Angeles Crest

by P. J. Zander

  “Thanks a lot. You get maximum style points, brudda,” Reed interrupted with a snort.

  “Sorry, no Corvette. Wrong image. You’ll be the supervisor of a window outfit called Panorama Perspectives that is installing new windows at Dwyer’s place. You’re going to the house early for a last-minute walk-through before the installers get there to set up for demoing the windows. Housekeeper is expecting the crew at ten AM, so you need to get there at, say, nine-thirty. I know you can talk your way in. You up for this?”

  “Wow, and this doesn’t cost me anything?” Reed chortled. “I suppose my hayseed overalls wouldn’t be appropriate for a supervisor.”

  Banyan ignored him. “Just take a gander. Anything that gives you a look inside this guy. I know I’m grasping at straws here, Chris, but the jealousy motive for Nathan—and a couple other fellas on my list—doesn’t have traction. I could be way off, but Dwyer’s a pretty big fish to continue worrying about little brother’s frolics in the sack. I’m hoping there’s some inkling as to why in his house. And that’s where your panorama perspective comes in.”

  “So, should I accept this mission, will I self-destruct afterwards?” Reed paused. “Is the housekeeper the only one I should expect? Does our lawyer have a lady friend, man friend, or wife who might be sleeping in?”

  “No wedding band, which certainly isn’t definitive. But based on what I heard and observed at the office, I’m thinking you and the housekeeper will be it.”

  “This sounds like a get-in, get-out affair. I’ll have maybe twenty minutes inside so I can make my bird before the crew arrives.”

  “You got it. Flight back will get you outta John Wayne by mid-afternoon. Back in Anchorage before ten PM. Hopefully, the drive back to Girdwood won’t be an ice capade.”

  “Well, what an opportunity, mon pote. Hard to resist all of ten hours in a sunny, warm, snow-free environment on Christmas Eve. What more could a guy want?”

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t need you. Man, you’re the only one that can pull this off. It will let me poke around without any initial hint I was involved in it in case the housekeeper gets suspicious. She talks to Dwyer and describes the man who came through before the installers, it won’t match me. And you’ll be back in man-on-the-run heaven.”

  “Okay. I’ll let the boss know and hopefully she won’t change the locks before I return.”

  Banyan chuckled at Reed.

  “I’ll do some searches on the property to get an address and maybe a layout so I don’t look like a complete fool. Pick up a few props. Oh, yeah, and get a haircut, no offense.”

  “None taken. Would that I should be so lucky. Call me if you have any problem with the electronic confirmation and tickets.” He thought about what his best friend was doing for him. “Chris, you’re the wind beneath my wings. How many IOUs have I stacked up?”

  “Too many to get me down wind of you. Adios.”

  When Banyan called Alaska Airlines, he also booked a couple first class seats on the direct flight to Maui for Chris and Anne the first week in January. The rest of the deal was two weeks at the Napili Kai Resort and a rental car.

  #

  Just as he was about to get in the truck, he remembered something. He walked back toward the building entrance. Skirting the lift gate for the occupant parking garage, he made his way along the aisles between rows of reserved spaces, most of which were filled. When he came to the law firm’s section, there parked in the Mr. Dwyer spot was a late model BMW 750i. Banyan checked the front bumper and grill, and found them flawless. He jotted down the plate and left.

  FORTY-ONE

  “Mr. Aanensen, I have a gentleman calling from California. He’s says he needs information from you about a nineteen eighty-eight homicide trial you were involved in. He says it’s urgent. Would you like me to transfer him to the Criminal Division?”

  Bjarne Aanensen had been focused on reviewing points for a child abuse case. The week before he had told Lisa Winters, the division’s Associate County Attorney, that he’d take a quick look at it before Christmas, which meant he had to do it now since he was trying to get away a little early and was taking the next two days off.

  “I’m sorry, Katherine. What trial?”

  “He didn’t say. Just that it was a homicide in nineteen eighty-eight.”

