Angeles Crest

by P. J. Zander

  Raylene, still struggling after two days to put Rick Moss’s call out of her mind, had worked the morning at the chalet before turning it over to her assistants, both about Jolene’s age. She didn’t need a reminder, but when she looked at those two, she instantly remembered her daughter making a threesome with them as they rented out skis and sold lift passes together not so long ago. The ache tugged at her heart, yet she couldn’t help but smile.

  After a half-hour run, she’d stretched and showered at home before going back out to pick up a few groceries. It was hard enough walking by the signs with Jo’s photo no matter where she went. They were ubiquitous: restaurants, post office, shops. But then there were the customers, like the dozen or so that day at Jensen’s who all were familiar faces.

  “Ray, how are you holding up?” asked Elsie Witthaus as she hugged her.

  “I’m doing pretty well, Elsie. Thanks.”

  “You know if you ever need anything, anything at all, just give me a call. Okay?”

  “Surely. Just knowing you’re there for me gives me strength.”

  Next aisle over, she ran into Marie Burks. “Oh, Ray, how have you been, honey?” as she touched her arm. Not waiting for an answer, she continued. “I’m going to bake you some macadamia nut bars and bring them by. I’ll give you a call. You take care, now.”

  “Thanks, Marie. I will. Look forward to seeing you.”

  And so it went throughout the store. While these repeated demonstrations of support were at times almost unbearable, Raylene accepted them with all the grace she could muster, because she knew it was as much for them as for her. Jolene had been one of the young skiing idols of the small, tight-knit community for so many years, just as she herself once had been. The people needed a way to express their sorrow, and Raylene was the focal point. Consequently, her ten minutes of shopping for the basics and her own special dinner that night required almost thirty-five minutes.

  “Ski business picked up a little today, huh, Ray?”

  “Yes, it did, Gary. If we get these conditions through the holidays, we’ll have a hard time keeping up.”

  She was checking out, and Gary Hayes, the assistant manager, was at the register. She’d known him for years, ever since she taught him to ski when he was six.

  “Well, we can hope. The weather’s cooperated pretty well the past few years.”

  Ray nodded, but said nothing. She really wanted to get home. She ran her credit card and was about to push her cart to the door when he said, “Say, did you hear those sirens earlier?”

  “Uh-huh. Do you know what they were for?”

  “It was the Fire Department. There was a motorcycle wreck not too far down the highway. Guy put his bike down and bounced off the mountainside a few times. Little while later, the San Berdoo Sheriffs went over. They closed the road to investigate it. Might still be closed.”

  “That road is so dangerous for bikers. Those curves are sneaky and unforgiving.”

  Gary nodded but said, “Well, from what I’ve heard, that’s not what happened. Oddly enough, this was on an almost straight section.”

  Ray shook her head. “Poor guy. I hope he isn’t from here.”

  “No, he’s not from here but he’s been one of the regulars riding up the Crest for quite a while. You might have seen him around town. All black bike and outfit, orange helmet.”

  #

  Putting the groceries away with the sun coming through the kitchen window, Ray had a sudden wave of nostalgia wash over her. She went to the living room, opened the front door and walked out onto the deck. While the December temperature encircled her, the sunlight penetrated the cold and warmed her face. She was back in August, the three of them—she, Jo and Rusty—drinking lemonade in the shade on that hot day. They had taken a break from packing and loading boxes into Jo’s truck for her move down to the rental house and the beginning of her studies at Oxy. The conifer needles baking on the tree branches and blanketing the ground had emitted a delightful fragrance that permeated the fresh mountain air. Everything had seemed so simple and complete. There was no other way to describe it. It was just as it should have been. Jo was embarking on a new phase of her life with limitless possibilities. She could handle anything.

  Tears began to run down Raylene’s cheeks and she had a catch in her throat. She stopped right there. Another memory was coming through. While they were sitting in the shade, Jo’s old boyfriend and ski buddy since elementary school had ridden up on his mountain bike. Sean Lowry continued to think of her as his girlfriend, and was taken aback by her leaving Wrightwood. Ray and Rusty had heard the conversation.

  “But what about us, Jolene?”

  “What about us? Come on, Sean. There is no us. There hasn’t been for a few years now. You know that, or at least you should. We are still friends.” She touched his hand.

  “This just doesn’t seem right. You and I are a pair, we belong here as a pair.” Sean’s expression was hurt and too serious. Then he seemed to come to a realization. “You’re going to see your biker friend. The guy in the orange helmet.”

  Jo thanked him for coming by and aborted the conversation so they could resume packing. Sean looked back at her walking up to the shade and, shaking his head, road away on his bike.

  The rider with the orange helmet—just how Gary Hayes had described the man hurt in the wreck today. A small world.

  The August moment was lost and left her fatigued. She went in and finished the groceries, then sat in the recliner for a short nap. But she couldn’t sleep. That perfect day was the last time she’d seen Jolene. Within three hours of that break, her daughter had driven off in the 4-Runner. She and Rusty had stood in the street arm-in-arm, waving at her as she turned the corner toward the highway.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Third time’s a charm, Banyan thought, as he pulled into the parking lot behind the SUB. He tried popping his ears to get rid of the ringing while he maneuvered around the mechanic who was staring at his bike’s gas tank. He’d spent the morning lounging at the Marriott, preferring shadows to direct sunlight which seemed to soften both the ear buzz and the headache. By the time he got out of bed, the symptoms had eased somewhat, though the protuberance on his temple, by then purple with blue and black highlights, was a conspicuous reminder of the dust-up. There was no sign of Kyle or his bike.

