Angeles Crest

by P. J. Zander

  Back on Foothill, he looked on his right as he drove down past an area he'd been in earlier that morning. Near the corner of Commonwealth were some businesses with parking lots in the rear. There was a row of fancy sedans and SUVS—Porsche, Mercedes, Lexus, Cadillac. He pulled in opposite the row and walked around to the building entrance and, bypassing the elevator, ran up two flights of stairs to Rossmoor Realty.

  “Hello, may I help you?” a vibrant receptionist asked. She was sitting behind a solid cherry desk with a computer station. On the walls adjacent to her desk were the standard framed photos for supporting local charity events and awards for participation in community groups. The other walls, however, presented original works from California artists, five-figure artists, some of whom were no longer among the living. The waiting chairs were sleek stainless steel frames with ergonomic leather cushions. In the background were some calming New Age sounds from the ‘80s or ‘90s, maybe Enya. Clearly, though real estate had gone through a down swing, there were realtors that had emerged from the lean times in good shape. Office staff in on a Saturday was a good sign. Stephanie and Ernie weren’t exaggerating.

  “Yes, you can. I know I didn’t have an appointment, but I’d like to speak with Susan Rossmoor. Is she available?” He spoke softly and tried to think six feet tall, but he felt like a great big oaf hovering over her work area.

  “I’m sorry, Mr . . .?”

  “Banyan. Frederic Banyan.” He resisted saying Shrek.

  “Mr. Banyan, she’s out with a client. Can one of our other agents be of assistance?”

  “No, thanks. I really need to speak with her.”

  “Possibly I could schedule you in on Wednesday or Friday. Tuesday and Thursday mornings are booked solid and she’s usually not in the office those afternoons.” Despite her optimistic smile, he knew his expression closed the door.

  “Is there a chance she’ll be back within a half hour or so? I could just wait?”

  She hesitated. “I suppose that would be okay. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” She appeared to lock her computer with a screensaver, then disappeared around a corner to the offices. He heard her talking to one or two men; must be letting them know that Shrek is in the lobby and won’t take no for an answer. If they came out, he’d try the meek sit-down routine again.

  She came back followed by a handsome, fortyish agent who addressed him.

  “Hello, Mr. Banyan. I’m Keith Allison, Ms. Rossmoor’s associate broker.” He came toward him with a well-manicured hand out. Banyan couldn’t help himself. He had manners and had to stand and shake it. When he did, he caught the ever-so-slight widening of the eyes as Keith looked up. “Are you sure there’s nothing we can do for you?”

  “I appreciate that, Keith. This is just something fairly urgent that only Ms. Rossmoor can address. I hope you don’t mind if I wait here for her.”

  Keith and the receptionist glanced at each other and nodded. “That will be fine. May we get you some coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “We’ll send a message to Susan that you’re here.” Keith looked at the young woman who sat down and began texting immediately.

  While he waited, Banyan wondered what it was like for a mother to have a son like Nathan. With few exceptions, he assumed most mothers hoped their children would have happy childhoods and productive, fulfilling lives as adults. He also assumed the chances of both of those happening were probably fifty-fifty at best. Okay, so he sounded like a pessimist, but you just had to look around. And, if you were one of the good mothers, how heartrending it must have been to have a son or daughter who never smiled and could go from calm to full-on rage in an instant.

  #

  The front door opened and the beautiful woman who walked in immediately drew all senses toward her like a magnet. She strode right up to him with hand extended.

  “Mr. Banyan? I’m Susan Rossmoor. Thank you for waiting.”

  Close up, Banyan wasn’t sure what he saw. Her hazel eyes were both confident and enticing. She would have to be all business to have the kind of success evident in the surrounding trappings, but there was also a sensuality that wouldn’t let go.

  “This is very pleasant setting for passing the time. Your office is quite impressive, and your staff was very courteous.”

