by P. J. Zander
“Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The sinking of the Karlsruhe. So, I survived the war and my dream of returning to the United States came true.” He sipped his tea, which had significant schnapps reinforcement. “We’re you in the military?”
“Like you, I was in the navy.” The memory lapse didn’t seem too bad for ninety something, Banyan thought.
“Ah, you may have served in an unpopular war, then? What job did you perform?”
“Gunner’s Mate. In Vietnam. But in small boats in brown river water.”
Hulsing raised his cup. “To the navy. As you Americans say: fair winds and following seas.”
Banyan touched his cup. “Geert, I wonder if I might ask you a question or two.” Seeing him nod, he continued. “In your walks up to the top of the hill and back, have you ever seen anything that caught your interest going on up at the house around the corner?”
Hulsing looked a little puzzled. “Did something happen today near my house?”
“No, I mean last October, when you were out exercising, did you see something unusual at that house? I was walking to my car from there when I met you an hour ago.”
“Oh, yes. For several days I saw yellow tape around the yard, and police cars parked there. Did something happen?”
Banyan gave him a sanitized sentence on the crime. “Can you think back? Do you recall anything out of the ordinary around that time?”
The old man was giving it some thought and shaking his head. “Well, there was a dog that got hit right out here on Briggs. I remember because I couldn’t sleep and got up several times in the night to urinate. The last time was nearer to morning. As I walked right by where we’re sitting, there was a loud skidding sound, a car trying to stop. Then there was a dull collision, some plastic or glass breaking, and a dog yelped and whimpered two or three times, then stopped. It was an awful sound, the poor animal. I looked out and saw the outline of a car. It was in the shadows out of the light of the streetlamp. It looked like they steered around the animal and I heard the engine accelerate rapidly.”
Banyan was on the edge of his chair. Out the bay window, he guessed maybe thirty yards to the street, then another five across to the south bound lane. At night, hidden with no direct light, even he would have had trouble identifying the type of car or any occupants. “This could be important, Geert. Thank you. Is there anything else that happened that night?”
“I called the police about the dog, but I believe the neighbor on the other side of Briggs had already informed them.”
All of the sudden he looked like he was beginning to fade and before Banyan could get out of his chair, Hulsing said, “And now, Rusty, I’m afraid I will have to apologize, but it is time for me to take my afternoon nap.” He rose and on the way to the door together, Banyan asked him for his phone number. They said goodbye, and the old man asked him to come by again.
Then just as he was turning to depart, Hulsing said to him, “Oh, it was a foreign car. European. Possibly German. I operated them for years. The engine sounds are very distinctive compared to American and Japanese models.”
#
Although most of the houses along Teasley were of the same vintage, the one on the corner across Briggs bore no resemblance. Obviously a ground-up remodel, its updated look was two stories clad in corrugated steel and cedar siding, with painted accents of red and gray.
“Hi. I’m Frederic Banyan. I was just talking with Geert Hulsing across the street and he mentioned an accident that happened near the corner of your property last October. A dog got hit by a car in the night, maybe early morning. I hope that wasn’t your dog.”
From what he could see, the woman peeking through the eight-inch gap at the front door appeared to be somewhere in her thirties. Quite pretty with very short blond hair, and casually dressed in double tank tops, shorts and flip flops, she looked as if she could have been the impetus behind the modernization of the house. She opened the door about half way, revealing an infant being held in her arm. “No, lucky for us but not for our neighbors.” She indicated the house facing hers across the street. “They lost their old German Shepherd. He was a sweet dog and got along well with our Pug.”
“Can you tell me what you heard or saw?”
“Well, we both heard the screeching tires, but I stayed in with Dylan.” She looked at her son. “It was early, around five or so. My husband went out to see what’d happened. He ran to the injured dog and said he saw a light-colored, maybe gray or cream, sedan moving fast down Briggs. He called the sheriffs right away on his cell. They showed up with the animal control people, but it was too late for old Tucker.”
