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  ONE ON ONE

  The Second Buddy Steel Mystery

  “Another great read. Buddy Steel is my kind of Sheriff.”

  —Tom Selleck

  “Buddy is a likable character who uses self-deprecating humor, sometimes acting like an overgrown schoolboy. He is easygoing and can handle people poking fun at him. Being smart, caring, and understanding of people’s emotional pain, Buddy has a moral sense of right versus wrong. Readers will enjoy this fast-paced mystery. With well-developed characters and a plot that takes issues straight from the headlines, this is a good read.”

  —Crimespree Magazine

  MISSING PERSONS

  The First Buddy Steel Mystery

  “Missing Persons is a cracking series debut and Buddy Steel is a protagonist bound to have a long shelf life.”

  —Reed Farrel Coleman, New York Times bestselling author

  of What You Break

  “Fans of Parker’s work will appreciate Buddy, another irreverent, complex lawman.”

  —Library Journal

  “Michael Brandman’s follow-up to the three Jesse Stone novels he adeptly penned for the late Robert B. Parker gives us the cool and iconic Buddy Steel. A former point guard turned cop, Steel damn sure owns the ground he walks on. All capable 6’3” and one-hundred-seventy pounds of him, Buddy’s that guy that you want to ride with when s..t hits the fan. With plenty of thrilling moments and turns you don’t see coming, what a great ride Brandman takes us on in Missing Persons. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed. Buckle up.”

  —Robert Knott, New York Times bestselling author

  of The Hitch and Cole Series

  Copyright © 2019 by Michael Brandman

  Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by The Book Designers

  Cover image © Steve Heap/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60563-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging 2018959455

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  SB 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CONTENTS

  Wild Card

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Acknowledgments

  For Joanna…

  …who brightens the darkness

  and shows me the way…

  …and for Sadie

  “Politicians and diapers must be changed often,

  and for the same reason.”

  —Mark Twain

  ONE

  They found the woman’s body slumped over the steering wheel of a late-model Mercedes. A bullet fired through the driver’s side window splattered glass, bone, and matter throughout the interior.

  Sheriff’s deputies Al Striar and Buzz Farmer spotted the sedan parked at an odd angle on Glasgow Street in the heart of downtown Freedom. The sedan’s front end was poking into the road, forcing traffic to pull around it in order to get by. They phoned it in and sealed the area.

  Departmental Dispatcher Wilma Hansen found me in my cruiser, parked on Overlook Drive in the Freedom foothills, catching up on the morning reports, a takeout coffee in my cup holder, a breathtaking view of the Pacific before me.

  “We have a bad one,” Wilma informed me.

  “A bad one what?”

  “Youngish woman. Dead in her vehicle. Shot in the head.”

  “Where?”

  “Glasgow Street.”

  “Have they secured the site?”

  “What does a bear do in the woods?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “You never fail to impress, Buddy.”

  “Ditto.” I ended the call.

  Glasgow Street was located in the heart of the financial district, home to a number of prominent bank branches and investment institutions. Traffic had been diverted away from the site which was causing backups and delays. I inched my way there with my finger on the siren trigger, sporadically blasting it as a signal to complacent drivers to move out of my way.

  Several police cars and an ambulance were already at the scene when I arrived. Al Striar and Buzz Farmer met me.

  “Looks like an assassination,” Farmer commented.

  He was new to the department, recruited from a list of experienced candidates, most, like him, from out of state. He was a presentable-looking thirtysomething, neatly groomed, nearly handsome, rusty-haired with a body sculpted by considerable training and exercise. He had done a single tour in Afghanistan and then returned home to Chicago, where his wife and young son awaited him. As did a position with the Chicago PD Homicide Division.

  Wh
en he learned of the opening here in Freedom, and wishing to move his family west, away from the crime-riddled streets of the inner city, he leapt at it.

  With Farmer at my side, I examined the scene in search of any clue that might lead us to an understanding of what exactly happened. Other than the strange angle in which the car was parked, nothing caught my attention. There was no indication of a struggle. It puzzled me.

