Missing Persons

by Michael Brandman

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, and ask Johnny to run the names. Albanis took great pains to preserve them. I’m particularly interested in the distribution network. The Birds. Their guys on the street. Everyone.”

  “When do you want this confirmation?”

  “How about yesterday? Would yesterday morning work for you?”

  Striar rolled his eyes. “I wish you were as amusing as you think you are.”

  ***

  “And if it’s conclusive?” my father asked.

  We were sitting on the sun porch. He hadn’t felt up to traveling to the office and had asked me to meet him at the house.

  “It’s the ammunition we need to go after Barry Long the First.”

  “Will it be enough to indict?”

  “That’s a question for the District Attorney.”

  “What is it you want from me?”

  “If the tablet holds all the information Albanis claims it does, I’m going to need to help him go bye-bye.”

  “WitPro?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Feds will have to arrange that.”

  “I know.”

  “You want me to talk to them?”

  “You’re the Sheriff.”

  “And if they say no?”

  “They can’t say no.”

  “They can say anything they want. They’re the federal government.”

  “They won’t say no to you.”

  “You give me too much credit.”

  “Humility doesn’t suit you, Burton. Just make it happen, okay? I’ve already put it on the table.”

  “Without speaking with me first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Presumptuous little bastard, aren’t you?”

  “The tree doesn’t stand too far from the fallen apple.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s decent of you.”

  “Was it your intention to piss me off today, Buddy?”

  “Not at the outset.”

  “When did it change?”

  “When you climbed onto your high horse.”

  “I’m guessing you can find your way out.”

  “Make this happen, will you please, Sheriff?”

  He stared daggers at me. “I said I’d see what I can do.”

  Chapter Fifty-three

  It was the closing night of the Heart of Our Saviour Revival Celebration and the Pavilion was packed. Catharine Long’s arrest, plus the release of the Ponzi scheme story, brought renewed focus on the Long family. A goodly number of the faithful turned out in support of the Reverend.

  I stood in the back of the arena, watching the show and the audience, which was on its feet, swaying and singing along with the choir, seated in hushed silence when Three again performed “Nearer My God to Thee,” then leaping to its collective feet as he bowed deeply.

  Reverend Barry held them in thrall and when Catharine appeared on stage, the crowd went wild. After she delivered a moving and heartfelt homily, the three Longs stepped off the stage and walked among the gathering, which parted lovingly for them.

  I spotted Barry the First, standing in front of the stage, a self-satisfied grin on his puffy face. Next to him, her arm linked with his, stood Maggie.

  I watched them for a while. They appeared quite intimate. The elder Barry whispered frequently in his daughter’s ear, which elicited a galaxy of responses, from smiles and hugs, to frowns and concerned looks. There seemed to be no tension between them. They looked comfortable in each other’s orbit.

  Contrary to expectations, despite the media revelations regarding Oliver Darien and the questions surrounding Hickham Long, the Celebration was a success. The proceeds would surely bolster the family coffers, helping them sidestep further financial disaster, at least for the short term.

  The procession exited the arena, followed in short order by Barry Senior and Maggie. I suppose I couldn’t blame her for being there. I understood why she decided to show the flag, so to speak. She had referred to herself as the family mediator. If their fortunes were aided by the success of the Celebration, she stood to benefit financially.

  As for me, despite the appearance of familial devotion between them, it was still my intention to complete the investigation. An intention that had begun to raise feelings of guilt in me.

  Although she was aware of my suspicions regarding her brother and her father, she didn’t know how close I was to bringing them down—an act that would seriously impact her because the Feds were sure to step in and seize their assets. I was certain she’d blame me for their downfall.

  Hours later, when she arrived at my condo, I was in the living room, a newly cracked bottle of gin already half empty, my spirits low.

  “Buddy,” she called out, closing the door behind her.

  “Over here.”

  “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  She switched on a lamp, enveloping the room in a blanket of somber light. She stared at me. I looked back at her through an alcohol haze.

  She spoke first. “What?”

  “It was a surprise to see you reunited with your father.”

  “You were there?”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  “Jesus.”

  “That’s all you can say?”

  “I had no choice.”

  I nodded and looked away.

  She snarled at me. “You don’t agree?”

  “It’s not what I expected from you.”

  “What you expected from me? How could you have an expectation of anything I would or would not do?”

  “Obviously, I was wrong.”

  “How dare you sit in judgment of me.”

  “Judgment?”

  “That’s right. You sit in your holier than thou Sheriff’s effluvium and pass judgment on those who don’t measure up to your lofty expectations.”

  I took another pull of gin.

