by P. J. Zander
“On second thought, I would appreciate a drive by once or twice a week. But I’m telling you, Andy, under no circumstances do you go inside. Call the PD if you see anything not right. And, while I’m thinking about it, could you look in on Sheila and Bondo now and then?”
Andy grinned. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I was going to do.”
In the morning, the surf was pretty fair, so he met the clan early at Thalia Street and got a good hour in. Later, he packed the LASD reports Raylene had uploaded and printed off for him while he was with her at Christmas. While organizing his clothes and gear, he got a text from Chris: ‘No way i can accept maui trip . . . bs! U get chance, join us here! Its wonderful. Plan side trip 2 oahu 2 r old lanikai haunt fm long ago. A snds love. & mahalo.’ Lanikai in the sixties flashed in his mind and he smiled. Teenaged haole boys on the loose.
On his way out the Canyon, he stopped at McCormick and Son Mortuary and picked up his father’s ashes in the simplest urn they had available. As he hefted its weight, the first words that came to mind were the bottom line. Studying the container he took one deep breath. The most intimate moment we’ve had together since those early years in the ocean at Emerald Bay. He shook his head, put the urn behind the seat and headed to Pasadena.
#
Banyan stretched out on the Marriott bed and, with the television on in the background, began concocting a plan to meet Martin Dwyer the next day.
Opening his eyes with a start, he checked the clock radio. 9:23. “Jesus,” he said aloud. He propped up the pillows and turned his half-awake attention to the tube which he’d turned on three hours before. His timing was uncanny, catching another crime report on the late news.
“Let’s go now to our own Victoria Velasquez in Montrose. Vicky.”
“Sharon and Dan, the local police and sheriff’s deputies still have no leads in the slaying almost three months ago of the manager of the Alpine Village apartments. Anthony Mattingly was found dead last October twenty-second in his apartment, apparently bludgeoned to death with a fire extinguisher. Authorities say he had two prior convictions for drug possession, but they don’t know if the crime was drug-related. This is local law enforcement’s cold case of the week and they seek the help of the community in revitalizing its investigation. Anyone with information should contact . . .”
Banyan hadn’t really heard the last words but sat up abruptly when the camera panned back from the reporter. There beside her was an apartment-for-rent sign. Across the top in large script was what got his attention: Rossmoor Realty.
He stared at the screen but had no recollection of this murder. Within a few days of Jo being taken, somebody associated with Rossmoor Realty got his final ticket punched. Throw in Nathan being hauled in as the initial person of interest and you have a quick little run of bad luck for the Rossmoor family. Certainly, Susan Rossmoor was affected by all this. Yet, she seemed to have coped well. Banyan went over his two conversations with the real estate broker, including those mixed signals that occasionally slunk in. And from all appearances, she was at the top of her game.
The manager’s drug use was interesting, though. He recalled the words in the police report about the small amount of heroin at the scene. Nathan had said he did a little weed business with Kyle Hemphill. He wondered if the biker knew Mattingly or anything about the dead manager’s drug use. Shooting up smack was a whole other story. Banyan pondered the possibility that Nathan and that mystery girlfriend thought Jolene witnessed some drug business at his house, along with the high volume sex about which Jo told Stephanie Brandt.
Banyan flipped through the report pages and found the contact info for Nathan. He dialed the cell number. After ten rings and no answer, he hung up. In a minute, he had dressed in his jeans, slip-on boots and the only fleece he had brought, and was out the door.
#
At around ten-fifty, Banyan came to a quiet stop with headlights off in front of Nathan’s property. The house was glowing like a twenty-four-hour 7-Eleven, not a window without light emitting from it. The front porch and peripheral security lights were on. Was he expecting somebody? He wondered if Nathan had recognized his number on caller ID from the card he’d given him. The Chevy pickup wasn’t parked in front as before.
