by P. J. Zander
“Good. So, can you think of anything?”
“No. I mean there was the fire and all that started right after she moved, and she was worried about it coming down the mountain. She once told me it was like a premonition coming to her in her dreams. But, she’s a real positive person and she was no different that day, uh, the day before she was taken. We try to go rollerblading around the Rose Bowl at least once a week if our work and studies don’t get in the way. So, we were all set to do that. When I went to pick her up the next morning, her 4-Runner was there but she didn’t answer the door. It was unlocked. I started looking in some of the front windows, but then, like I just got a weird feeling. It’s real quiet and isolated up there. Went back to the door and went in. Right away I knew. . . .” She stopped and her demeanor changed as he saw the fear come into her eyes. “I could feel that something was wrong. And, when I peeked in her bedroom, it was horrible. Like it just freaked me out. The bed all torn up, stuff thrown all over. I tried calling her mother but she didn’t answer. So I dialed 911.”
Banyan put his hand on her shoulder. “That must have been traumatic for you. But you were able to keep it together.” He hadn’t expected her to go into detail on what she’d found. It was as if once she got going, she had to tell it all. But, maybe the more she opened up about it, the better she’d do, and that was fine with him. “How about in the weeks before then? In late summer, August, September? She ever act threatened, say anything strange or unusual happened?”
Stephanie gathered herself again and thought for a moment. “Well, nothing, really.” She looked away and continued. “You know, I think back to going around with her looking for rentals back in May and how great it turned out after a rough start. I mean she’d looked at four apartments in Montrose that just wouldn’t do. Kind of funny at the last place. The manager was a guy but by his voice on the phone, Jo thought he was a she. Then we meet him and I could barely keep from cracking up at the look on her face. He’s an inch or two shorter than me and Jo just towers over him. He just couldn’t take his eyes off her. We had a big laugh when we drove away. Anyway, she decided to do one more and called about an ad in the Valley Sun for the house up on Shields. Lucky the realtor was going out to show a house for sale or something, so she sees us on her way. The rental house turned out to be . . . well, I’m sure you’ve seen it. Really awesome, and like some sort of historical place, a hundred years old. The yard is beautiful. And the realtor makes Jo a deal by cutting the rent and holding it for her until school begins. It turned out to be a real good day.”
“Sounds like you had a pretty good time together. Anything more hit you about that apartment manager?”
Stephanie laughed. “Oh, no, he was absolutely harmless.” Banyan nodded but he’d seen harmless turn brutal. “The one who really stood out was the realtor. Jeez, she had the new luxury sedan and dressed like a model. She was probably older than we thought, but she was fit and looked about forty. One of those women where everything just comes together, looks perfect. And she was so nice to Jolene and me.”
“So, she’s done all right,” he said absently. “Do you know if Jo has any boyfriends or one in particular now or over the past year or so?”
“She’s a special woman, Rusty, as if you didn’t know. Lots of guys would give their left nut to be that particular one.” She smiled and nodded.
He was silent, as he found Stephanie’s words disquieting—not the surprising humor but the thought of Jolene as a woman pursued by men.
“Well, I’m sure you know about Sean, the first one. They go way back. But, she broke up with him a few years ago.”
Something about the way she said it heightened his anxiety. “What do you mean by the first one?”
“You’re not that old, Rusty.” Again, she smiled. “Every girl has a first kiss, first time in bed. You know.”
“Are you telling me she slept with Sean?”
“I don’t know if they got any sleep at all.”
He cringed. “Phew. Kind of sorry I asked.”
She shook her head. “I hear it’s harder on men than women when their daughters—well, she’s like that to you, I can tell—when they grow up. And don’t worry, she wouldn’t get pregnant. She’s too smart for that.”
Banyan’s eyes widened. “Jesus.”
“I’d guess there have been others since Sean, but I only know of one guy recently. She hasn’t told me much about him, but from what she did say, he doesn’t sound like her type.”