  “Keep in mind that you’re currently blitzed,” she said. “That’s not what I expected from you.”

  She stood and began to pace nervously, darting in and out of the light, moving close to me, then ducking quickly away. “We appear to have reached an impasse, you and I. You think I’m unprincipled. I believe you’re at war with your so-called ethics.”

  She stopped pacing and stood staring at me. “I have this nagging feeling I may be in love with you, Buddy. How’s that coming from someone who’s as fearful of commitment as you are? Is it because we’re such a perfect fit that we’re behaving like misfits?”

  She walked into the bedroom and moments later emerged, the duffel slung over her shoulder. She dropped the key on the hall table.

  “Thanks for letting me stay here.” She closed the door behind her.

  I finished the gin and passed out where I sat, never bothering to switch off the lamp.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  It took three cups of coffee and four Advil to ease my hangover. I arrived at the office later than usual. Marsha Russo stared at me with a raised eyebrow. I ignored her and headed for my office. She followed.

  “Looks like someone had a bit of a soggy night,” she said.

  “It’s that noticeable?”

  “The red eyes are the tell. You look like a tree frog.”

  “Was that all you wanted?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “What, then?”

  “It’s the girl, isn’t it?”

  “What girl?”

  “Don’t play all innocent with me, Buddy. It’s Margaret de Winter. Right?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Feminine intuition. Does she know what you’re up to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Buddy. You’re angling to bring down the who
le kit and kaboodle. Does she know?”

  “It’s likely.”

  A testy silence enveloped us. I knew all too well that Marsha had my best interests at heart. Regardless of whether or not I agreed with her.

  “How do you feel about her?”

  “How do I feel?”

  “Quit evading.”

  “I have feelings for her.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Maybe. If I understood what that meant.”

  “Don’t blindside her, Buddy.”

  “Was there something specific you wanted to see me about, Marsha?”

  “Striar and Richardson await an audience.”

  “Regarding the files?”

  “They didn’t say. May I invite them to join us?”

  I nodded.

  She picked up the phone and rang Al Striar on the intercom. He and Dave Richardson quickly appeared in my doorway.

  Dave carried a laptop computer and placed it in front of me. He and Striar stepped behind me and Dave reached over and pressed the keys that opened the spreadsheet file.

  I frowned. “What am I looking at?”

  “A network of interconnecting numerical data that points to a single conclusion.”

  “Could you speak English, please, Dave?”

  “They’re knee-deep in it.”

  “In what?”

  “The data purports that over the course of the last twelve months, a significant amount of Long family capital was invested in the purchase and distribution of crystal methamphetamine, which netted a considerable profit. On top of that is additional income assumed to have been generated by the Darien Financial Group.”

  “The scam.”

  “On paper the profits appeared huge. Especially since Darien was reporting that their funds were generating greater-than-market revenues.

  “Darien didn’t question the source of their investments, so the Longs believed that when it came time to cash out, their ill-gotten gains would magically turn into legitimate profits. With no one any the wiser. Those boys must have been as happy as pigs in shit.

  “Then it turns out the setup was a fraud. The scammers became the scammed. And their roof caved in.”

  “That information is contained in the files?”

  “As glaring as your red eyes.”

  I blinked and looked up at him. “That noticeable, eh?”

  “Like Dracula on steroids.”

  “That’s funny, Dave. Tell me again.”

  “The Longs were using Oliver Darien to launder their drug money. Hallelujah and praise the profits. Until the Feds blew the whistle on Darien’s Ponzi scheme, which cost them every penny they believed they owned.”

  “Is this a great country, or what?” I said. “Do these files prove their involvement?”

  “Almost.”

  “Almost what?”

  “All we need to complete the circle are the cancelled checks that match the data. Checks signed by any one of the Longs, but preferably by Barry Senior.”

  “How do we get these checks?”

  “We pay an official visit to the executive offices of The Bank of Northern California, Freedom branch, home to all of the Long family business and personal accounts.”

  “Okay.”

  “We request copies of the past twelve months’ worth of checks.”

  “And if they decline to provide them?”

  “We slap them with the warrant you will have arranged for in advance and we raid the joint.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  “You’ll have to agree to their conditions,” I said to Bob Albanis, who was currently in the George Murphy Detention Center, a mid-sized correctional facility located in the city of Maplewood.

  “What conditions?”

  “The usual.”

  “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t exactly know what the usual conditions are for Witness Protection qualification.”

  He sat morosely, waiting for me to continue. When I didn’t, he said, “You can’t expect me to agree to something I know nothing about.”

  “I can if you want to save your ass. Once they realize their distribution network has been compromised, the Blackbirds are going to want to peck your eyes out. Worse, even.”