  “Please, this way.” She went to the side and slightly in front of him down the hall. This afforded him a not unpleasant view of Susan Rossmoor. Highlighted brunette, black linen pants and short-waisted leather coat that accentuated her well-maintained body, and heels that clicked along the tile floor like exclamation points. Was it just his male thinking, or was this a practiced continuation of the sexiness that zapped him a moment earlier?

  Her office was not overly large, maybe fifteen by twenty, with furniture and artwork similar to those in the reception area. Out her wide windows stretched the San Gabriel Mountains, horribly scarred by last summer’s fire but venerable in snow-capped magnificence against the cobalt sky.

  She closed the door and motioned him toward a chair at ninety degrees to a sofa. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, water?”

  He declined, and took a seat. “Beautiful view. Terrible fire.” He was thinking how astounding it was that this woman who had never met him and knew nothing about him had to this point not indicated the least curiosity about why he was here. She was remarkably relaxed and hospitable. Her confidence knew no bounds.

  “Yes, I never get tired of seeing those mountains. They’re like guardians protecting us from whatever’s on the other side. The recovery from the burn will take some time. And to think that it was arson and two firefighters died.” She took a seat on the sofa in the section nearest the chair, crossed one knee over the other and clasped her hands in her lap. “So, you have an urgent need to talk to me, Mr. Banyan?”

  He could have sworn he saw a split-second smile at the words urgent need. He really needed to get hold of himself.

  “I do, and it’s a personal issue. I am a close friend of Raylene Ojibway’s and her daughter, Jolene. I’m trying to find any clues, however small, that might help her find out where her daughter is and why she disappeared. Because your son works around the rented house, I’ve gone to his house twice to talk to him and he seemed a little uptight. In fact, he—”

  “You think Nathan had something to do with that terrible . . . He can be hard to deal with and he does have anger issues, but my son could never do such a thing. The police questioned him back in October when she disappeared. I thought this was all behind us. I . . . I don’t know what to say.” She hadn’t raised her voice, but showed obvious concern, a mother’s protective instinct. Then she regained her composure and said. “You didn’t show me a badge. Are you a private investigator?”

  “Sort of. I work closely with the sheriff’s detectives assigned to the case. I’m simply trying to help the girl’s mother.” He figured she’d understand that.

  “I don’t understand why you’re here now.” Her look was serious.

  “Ms. Rossmoor, I’m going to ask you a very personal question. I think Nathan may know something that might lead us to those who took her, and why. I’m here to find out more about your son’s past. The more I understand, the more help I might be to law enforcement and to Raylene Ojibway. I’m aware of the effects of war on our young people who go off and fight, and Nathan seems to have some problems stemming from his service. But can you tell me if he had these . . . if he was angry and possibly violent when he was growing up?” There was no easy way of putting it and Banyan hoped she’d buy the soft spin.

  She sat for maybe twenty seconds, looking at the guardians that this time couldn’t protect her from the beach invader. She turned to him, looking at her clasped hands, and then raised her eyes. “Nathan had a very . . . difficult upbringing. My husband died just before he was born. I raised him myself and as hard as I tried, there is a huge void for a boy in those circumstances. I could do nothing to fill that void. In his teen years he became withdrawn,
angry. And because he was so big, his outbursts could be very destructive. I was never in any fear of him; he never hurt me. But, he heard the whispers and read the anonymous notes left at his desk and stuck to his locker. Occasionally, he’d find out who the instigators were and beat them up. I tried to get him interested in sports, but only in his senior year did he turn to football. The coach loved him, and allowed him to turn his anger lose on the other teams. For those three months of football season when he was eighteen, the violence all but stopped. He was accepted among his peers and even briefly had a girlfriend. However, by the time he left high school, he'd fallen back to his previous behaviors. You can’t imagine the unhappiness he felt all those years, except for a few wonderful months. The army had lowered their qualifications due to the shortage of recruits—well I’m sure you know all about that.”

  For a moment, Banyan didn’t say anything. He was genuinely moved by her description of what must have been, and still was, a tormented life. It had taken a lot for Susan Rossmoor to unveil this information, especially to a stranger. The way she spoke, it almost seemed as if this was the first time she’d revealed Nathan’s past. He hoped it might help her, have a cathartic effect.