Banyan shook his head. “Awful.” He thanked her, gave her his card and started to walk down the travertine pavers.
“Are you trying to find them? The ones that killed the dog?”
He stopped. “Do you think there was more than one in the car?”
“I’d forgotten. Travis, my husband, said he was almost positive he saw the shape of a head on the right side as the car went under a street light. Sitting tall, because the back of his head was showing above the headrest.”
“Thanks. That’s good information.”
“I hope you find them. They need to be caught.”
“Yes, they do.”
#
In Geert’s driveway, he decided he’d better get a room for the next several days. He’d stayed at the Marriott Courtyard in Old Town Pasadena a few times, no more than fifteen minutes from where he was parked. The front desk reserved a quiet corner room on the sixth floor with a king bed. He kept the phone flipped open.
“Hey, Bondo. It’s Banyan.” In the background he could hear pounding, his friend’s metal artistry being worked. He’d caught him at the shop.
“Two, I know your voice,” Bondo laughed. “This better be important because I’m in the middle of creating a masterpiece out of a ’98 Ford Exploder. S’up?”
“I’m on the job and I need you to watch the house. Probably be gone four to five days, maybe more. Can you handle it for me?”
“You got steaks and beer in the reefer? I gotta eat quality food if I’m taking on a second job.” This was Bondo’s way of saying yes. As always, it wasn’t a big burden on the young man. Since the house was less than ten minutes walking distance from Sheila’s condo, he wouldn’t have to stay there every night, plus he knew that whatever was in the refrigerator or cupboards was his. Banyan always kept it well stocked.
“Only the best for you. Thanks, and sorry for the last minute notice.”
“I sure hope none of your old girlfriends come knocking at your door, looking for you. I might have to, uh, console them.”
“Dream on, Bondo. If I had old girlfriends and they showed up, you know Sheila would hand you your ass. I’ll be in touch.”
THIRTEEN
The Hill Street Café was right at the T where the Angeles Crest Highway intersected Foothill Boulevard. The current restaurant was the third in that location since the 1950s, all of which were successful for years. It never failed, though. The first thing Banyan thought about when going into the restaurant was the uncanny knack, at least until a State law banned them, for the occasional tractor-trailer rig coming down the steep grade of ACH to lose its brakes and become a runaway, plowing through the intersection and into the parking lot. None of the establishments had been immune. Several of the accidents had been fatal. Along with this unique setting came good-tasting food, always, even from what he could remember as a kid in the fifties, coming with his parents a few times to the Yellow Jacket.
After he ordered, he pinched his obliques and shook his head. While he brooded, he dialed Ernesto Quintana.
“Ernie, got some information for you. Call me.”
If Hulsing was right, and after observing the man for over an hour, Banyan had no reason to doubt most of his faculties were firing pretty darned well, the sheriffs needed to do some legwork. He had no idea how many body shops were in the area, but if the car the old man had seen was the
one carrying Jolene, the work could lead to her kidnappers. He wasn’t fooling himself, though. Quintana didn’t have the troops to do the walking, knocking and talking any time soon. At least he could plant the seed with the captain and hope for a lucky break.
Halfway through the spread, his cell vibrated. He walked out, catching the waitress’s eye and pointing at the phone.
“What do you have?”
“Good afternoon to you, too, Captain Quintana. Nice to hear your voice.”
“Oh, I have to stroke your ego with politeness, now, do I? Cut the crap, Banyan. Fill my waiting ears.”
“Well, when you put it like that, I feel so needed.” He paused, but Ernie didn’t react. “I was up at the crime scene and I ran into an old guy who lives in the area. He’s ninety-something, but sharp as hell and there’s a chance he saw the bad guys’ car. His house is on a corner a few blocks down the hill from Jo’s place and turns out he was up during the night that she was kidnapped and heard a car hit a dog on Briggs. After the accident, he saw a car stopped in the shadows then speed off down the road toward Foothill. He recalled the sound of broken glass and maybe some cracking plastic trim. He couldn’t see the car well enough to identify what kind of car, color, occupants.”
