by P. J. Zander
The only Ford van available was dark blue. When he drove out on to MacArthur Boulevard, he pulled into a restaurant parking lot and organized his gear. The black plastic-framed glasses would give him an intellectual look, or at least that was the idea. A Stanley twenty-foot tape would be clipped on his belt. Using a computer image utility, he’d crafted a Panorama Perspectives badge with the name James Fielder in cursive that he pinned on his pocket in which he had a handful of pens and markers. Finally, he had a binder with graph and regular lined paper. Again, the company name was inserted under a plastic front cover. He wore plain slacks, dark leather shoes and a white, long-sleeved cotton shirt. No tie. With his short gray-going-white hair and trim build, all-in-all he was a respectable front man for the up-scale window company.
#
It was still before 7:00 AM, but the traffic was already building steadily as he drove the freeways, eventually heading east. There probably were more direct routes, but he got down to Southern California infrequently enough that he stuck to the familiar roads from his past. There would be plenty of time.
He reached the 210 in an hour and looked for South Rosemead Boulevard at the eastern end of Pasadena. By 8:30 he had pulled into Lacy Park in San Marino a couple blocks north of the intersection that would lead him back to Dwyer’s house on East Alhambra Road. At 8:45, his cell rang. He hesitated, then recognized Banyan’s other number.
“Chris, it’s a go. Dwyer’s car is in his office parking space. Should only be the housekeeper guarding the castle.”
“For your information, you’re speaking to James Fielder, Window Installation Supervisor.”
“My apologies, James,” he laughed. “Sounds like you’re in a groove. I’ll leave you to your business. Remember, if things don’t feel right, just make up an excuse and get outta there. Don’t want you caught up in this thing. If you’re in extremis, call this number. I’ll sit here and keep an eye on the office. And thanks, again.”
Reed reclined the seat and worked at relaxing, listening to the birds. He had about half an hour.
FORTY-FIVE
As he slowed a couple houses up from Dwyer’s, Reed saw the first hiccup. There was a crew-cab pickup with a trailer out in front and three Hispanic-looking men working the yard. One was behind a mower, another edging the lawn with a weed-whacker. The third was sculpting the low-lying evergreens lining each side of the slightly curved driveway with an electric pruner. The three machines generated a whole lot of noise.
He pulled into the driveway and backed out to park on the street on the other side of the driveway entrance, in front of the property line separating Dwyer and his neighbor. The van was facing the direction from which he’d come. Glasses on, tape attached to belt, clipboard in hand, Reed got out of the car and walked up the driveway with purpose, nodding a buenos dias to the workers. He took a quick look at the front windows and guessed that they were original from the construction in 1953. There was a security camera high up under the second story eave. It was 9:33 when he rang the doorbell.
Within ten seconds, heels clacked on a tile floor, and the door opened. Before him stood an early-middle age Hispanic woman, all business yet not unattractive. Her black hair was short and was complemented by chestnut skin and narrow facial features. She was casually dressed in light blue cotton pants and a white short-sleeved blouse. On her feet were fancy leather sandals. She had a look of surprise.
“Yes?”
“Buenos días, Señorita.” He hadn’t checked for a wedding band. Surprise turned to suspicion on her face. “I’m James Fielder, the project coordinator for the window installation on Mr. Dwyer’s house. My crew will be on the way soon to start demo on these windows at ten o’clock sharp. I just need to make a quick walk-through to ensure we covered everything before they begin.”
“Mr. Fielder,” her accent was apparent but not strong, “I know nothing about your coming before the work starts. Mr. Dwyer’s secretary told me that the work is to begin at ten.”
“I apologize for the mix-up, . . .” His expression asked for her name.
“Lourdes,” she said firmly, but politely.
