Angeles Crest

by P. J. Zander

  “Doesn’t it, though? My regular phone’s temporarily dead. Did I catch you at home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ray, are you okay?”

  She took another deep breath. “Uh-huh. Just kind of a stressful morning. How’s it going down there?”

  “A few more leads . . . and, actually, I have to talk to you about one of them.” He paused. “Sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m all right.” She struggled to quell the rising panic. “I want to hear what . . . what you have to tell me.”

  “What’s happened, Ray? There’s something wrong. I can hear it in your voice.”

  Her eyes stung as tears gathered. “No, Rusty, really.” She swallowed hard.

  “You can’t brush me off. I’m worried that . . . You sound like there’s someone or something there, scaring you. What is—”

  “Why did you . . . Did you go see Rick Moss?” She had hoped that he would tell her that he hadn’t. But he was silent for too long.

  “Spur of the moment. Gut instinct kinda deal. I had to, Ray. You know I don’t trust the guy—a heartless scumbag. Had to check him out.”

  “God, Rusty, why would you do—”

  “Hmmm. He just called you.” She heard him breathing slowly several times. “He called Jolene, more than once. Did you know that?”

  This is crazy. “I can’t do this now, Rusty. What was the other thing, the reason you called.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, Ray. And what I tell you next isn’t going to make you feel any better. When I left you three days ago, I went to see Sean.”

  “You . . . Why?” she asked sharply.

  “I can’t leave anything to chance. I’ve got to go back over the sheriffs’ work and be confident that nothing was missed.”

  “But, Sean? What could he possibly have to do with Jolene? We’ve known him since he was in kindergarten.”

  “I know, I know. But, I wanted to start in Wrightwood and work my way down here, or wherever it takes me.”

  “Rusty, you went to see—” She almost uttered that other name. “And Sean. I . . . I don’t believe this. It’s so far out there from anything I could imagine.”

  A few seconds passed before he continued. “Here’s what I need to ask. Can you tell me anything about Nuckles, Sean’s—”

  “Roommate. I know, Rusty.” She took a breath to calm herself. “Okay, here’s what I know. His name is Kevin Kleam. He came here on his own from Lancaster six or seven years ago, and has worked on and off as an auto mechanic, or trainee. Something like that. Jo knew him only slightly through Sean because I don’t think he went to Antelope Valley College during all those years she was taking courses. If he attended AVC, she certainly didn’t meet him there. Before that, it seems to me Jo or Sean once told me he grew up someplace up north—San Francisco, Santa Rosa, Sacramento. I can’t remember.”

  “When you’ve seen him around town, what’s been your impression of him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Kind of a normal guy. Has the look and talk of a boarder. If he didn’t have to work, I think he’s the type that would spend all his time either snowboarding or skateboarding. Not too ambitious.”

  “My take, too.” Rusty paused, as if pondering Nuckles. “You ever hear of him being in any kind of trouble?”

  Raylene took a moment. “I seem to recall something about underage drinking not too long after he got here. There also was a more recent marijuana charge, I’m pretty sure. No stealing or physical stuff.” She felt her pulse slowing down after the initial surprise of Rusty’s disclosure about talking to Sean, and the other call.

  “Am I still in the doghouse?”

  She forced herself to play along with his humor. “No, but I’m thinking you have to wear that choke chain a little longer.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Rusty, you don’t really think Sean, or Ri—or Kevin, have anything to do with Jo?”

  “What I think, Ray, is that anybody is capable of turning wicked. It just depends on the situation. Unfortunately, that means I can’t rule out anybody.”

  #

  Later, after she’d snacked just to get something down, she dozed again and dreamed. A smiling Rick Moss sat in front of her, but she avoided making eye contact. Finally, she had to look and it was Rusty’s face. She searched his eyes and sensed something frightful. He was saying, “Anybody can turn wicked, Ray. Anybody.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Banyan got off the elevator and went to his room which he’d left four hours before. He unplugged the now fully-charged cell phone and went back out to the truck. There were two missed calls from early that morning.

