The minute Wally Johnson entered Longe’s office, he took an instant dislike to the man. Longe’s condescending smile reeked of superiority and disdain. His opening statement was that he was delaying a meeting with a very important client and hoped that whatever questions Detective Johnson had for him would not take more than fifteen minutes to complete.
“I hope not, either,” Johnson answered, “so let’s get right to the purpose of my visit. Margaret Grissom, whose stage name is Brittany La Monte, is missing. Her father is sure that something has happened to her or that she is in trouble. Her last known job was working for you as a hostess in your model apartments, and it is also known that she was having an intimate relationship with you and spent many weekends at your home in Litchfield.”
“She spent some weekends at my home in Litchfield because I was doing her a favor, introducing her to theatre people,” Longe contradicted. “As I told her father yesterday, none of them thought Brittany had that certain something, that almost indescribable spark that would make her a star. They all predicted that at best she would be doing low-budget commercials or independent films where she would not need a SAG or Equity card. In her ten or eleven years in New York, she had never managed to achieve either.”
“On that basis, you stopped inviting her to Litchfield?” Johnson asked.
“Brittany was beginning to see the big picture. At that point, she tried to turn our casual relationship into wedding bells. I have been married once to an aspiring actress and it cost me plenty. I have no intention of making that same mistake twice.”
“You told her that. How did she accept it?” Johnson asked.
“She made some very uncomplimentary remarks to me and stormed out.”
“Of your Litchfield home?”
“Yes. I might add that she took my Mercedes convertible with her. I would have filed charges, but I did receive a phone call from her telling me that she had parked it in the garage in my apartment building.”
Johnson watched as Bartley Longe’s face darkened with anger. “Exactly when was that, Mr. Longe?” he asked.
“Early June, so that would make it nearly two years ago?”
“Can you give me a more definite date?”
“It was the first weekend in June and she left late Sunday morning.”
“I see. Where is your apartment, Mr. Longe?”
“It is at 10 Central Park West.”
“Were you living there two years ago?”
“It has been my New York residence for eight years.”
“I see. And after that Sunday in early June nearly two years ago, have you ever seen or heard from Ms. La Monte again?”
“No, I have not. Nor did I care to either hear from or see her.”
Wally Johnson let a long minute pass before he spoke again. This guy is scared to death, he thought. He’s lying and he knows that I’m not going to stop looking for Brittany. Johnson also knew that he wouldn’t get more from Longe today.
“Mr. Longe, I’d like to have a list of the guests who would also have been at your home on the weekends that Brittany La Monte was there.”
“Of course. You must understand that I entertain frequently in Litchfield. Being a good host to the wealthy and to celebrities opens the door to many of them becoming very good clients. It is quite possible I will miss some names,” Longe said.
“I can understand that, but I would suggest you dig deep into your memory and give me a list by tomorrow morning at the latest. You have my card with my e-mail on it,” Johnson said as he rose to leave.
Longe stayed behind his desk, not even rising from his chair. Johnson deliberately walked over to the desk and reached out his hand, giving the designer no choice but to accept it.
As the detective suspected, Bartley Longe’s finely manicured hand was wringing wet.
On the way back to the precinct, Wally Johnson decided to make a detour and drive to the garage at 10 Central Park West. He got out of the car there and showed his badge to the attendant who was approaching him, a handsome young African-American. “No parking today,” he said. “I just want to ask a few questions.” He glanced at the nameplate the young man was wearing. “How long have you worked here, Danny?”
“Eight years, sir, since the doors opened,” Danny answered proudly.
Johnson was surprised. “I didn’t take you for more than your early twenties.”
“Thanks. A lot of people say that.” With a smile, Danny added, “It’s a mixed blessing. I’m thirty-one, sir.”
“Then of course you know Mr. Bartley Longe?”
Johnson was not surprised to see the change in Danny’s formerly pleasant expression as he confirmed that he knew Mr. Longe.
“Did you ever know a young woman who was a friend of his, Brittany La Monte?” Johnson asked.
“Mr. Longe has many young women who are his friends,” Danny answered, hesitantly. “Different ones come in with him all the time.”
“Danny, I have a feeling you remember Brittany La Monte.”
“Yes, sir. I haven’t seen her in a while, but that’s not surprising.”
“Why is that?” Johnson asked.
“Well, sir, the last time she came here, she was in Mr. Longe’s convertible. I could tell she was mad as hell.” Danny’s lips twitched. “She had Mr. Longe’s toupees and wigs with her. She had cut patches of hair out of all six of them. While we stood there, she Scotch-taped them over the wheel and the dashboard and the hood so no one could miss them. There was hair all over the front seat. Then she said, ‘See you guys,’ and marched off.”
“What happened then?”
“The next day, Mr. Longe came in boiling mad. The manager had put his wigs and toupees in a bag for him. Mr. Longe had a baseball cap on and we guessed that Miss La Monte had rounded up his whole collection. Between us, sir, Mr. Longe isn’t very well liked in this garage, so we all got a good laugh out of it.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Wally Johnson agreed. “He looks like the kind who stiffs you at Christmas.”
“Forget Christmas, sir. He never heard of it. But his tip when he picks up his car is one dollar, if you’re lucky.” Danny’s expression became concerned. “I shouldn’t have said that, sir. I hope you won’t repeat it to Mr. Longe. I could lose my job.”
“Danny, you don’t have to worry about that. You’ve been an immense help to me.” Wally Johnson began to get back in his car.
Danny held the door for him. “Is Miss La Monte okay, sir?” he asked anxiously. “She was always really nice to us when she came in with Mr. Longe.”
“I hope she is okay, Danny. Thanks a lot.”
Toby Grissom was sitting at Johnson’s desk when he got back to the precinct.
“Did you have that Big Mac, Mr. Grissom?” Johnson asked.
“Yes, I did. What did you find out from that big phony about Glory?”
“I found out that your daughter and Mr. Longe had a blowup and she drove his convertible to his apartment here in the city and left it parked there. He claims that he never saw her again. The young man in the garage confirmed that she never came after that, at least not to the garage.”
“What does that tell you?” Grissom asked.
“It tells me that they broke up for good. As I mentioned to you before, I’m going to get a list of as many of the other weekend guests as we can locate and see if any of them has heard from Brittany, or, as you call her, Glory. I’m also going to visit her roommates and find out exactly when she left that apartment. I promise you, Mr. Grissom, that I am going to follow this through to the end. And now, please, let me get you a ride to the airport and promise me that you’ll be in your doctor’s office tomorrow morning. As soon as you’re on your way, I’m going to call your daughter’s roommates and make an appointment to see them.”
Leaning on the sides of the chair for support, Toby Grissom stood up. “I’ve got a feeling I’ll never see my girl again before I die. I’m going to trust you to keep your promise to me, Detective. I’ll see the doctor tomorrow.”
They shook hands. With an attempt at a smile, Toby Grissom said, “All right. Let’s find my police escort to the airport. If I ask real nice, do you think he’ll turn the sirens on for me?”