Albanis stared at me in an effort to gauge my response to his story. When he realized I was watching him intently, he looked away.
“You’re a CPA, right?”
“I am.”
“For the Longs?”
“They’re my only client.”
“And you were destroying financial records at their behest.”
“Something like that.”
“I want to know everything about the records you destroyed. I want copies of them. I also want the names of everyone connected with the operation.”
“I just told you, Hickey ordered me to destroy all of that information.”
“I’m not here to play footsie with you, Bob. I’m betting that whatever it was Hickey Long ordered you to do, you managed to defy him.”
He remained silent.
“I want everything you have on the Longs, including their involvement with the Blackbirds. I want the names of the distribution team. The guys who push the junk around the neighborhoods. I also want information as to how they operated with Oliver Darien, how the money was laundered, and how Darien was able to bamboozle them. And I want the paper trail that proves it. And the cherry on the cake, Bob? I want to know where Hickey is right now and what money he has a bead on.”
“And if I provide you with this information?”
“You win a Get Out of Jail Free card.”
“What if I wanted more than that?”
“What more?”
“Witness protection.”
“You want to go underground?”
“If I were to provide you with the information you’re seeking, my life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel.”
I thought about that for a while. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“You give me everything I’m asking for, I’ll deliver WitPro.”
“How do I know?”
“Know what?”
“That you’ll keep your word.”
“You don’t.”
“Then why would I do it?”
“Because it’s your only play.” I grinned at him and stood. “I’ll be back for your answer.”
As I headed for the door, Albanis leapt to his feet and grabbed hold of the cell bars with both hands. He pressed his face between them.
“When? When will you be back?”
I waved to him over my shoulder and left.
Chapter Forty-seven
When I arrived at my office, Marsha told me my father was in the building and looking for me. I took the stairs two at a time.
He was seated behind his desk, a faraway look in his eyes. It took him a few moments to focus on me.
“Buddy,” he said.
“Morning, Dad. How you doing today?”
“Not too bad. Just a little bit of trouble with my hands. Nothing works like it used to.”
His longtime assistant, Lesley Berson, inquired as to whether I might like some coffee, which I did. After pouring me a cup, she tended to the Sheriff, making certain he was comfortable. When she was satisfied, she slipped quietly out of the room.
“There’s some news,” my father said.
“Okay.”
“From Grand Cayman Island.”
I waited for him to continue.
“A body washed ashore this morning. It had been floating for at least a couple of days and was pretty bloated. The Cayman police ran checks on the hotels and the major airlines but drew blanks. There’s a small alternate terminal on the island. Lots of private air traffic in and out.”
“And?”
“Three days ago a Gulfstream IV flew in with a single passenger. Guy called Oliver Darien, Junior. The Cayman authorities believe the body was his.”
“Darien must have kept a stash in one of the banks down there.”
“He did.”
“Do we know which one?”
“We do now. The Darien family had several accounts and a pair of safe deposit boxes at The First Federal Bank of Grand Cayman, a privately owned facility.”
“What do they say?”
“At first they said nothing. But after I got done speaking with the bank’s senior officer, they agreed to cooperate.”
“Still got it, eh, Dad?”
The old man’s face flushed with excitement. His efforts on the case temporarily rejuvenated him. For the first time in a long while, he was himself.
“The First Fed produced a security tape filmed when Oliver Darien, Junior, showed up to withdraw funds. I’m in possession of that tape, thanks in large part to the Freedom Police techies who understand the concept of streaming video.”
“Were you planning to show it to me?”
“It’s all racked and ready to go.”
I stood behind him and watched over his shoulder. A picture of three men, two of them with their backs to the camera, was frozen on his computer screen. My father pressed the Return key and the picture came to life.
The man facing the camera was handing a large leather satchel to one of the other two men, after which they all shook hands. The two men then turned in the direction of the camera.
Just before they exited the frame, my father froze the picture again, this time revealing their faces. One of the men was likely Oliver Darien, Junior. The other was Hickham Long.
“We’ll, I’ll be damned,” I said.
“Hickey, right?”
“Exactly.” I felt a sharp twinge in my shoulder. I rubbed it for several moments, then sat back down and finished my coffee. After a while, I said, “Murder.”
“Darien, Junior?”
“Hickey must have extracted the information he was seeking from Darien, Senior, and then used it to track down the son.”
“And they flew to Grand Cayman.”
“In cahoots,” I said.
“Because?”
“Both of them were desperate. The money Darien kept in the Caymans had to have been all that was left. I’m guessing they made a deal to split it.”
“Why would Darien, Junior, make such a deal?”