He heard the sheriff sigh. “Well, all I can do is tell Crescenta Valley to send one of their detectives over to take a statement and—”
“I’m going to ask that you not do that, Ernie. He invited me into his home and, well, it’s just that I didn’t tell him about any follow-up work from the cops. I’d like you to go on what I just told you. Maybe later when we see what we got.”
“Goddamnit, Banyan, don’t tell me how to do police work. Now, if the next thing you’re going to ask is for me to put some of my detectives on contacting body shops all over God’s creation, it’s not happening. Got anything else?”
“Wait, let me get back to you after I have a chance to talk to the guy. And there should be a witness report that backs him up. Lady on the other side of Briggs says her husband ran out to see what happened and saw a light-colored car driving away fast. Called your Crescenta Valley sheriffs. He told his wife he was pretty sure there was someone on the passenger side. Tall guy, maybe.”
“Jesus, if that’s it, if a dead dog’s all you got, call in again when you have a bone I can chew on.”
FOURTEEN
When he opened the door to his room, Banyan felt as if he was dragging an anchor in the sand. With a bucket of ice and a couple diet Cokes, he stretched out on the California king to watch TV.
#
He wasn’t sure how long he’d napped. The clock radio said 6:37. Local Los Angeles evening news was on. They were in the middle of their typical rundown of all the bad that had happened in L.A. County: drive-by, gang-related shooting of a teenager; car-jacking; failed attempt to hold-up a cabbie.
He sat up and massaged his temples. His expectation that morning had been to eliminate Sean. The sheriff’s report had stated he had an alibi. According to his roommate, Sean had been in the apartment the night that Jolene went missing. Good. A done deal. Cross him off the list. But, from the moment he’d seen that deer-in-the-headlights expression, he had pressed hard and Sean had run out of answers. Then, the skier had fumed and almost lost it. Banyan shook his head and sighed.
#
There was no getting around it, he confessed to himself. Hotel rooms made him feel lonely as hell. Not that he wasn’t used to being alone. He traced that back to his early childhood development, his upbringing in Emerald Bay. But it wasn’t exactly loneliness right then. What bothered him seemed more like melancholy—just another mortal taking a respite on that hotel bed before continuing the trek to who knows where. He glanced at his cell phone on the nightstand.
“Hey.”
“Hi, Rusty. I was hoping it was you. How’s it going?” She sounded tired but genuinely glad.
“Nothing to write home about. Made a couple contacts. I have one or two leads to follow up on,” he answered, then changed the subject. “Has it really been only twelve hours since I left? Seems like forever.”
“I know what you mean. You’d think we’d be used to it by now.”
There could have been two meanings in what she said and she could have meant both of them. One, that she missed him, warmed his heart. The other, that they were never together for more than a few days, with long stretches between, made him feel lower than whale shit. It was true and it was because of him. As much as he appreciated her frankness, he selfishly wished she’d faked it a little this time.
She filled the silence. “Where are you staying?”
“Marriott in Pasadena. Not bad, but you know how I like hotels.” Looking out the window, he noticed the rain had picked up. With a little breeze, it was angling against the glass giving a blurred view of the Pasadena night. Funny that after years of their, or more like his, version of being together, he still had these awkward moments with nothing to say. “How are you doing?”
“Oh, I’m hanging in there. I’m sitting on her bed right now, just like I did after she left for college. She was only sixty miles away. I remember how different and empty the house felt then. Always knowing, of course, that I’d see her on breaks or whenever she came home on the spur of the moment. And all those times for years to come that we take for granted.” He heard her take a breath. “Then, within two months, she’d been taken. In my mind I’d been able to see her at her rented house, or taking classes at Occidental. Since she vanished, I’ve tried so hard to picture her somewhere, but I can’t. Not even a glimmer. Once or twice, I felt like I almost got there, but it was so vague, more like a sense of something huddled in darkness. Day after day, I thought if I could just grasp a vivid image of her beautiful face and hold it, protect it, I would have the power to get to her some day. But I’ve never seen her clearly, never been able to reach her.”