He took the SIG out of the console and trotted up the driveway to the right side of the garage and looked in the window. There was no truck. Back out front, Banyan went up to the porch and found the door ajar. Slowly pushing it open, he could hear heavy metal music coming from a side room. He called Nathan’s name as he moved toward the sound. An array of color lights was dancing with each beat on a fancy sound system, but no Nathan. He quickly searched the rest of the house, came up empty, then jogged out to the Tundra. Something had spooked the guy and he had left in a hurry.
FIFTY-THREE
Just as he came out of the ninety-degree right on Berkshire and saw the driveway on the left, a car burned rubber leaving the estate, crossing the centerline and almost sideswiping him. He swerved to avoid a collision, scraping the truck’s passenger side front fender and door against the guardrail along the vertical rock cliff that rose to thirty feet above the road. Stopping to catch his breath, he reran what he’d just seen. Despite the darkness, he was able to spot a few details—shiny Mercedes, very large man driving and a woman in the passenger seat. Banyan had guessed the right destination when he’d left Nathan’s house because there was no doubt the Iraq vet was behind that wheel. But, who the female was wasn’t clear. As he pulled a U-turn and started pursuing, he struggled at getting Quintana’s phone number right. Either reception wasn’t working along the cliffs or his phone was low on battery. He punched in Raylene’s number, getting it right after three tries, and got through, though it was a weak connection. She answered groggily, obviously awakened from sleep at ten minutes before midnight.
“Raylene, listen. I can’t get through to Quintana so I need you to reach him and pass this on. I was just on my way to Susan Rossmoor’s house. A car came screaming out of her driveway with Nathan driving. I’m not sure, but the passenger could have been his mother. No idea what he’s going to do to her or why the high speed driving, but I’m going to try to get them in sight and follow. If I figure out where they’re headed, I’ll call. Got it?”
“Yes, of course. But, why . . .?”
She sounded wide awake then, and he hoped she understood. “No time now. Thanks.”
“Be careful, Rusty.” But, he already had hung up.
#
When Nathan had seen Banyan’s cell number, he grabbed his keys and ran to the truck. Twenty minutes later, he had sped out of the long driveway with his mother.
“Nathan, you’ve always tried your best to be a good son under very difficult—”
“How can you say that, you evil bitch?” He was close to rage and the shock registered on Susan Rossmoor’s face. “Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”
He ran a red light at Commonwealth and got onto Foothill heading northwest. He drove as if something or someone was directing his mother’s car on a precise route. At the signal, he turned right and sped up Angeles Crest.
#
From less than a half mile back, Banyan thought he saw the Mercedes turning left off of Commonwealth. The Tundra’s engine sounded like a locomotive thundering along the midnight-quiet residential street. He hoped nothing, machine or mammal, came in his path.
On Foothill he slowed. Traffic was light this late. The only taillights he sighted way up ahead toward La Crescenta were moving too slowly. Maybe Nathan was headed back to his house and had already turned off Foothill at Alta Canyada. As he passed through the intersection, he looked to his right and barely caught a glimpse of red lights up on Angeles Crest. Could that be him? Why up there?
Flooring it, he drove the pickup over the median just past the T intersection opposite the Hill Street Café and cranked the steering wheel even tighter to complete the one-eighty. Now in the left turn lane he brodied through the intersection to drive north, and
accelerated up the grade. As the big engine called on all horses, he said aloud, “Better be right.”
#
When Martin Dwyer had received the call from his brother, he’d eased into a leather chair and crossed his legs on the ottoman, as though he was expecting the call.
“He knows. Oh, shit, he knows,” was how Nathan had started.
“Slow down, Nathan,” Dwyer replied. “Why are you calling? Where are you?”
“I’m at Mother’s. That fucker, Banyan, called my cell phone when I was at home, but I didn’t pick up. I just know he’s found out. He’s a sneaky son-of-a-bitch. We’re fucked.” As his agitation rose, so did the pitch of his voice.
“Well, not necessarily. Why are you at Mother’s?”
“Her house was the closest place to run to.”
“So, he doesn’t know you’re there, right? Take a deep breath, Nate.”