  “This is Sheila.” Her voice was distraught. “Bondo was attacked in your house last night. He’s unconscious and in critical condition.” He heard crying. “Damn it, Rusty. What are you doing that this would happen to him?” The last words were barely audible.

  Banyan couldn’t believe it. Bondo? In critical condition? He’d never had any kind of break-in at his house in all the years he’d lived there. And now, an attack on Bondo? Jesus Christ.

  He barely remembered there was a second message. “Frederic Banyan, Lieutenant Crawford, Laguna Beach Police. Please call me. It’s extremely urgent.” Despite the formality in addressing him, he knew Crawford, a little. They’d come across each other quite a while ago when Banyan was involved in a few local jobs. Current head of the Investigations Division. Jesus H. Christ. He dialed the lieutenant’s number immediately.

  Crawford came on the line right away. “How soon can you get back to Laguna?”

  “I don’t know. Hour and a half, depending on traffic. What the hell happened?”

  “I’ll fill you in now, but I want you to get here ASAP. We got called to your residence at about 5:45 this morning by a neighbor who was out walking his dog.”

  Probably Dick Egloff, Banyan guessed.

  “The neighbor reported the front door being open and no lights on on your main floor, and a dog whining on the front porch. When our officers arrived about 5:50, they found the front door wide open. Inside in the main room, some furniture, rugs and items on shelves were scattered. Wendell Wakefield was lying barefooted in jeans and tee-shirt unconscious with massive trauma to his face and head.”

  How strange it seemed to Banyan to hear Bondo’s real name then. He interrupted and asked how he was doing. The lieutenant told him he was in a coma. God damn it.

  “Near him on the floor were a baseball bat and his cell phone.”

  Banyan explained he kept the bat by the bed in the loft bedroom.

  “The phone has an off-center photo of a man running through the front door, showing a back and partial right side view, from head to ankles. The side door to the garage was locked. It appears an intruder gained access to the house through a rear garden door into the kitchen.”

  Meaning he would have had to scale the seven-foot-high locked gate to the backyard.

  “A single light was on next to the bed in the loft. Now, Mr. Banyan—Rusty, right? We understand that Mr. Wakefield’s boss called his girlfriend, Sheila Dunne, because he hadn’t shown for work. Apparently, he was going in before seven to finish a job from last week. She immediately drove over to your residence and found my investigators still there and her boyfriend gone to Mission. Her dog was there, too. Apparently, it took off early this morning when Ms. Dunne opened the door to go out with it and she couldn’t find it. Possibly went straight to your house.”

  Oh, man, I feel like shit.

  Crawford continued. “We learned from her that Mr. Wakefield, or Bondo, was house sitting while you were out of town. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, I asked him to watch the place while I was out of Laguna for a few days. He usually stays a night or two while I’m gone.” He told Crawford that Bondo had done this for him a number of times.

  “Do you know of anyone that might have a grudge against him? Enough of one to follow him to your house and attack him?”

  “No,” Ba
nyan said emphatically. “Bondo is a local, well liked by everyone.”

  “What about you, Rusty? Anybody have it in for you?”

  Banyan was caught off guard and his train of thought suddenly changed. Would someone attack Bondo to get at him? Hurt those around him as a lesson? He needed to dial up the Rolodex on some of those old badass run-ins.

  “Well, I’m certainly not as likeable as Bondo. And I’m sure there are those around town who don’t care for me at all. But I can’t think of who would get such a mad-on for me to go after him like that. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Are you working on anything now that could have repercussions for some individuals? Something that would negatively affect their lives to the point of them getting violent?”

  “No. I am doing some investigating on an unsolved case up in La Canada. Nothing local. What’s happened to Bondo just doesn’t compute.”

  They finished and he told Crawford he’d leave immediately and check in with him, but after he visited the hospital.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Banyan called Raylene and explained what had happened and that he might not get back to the area until the next day. She was shocked and found it hard to believe. She said she was so sorry about Bondo and couldn’t imagine how bad it must have made him feel.

