Missing Persons

by Michael Brandman

  “They could if you were a part of it.”

  “Unintended consequences is my part.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Over time, I managed to squirrel away a little nest egg from the financial support my father provided. Without it I’d be totally broke.”

  The realization dawned on me that despite her declarations to the contrary, she was still attached to her family. I dropped the most recent bombshell on her. “At least there’s now a measure of consolation for the Reverend.”

  This last caught her attention. “Which is?”

  “Catharine went back to him.”

  She gasped. “She went back to him? To Barry?”

  “Yep.”

  “When? Today?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Exactly my question to her.”

  “To which she replied?”

  “Some bullshit about family first.”

  I watched as she considered her response. “Despite what she went through?”

  “Because of what she went through.”

  “She’s as crazy as the rest of them.”

  Again I held her gaze. A brief silence settled over us before I asked a second time, “So why are you here?”

  “In Freedom or with you?”

  “In Freedom.”

  “Barry asked me to come.”

  “Senior or Junior?”

  “Both.”

  “Why?”

  “Senior needed a shoulder to cry on and I was the only one of his offspring he could count on.”

  “And Junior?”

  “To complain about Senior.”

  I got up and began pacing, wondering what was really going on between her and her family. After a while I said, “And with me?”

  “I don’t know, Buddy. I’m not in a good place. I don’t know what to do.”

  “And you think I can help?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  She drained her drink. I fixed us both another and when I came back, she was softly crying. “This was a mistake. I’ll finish my drink and leave.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I have no business dumping on you like this. We hardly know each other. I’ve put too much emotional weight on the brief time we spent together. I apologize.”

  I stopped pacing and stood in front of her. “I think about you.”

  She looked at me. “What about your ethics?”

  “They trouble me. If I were a saner person, I’d have never let you in here.”

  “But you did.”

  “Which I’m certain I’ll live to regret.”

  She shook her head. “I told you I was trouble.”

  “But you never said how much.”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Not a good enough answer.”

  “Yes, then.”

  She allowed that to sink in for a few moments. She gulped down a fair measure of gin, stood, and muttered, “Okay, I’m out of here.”

  She grabbed her duffel, shot me a withering glance, and headed for the door. Then she stopped dead in her tracks. Dropping the duffel, she made a beeline for me. She leapt at me and threw her arms around my neck.

  “This is so crazy,” she murmured.

  She kissed me with a great deal of urgency. I kissed her back. She broke away to say, “What is this about?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Time out of time?”

  “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

  “Can you think of anything better?”

  “I can’t think of anything at all just now.”

  We left a trail of clothing on our way to the bedroom. We abandoned rationality and went at each other with ferocity and tenderness, plus a child-like sense of discovery. Each time we thought we had hit the heights, we found new ones.

  Dawn was breaking when we finally slept.

  Chapter Fifty

  By ten o’clock, I’d already shaved, showered, and dressed. The coffee was made and I was removing the toast from the oven when she wandered into the kitchen, wearing one of my t-shirts, still wiping the sleep from her eyes.

  “Amazing,” she said.

  “What is?”

  “That anyone can function on so little sleep.”

  “Do I look like I’m functioning?”

  “A whole lot better than I am.”

  She slathered a wad of unsalted butter on her sourdough toast and poured two heaping spoonfuls of sugar in her coffee.

  “Ugh,” I said.

  “And your objection is?”

  “Butter and sugar.”

  “You put them on the table.”

  “Only for show.”

  “You should have said something.”

  She chomped down the toast and took a large slurp of coffee. “I gather you’re going out.”

  “Meetings.”

  “I’m not ready to leave just yet.”

  “No matter. Close the door behind you. It locks itself.”

  “I mean I’m not ready to leave Freedom. I’d like to stay here.”

  “You mean you want to move in?”

  “Not in that sense. I want to stay in Freedom for a few more days to keep an eye on my father. Is that a problem for you?”

  I thought it more politic if I didn’t answer that particular question. Turns out I was wrong. She jumped all over me. “It is, isn’t it? Is it an ethical problem or a commitment problem?”

  “Both.”

  “Swell. Listen, Buddy, I’ll be gone by the time you get home. But allow me to tell you something. I can sympathize with your ethical problem. I might even be able to comprehend your commitment issues. But apart from some serious self-evaluation, you might want to step outside of yourself and take into consideration that I might have a few ethical problems of my own.”

  I waited silently for the other shoe to drop.

  “Just for the record here, big boy, I’d like you to understand that life as we knew it is no longer a reality for me and my family. My father has led us to financial ruin. My idiot brother dealt narcotics and maybe even murdered a few people. My pious asshole brother is wallowing in self-pity with no viable exit strategy.

