and his noticeable four o’clock shadow, he might actually have looked human.

  “Where is she?” Droplets of spittle flew from the corners of his mouth.

  I was all innocence, a study in curiosity. “Where is who?”

  “Don’t go there with me, Buddy,” Kornbluth said. “I’m in no mood for your shenanigans.”

  Barry Long, Senior, demanded, “Where’s my daughter-in-law?”

  “They left.”

  “What, left?” Kornbluth said.

  “I released them and they left.”

  “You released them to who?”

  “To their own recognizance.”

  Enraged now, Kornbluth shouted, “You couldn’t have. Where are they?”

  I asked Marsha Russo to join us. When she did, I said, “Please tell their eminences here what took place with Mrs. Long.”

  “She left,” Marsha said. “Deputy Sheriff Steel determined that neither she nor her son were a threat to flee, so he released them.”

  Both men stood speechless. They exchanged glances.

  “Tell me where they went,” Kornbluth insisted.

  Marsha shrugged. “They didn’t say.”

  Kornbluth whirled and faced me. “I don’t believe a word of this, Buddy.”

  “Be that as it may, Murray, she’s gone. And I’d like both of you to be gone as well.”

  Long Senior folded his arms across his chest. “I want to see for myself.”

  “Be my guest. Marsha, would you please give these two distinguished gentlemen the station tour? Allow them a peek at our currently unoccupied cell block. Then please escort them out.”

  Marsha nodded. “This way,” she directed the two visitors.

  Nearly apoplectic with rage, Kornbluth stomped out of the office followed by Long Senior.

  Before closing the door after them, Marsha flashed me a look. “That was truly excellent.”

  A huge grin split her face.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Having made certain I wasn’t being followed, I turned left onto Lewiston Street and parked the Wrangler a block and a half from Sarah Kaplow’s house.

  The patrol car that held Catharine Long and her son, Barry III, had furtively split from the main convoy and dropped them off at Sarah’s, where they were greeted by a private-duty nurse, two security officers, and the indomitable librarian herself.

  The nurse gave Catharine a hasty examination, and determined she was heavily sedated. She then put Catharine to bed. Barry III was a ball of fire, excited beyond measure to be reunited with his mother. The boy insisted he remain at Catharine’s bedside, where he and Sarah spent the rest of their evening constructing a large Lego pirate ship.

  “She’ll be far more responsive in the morning,” the nurse said. “Once the sedatives have worn off.”

  I asked Sarah to phone me when Catharine felt well enough to be interviewed. I explained that the security guards would be working eight-hour shifts and would inform her when each shift was about to change so she could familiarize herself with the next pair of officers.

  “I’ve already told the library staff I’ll be taking a few vacation days,” Sarah said. “I want to be with her for as long as it’s necessary.”

  “Once she’s composed, we’ll learn a lot more about what she wants to do.”

  I gave Sarah my cell number and the private line into the station, should she need to reach me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “This was a clever idea, Buddy. For the life of me, though, I don’t know how you got away with it.”

  “Can I tell you something, Sarah?”

  She nodded.

  “Neither do I.”

  We shared a laugh, then I left the house and went home to bed.

  Chapter Forty-six

  The next morning, with a sea of media splayed out in front of my condo, and having learned of a similar gathering at the County Courthouse, I decided not to conduct my interview with Catharine Long until the frenzy subsided.

  Sarah Kaplow confirmed that Catharine was being examined by Dr. Lonnie MacDonald, Freedom’s leading general practitioner, who would report his findings to me.

  I slipped past the media and headed for Victory.

  The desk sergeant led me to the cell where a visibly shaken Bob Albanis stared daggers at me.

  “Morning, Bob,” I said, cheerfully. “I trust the accommodations were
to your satisfaction?”

  “You have no right to hold me like this,” he yelled. “I could have your badge for this.”

  “You’re welcome to it. I don’t usually carry it, anyway.”

  “Are you mouthing wise with me, Mr. Steel?”

  “Why would you say a thing like that?”

  “What is it you want?”

  I shrugged. “I’m prepared to make you a one-time-only offer, Bob. So you’ll be wanting to listen carefully. You tell me what I want to know and your life will become immeasurably better.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “Such as?”

  “What was in the file cabinets?”

  “What file cabinets?”

  “That’s not the right answer, Bob.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What was in the files you were destroying?”

  “What files?”

  “You’re not making me happy, Bob. And the most important thing in your life right now is making me happy. Comprende? I’m going to ask you one more question. If you answer incorrectly, your future will be considerably less bright. Am I clear? Now tell me, why was the office being dismantled?”

  It took Albanis several moments to accept this new reality. Finally he said, “Because we were told to dismantle it.”

  “By whom?”

  He looked at me but didn’t speak.

  “By whom, Bob?”

  “By Hickham Long.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “What was in the file cabinets?”

  “Lots of stuff. Financials, mostly.”

  “What kind of financials?”

  “Sales records. Balance sheets. Monthly statements. That kind of stuff.”

  “What kind of statements?”

  “Income. Expenditures.”

  “What were you going to do with them?”

  “Hickey wanted them torched.”

  “So you burned them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you duplicate them?”

  “He wouldn’t let me. He didn’t want to leave any traces behind.”