  On the way, he ran over the possibilities but couldn’t come up with anything of substance. This thing was so screwy, so goddamned bizarre. Cutting over to the toll road, he hoped Bondo wouldn’t mind him using it. His friend had been vehemently opposed to the road’s construction and refused to use it under any circumstances. It cut across rolling hills and what used to be lazy pasture land. In a move of solidarity, his surfing compatriots had vowed to do the same and actively supported the Save Laguna Canyon movement some years back. Things change, thought Banyan. The new road went through and it would save him precious minutes.

  He exited, got onto the Canyon Road, and went through several back streets to get onto PCH farther south. In a few minutes, he was turning into Mission Hospital parking, his heart racing. Bondo could die.

  #

  When he got off the elevator he saw Sheila. She was alone, leaning against the wall and looking through the critical care window. Her fair complexion now looked pale, accentuated by her straight, black hair. Banyan walked up to her and was about to say how awful he felt when she turned to him with such an unearthly look that he couldn’t speak. She came closer to him, to slap him, he guessed. Yet, she hugged him and asked him to think good thoughts about Bondo. At that moment, he felt so unworthy of her, of Raylene, of the few friends he had. If somehow he was the reason for the attack . . .

  Through the glass, his arm around Sheila’s shoulders, they could barely see his face for all the bandages, ventilator and other tubes. What features showed were horribly puffed and discolored. The doctor had told her the next twenty-four hours were crucial. If he could come out of the coma and regain consciousness, his chances of survival would increase. In his current condition, there was a high risk of death over the next day.

  Bondo, dead. This just can’t happen, he thought.

  “Rusty," Sheila said, "I know you feel awful and I shouldn’t have left that message for you. This is just so unbelievable.”

  “For the life of me, I can’t figure it out. Bondo just doesn’t have any enemies like that. I’ll help the police as much as I can, and do my own work on the side, if need be.”

  “His parents are vacationing in Biarritz. I texted them, but doubt they’ll be home by tomorrow. His boss came by about noon,” she said, staring blankly into the room.

  For the next forty-five minutes, they sat in the waiting chairs and spoke sporadically with painful gaps. Banyan didn’t want to leave, but he had committed to Lieutenant Crawford. “Sheila, I have to go talk to the police. Please call me if anything changes.” He rose and put his hand on her shoulder. “And, let’s have dinner tonight. I’ll call you.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  On his way to the Police Department he turned to upper Lombardy and drove by his house. It looked like the investigators had finished their work. No one was around, the front door was shut and Bondo’s car was still in the driveway. While his heart tugged at him to get out, he had to get to the police. Maybe Crawford had more information, something he could work with. He drove on through the side streets, down the steep 3rd Street hill and was lucky to find a spot in front of City Hall. He walked around the corner on Loma Place to the offices.

  Marcus Crawford was one of a few black officers on the force. Back when they made an effort to hire minorities for the over ninety percent white community, the department had been fortunate to get the highly recommended officer. He’d steadily risen within the ranks and two years ago had been selected to head the Investigations Division. Without delay, Banyan was shown to his office. Crawford stood and they shook hands. Trim and energetic with a dignified bearing, he appeared taller and younger than his five-ten and forty-seven years.

  “We ran into each other a few times years ago. Good to see you again, Rusty. Sorry about the circumstances. How is your friend doing?”

  “No change. By tomorrow this time, we should know more about the prognosis. Doc says youth and strength are in his favor.”

  “The initial medical report indicated the damage to his face and head was made by the attacker’s hands and feet only,” Crawford said. “If that’s true, another thing in his favor is the attacker didn’t use the bat on him. No skull fracture.”

  They both sat. The office was relatively small with typical office furniture designed for functionality. The lieutenant kept it organized to the extent possible. He quickly grabbed a folder of reports, placing them in front of him.

  “I take it you haven’t been back to your house, yet?”

  “Just drove by, but didn’t get out.” Suddenly, a feeling of anxiety came over him, thinking about walking into his house for the first time after Bondo lay on his floor with his head bashed in.