“He didn’t have a whole lot of choice. He knew the scam was over and he had to get his hands on whatever was left before the story broke and the dough was frozen. Hickey knew it, too. He tortured the information out of the old man, then raced down to L.A. to intercept Junior.”
“Who didn’t yet know about what happened to his father.”
“Exactly.”
“Which is why he was willing to go along with Hickey.”
“Hickey knew he couldn’t access the money without Junior. Junior knew the extent of Hickey’s losses, and more than likely, feared him. He must have figured that splitting the stash was his best option.”
“He didn’t realize he was signing his own death certificate,” my father mused while dabbing a speck of spittle from the corner of his mouth.
“Not hardly.”
We sat quietly for a while.
Then I said, “So, if the two of them take a private plane to Grand Cayman, why do the manifests report only a single passenger?”
Without missing a beat, my father commented, “Corruption.”
“Doesn’t the crew have to report all passengers to the Customs officials?”
“Not if there’s enough money to thwart them.”
“Which Hickey had once he got his hands on Darien’s stash. Did your contact tell you how much there was in the accounts?”
“Somewhere shy of a million. But he didn’t know anything about the contents of the safe deposit boxes.”
“Which had to have held enough for Hickey to buy off the local authorities. And when he delivers it here, it should also be enough to get the Birds off his back.”
“How much, would you guess?”
I thought about it for a few moments. “Another million, give
or take.”
My father nodded. “That would be my guess.”
“Did the same plane fly him out?” I asked.
“Out of the Caymans?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no record of his leaving.”
“You mean he’s still there?”
“I wouldn’t think so. There are a whole lot of ways you can slip out of the Caymans. Especially if you have some dough.”
“I’m thinking it’s time to rein him in,” I said.
“If you can find him.”
“There’s that.”
The Sheriff stirred and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I tend to tire easily.”
“May I take you home?”
“Lesley will. Thanks just the same.”
“Shall I call her?”
“In a minute. I’m sorry about all this, Buddy.”
“About what?”
“This mess I dumped on you.”
“You didn’t dump anything on me, Dad. Don’t beat yourself up. This case will get solved. The shit will resolve itself and everything will go back to normal. Whatever normal is.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a very good job.”
“Nothing you wouldn’t have done better. But I’m grateful you said it.”
Chapter Forty-eight
Wilma put Sarah Kaplow through to me.
“You better come over here, Buddy,” Sarah said.
“What’s wrong?”
“She is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Best you come over.”
I took all the back roads and got there within twenty minutes. No one followed me.
Sarah greeted me at the door and ushered me into her den, a wood-paneled room crammed full with wall-to-wall bookcases and unremarkable mismatched furniture, all of it worn and comfortable-looking.
Catharine Long was wearing jeans and a sweater, sipping tea. She was no longer sedated but appeared uneasy and anxious. She was much younger-looking in person than she appeared in the videos. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” I said.
She focused on me. “You’re that Sheriff, right?” I nodded. “You certainly captured the attention of the Longs. You shook up every one of them.”
She seemed unsettled, distracted, as if she were wrestling with herself internally. Then she bolted upright, as though she had reached some kind of decision.
She spoke directly to Sarah Kaplow. “I have to leave here, Sarah. Now. I’m going on tonight. I’m appearing at the Celebration. With my son and my husband.”
Sarah was taken aback. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s my duty.”
“After all they did to you?”
“You mean after all my father-in-law and brother-in-law did to me?”
I interrupted her. “You don’t believe your husband played a role in your kidnapping?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Are you suggesting he didn’t know you were being held captive?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. Right now I have an obligation to my followers. I intend to fulfill that obligation. Are you planning to also hold me against my will, Sheriff?”
“You’re free to do anything you want, Mrs. Long. But not holding your husband accountable for the manner in which you were treated is a terrible mistake.”
After several moments, she thoughtlessly delivered a rote response. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
“That’s your privilege. But I’m not through with him. He was a participant in some pretty despicable behavior. Behavior I wouldn’t describe as deeply spiritual. Guys like him sweep their corruption under the nearest apology and beg forgiveness for it. More than likely you’ll see a repeat performance, Mrs. Long. You’ve already played victim. For sure, you’ll play it again.”
“Thank you for sharing your opinion, Mr. Steel. Now, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to return to the Pavilion.”
“My deputy will escort you.”
“Thank you.” She turned abruptly and left the library.
Sarah Kaplow watched her go.
“Why didn’t you try to stop her?”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference. You heard her. She’s got an obligation to her followers. She’s caught up in the drama. Particularly since she’s such an integral part of it.”
“I suppose.”