“How so?”
“So, he didn’t go to college, and he’s a bike freak. Rides a motorcycle.”
“That’s it? Anything else? His name?”
“No. As I said she’s pretty quiet about him.”
“No special man at Oxy?”
She shook her head. “Jolene drives herself hard in her classes. She is as focused a student as she is an athlete. There is no room in her life for more than the one guy.”
He thanked her and gave her his card. “You’ve been a big help, Stephanie. If anything else comes to mind, even something that seems real minor or insignificant, please call me.”
She read the card. “Frederic Russell Banyan. Whoa. I like Rusty better.”
He nodded and as he started to leave, she asked, “So, are you as good a surfer as she says? Cover of Surfer magazine?”
When Jolene was about ten, he was in one of his more playful moods and wanted to impress her. Mother and daughter were spending a few days at the beach. He dusted off the cover and showed it to her. One day late in 1965, he’d gone down to La Jolla Shores near San Diego. Ron Stoner, the renowned, yet hapless Surfer photographer, took a spectacular shot of him alone just ahead of the curl on a glassy six-foot right, toes on the nose, hunched shoulders, relaxed left arm at his side and fingers of his right hand kissing the wave—a classic Stoner photo that made the cover. Even Raylene hadn’t seen it before. It was a huge hit with the girl which made Banyan feel ten feet tall.
“I hardly remember that kid. Eons ago.”
#
With blinders off thanks to Stephanie Brandt, Banyan was beginning to see Jolene in a different light. He felt naïve, out-of-touch. She’d had however many boyfriends in the past several years, maybe had sex with all of them. He winced at the thought. If he’d have known it when he was talking to Sean, he wasn’t sure what he might have done.
SIXTEEN
Alta Canyada Road was fairly steep and the higher he drove, the more the big evergreens shaded the front yards on both sides of the road. Monterey pines grew like crazy in this climate, and those along with firs, cedars, oaks and eucalyptus lined his way up the grade. The fire hadn’t flicked its scorching tongue down this far. As he approached the end of the road before it curved to the right, he found an older, smaller one story set back from the road with a recently resurfaced horseshoe driveway on what must have been a half acre lot. There was a gravel pad on the right that ran beside the garage and around the back of the house. Banyan slowed and pulled over, verifying the number with his list from the library. A late model black Chevy Silverado was parked in front of the garage door. He backed up and drove into the driveway, stopping on the curve not quite perpendicular to the pickup.
He stepped up to the front door and rang the doorbell. After some thirty seconds, he rang again. There were sidelights to the left and right, but cut and beveled glass made it difficult to detect movement inside. Another half minute and he was ready to ring again when he heard heavy steps coming into the entry area.
“Who is it?” came a flat voice.
“Nathan, that you?”
“Who are you? Let me see a badge if you’re a cop.” The steps moved to the door to use the peephole.
“No, Nathan, I’m not a cop. I’m here because I need your help.” There was no response. “Listen. I’m being straight with you. I’m no cop. Just need some information—”
The door opened and the hulk inside looked too big for the doorway, as if he would get stuck if he tried to come out
. Standing at the threshold which was about three inches higher than where Banyan stood on the front porch, Nathan Rossmoor was at the same eye level. His brown hair was cut military short though he was several years removed from the army. He favored his right leg, barely saved in Iraq after an improvised explosive device blew apart the Humvee on which he manned the .50 caliber machine gun.
“You gotta be here about the other night at the SUB. I just pushed the guy because he was in my face. Didn’t even throw a punch. Now, who are you?”
Banyan was caught off guard trying to figure out what Nathan was talking about. “Last night? What’s that mean, the sub?”
“S-U-B. For the Stand Up Bar. Locals call it the SUB.”
“So, trouble with someone at the SUB, huh? What about?”
He shook his head, staring down. “No trouble. Nothin’. It has nothing to do with anything. Just, he doesn’t like me; I don’t like him.”