  “And in case you’re interested, I, who has devoted her life to having nothing to do with any of them, have now become the family mediator. Whatever level of independence I believed I had earned has proven illusory. I misjudged the difference between financial assistance and indentured servitude. In other words, Buddy, I’m fucked. With the exception of a tiny reserve, I’m as busted as the rest of them.

  “And if that wasn’t enough, for some unknown reason I have these feelings for you. Am I totally neurotic or what?”

  She retreated inside herself for several moments, then went on. “Let me ask you a dumb question.”

  “How dumb?

  “Dumb enough. What do you feel for me?”

  “What do I feel?”

  “Oh, come on, Buddy. Just answer the question.”

  I found myself stumped, adrift in uncertainty.

  She glared at me. “I’m waiting.”

  “I’m conflicted.”

  “Great answer, Buddy. You may be the only person I know who’s more frightened of commitment than I am. You think I’m trouble? You’re every bit my equal.”

  “There’s the ethical thing, too.”

  “Fuck the ethical thing. You’re not the only one of us with ethical issues. What really scares you is that if you allow yourself to have genuine feelings for someone, you believe you’re going to get stepped on.” She shook her head. “Am I welcome to stay here or not?”

  I continued to dither for severa
l moments before finally answering, “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, you’re welcome to stay here.”

  A small smile revealed itself at the corners of her mouth. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “It was brutal.”

  “Get over it.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  We moved Bob Albanis from Victory to the town of Vista Loma, in the southernmost part of the county. He was grumpy and agitated when I showed up.

  I stood in front of his cell, a small windowless space, dank and unfriendly. A cot with an uncased pillow and a rough wool blanket, plus a hard wooden chair were the only pieces of furniture. A sink and a toilet stood in the corner. Overhead lighting fixtures burned ceaselessly.

  “Hidey Ho, Bobby,” I said. “Sleep well?”

  “Spare me your wise-ass mouth, Steel. You’re holding me against my will.”

  “And I feel terrible about it.”

  “Fuck you, too.”

  “What’s your decision?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “I was counting on you to say that.”

  “I’ll need my computer.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Hidden.”

  “Where?”

  “In a safe place.”

  “You scanned them, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Hickey didn’t know.”

  “Fuck Hickey.”

  “Where?”

  “Same place as the names and the other stuff you want.”

  “They’re on a computer?”

  “A tablet.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll take you there.”

  I thought about his offer for several moments. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  “Because new best friends don’t lie to each other.”

  ***

  We loaded Albanis into a police van, his wrists bound and his ankles shackled, the chains hooked to a steel ring embedded in the floor of the van.

  He whined. “Why?”

  “A safeguard.”

  “A safeguard from what?”

  “From you bolting and disappearing into the woods.”

  “As if I would do such a thing.”

  “Alas, we’ll never know.”

  We were buzzed through the gates and proceeded up the winding driveway to the motor court in front of the Long family mansion.

  A brisk Santa Ana wind stirred the foliage that fronted the elaborate portico. A murder of crows cavorted loudly among the aspens and maples.

  P.J. Lincoln and Johnny Kennerly escorted Albanis from the van to the front porch where we were met by a genial, gray-haired black man of a certain age, in butler’s yellow-and-black livery, a quizzical look on his face.

  “How may I help you gentlemen?”

  “We’re assisting Mr. Albanis.”

  “Assisting him?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “In what?”

  “That would be Sheriff’s business. Mr. Albanis wishes to visit his office.”

  “Sheriff’s business?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a Sheriff?”

  “San Remo County.”

  “How come you’re not dressed like a Sheriff?”

  “I’m posing a challenge to the norm.”

  The elderly butler reached into his pocket and produced a pair of thick-lensed spectacles. He put them on and examined me closely. “I don’t have to let you in here, you know.”

  “Are you new to this job, Mr.…?”

  “George. Just George will do.”

  “Are you?”

  “New? No, sir. I’ve been with Mr. Long, Senior, since 2009.”

  “And now you’re here?”

  “Personnel reduction and redeployment. Hopefully temporary.”

  “Hopefully. Are you familiar with Mr. Albanis?”

  “I am.”

  “He’s here to visit his office. May we enter?”

  The butler reserved judgment for several moments, then, with a cagey grin on his face, he stepped aside. “Please do.”

  “Thank you, George. I believe Mr. Albanis knows the way.”

  Shackled and slow-moving, Bob Albanis led me to the small elevator that took us to his office, located among the rooms on the top floor. He unlocked the door and I followed him inside. P.J. and Johnny waited in the hall.