“She’s very young, Sarah.”
“Also a factor.”
A sarcastic smile insinuated itself onto my face. “And lest we forget, there’s no business like show business.”
“You’re so cynical, Buddy.”
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you.”
“With good reason.”
“It’s your Achilles heel, you know.”
“Cynicism?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you say a thing like that?”
“Because I know you. I watched you grow up, remember. Who better than me to call you out?”
Catharine Long stepped back into the library. Her son and the nurse stood behind her in the hallway.
“Thank you for everything, Sarah,” she said.
“You’re sure you want to do this, Catharine?”
“More than you’ll ever know.”
Mrs. Long peered in my direction, but refused to make eye contact. She stepped back and picked up her son and nuzzled his hair. “We’re going to see Daddy now.”
“I don’t want to see Daddy,” the boy cried, flailing his arms about. “I hate Daddy.”
She embraced him in an attempt to calm him. “No you don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” the boy screamed. “I do. I do. I do. I hate him. I hate my Daddy. I never want to see him again.”
His rant became louder and more chaotic.
Catharine put him down and as soon as she did, the boy lashed out at her, slapping at her with his fists, trying also to kick her.
The nurse lifted him up, which alarmed him. He started to sob. Catharine took him and clutched him to her chest. She began gently patting his back.
With the boy still in her arms, she stepped quickly to Sarah Kaplow and knelt beside her. “Don’t underestimate me, Sarah. This is far from over.”
She gave Sarah a quick peck on the cheek, glanced sideways at me, then left the house.
Chapter Forty-nine
Although my father and Her Honor had invited me to live in their mansion, I wanted distance between us, so I sublet a condo in the foothills. Despite its meager furnishings and bleak surroundings, I like it.
It has two bedrooms, a living-dining room combo, a full-sized kitchen, and two bathrooms. The landlord provided furnishing for only one bedroom, so the second one stands empty, used only when I’m given to fits of pacing.
With the exception of the master bedroom, which overlooks the low-lying mountains, the rest of the views are of the neighboring streets and houses.
The living room does open onto a small terrace, big enough for a lounge chair and a side table, and offering a blast of direct sunlight that it receives for the better part of an hour each day at around noon.
The utilitarian gray concrete building holds six units, with parking spaces for them in the rear. There’s a small outdoor swimming pool and an even smaller exercise room that contains four stationary bikes, two treadmills, and a weight machine.
I swung the Wrangler into the driveway, past the diminished throng of media personnel, heading for my parking space when I spotted her.
She was sitting on a small, grassy knoll, wearing a fisherman’s cap and a thick woolen pea coat, resembling a weather-beaten sailor after a hurricane. She looked up as I drove by and when I jammed on the brakes, she slung a small duffel over
her shoulder, ambled to the Wrangler, and climbed in.
She planted a wet kiss on my cheek and said, “The damsel rescued from near-certain hypothermia shows her appreciation.”
“Not good enough.”
“How not good enough?”
“The level of gratitude is far too meager.”
“I trust we’ll be going indoors once you park this sucker, correct?”
“Correct.”
She removed the fisherman’s cap and shook out her hair. “The level of gratitude will elevate even more significantly once we’re indoors.”
I parked and although several members of the media had noticed us, we managed to duck inside before they could swarm.
She dropped her duffel on the upholstered two-seater in the living room and poked around the place, looking into each of the rooms. After the inspection, she watched me fix a pair of gin and tonics. “I took a chance.”
“On?”
“Your being hospitable.”
“How’m I doing?”
“Better than expected.”
“What are you doing here, Maggie?”
She removed the pea coat and ran her fingers through her rich auburn hair, which she nervously swept off her forehead. She had on a long-sleeved, blue man’s dress shirt worn over a pair of black tights. Clearly she was bra-less and she noticed me trying not to notice.
She plunked herself down on the sofa. “I’m in the shits, Buddy. There’s no one else I can talk to.”
I handed her the gin, picked up one of the straight-back chairs from the dining table, placed it in front of her and sat. “So, talk.”
“It’s worse than I imagined. And you playing Javert isn’t helping.”
“Go on.”
“This business with Oliver Darien has brought my father to his knees. He’s angry all the time. He never stops talking but he says nothing. My brother, Barry, has become despondent. His life has come crashing down. He’s estranged from Catharine. The kid can’t stand him. And worse, he can’t stand the kid.”
Once started, she could barely stop talking long enough to take a breath. “He’s constantly beleaguered by creditors. He’s tried his best to maintain his piety, but after your raid, he lost it. And of course you know Hickey’s vanished. Allegedly with blood on his hands. Could things get any worse?”
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