  The Deputy Attorney for Olmsted County in Rochester, Minnesota, blew out a big puff of air and recollected 1988. He had just made Senior Attorney. There were two homicides he’d been involved in, but he had prosecuted only one in court. Son shoots father in defense of battered mother. But his sense was that that wasn’t all there was to it. There was more going on that he couldn’t prove. Some cases just didn’t turn out the way they should.

  “No, don’t pass him off. Lisa has enough on her plate. What’s the name?”

  “Banyan. Frederic Banyan.”

  “Okay, ring him through.” Aanensen hoped this wouldn’t take long. He had to leave within half an hour to make his son’s high school basketball game during the holiday tournament, and then off to a big family Christmas bash at his in-laws.

  #

  Banyan felt fortunate to get through to Deputy County Attorney Aanensen on the first attempt.

  “Mr. Banyan, this is Bjarne Aanensen. I understand you have an interest in a case I was involved in years ago.”

  “Yes, and thanks for talking to me. The case involved the shooting of Martin Dwyer by his son.”

  “And what is your particular interest?”

  “Briefly, I am trying to assist in solving a crime out here. A young woman was kidnapped from her rented house in October and there’s been no sign of her since. The owner of the house is Susan Rossmoor, whom you might remember as Susan Dwyer. She’s a very successful real estate broker and investor. Her younger son, Nathan, takes care of several of her properties, maintenance, gardening, that sort of thing. I’m trying to find out what I can about her older son, Martin. The one you tried to prosecute for second-degree murder.”

  “Please, before you continue. You are assisting? What exactly is your occupation? Are you a lawyer for the victim’s family? Private eye?”

  “P. I. for the mother of the victim.” In an unlicensed sense, he’d added silently.

  “And the law enforcement authorities. Where do they stand on this case?”

  Banyan paused before answering. “They’re stretched thin, and certainly don’t mind my work.” He could tell Aanensen was weighing those words and had a feeling what the next question was going to be.

  “Who is your contact? Whom might I reach to verify what you are doing?”

  “Captain Ernesto Quintana, Chief of the Homicide Bureau, L.A. County Sheriffs.”

  “Okay. Now, you think that Martin and or his brother had something to do with the crime, but the D.A. can’t charge them?”

  “I really don’t know. The younger brother, Nathan, was thoroughly questioned and nothing stuck. He hung tough during the questioning, gave consistent answers. They had no basis to arrest him. Nothing that pointed to him. I’ve talked to Nathan a couple times recently. He seemed depressed though willing enough to answer my questions. Pretty cryptic. The second time, he blew and came out throwing head shots.”

  “A little unstable, huh? Doesn’t take after his big brother. But, it’s been some years. What about Martin?”

  “He wasn’t or isn’t a suspect. Respected partner in a law firm—”

  Aanensen sounded like he almost choked. “Are you serious? Did you say law partner?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Holy shit. Talk about irony.” The attorney got a good laugh out of that one.

  “But I—”

  “But you’re thinking that Martin shouldn’t be overlooked. That he might be capable of committing such a felony, or otherwise be involved.”

  “Well, I don’t know enough about him to guess what he might do.” Aanensen was way ahead of him and his suggestions gave Banyan pause.

&nb
sp; “Do you have a motive? Girl-boy thing, money, drugs? You know, the regular reasons people hurt other people.”

  “I don’t. I’ve been following the typical jealousy angle for Nathan, but that’s gone nowhere. However, I’d wager he’s hiding something. As far as Martin, the one time I met with him, he came off as very controlled. But, there was a moment when I could tell he got rattled. His body language gave him away. There just seems to be something that doesn’t . . . ring true with him.”

  Aanensen chuckled. “Now you’re beginning to sound like me in nineteen eighty-eight. I just knew there was something going on. Something beyond the husband-beats-wife, male-control-freak thing. My WAG was that Susan was doing the big nasty with somebody other than her betrothed. And, the kid was aware and just maybe waiting for dad to start throwing punches her way. A gut feeling I got from the first time we questioned them through the acquittal. But during the trial, Junior came off as the perfect son. Fine student, good athlete, polite, mature. Testimony from neighbors, teachers, coaches. On the stand he was collected. Unshakeable.