  Crawford read his face. “I’m sure that won’t be easy.” He paused and looked at Banyan with concern. “When you do go home, Rusty, what I’d like you to do over the next day or two is slowly look at all your personal items with as objective an eye as possible. Now I know that’s a lot to ask, but you just might see one little thing out of place, or marked, or maybe you’ll note something missing. If you find anything amiss, call me immediately. The quicker we get some clues on this, the better.”

  Banyan nodded. It would be tough, but he wanted to get on with it.

  “The next thing I have is the photo Mr. Wakefield—Bondo took. We’ve blown it up and refined the resolution.” He handed the eight by ten to him. Immediately, he pictured Bondo, all but dying on the floor, having the gumption and finding the strength to snap the shot. He breathed deeply, then looked at the details. There was his front door, about three quarters open and very slightly blurred. In the near left foreground was about five inches of the barrel of the Louisville Slugger on the floor. Filling the doorway was the back of a man dressed in what looked like black or dark blue. Looking at the taper of his back, he was broad shouldered or at least trim in the waist. Using the door opening as a scale, he was a good six feet, maybe taller. His left arm was out from his side, with a glove obvious on his left hand, right arm and hand held close to his body. He’d probably opened the door and pushed it with his left hand, similar to a left-handed backhand in tennis. The only feature visible of his head was the back, showing neatly trimmed dark hair.

  “Is there anything familiar about this man?” asked Crawford.

  “No.” Banyan felt the anger rising. This guy had been in his house, had beaten Bondo. He gave the photo back.

  The police officer waited a moment, then began again. “The last thing is this. One possibility is the man was there not suspecting you, let alone Bondo, were going to be there. It wasn’t that late, so he could have waited until most of the neighborhood had turned in and may have been in your house less than half an hour, maybe just
a few minutes. Bondo arrives, goes up to the bedroom, hears something downstairs, thinks it’s maybe a kid looking to grab anything of street value to score some drugs. He’s fit and stronger than the average guy, so he takes the bat and goes down to the living room. Unfortunately, the intruder is bigger than expected and knows something about fighting.”

  The whole thing, the attack on his friend, could have just been bad luck? He was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Banyan tried to imagine Bondo at the moment he took on the attacker. It should have been me, he thought.

  “The question is,” said Crawford, “why was this guy in your house. Was it a simple burglary or did he have another motive?” He looked at Banyan. “Has anything occurred to you since we talked on the phone?”

  “Nothing at all.” He had wracked his brain, gone over the bad boys he’d bumped into over the years, but kept drawing blanks.

  The lieutenant studied his face a few seconds longer than was comfortable. “Well, I’m sure this has been a shock. Here’s my card. If you think of anything, anything at all, do give me a call.”

  Banyan said he would and went to the door.

  “And, Rusty, I hope your friend makes it.”

  #

  He pulled in behind Bondo’s Focus and slowly got out. The first thing he wanted to check was the point of entry. Scaling the gate would have taken some strength and determination. The intruder definitely had a sense of purpose, he noted. He unlocked it and went around back to the window. A single panel had been broken, just enough to allow the intruder to reach in and unlock the garden door, quietly enough not to wake the neighbors. Banyan opened the door and went in. It was an odd feeling, almost like he was entering an unfamiliar setting. Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed. From now on, his house would seem different—sullied.

  The kitchen looked in order. His friend had come in at night and hadn’t eaten there. The coffee maker was clean. He hadn’t even had a cup. Everything was as he had left it four days before. He moved into the living room. The small dining table was knocked about six feet out of place, two chairs were on their backs. A rug originally under the table was pushed up in a mound against the table legs. Near one of the overturned chairs was what was left of a chalk outline of the bat, now evidence being screened for DNA. He reluctantly moved his eyes to the spot where Bondo was found. After the investigators had finished their work, the cleanup crew had done what they could, but there was still a large shapeless hint of blood on the hardwood floor. Banyan barely kept it in.