  “I appreciate your candor. It gives me a better understanding of your son and that could lead me to others who may know something.” He got up to go.

  “Mr. Banyan. I want you to understand that Nathan has never harmed a girl or woman, never raised a hand. He couldn’t . . . didn’t have anything to do with Jolene’s . . . with this horrible act. And, my heart reaches out to Raylene Ojibway.”

  She led him to the front of the brokerage with the same self-assurance.

  He shook her hand and walked out, taking the elevator to the lobby.

  #

  As he reached for the truck’s door handle, his head began throbbing and at that moment, he recalled that Susan Rossmoor had glanced at his temple when they first met, and was nice enough not to mention it or look at it again.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Banyan had pushed his chair back from the table and gone outside The Dish restaurant as he’d flipped open his phone. It was Quintana.

  “All right. I checked with San Berdoo. They found auto tire tracks in the area of the crash indicating a collision.”

  “That makes it interesting.”

  “What makes it more interesting is that it looks like the vehicle comes down Highway 2, then goes back up after the crash. And whatever your man, Kyle Hemphill, knew, you won’t. He was pretty much DOA. Merry Christmas.

  “Man. He sure seemed like he could help us take a step forward in this thing. Give us something we could build on.”

  “Well, that really doesn’t matter now, does it. We gotta go with what we have—no new leads, same customers we questioned repeatedly back in October. No grounds to hold Nathan or Sean then, and there’s still nothing we can charge them with.”

  “Kyle had a solid connection to Nathan and could have had one with Sean Lowry.”

  “Lowry? How so?”

  “Kyle said he didn’t know Sean, though he’d heard of him through Jolene. But Sean referred to Kyle way back in August the day Jo packed and moved to the rental house. Ray and I were there when he came over to talk to her. He somehow figured there was something going on between Jo and Kyle, which we now know is true.”

  “So, your personal view is that Kyle’s suspicious death adds a new king size can of worms to the investigation.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. It could seem more than coincidental that Kyle is dispatched within days of talking to me and before he met with your people, if he was even thinking about doing that. Seems to me if someone wanted to get him, they would have to have known what Kyle was doing that day, maybe had some help. Someone following him. Maybe even hired someone to do him. The only motive that I can see for Nathan, or even Sean, to kill Kyle is jealousy. Both of them had some sort of feelings for Jolene which Sean is open about and I know she was his girlfriend for several years. Nathan denies he felt anything for her, but my hunch is he doth protest too much. Having said all—”

  “Listen to yourself, Banyan. You’ve done a one-eighty. We were talking about what’s become of Jolene, and now you’re deep into Hemphill.”

  “Exactly. What I was going to say next is, despite the intrigue of who killed Kyle and why, I just don’t like him as the one who took Jolene. After a little encouragement, he talked about dating her for months. My guess is he wouldn’t straight out tell me about having a key to her house because his immediate reaction was, screw this, they’ll think I’m guilty. Hell, he could have been knocked off simply because of some bad blood among bikers. I don’t know. At this point, I don’t really care. So I’ll leave that to you professionals.”

  “Noble of you,” the captain muttered.

  “But, while I’m in the area, I’m going to work on finding out more about Nathan.” Banyan paused and took a breath. “I met with Susan Rossmoor yesterday. She mentioned that her husband died just before Nathan was born. Did you guys do any background on his parents? Do you know how the senior Rossmoor died?”

  “Damn it, Banyan. She’s earned her right not to be harassed and she’s well-connected. You’re way out there at the end of a tether. It snaps, you’re into shit creek and I don’t wanna fall in there with you.”

  After a few seconds he heard Ernie sigh mightily. “Okay, I know we did some checking. Let me pull the file and get back to you. By the way, she’s a presence, huh?” The detective said it matter-of-factly, apparently having regained some of his cool.