  “As the trial went on, I watched the second-degree murder slipping away. Tried to negotiate a man one under 609.20, heat of passion. Defense laughed at manslaughter. Told me there was no way I was going to get a conviction of any kind and that I should know that. He was right. This innocent teenager was acting in defense of his mother against a brutal husband—that’s what the jury saw and that’s how it ended. And I had no doubt he was in fact protecting Mom. Defense of a mother is an honorable motive. And I could picture him calmly drilling Senior three times.”

  Banyan sensed the trial was a particularly bad experience for the young prosecutor for Aanensen to recall it in such detail. “Well, you’ve answered my question without my having asked it.”

  “All right, then, Mr. Banyan. I have to wrap up a few things here before shutting it down for the holidays. Nice talking with you. Merry Christmas and good luck with that motive.”

  The phone clicked. Banyan was already planning to use what Aanensen told him to jerk Dwyer’s chain.

  FORTY-TWO

  Captain Ernesto Quintana was receiving a report from the detective sergeant out of the Cerritos Station about a homicide. Unemployed cook out looking for work comes home to find his wife in the front yard talking to the neighbor mowing his lawn. He goes in the garage, gets a chisel, stabs his wife in the back as she turns to protect their infant daughter, then calmly walks over to the horrified neighbor and punctures his body a couple dozen times. Goes back home, grabs a bottle of tequila and sits on the front porch waiting for the cops. Wife in critical, neighbor deceased. They just kept stacking up like firewood, Quintana observed.

  “Okay, Randy. Looks like this one is cut and dried. Famous last words, huh?” He knew all too well that the supposedly straightforward cases could turn to mush in the legal system blender. The light on his phone blinked. “Got another call. Talk to you.”

  He exhaled slowly. “Quintana.”

  “Ernie. About a week and a half ago, I told you about Geert Hulsing, the old guy who heard something on the road the night Jolene disappeared. He is positive the car was European. I located the older brother. Goes by father’s name, Martin Dwyer. He has a new-looking silver BMW 750i. If you could just get one or two detectives to call body shops in the area, you might get a hit. Here is the plate number.” Banyan waited, and Quintana sensed his optimism.

  “Well, well, well,” the captain forced a laugh. “So you followed up on that interesting bit of brotherly information I passed on to you. Any feedback?”

  “Yeah. Dwyer’s piqued my interest, but I don’t really have much on him, you know.”

  The sheriff had a feeling Banyan was holding something back but decided to let it go for the time being. “I’ll take that as a thank you. You don’t take any aggressive action without clearing it with me and working with my crew. We on the same page?”

  “Sure. Now what about his Beemer?”

  Quintana sighed. “Jesus. All right. All right. It’ll be a little here and there, but when I can spare the hours, I’ll get someone on it. Don’t count on anything right away.” He jotted down the plate number.

  “Thanks, Ernie.”

  The captain couldn’t help sounding a little subdued and he knew Banyan caught it.

  “I got you at a bad time, didn’t I?”

  “Just when isn’t it a bad time, Banyan? I get paid for bad times.”

  “Yeah. I read you.”

  Quintana saw no reason to continue the conversation in his current state of mind. Just let his friend go off and do his thing.

  “Oh, I talked to Hulsing and he would be happy to give a statement. Just have your investigator call ahead and arrange a time. Don’t want to surprise the old guy. And, Ernie, hang in there.”

  “Or why don’t I just hang myself now and get it over with,” the sheriff grumbled after Banyan rang off.

  #

  It was late-afternoon when he dialed the firm’s number and Michele picked up.

  “Michele, this is Frederic Banyan. I met with Mr. Dwyer yesterday. I wonder if he has a moment to speak on the phone.”

  “I remember.” Her voice indicated it wasn’t a fond memory. “One moment, please.”

  It was a couple minutes before Michele came on again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Banyan. Mr. Dwyer is simply too busy to speak to you.” She paused, then added, “And, his calendar is completely full for the next month.”