  “I don’t know, Buzz. Could be anything. Woman alone in a fancy car. Commercial neighborhood. No visible clues. Let’s ID her. And the car. See what we learn.”

  “It’s pretty messy in there, Buddy. Should we let the forensics team in?”

  “Might as well.”

  “This could require some time.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  TWO

  I was staring out my office window with my feet up, not really seeing anything, mulling over the unlikely occurrence of a random killing here in Freedom, a mostly upscale residential community, second home to a number of entertainment industry and Silicon Valley luminaries.

  I’m Buddy Steel, by the way. Actually, Burton Steel, Junior. But I prefer Buddy. I’m the nominal Sheriff of San Remo County, serving under my father, guarding the fort, so to speak, while he battles a serious illness.

  San Remo County wasn’t the future I had envisioned for myself. I was an LAPD Homicide detective when my father took ill. Now I’m here. Conflicted, I might add. Torn between a sense of familial duty and a desire to be anywhere else in the world except here.

  Sometimes…late at night…when sleep is at its most elusive…

  I consider how the trajectory of my life changed so suddenly and so drastically. I had been summoned to my father’s house for a family powwow, the one in which he formally announced his illness. ALS. Lou Gehrig’s disease. “A fucking death sentence,” he stoically unloaded.

  Although he publicly scoffed at his alleged fate, when he got me alone he expressed his fear that everything he achieved over the course of his heady career would erode as he slid into oblivion. His words, not mine.

  In the heat of the moment he implored me to stand with him and shield him from the scrutiny that would surely befall him as he publicly declined.

  It was all about him, of course. It never occurred to him that were I to accede to his wishes it would put an end to the career trajectory I had painstakingly structured for myself and so greatly cherished.

  In the end, however, it was the guilt that did it.

  Having always been thought of as the wayward son, I finally caved when he insisted this was the last chance we would have to come to grips with our myriad differences.

  In other words, he shamed me.

  And I bought it.

  Now I have days similar to those of my childhood. Not good ones, mind you. Days when I feel as I did growing up under the thumb of paternal tyranny. His way or the highway. Worse even after my mother died. The very reason I left here in the first place.

  Captain Marsha Russo strolled into my office, plopped herself down across from me and waved an official-looking document. “Here’s one I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”

  “What is it?”

  “Official document. Looks like very important stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Important stuff.”

  “Did it ever cross your mind when you popped in here that I might be busy?”

  She shook her head. “No. It never did.”

  “What exactly is this document?”

  “Notice from the California Coastal Commission.”

  “Regarding?”

  “The violation of state oceanfront access rules happening right here in San Remo County.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Mentions someone called Boris Petrov. Some big deal Russian oligarch. Allegedly a Putin pal. Has film interests in Hollywood. What’s this about, Buddy?”

  “Do you remember the Stein estate?”

  Marsha thought for a few moments. “I do remember it. Huge parcel of beachfront property. Sold for a record amount. Made the news big-time.”

  “It was this Petrov character who bought it. Turns out he doesn’t see eye to eye with the Coastal Commission regarding the public’s right to access the beach.”

  “So?”

  “So, there’s a problem. A couple of years back, when the Commission realized he was denying beach access to the common people, they sued. Suit was settled for a pittance and everyone thought the problem was resolved.”

  “Was it?”

  “Nope. Turns out he battened the hatches. Sealed off the access points. Fences. Gates. Barbed wire. Security personnel. You know, the screw you approach.”

  “And that’s of interest to us because?”

  “We’ve been pegged by the Coastal Commission to help them enforce the law. Petrov’s property is located in our county and the Commissioners want the previously designated access points re-opened and made available to the public.”

  “What do you mean pegged?”

  “We’ve been enlisted by the Commission to assist them in their efforts to right the Petrov wrongs.”

  “And that’s legal?”

  “You mean for us to work with the Coastal Commission?”

  “Yeah. That.”

  “There’s ample precedent.”

  “And Petrov? How’s he reacting to all this?”

  “He’s not.”