“Fair enough. Look, Nathan, my name is Banyan. I’m a friend of Jolene Ojibway’s family and I’m trying to find out what happened to her. Anything.”
Nathan’s eyes shifted, as if he caught sight of something in the distance over Banyan’s shoulder. Then he took his card and nodded. “Like I told the cops, that’s some bad shit. Didn’t really know her, but she seemed nice.”
“How did you come to meet her?”
He must have spotted that faraway object again, then turned his eyes back to Banyan. “She rented the house. I manage that rental, and some others.”
“So you’re saying you saw her there.”
“Yeah. I didn’t talk much to her. Mostly just said ‘Hi’.” Nathan looked down. “She did the same.”
“Do you have access to the house?”
“Yeah, I have a key so I can let in repairmen if the renter isn’t home. Same for the other houses I manage.”
“You never had a date with her, went out for a coffee?”
“No,” the vet answered quickly. A small, but distinct change swept over the young man’s chiseled face, although his deep-set eyes remained stony.
“So, can you think back a little, anything that stands out? Do you know of anyone who had a chip on his shoulder, some guy she had a disagreement with? Maybe someone she broke up with recently?”
Nathan shook his head. “No. I mean, I don’t know much about her or her friends.”
“Do you recall her saying anything about a recent boyfriend, a guy who rides motorcycles?” He saw Nathan stop in mid-breath.
“What?”
“I’d heard she was close to a biker not too long ago. Does that ring a bell?”
Nathan shifted the weight off his bad leg and said nothing at first. When he finally spoke, his voice was not much above a whisper. “I do know a biker that could be the one. He could have met her maybe before she moved down from the mountain.”
Banyan leaned in a little closer. “Do you know his name?”
“Kyle Hemphill. Yeah, I think he kinda liked her.”
“He from around here? Know where I can find him.”
“Not from La Canada. Maybe Duarte or Azusa area.” The younger man looked away momentarily, then back. “But, I do know where you can find him.”
SEVENTEEN
When the waitress came to refill his coffee, Banyan covered the cup with his hand. “Doris,” he said, looking at her name tag, “have you heard of a place called the Stand Up? A bar?”
“Uh-huh. The SUB. Down this side of Foothill, less than a mile. But I see you’re becoming one of our regular customers.” She smiled. “You don’t look like the type that would go there. It has a reputation as a biker hangout.”
He tipped generously as any regular guy would and went back out into the sunshine. It was noticeably cooler, though still comfortable, so he decided to leave his truck in the Hill Street Café lot and take the sidewalk. Shadows were beginning to form along his side of the street as the declining sun started wrapping up the day. Foothill Boulevard hadn’t really changed all that much since his infrequent visits to La Canada beginning in the fifties. In fact, aside from the typical growth of prosperous cities across the country, and the freeway which hewed the community right down the centerline from stem to stern, the city was basically the same. Of course, since 1976 it was officially incorporated as La Canada Flintridge. If one could afford living here, it could be a good life.
But right there among the good citizens could be the vilest people, Banyan knew, those who had taken a young woman, a mother’s daughter. He needed to find the sonsabitches. Then, it was in his hands.
#
About half a block up from Oakwood, he could see the flashing sign for the Stand Up Bar rising above the strip mall. Its exterior was as nondescript as the Chinese joint next door—flat, stucco painted beige with dark green trim, a couple small windows. As he crossed the street toward the bar entrance, the enticing flavors of Qwik Cantonese wafted through the pleasant late afternoon air.
The lifers were hunched over their drinks along the dark green Formica-covered bar, preferring the dimly lit portion in the center and back of the room. Banyan took the first seat up front close to a window and ordered a Miller Lite for appearances. He swung a casual gaze around the place, but didn’t see any likely bikers.
“Lite Miller it is,” said the bartender, pouring half a bottle into a frosted glass before setting both down in front of him.