“Either the secretary missed it or the office forgot to explain that part to her.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Please excuse me for one moment.” He turned his back to her and faked fingering in a number. “Trish, Fielder here. I’m at the Dwyer residence and the woman managing the house, Lourdes, says she was unaware of my pre-inspection. Will you scroll through the check-off sheet and see if that was done? Yes, now.” He sounded perturbed. “He didn’t? Well, that’s just great. Please make a note of that and set up a meeting with him when I get back there, about ten-thirty.”
He checked his watch. 9:38.
“I do apologize, Lourdes. My office was at fault. They should have explained to his secretary which, clearly, they didn’t. I’ll just be about fifteen minutes. If I can get started now?”
She hesitated for a moment, looking at the sincere expression on his likeable face. Then, she stepped aside and asked him to come in.
#
Reed immediately went to the front windows, ran his tape along the base and height, and jotted down some figures in his notebook. As he wandered the perimeter of the first floor, he looked from windows to notebook, nodding his head. After observing his diligence, the house manager, apparently satisfied with his professionalism, went back to work in the kitchen.
If the entire house was like the first floor, several hundred thousand had gone into a complete remodel. It was all Italian granite, exotic wood floors, custom cabinetry, real wood crown moldings. Adjacent to the kitchen was an office which seemed to lack nothing for electronic communication and work. There was a huge Lenovo ThinkStation C30, dual thirty-inch flat screens, printer, photo printer, fax, scanner. Hearing Lourdes still working around the corner, Reed went in for a closer look.
A piece of paper in the printer output tray immediately caught his eye. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, as he positioned the page for a clear shot with his phone camera. “He’s not going to believe this.” Just as he was about to leave the room, he lifted the sheet he’d photographed to see the one underneath. “Jesus fucking Christ.” He froze, looking toward the hallway and listening for Lourdes’s sandals. Still hearing sounds in the kitchen, he got the second shot, straightened the papers in the tray and left the office.
He quickly moved toward the back of the house, where a sun room opened to the backyard with a swimming pool, spa, built-in barbeque and fire pit. He turned to the staircase in the center of the floor, and after taking stairs two at a time, he checked a fully-equipped exercise room, two guest rooms and the master bedroom. Each of the three bedrooms had its own bathroom, all redone as downstairs.
In the master, Reed cocked his head as though there was something peculiar about the room. His watch read 9:53. He turned to exit the room and there in the hallway looking at him stood Lourdes, arms folded.
“Lourdes, do you know if Mr. Dwyer has thought about changing out the old opaque windows in the master bath with our new European-style tilt-turn windows?” His recovery was quick.
She looked at him with her head turned slightly to one side as if considering if he was for real.
Reed smiled as he waited for her answer and resisted stealing a glance at his watch.
Finally, she said, “We will stick to the original window plan, Mr. Fielder.”
“Okay, then. I’m finished here.” He almost skipped down the stairs, but slowed and waited for Lourdes at the bottom. With a gracias and adios to the manager, he went out the front door.
The Panorama Perspectives white van had just pulled into the driveway and the crew was getting out. He quickly pulled his ID badge and moved down the walkway toward the window workers.
“Hey, guys. Beautiful day, huh?” The driver grunted as he went by, maybe because he couldn’t hear a thing above the racket. Two others were removing ladders from the roof rack. The yard man who had been pruning had a leaf blower
on his back and was herding the trimmings toward the street. Reed got into the van, read 9:59 on the dash clock and drove off at a neighborhood pace, glancing to see none of the six men in the front yard looking at him.
FORTY-SIX
Banyan reached for his cell on the center console and read the text: ‘windows done, will call.’ Attaboy, Chris. He ran his hands over his head and breathed more easily.
#
Cruising up to La Canada in the early afternoon, he picked up lunch via the McDonald’s drive-through across from the Stand Up Bar, pulled the truck into a space and stuffed a few bites. The steady flow of vehicles going by on Foothill drew his gaze, the alpha rhythm of traffic sounds bringing a smile to his lips. He put the food on the passenger seat and let his head fall back against the head rest, zoning out for a couple minutes. Opening his eyes, he started the pickup and moments later, cut across Foothill and down toward Flintridge. The area was vaguely familiar from years before, and the drive through the oak, Monterey pine and sycamore lining the road brought it back as he went.