  “So what you’re saying is I should sign anything the Feds put in front of me.”

  “I would.”

  “Without benefit of counsel.”

  “Listen up, Bob,” I said. “Witness Protection is a very big deal. The Sheriff took some heat regarding this arrangement. There was a considerable amount of federal sentiment that you should face whatever music the Birds might choose to play for you. So, in other words, Bob, just sign the fucking documents and get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “Where will they take me?’

  “Last I heard they were considering Aleppo.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Who, me?”

  “Jesus, Steel. This is serious stuff to me. Quit pulling my chain.”

  “She’ll be here sometime this afternoon.”

  “Who will?”

  “Special Agent Eleanor Berezin. She’ll see to the arrangements and make sure you’re securely resettled. Wherever they place you.

  “I guess the files helped.”

  “Tell me how they worked it.”

  “Who?”

  “The Longs and the Dariens.”

  A slow grin began to illuminate Albanis’ face.

  “Some of what I believe is conjecture,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “It started to go south about six months ago. That’s when, to my way of thinking, the fail-safe line was breached.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Until then, the reported rate of return on monies invested with investment brokerages like Darien’s had pretty much leveled out at between four and five percent. Light years above the less than one percent the Feds were holding the line on.

  “Suddenly, Darien’s statements began showing returns of close to twelve percent. Which caught my attention. I began to have reservations about Mr. Oliver Darien. He smelled like Bernard Madoff. But when I relayed my suspicions to Hickey, he shut me down.

  “He was always a stubborn fuck, Hickey was. Nobody could tell him anything. No one could disagree with him. Instead of being wary of Darien’s twelve percent, he couldn’t wait to tell the Birds and convince them to throw in with Darien, too. He was desperate to impress them. Told them it was foolproof. No risk. Scoop up the dough with both hands.”

  “And?”

  “For the first few months, on paper, Darien appeared to deliver on his twelve percent promise. I’m guessing that resulted in a lot of fresh capital flowing into his coffers, capital he couldn’t spread around fast enough. He believed he could fool all of the people all of the time. Then it went south.

  “The statements kept coming but the cash didn’t. Sensing something was seriously wrong, Hickey confronted Darien and demanded payment. The rest is history.”

  “And you were privy to it.”

  “I knew it was too good to be true, but Hickey refused to believe me when I told him. When you’re raking in that kind of dough, it’s tough to look it in the eye.”

  “I have one last question for you.”

  “You can have as many as you want.”

  “Something’s been keeping me awake. I haven’t been able to put my finger on it. So tell me, it was a setup, right?”

  “What was?”

  “The night we broke into your private little sanctuary at Long Pavilion?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What were you doing there? Ten o’clock at night. In rolled-up shirtsleeves and your desk littered with papers and file folders. And your feigned surprise and consternation
. It was a setup. You had already duplicated and hidden everything. Your exit card was ready to be punched. All you needed was an opportunity. When we invaded the Pavilion, you saw it. You raced downstairs ahead of us and sat waiting for us to break down the door.”

  “You have a rich imagination, Mr. Steel.”

  “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t how lucky you are, Albanis. A bit of advice, though. Keep your nose clean wherever the Feds put you. Don’t fuck it up. You get caught doing anything even the slightest bit nutty and they’ll cut you loose in a New York minute.”

  I turned away from him and headed for the door.

  He called out to me. “What, no thank you?”

  I stopped and turned back to him. “For what?”

  “My help in proving your case.”

  “You go have a nice life, Bob. Courtesy of the taxpayers. That’s your thank you. But I keep having this nagging feeling that you may be too smart for your own good. That you’re destined to fuck up again. Try not to prove me right.”

  Chapter Fifty-six

  “I’ll need to have them processed,” District Attorney Michael Lytell said, indicating the files and the spreadsheets that sat on his desk.

  We were in his glass-walled office, overlooking much of San Remo County as well as a section of the California coastline.

  My father, in full regalia, medals and all, sat in the leather armchair across from Lytell. Skip Wilder and I sat crowded together on a two-seater sofa.

  Shifting awkwardly to face him, I asked the DA, “How long will it take?”

  “A while. Paperwork like this needs to be carefully evaluated. Why?”

  “Because if it’s going to go on for any length of time, I propose we take him into custody straight away. And hold him without bail. Once he knows we’re making him for the drug business, he’s a flight risk.”

  “He’s old. He’s broke,” Lytell said. “And besides, where’s he gonna go?”

  “Somewhere. Anywhere. What difference does it make? But you can be certain that wherever he goes, the shit’s gonna come flying into your face for having granted him bail.”