“Thanks. Beautiful day, huh?”
“Yessir, indeed. No place better when that smog clears out.”
He studied the beer. “Say, do you ever get any bikers in here?” Banyan saw the bartender’s eyes narrow and his mouth tighten.
“Yeah. They’ll come around back in the evenings. Some of ‘em are okay. Others I just don’t want around here. Cause trouble or look like they’re ready to. Why couple nights ago, big fella, and I mean a regular gorilla, sitting right over there got in some sort of argument with a smaller guy dressed in fancy leathers and just flattened him. I mean one push and the guy went splat, ass over tea kettle. Had a nasty bump on the back of his head, paramedics and sheriffs came. Patched him up, but from what I could hear, the guy said he didn’t want to give any information or file charges. Scared everybody half to death.”
“Boy, that can’t be good for business.”
“Nope.” The bartender shook his head and looked depressed. “Usually, they stay out back in the parking lot. In fact I saw the guy with the banged up head out there last night, just like nothing happened. But you know, their language and attitude. People just want to come and go in peace. Not have to see and hear those guys acting tough. I’ve posted signs and a sheriff’s deputy comes through every so often to run ‘em off. But it’s a problem.”
“Do you think any of them are out there now?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Could be,” said the bartender. “They usually start congregating around this hour.” Then he looked hard at Banyan. “Say, you’re not one of those vigilante types, are you? Your face shows some wear and tear, if you don’t mind my saying. I sure don’t need that either.”
“No, no. Just curious.” He carried on a casual conversation with him, then carefully pretended to nurse his beer another ten minutes. His will power was being tested the moment that cold glass touched his lips and he got the aroma of the brew. While the bartender was reloading a few of the regulars, Banyan put a five on the bar and walked out. It was dusky with corals and pinks showing to the west as he went around the corner to the lot.
Two young men in leathers were there, one crouched and fiddling with something around the rear wheel hub. The other, off by himself, relaxed against his bike, arms folded, ankles crossed. His bright orange helmet rested on the saddle with gloves stuffed in it. He’d unzipped the black and silver leather jacket. At about thirty feet in dim light, Banyan thought he might have had his eyes closed, as if meditating. He passed the mechanic who looked up at him suspiciously and approached the thinker.
“Hello,” he said.
The eyes had been cl
osed, but he had been well aware of Banyan’s presence. He opened his eyes only slightly and gave a barely noticeable nod.
“I’m looking for Kyle. You know him?”
The biker kept his slits on him, then blindly studied the sunset. “I do.”
“You know where I can find him?”
“That, too.”
Banyan couldn’t help but smile at the Fonz or James Dean, or whoever this cool customer was, but much more of the laid-back, self-controlled routine might begin to irritate him.
As he studied the handsome, closed-eyed face and conjured up a wake-up word or two, the Fonz turned back to Banyan and cracked his eyes open to a squint. “Who wants to know?”
“He’s standing in front of you.” He spread his legs slightly and folded his arms. “And he’s not a cop. Name’s Banyan.” The narrowed eyes didn’t follow his hand as he placed a card on the leather gloves.
“That’d be me,” the biker said softly.
“Bingo.”
“Who told you I’d be here?”
“Who would you guess?
“Depends on what you want.”
That irritation came back stronger, and he didn’t want to do another round of 20 Questions. But, he held it in check. “Looking for some answers. What do you know about Jolene Ojibway’s disappearance?”
“I don’ know nothin’.” Kyle was looking at him, maybe deep in thought. “It was Nathan, wasn’ it? Nathan Rossmoor. He told you where I might be.”
“How do you know Nathan?”
The biker was mute.
“Remember, I’m not a cop, if that helps?”
Kyle moved his gaze to the darkening horizon. “He sells me a little weed now and then.”
Banyan mulled this over for a moment. “Nathan ever deal any heavier drugs?”