Just past a ninety degree bend, he saw what had to be the place on the left. He turned into a gently curving, two hundred yard approach down through shady oaks that opened onto a tan brick circular driveway at the bottom of the slope. The exquisitely manicured lawn bordered by the brick had been bolstered by the rains to a brilliant green. To the left stood a six-bay garage; on the far right, a stable and corral with shafts of afternoon sunlight being enjoyed by three horses. At the center rose maybe eight or ten thousand square feet of three-story, French Normandy architecture. A tan stone tower the full height of the structure and topped by a cone-shaped roof housed the entrance. Above the off-white stucco siding, four dormer windows, two on each side of the tower, jutted out from the steep slate roof, each maybe twenty feet apart. Connected to the main house by a gabled roof was what appeared to be a huge, open three-story room with floor-to-ceiling sections of multi-paned windows. The top two stories of glass were pivoted on central axes to near horizontal, letting in the air and sun. An indoor pool, a gym, he wondered. A wide, stone stairway gradually narrowed to the entrance at the base of the tower. LED lights were strung along the entire roof line. He imagined what must be a splendid display when the lights were illuminated at night.
Banyan parked just to the side of the stairs, got out and stood for a moment taking it all in. California life indeed had been good to Susan Rossmoor. He walked up the stairs to the two eight-foot tall, wood-plank doors and pushed a button on a speaker. The faint sound of soft jazz or blues came from within. At first he guessed the castle had been abandoned, but after a minute or so the speaker spoke.
“Yes?” It sounded like the lady of the house, herself.
“Ms. Rossmoor, I apologize for the intrusion. It’s Frederic Banyan. I—”
The right door opened and there before him in a white, terrycloth bathrobe was the realty boss. “What brings you here on Christmas Eve, Mr. Banyan?”
There was no annoyance in her voice. In fact, her tone had that same professional, yet alluring quality as when he met her Saturday. The loosely-tied robe displaying a lot of cleavage and split very high on her thighs left no doubt about her seductiveness. If he were a betting man, he’d wager there was no coverage underneath. Her hair was quite damp, falling unkempt across her neck and behind her shoulders, as if she had been swimming. Just a touch of lipstick and some magic around her hazel eyes completed the enticement. Behind her through the long foyer, he was pretty sure he glimpsed a shirtless man with his back to the door get up from a sofa and quickly move out of view. Seeing the direction of his eyes, she pulled the door partially closed behind her with her bare feet at the threshold.
He cleared his throat. “When we talked before about Nathan, you explained what sounded like a miserable life he’s had, especially as a teenager. And, how difficult it was for you just trying to get him from day to day.” As he spoke, he saw her eyes mirror years of sadness that would never go away. “But, you didn’t mention that he has an older brother or anything about their relationship.”
If she was surprised, he couldn’t detect it. “Mr. Banyan, I understand you’re trying to help as much as you can to get answers about Jolene’s disappearance. I told you about Nathan. In good faith I revealed very personal, very private information so you would understand my son. I do not feel compelled to fill you in on all of my and my family’s trials and tribulations, about the horrible things we have endured and continue to endure. We can’t erase the past, but we have tried to move on. We’ve worked hard to get our feet back under us and create our future. What can I do to convince you to take what I have given you and make the most of it in your work?”
Banyan told himself to stay focused, but that’s where it got confusing. For, as serious and sincere her words, she stood there making no effort to pull that robe closer around her body. In fact, she tilted her head, looked up into his eyes and, he could have sworn, slightly leaned toward him. Was it just his male vanity, again, like the day in her office? What was the message—feel compassion for me and my plight or what can I do to convince you? Or, was it a strange brew of both? He could do with some semaphore flags to help figure this one out. One thing was obvious, though. She wasn’t kicking him off the property, yet.