  “Wow, business must be booming. I really just wanted to set up a time to meet with him after work, when he could get away from that busy schedule. Guess I’m just out of luck, unless we happen to run into each other by accident.” Pass it on, Michele—mess with his mind a little. “Thanks, Michele.”

  #

  Banyan drove to the Pasadena Professional Building and parked in the lot. At 5:37, he observed Martin Dwyer leaving the parking garage in the silver BMW sedan.

  FORTY-THREE

  December had been pretty typical in South-central Alaska. After a good snowfall toward the end of November, two weeks of great skiing and good road conditions got stood on their respective heads. Temperatures that had held in the high single digits and low teens soared into the high-thirties overnight, and everything turned to mush and ice in a three-day period. Then rain that fell during the day froze at night, leaving black ice on the roads. At Alyeska, conditions at the top of the mountain were still fine. Down near the base, it got a little dicey. The resort was hoping for colder temperatures and more white stuff around the Christmas Holidays.

  “Can’t think of anything else to take,” Reed said, “except maybe just a little bit of you.” He put his arms around Anne and kissed her forehead. “We’re due a trip out of this little slice of heaven. This is heaven, right?”

  “Why, you mean you can’t tell?” She had her hands clasped behind his neck and was fluttering her eyelashes as she looked into his eyes. They kissed. “Wait, do I have the right man? Who is this good-looking hombre with the crew-cut and clean-shaven cheeks?” Anne Reed was barefoot with skinny jeans and a periwinkle fleece vest over a bright green sleeveless tank top. Around five-five, with grey-flecked auburn hair in a short boyish cut, she had a small, round face with a pixie nose and large, wide-set blue eyes.

  “Glad to know the disguise works.” He kissed her again and picked up his bag. “I figure by the time the housekeeper thinks something’s up, I’ll be long gone back to the airport.”

  “If it has the same effect it had on me, you just keep an eye on where she puts her hands.” She smiled and put both hands on his buttocks.

  “Mmmm, Annie, time for me to hit the trail.”

  “You be safe, Christopher, and careful on that drive. I’ll keep the bed warm for you tomorrow night.” When she’d learned about the trip, she’d told him that she couldn’t think of a better reason for him to go than to help Rusty.

  “See you in about twenty-four.” It was 10:00 o’clock at night. He took a look around the living room,
warm and bright with Christmas decorations accumulated over the years. Then he opened the door off the kitchen that led into the heated garage he’d added to the log house about ten years before. The new Chevy Tahoe was a splurge for them on their retirement budgets, but well worth the safety factor in driving the thirty-five miles on the Seward Highway between Girdwood and Anchorage. The Tahoe’s mass gave them an advantage should they find themselves in the crosshairs of a vehicle wandering over the centerline. He backed out, clicked the high beams on and off to say goodbye to Anne standing in the window next to the Christmas tree, and drove out onto the short Alyeska Highway toward the Seward North.

  FORTY-FOUR

  The non-stop flight was plenty comfortable as far as airline travel went. Still, he didn’t sleep much as he was a little psyched for the caper. Lack of sleep for a day or two had never been a problem for Reed even as he moved on in years, so he wasn’t worried on that front. The whole thing about entering someone’s house under false pretenses, however, did play around in his head. Banyan was an old hand at this stuff. It was his job, although there never was any money involved. Reed, though, was more used to balancing the numbers for the big guy, watching his back when the bad boys multiplied on the other side of the line. This finesse game might be a challenge.

  Before the Alaska Air 737 touched down at John Wayne Airport, he was well aware that the rainy weather from the day before was breaking up and it should be a mostly sunny day with clean air. When he got off the plane, he was impressed, as he was each time he passed through this terminal, by the nine-foot bronze statue of the airport’s namesake. The Duke was watching over Orange County. He found the Hertz counter on the main floor, then went across the Airport Roadway in front of the terminal and took the elevator to the underground level where the van was waiting. The first thing he noticed was the trapped exhaust from the comings and goings of the rental vehicles. Looking at the subterranean rental agency workers, he shook his head.