  “What do you mean not?”

  “In gangland terms, he’s gone to ground. Refusing to engage in any dialogue with the Commissioners.”

  “Despite the law?”

  “He doesn’t seem to recognize the law.”

  “That’s a problem.”

  “Right.”

  “And now it’s our problem.”

  “Got that right, too.”

  THREE

  After studying the complaint, I decided to have a look at the place for myself. I rounded up Sheriff’s Deputy Johnny Kennerly and together we headed for the southernmost tip of the county and the Petrov property.

  Johnny is the Sheriff’s longtime protégé, a good-looking rugged man of color, close to my age, wise beyond his years and deeply devoted to my father.

  Some have suggested we’re rivals for my father’s attention and his blessings, but truth be known, his benevolence is of no interest to me. I’m more than delighted that Johnny is so close to him. It saves me a good deal of grief. And family stress.

  “As I remember it,” I said to Johnny as we drove south on Highway One, “this is a large parcel of land. Arguably one of the finest beachfront properties in the county. Pristine except for the garish mansion the Steins put up all those years ago.”

  “Did the Steins allow public access?”

  “Apparently, they did. It was never a problem for them. It’s a fair distance from the touristy Santa Barbara beaches. It’s isolated. Not much of an attraction.”

  “Except for the beach.”

  “Except for that.”

  “So why would it be a problem for Mr. Petrov?”

  “He doesn’t seem to want to share his land with anyone else. Regardless of the law.”

  “Why, do you suppose?”

  “That’s what I’d like to find out.”

  The Petrov estate was extravagant beyond even my expectations. The lengthy shoreline was an erratic blend of small inlets, hidden coves, massive dunes, stretches of immaculate beachfront, and a mansion the size of a small country.

  It was reached by a palm tree-lined beachfront road that abutted the coast, separated from it by eight-foot-tall wrought iron fencing with barbed wire strung along the top.

  A guardhouse stood in front of the main gate. Two gates, actually, electronically operated, opening inward. A fenced walkway was adjacent to the guardhouse.

 
As we arrived, a giant of a man stepped from the guardhouse and planted himself in front of it, silently watching us.

  We exited our cruiser and approached the malevolent-looking guard who wore a khaki uniform with a kit belt that included a holstered Glock semi-automatic pistol, a nightstick, a walkie-talkie, a cell phone, and a pair of handcuffs. The name tag on his shirt read VOLYA KOSKOFF. He regarded us as if we were an enemy.

  I knew Koskoff would be uncooperative. His dress and his demeanor were dead giveaways. I decided to test his mettle just the same. Tweak him a bit. Gauge his reaction.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Petrov.”

  Volya Koskoff shook his head.

  I showed him my badge. “Sheriff’s business.”

  Koskoff stared at me blank-eyed.

  “Do you speak?”

  No response.

  “Read my lips. We want to see Mr. Petrov.”

  The guard shook his head. “No here,” he barked in a thick Russian accent.

  “When will he be here?”

  He shrugged.

  I shook my head. “This is a very unsatisfying conversation.”

  Koskoff stared at me a while longer, then turned and went back inside the guardhouse.

  I stepped over to it and rang the bell. Inside, Koskoff was on the phone. After several moments, he stepped back outside, flashed me a sideways glance, climbed into a parked electric golf cart, and drove away.

  Johnny and I exchanged looks. “That went well,” he observed. “If this is any indication, we’re in for some rough sailing with these shitbirds.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  FOUR

  “The victim was a woman in her thirties. Julia Murphy. Wife of Harold Murphy, a Silicon Valley tech engineer. Parents of two teenage sons.”

  We were in my office, Al Striar, Buzz Farmer, and I. Farmer was reading from notes he had made earlier. “Husband’s distraught. Can’t imagine why this happened. Says she has no known enemies. Claims she had an appointment at the bank.”

  “And?”

  “His story checks out. She did her banking and, as best Forensics can figure, she was pulling out of the parking space when she was shot. Likely someone approached the car, shot her through the window, and vanished.”