  “Breathtaking. One strong woman.” It was quiet between them for a few seconds.

  “Staying out of trouble?”

  He knew it wasn’t a question. “Why, of course, Captain Quintana. Not even one fistfight today. So far. So I must be doing something right.”

  “Don’t be a smartass, Banyan. You know what’s riding on my letting you in on this. You keep it that way.”

  #

  Half way through his breakfast, he pulled out the card on which he had written several numbers. “Geert. This is Rusty Banyan. You and I talked about a week ago.”

  There was a short pause. “Yes, Rusty, of course. I enjoyed our chat.”

  “I need to ask you a favor, Geert. The sheriffs would like to take a statement from you about the noise you heard back in October. It will help them solve the disappearance of that young woman. The speeding car that hit the dog? Remember?” Banyan wondered if his initial impression of Hulsing’s mental sharpness was accurate.

  This pause was longer. “Oh, you mean the one in the middle of the night. I do remember.”

  All’s well, he thought. “Yes, that’s the one. Would it be okay if a detective came by your house and you told him what you heard and saw? This would be evidence they can use to help find the criminals.”

  “Certainly. I would be happy to do that. Will they be here this afternoon?”

  “No. I’ll tell them to call you and set up a time so you’ll know when the detective will come. Okay?”

  “That will be fine, Rusty. And please come for another visit. You heard enough about my navy experience. I’d like to hear about yours.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that. And thank you.”

  #

  By the time he was finishing his third cup of coffee, they’d changed out the breakfast menus to lunch and midday was well on its way to the afternoon rush—people getting out and about in the sun, Christmas shoppers checking off their lists, and party-goers planning an evening of righteous debauchery.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  At seven that evening, Quintana was ready to call it a day. Having to come in on a Saturday wasn’t in his plans prior to the weekend. He knew the Chief of Detectives was still in the building, but enough was enough. Chief Oldershaw had arrived in mid-afternoon for a meeting which had tied up the Homicide Bureau for two hours. It also had tied him up in a separate tète-a-tète with the chief, during which Oldershaw wanted to know about the rumor that a P.I. wa
s assisting unofficially in a kidnapping investigation. The only positive take-away from that meeting was the chief’s assumption that the person helping was a fully-licensed investigator. Everything else came under the heading of that steaming pile on the captain’s desk had better be cleaned up and smelling like roses in short order. Since that pleasant experience, he’d been able to get the information for Banyan. Before he got to his car, he decided to pass it on.

  “Ernie, thanks for calling back. Earlier, I didn’t realize you were at your office. Sorry you got yanked in on a weekend.” Quintana heard what sounded like a groan. “I’m . . . hopeful.”

  “What did I interrupt? You feeling okay?”

  “Is that an official question?”

  The cop found an opening and he could use a little fun to end his day. “Affirmative, goddamnit. Let’s hear it.”

  “Okay. That goose egg Nathan put on me causes me some distress, but it’s getting better. Trouble focusing sometimes. Fussing over which Old Town Pasadena restaurant to try for dinner.”

  “And your choices?”

  “I don’t know. Mexican, Italian. Sushi. Bunch of burger joints. Got any advice?”

  “Absolutely not. Guess you’ll just have to go with your gut.”

  “Funny. So, am I hoping beyond hope?”

  “Of course not. I knew we had done some background work on the family. The mother, Susan, came out to California from Minnesota after her husband died. Needed a fresh start. Got her real estate license right away and hit the California housing market at just the right time. She made some wise invest—”

  “Jesus, Ernie, this is a touching story of the California dream, but tell me how the husband died.”

  The captain chuckled. “I was waiting for you to ask. It appears he was shot to death in their residence. She was a bruised and battered wife.”

  “She shot him and got off?”

  Ernie so rarely got the chance to go one up on Banyan that he wanted to savor it. “Did I say she shot him?” The phone was silent. Quintana waited for the spinning wheels in Banyan’s brain to slow. He had one finger in the air poised to mark a point on the imaginary score board.