  It was a compact room facing the sea, and the morning sun poured through a large dormer window. Several file cabinets, a desk, and two chairs comprised all of the room’s furniture.

  Albanis gave his office the once-over, then he led us to the men’s bathroom located at the end of the hall. He stepped directly to one of the room’s two toilets and reached behind the back of its water tank.

  He fumbled around for a while, his movements hampered as a result of his hands being bound together. His frustration mounting, he turned to me and grumbled, “You do it.”

  I reached behind the tank and located an item affixed to it by means of heavy-duty duct tape. I stripped the tape from the tank and freed the object which proved to be an iPad.

  “That’s it,” Albanis said.

  I attempted to activate it, but all that appeared on the screen was a sketch of a battery with a large red X drawn through it.

  “It needs to be charged,” Albanis said.

  “Okay.”

  Still holding the iPad, I stepped back into the hall. “We’re on the move,” I said to Johnny and P.J.

  We encountered George, the butler, on our way to the van. “Find what you were looking for?”

  “No. Mr. Albanis now believes he may have left it elsewhere.”

  The elderly butler shook his head and lamented, “That’s a shame.”

  “It’s always something,” I agreed.

  The sly grin reappeared on George’s weathered face. “Tell me about it.”

  Once in the van, we headed for the County Courthouse.

  “What happens now?” Albanis queried, fishing for information in the officious manner of the professional CPA that he was.

  “We examine the contents of the iPad.”

  “And me?”

  “You get to enjoy the Jailhouse Shuffle for a bit longer.”

  “I need access to my cell phone.”

  “Why?”

  “If you want to know where Hickey is, I have to check the number he called from.”

  “Where is your phone?”

  “At the Pavilion.”

  “Where?”

  “Hidden.”

  “Where?”

  “You won’t find it.”

  I turned to face Johnny. “Change of plan. We’re going to the Pavilion.”

  ***

  Albanis was right. I would never have found it. It was secreted behind a loose brick in a corner of the backstage green room. The still-handcuffed accountant pointed it out and I pried the brick loose, reached inside, and found the phone.

  The battery was low but still functional. At Albanis’ direction, I entered his password and once in, accessed his recent call list and scrolled down until he told me to stop at a call labeled Blocked.

  When I attempted to return the call, all I could ascertain was that it had originated from a 305 area code, which now went unanswered. 305 is the code for Miami, Florida.

  “So he made it out of the Caymans and got himself to Miami,” I concluded.

  “Seems like it,” Albanis agreed.

  “Where would he be in Miami?”

  “He could be anywhere. But I’m guessing he’s on his way here.”

  I wondered again about Albanis’ relatio
nship to Hickey and whether he knew more about Hickey’s movements than he was letting on. “You’re suggesting that he’s coming to Freedom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because?”

  “Unfinished business.”

  “Regarding?”

  “Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, you’re still angling for the WitPro option, am I right about that?”

  Albanis didn’t say anything.

  I chided him. “This might be the right moment for you to ratchet up the cooperation level, Bob. If you value your future, that is.”

  I left him in the care of Marsha Russo at the courthouse jail in Freedom.

  “I want you to employ all of your vast knowledge and skill to squeeze him dry,” I told her. “Go for it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I want to know everything. He’s primed to give it all up. It’s up to you to yank it out of him.”

  “How will I know if he’s telling the truth?”

  “Polygraph.”

  “Not always reliable.”

  “If in doubt, threaten the son of a bitch.”

  “With what?”

  “Make something up.”

  “You know what, Buddy?” Marsha said. “You are some piece of business.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Once I had deposited Albanis with Marsha, I sought out Sheriff’s Deputy Al Striar and handed him the iPad.

  He examined it front to back, open and closed. “What have we here?”

  “It belongs to Bob Albanis.”

  “The accountant?”

  “One and the same. He claims to have scanned all the paperwork that Hickey Long instructed him to destroy and downloaded it onto that tablet.”

  He stared at the iPad and began turning it in his hands again. Then he looked at me.

  “The battery’s low,” I said. “Charge the sucker and transfer the contents to our mainframe and print them out. Have a look. If what he says is true, there could be enough information in those spreadsheets and financials to deep-fry Long’s geese.”

  “Got it.”

  “See if you can track down Dave Richardson.”

  “The Department CPA?”

  “Yeah, him. Ask him to have a look, too. If the financials are as revealing as Albanis says, it would be good to have an accounting professional from our side examine them. Eventually they’ll wind up in forensics, but at the outset, I want a trained eye telling me what they signify.”