“Well, no one fucking told him if that’s what you mean. But, I know he’s going to my house and when he sees that I’m not there, he’ll figure it out. That bastard’s smart, Marty. I had to think of something fast . . . and I had to get out of there, but he’s gonna be thinking I’m here. He’s gonna be here any fucking minute. Mother and I have to go.”
Dwyer could hear his mother’s calm voice in the background, but it wasn’t having an effect. He rose from the chair. “Why does Mother have to go with you?”
“Don’t ask me questions.”
“Nathan, put Mother on, please.”
“No. We’re getting in her car now.”
“I’m coming. But, I need to know where you’re going.”
“I don’t know, goddamnit.” He heard his mother’s voice again. “She says we’ll call in a few minutes.”
He was already backing the BMW out of the garage when Nathan hung up.
#
Steadily climbing, Banyan rounded the first big bend and in a few moments left the La Canada Country Club and high mountain estates behind. Straining to make out the upcoming curves with his brights on, he didn’t see any sign of the Mercedes. The night was clear and black as pitch, with stars dotting the sky. Everywhere the scorched terrain took on the guise of an apocalyptic landscape. In the sweep of the headlights, charred tree trunks and branches flecked with snow looked like an army of nether-world beings frozen in grotesque poses. As he drove further into the dark, he felt a sensation of knifing through the blackness which quickly closed around the rear of the truck as he passed through it, as if there was no return.
The Crest was mesmerizing. Luckily he was forced to keep his focus on the road by repeatedly having to use the automatic transmission in manual mode, downshifting, then accelerating, as the esses dictated. But, he was beginning to doubt his decision to come this way. The more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t imagine why Nathan would drive up here, unless he just felt it was a damn good way to lose him. I know one thing: Nathan’s running from me. He’d give it another minute.
On the fourth outside curve, he could see a ways up the highway and . . . there. Bright lights were moving along the steep mountain side and road, maybe a little less than a mile ahead. Has to be them. Maybe. He couldn’t be sure, but he’d lost some time back at the intersection, which would account for the increased separation. He had nothing else to go on. He would assume he’d made the right call.
#
Raylene tried several times to reach Captain Quintana, but only got his voicemail. She left the message, then closed her eyes to get back to sleep. It wouldn’t come. The thought of Rusty chasing after those people in the middle of the night was unsettling. She had no idea where he was going or what exactly was happening.
There was no way she was going to sleep. She went into the kitchen to put on some coffee. Through the window’s partial view, the snow-shrouded Mountain High peaks had a luminescent quality against the dark sky. It was in the teens outside. Not knowing where he was chilled her to the bone.
#
He could feel the temperature inside the truck dropping with the elevation gain. While turning on the heater, he thought how cold it must be in Wrightwood. Then he remembered. Raylene came on right after the first ring. Despite the fading reception, he could tell she was wide awake.
“I couldn’t sleep, Rusty. Where are you?”
“Got caught up in the chase. If I’m right, they’re in a Mercedes about a mile ahead of me on Angeles Crest.”
He waited for her to respond, but she didn’t. “Raylene? Did you hear me? You okay?”
“Yes.” She sounded like she’d held her breath. When she spoke, there was an ominous tone in her voice. “I heard you. Why would they be going up there? Rusty, it’s dangerous.”
“I don’t know what Nathan’s up to. Were you able to reach Ernie?
“No, I left the message. I’ll call again and tell him where you’re headed.”
“Good.” He could tell she was thinking clearly despite the worry in her voice. “Maybe he can get some reinforcements up there. I don’t know where this thing’s going, but more friendlies would improve my comfort level.” She’d know, though, that he’d go on whether or not sheriff’s deputies showed up.
“Rusty, you don’t have to do this. Let the sheriffs—”
“Yes, I do, Ray. I need to know why Nathan is running.” He thought for a second. “And, if I catch a break, I might be able to put this thing to rest. For you . . . for Jolene.” He paused. “For me.” He was about to ring off, but stopped. “One other thing. When you call Ernie again, ask him to get in touch with Lieutenant Caldwell, Laguna police. Tell him Nathan’s older brother, Martin Dwyer, is the one who attacked Bondo.”