“I am sorry if I’ve offended you with my questions, but right now you’re the only one who has given me any helpful information. If there’s anything more that could lead to some kind of a break in this case, I don’t want to miss it.” She hadn’t taken her eyes off of him. He added, “And, yes, I am prying.”
“Well, there is nothing more I can tell you that would be of use. As I told you before, Nathan couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”
“Do Nathan and Martin talk much, you know, two guys shooting the bull?”
“Of course they do. They are brothers, after all.”
“What about Martin? What kind of effect did shooting your husband have on him?” It was a leap, but he figured his rope was rapidly running out anyway. He thought he caught a momentary narrowing of her eyes. She appeared to weigh her words before responding.
“As you already must have found out, he is a very successful lawyer. I think that speaks for itself.” At this point, she reined in the robe just a bit. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to finish my afternoon with some relaxation.” Still, though, there was the look-what-you’re-missing expression. Confusing as hell.
She stepped back into her house, showing a lot of leg. Then, after one last look at him, she slowly closed the door. He was left standing right where he began, nothing but huge doors filling his eyes.
Later, driving up to Wrightwood for his Christmas break with Ray, he listened to oldies but goodies on the radio and wondered who the guy was.
FORTY-SEVEN
There had been such an emptiness at Christmas, the first one without her beautiful daughter. Raylene had received three invitations to parties during the two weeks around the holidays, but she just hadn’t felt like being with the local crowd, friendly though they were. Rusty had decided to step back from the case for a time and had come up on Christmas Eve to spend a few days. On Christmas Day, they sat by the fire.
“Do you remember that Christmas when Jo was around ten the three of us went skiing? I mean the two of you skied, I just got from top to bottom however I could. You found the only ski wear that would fit me—all white pants and shell.” Rusty paused, smiling and shaking his head. “I think I said something like, ‘I’m a yeti on the loose. Grab your kids and pets, I’m coming through’. Jo got a big kick at how ridiculous I looked.”
Ray smiled at the memory. “She thought . . . thinks the world of you.” Although she knew he was trying to draw her out with this and several other amusing stories of the three of them on Christmas in years past, she remained passive. It wasn’t a conscious effort. She just couldn’t bring herself to talk about her daughter. The conversation was spare and the spaces between the stories grew longer.
&
nbsp; Around noon on the twenty-sixth, Chandra had called. Russell Banyan had just died. She said it had been peaceful aided by the morphine.
“I’m sorry,” Ray said as she hugged him.
“Thanks, but I’m doing just fine. No problem.” He averted his eyes from hers. “It’s been a long time coming.”
Shaking her head slowly, she sighed and thought of the rift that would never mend. “Oh, Rusty.”
#
Part two of their holiday plan was for her to follow Rusty to Laguna for several days around New Year’s. Once there, Ray was surprised when she found that the daytime walks along the beach in the ocean air and sun lifted her spirits. At night, they had strolled arm-in-arm through the Village, and despite occasional crowds of vacationers, it had been comforting to look absently into brightly decorated store and restaurant windows. Now and then they muttered something of no consequence to each other, followed by silent oceans of passing time.
“Yes, Sheila, he looked great. In this case, youth is not wasted on the young.” Rusty had called Sheila when he and Raylene had returned from visiting Bondo in the hospital.
Ray was in the kitchen making coffee. When he hung up and went out to the back deck, she overheard him talking to Lieutenant Caldwell. “Nothing new, huh? Yeah, I hope so, too. Surprisingly well, considering. He’s a tough, young man. Okay, good talking to you.”
Then it was a call to Detective Meeks. “So much for my POI tip. I don’t know. The more I think on it, the closer Kyle comes to dropping off the list. You did? Have your San Bernardino pals visited Sean? Well, when they do, would you let me know? Thanks, Erin.”
Raylene caught his eye as he came back inside. “Rusty, you need to get back to work. I’m going home and take care of some things I’ve put off.” It was a few days ahead of when she’d planned to return to Wrightwood, but she got no argument.