When she stopped momentarily, all Banyan could manage was, “I . . . I can’t imagine what you went through, what you’re going through.”
She continued as if he hadn’t said anything. “If the call comes . . . I’m almost beginning to expect it. I fight it and fight it, Rusty, but I can’t drive it away. Like I’ve known something all along that I can’t deny. That I knew was coming. I don’t want to face it. I don’t want Jo to be gone. Forever.”
Her words jarred him, and he fumbled around for something to say. “Ray, I’m so sorry. But we’re going to find her and find out who did it.”
She breathed deeply. “Thanks for listening. I wasn’t ready to talk about her like this last night. Maybe being with you kept it out of reach. I don’t know. I do know you give me strength, and I needed to tell you now.”
“It means a lot that you told me. Any time you want to talk, day or night, you know I’m there for you.”
“Wish you were here,” she said.
“Soon as I can.”
FIFTEEN
He didn’t sleep well and was dressed when the wake-up call came at 7:30. The rain had stopped sometime during the night, bowing to a clear, fresh Saturday morning. It was going to be a warm winter day with brilliant blue skies. After a good, leisurely breakfast at the Courtyard Café, he was ready to go. During his restless night, Banyan had taken mental notes on people who might be able to shed some light on the who or why of Jolene’s disappearance. The exchange with Sean hadn’t helped and, in fact, just raised more questions.
It took no more than fifteen minutes from leaving his room to parking in the lot on Sport Chalet Drive, a little after 9:00 am. In 1959, the Sport Chalet had opened its doors in not much more than a hut on Foothill Boulevard. Now it had its own street and had spread like a fire in the San Gabriels to over fifty locations in four western states.
Banyan knew Stephanie Brandt was a skier. He strolled over to that section but didn’t see a female sales person. The assistant manager who opened the store said she was due in no later than 9:30. He amused himself by looking over the snowboarding gear. He’d occasionally though
t about trying that but didn’t relish wiping out on a wave that didn’t move.
Stephanie was a compact power package topped by reddish hair and a freckled nose, similar to his coloring in years past. She looked as though she could ski any terrain on the planet. The assistant manager pointed her in his direction.
“Yes?” she said cheerily.
“Ms. Brandt, my name is Frederic Banyan. I’m a close friend of Raylene Ojibway, Jolene’s—”
“Sure, I know who you are. Jolene’s told me about you. Rusty is what she calls you. She said you’re quite a waterman. She thinks you’re really awesome, really likes being around you. She‘s a real good friend.” A shadow momentarily passed over her face. “Well, what can I do for you, Rusty?”
He smiled at her mentioning Jolene’s remarks. He immediately liked Stephanie and understood why she and Jo were friends.
“Well, I’m trying to help her mother, so I’m out gathering any information that might lead to Jolene. I know you were probably the last person to see Jolene before she disappeared. Do you recall if she was acting uptight, bothered by something, in any way not her normal self?”
Stephanie indicated a corner of the store that offered some privacy and they walked that way. Her cell vibrated for the third time since they’d met. He appreciated her ignoring it.
Looking him straight in the eye, she asked, “So, aren’t the police supposed to be doing that, investigating? They asked me so many questions already.”
“Yes, you’re right, of course. They are investigating. I’m a personal friend of the sheriff in charge of the case, and anything I find out I report right back to him.” Well, close to the truth. “You could say I’m giving the detectives a hand. This is the kind of work I do.”
She nodded. “Jolene said that all she knew about what you did, besides surfing, is you help people who have no one to turn to when something bad has happened to them or others close to them. Something like that. So, I’m cool with it.” Her voice had those modulations: a slight rise at the end of a phrase or sentence, and a little creaky drop at the end of a statement, just like Jolene.