#
Dwyer was nearing the Foothill-Angeles Crest off ramp when he made the call on his hands-free phone.
“Mother, I’m in La Canada now. Where are you?”
“We’re up Angeles Crest. Mr. Banyan may have followed us, but we’re not sure.” While she sounded calm, he could hear the strain in her voice with her erratic son sitting next to her.
“I have an idea. I’m assuming you’re going to pull off up the road. Keep Banyan talking long enough for me to catch up. It’s as good a place as any to solve a problem.”
“Okay—just a second. Nathan wants to talk to you.”
“Marty, things are all fucked up in my head. It’s confusing. I’m not sure what the fuck I’m going to do when we get there.”
“Where is there, Nathan? Where are you going?”
“You know goddamn well and good where. I can’t help it. I want this over. It has to end.”
Dwyer listened to the trembling voice. “Nate, it’ll be all right. I promise. Just wait for me to arrive before you do anything. Can you do that for me?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t fucking know.”
He heard the phone go dead as he turned right onto the highway into the mountains.
FIFTY-FOUR
If you liked hearing the traffic from the comfort of your living room, living on the corner of Houseman and Angeles Crest Highway was all about location. But normally, the middle of the night in winter was pretty quiet. Grace Warren had lived in the same house going on fifty years and was used to traffic sounds. That night, however, she couldn’t sleep and while watching television in her living room with a cup of chamomile tea, she’d heard what sounded like cars racing. The first one roared by and didn’t seem to be much cause for concern. A minute or two later, a second raced up the grade, and Grace wondered if it was chasing after the first. Then, fifteen or so minutes had passed when a third car went by fast. That was definitely out of the ordinary. The only other times she recalled this kind of high speed driving toward the mountains were when sheriffs’ cars or fire trucks zoomed by with flashing lights and sirens. After the cable rerun of Matlock was over, she’d call the sheriff’s station.
#
At about the same time the Crescenta Valley Sheriff’s Station received Grace’s report that three vehicles were headed into the mountains at high speed,
Captain Quintana was wrapping up a long evening. What started as teenage high jinks along the 605 ended up with two homicides. So far, investigators, including the captain, who decided to get out of the office, had determined that around ten-thirty, a 2001 Jeep Cherokee with four white male occupants passed a 2004 Mitsubishi Galant with three Asian males. The Jeep suddenly pulled in front of the Galant, cutting it off and sending its three occupants into a very agitated state as their manhood had been challenged. The Asian teens chased the white kids to the Florence Avenue exit near Downey, came abreast when the Jeep had to slow for traffic, and opened fire into the passenger side with one handgun and one semiautomatic rifle. The whites fired back with two semiautomatic pistols. Both drivers were hit, causing the cars to crash. The Galant driver was pronounced dead at the scene. The Jeep driver and front passenger, as well as two rear seat Galant passengers were taken away in ambulances. The Jeep passenger died in the emergency room. Two white suspects fled the scene. Several innocent people in cars involved in the crashes had non-life-threatening injuries. Another day in paradise.
Back in the office before going home, Quintana worked the scar on his hand, remembering the long-gone L tattoo needled into his flesh when he joined the Lomas gang in his early teen years. He wondered if they were as ready to kill back then. As he put on his coat, he checked his voicemail. One call was hard to hear but he could make out that it was Raylene Ojibway passing on a message from Banyan—that he’d gone after the Rossmoor kid up Angeles Crest. She also said something about sending up deputies. Now what in God’s name was that wild man doing? Christ Almighty. He rubbed his crew cut vigorously as if to scrub away this latest unwelcome news. He took out his cell phone as he left the office.
“Ray, it’s Ernie. I got your message, but it was a little hard to understand. Could you—”
“Oh, thank God you called back. Rusty’s following Nathan Rossmoor and his mother up Angeles Crest. I mean, at least he’s pretty sure they’re in the car he’s after. He doesn’t know what their plan is or how far they’re going. I told him to wait, to let you guys handle it, but he wouldn’t listen.”