  With the bandana in his pocket, Banyan walked into the SUB and leaned on the bar. The bartender came over and recognized him.

  “Let’s see. Miller Lite, wasn’t it?” he said, eying the welt on his temple. His frown told Banyan he didn’t want another tough guy in there who would throw down at the slightest provocation.

  “Roughhousing with a kid,” he reassured him, touching the bump.

  The bartender smiled. “Now, that’s some god-awful business you got up there. Kid’d have to be pretty big to horse around with you and do that.”

  “You got that right. Think I’ll pass on the beer.” He glanced around the room. “When I was in here a few days ago, I met a biker out back. The one who got knocked over by the big guy. You seen him?”

  “I know the one you’re talking about. Kinda quiet. Careful about his drinking. Usually in here most weekdays during the winter. Wasn’t in yesterday. Maybe not the day before.” As the bartender moved toward another customer, he added, “You might check with the riders out back, if you’re so inclined.”

  #

  “I spoke to Kyle three days ago. You know where he is?”

  The mechanic turned deliberately from a biker he’d been talking to and looked toward Banyan approaching. “Well, I know he ain’t here.”

  “I understand he wasn’t here yesterday, either. A little unusual for him, isn’t it?”

  The mechanic shook his head slowly. “Fuck, man, we don’t give a shit about when someone here or not here. No record-keepin’.”

  Banyan moved in. “I didn’t ask if you gave a shit, asshole. Does Kyle usually show up every weekday?” Out of the corner of his eye, Banyan noticed th
e other biker easing over toward them.

  The mechanic looked down, scratched his neck. “S’pose so.”

  “Any ideas why he’s not here?”

  The mechanic shrugged his shoulders. “Hell, man, maybe he ate asphalt.”

  Banyan turned his eyes toward the other biker and shook his head, then brought his eyes back. “You hear where asphalt-eating might take place?”

  The mechanic perked up, as though he’d found a way out of the conversation. “Only one place we ride around here. The Crest.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  During the night, that August memory played over and over in Raylene’s mind. And, although she knew Sean’s mentioning the orange helmet was just a coincidence, she was troubled, surprisingly, by the motorcycle crash. So, she skipped her run in the morning. Unable to concentrate at the lodge, she went home after less than an hour to call Rusty.

  “Hey, Ray. How are you up there in the cold?”

  “Oh, okay. Just feeling a little puny right now and needing to talk to you.” She hoped he wasn’t out and about.

  “Do talk to me, small one. You’re allowed to feel puny, but if I can help bring you back to life size, I want to.”

  “Yesterday, I was thinking about last August when the three of us were out front, packing things up. All it took was a little bit of sunlight through the window. It just came over me. . . .” She tried to add more, but couldn’t.

  “It was a wonderful time for all of us, Ray. Everything is so clear about that day.” She heard his voice fade. “I wish you didn’t have to go through this. It shouldn’t be like this.”

  “Remember how hot it was and how good that cold lemonade tasted? And how we all felt?” She allowed herself a momentary smile.

  “I do, Ray. Oh, yeah, I remember how Jo handled Sean when he couldn’t believe she would go.”

  “Rusty, there’s another thing. I don’t know if you could hear all of their conversation, but Sean said something about a motorcyclist.” There was a pause and she was pretty sure he wouldn’t recall.

  “Uh-huh. He said ‘your biker boyfriend’ or something like that. That the one?”

  “That’s it. Well, I heard that guy was in an accident not far out of town yesterday. Sounded like he crashed on a clear, straight stretch of the highway, smashed into the mountainside.”

  “Really? How do you know that he’s the same one Sean talked about?”

  “He wears an orange helmet.” There was silence on the other end and Raylene wasn’t sure he’d heard her. “Rusty?”

  “Do they know if it was a single vehicle accident or if he collided with another vehicle?” She knew that sound in his voice. All his antennae had tuned in instantaneously.

  “I haven’t heard anything. Strange how small a world it is, though.” Again, she had to wait for a response. “Hello.”

  “Yeah. Yes. I was just thinking. It sure is small. I hadn’t picked up on the orange helmet.” Rusty paused and cleared his throat. “Ray, I met him about a week ago. His name is Kyle Hemphill and it looks like he was Jo’s boyfriend for months before she started Oxy and up until her disappearance.”

  “What?” She was in disbelief. “I’ve never heard of him. How can you be sure? Jo never told me anything about him.”

  “I’m sorry, Ray. Didn’t want to drop it on you like that. But there’s pretty solid evidence that they were in a relationship.”

  She had hoped that calling Rusty would lift her out of her doldrums. Instead, what he had just told her felt like a slap in the face. She shook her head trying to clear her jumbled thoughts.

  “Ray, I’ve been going around in circles trying to find a solid lead and right now, Kyle is the one who might get me closer.”

  “I’m just . . . I don’t . . . Why didn’t the sheriffs find him, question him?”

  “Stayed under the radar. They knew nothing about him and he didn’t come forward. It happens.”

  “Do you think he might have information about Jo?”

  “I’ve been working on that. Either he or someone he knows.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Banyan had pulled over to the curb on Descanso Drive when he got Raylene’s call. When he hung up, he stayed put and dialed Quintana.

  “Ernie, hate to call you on a Saturday, but it’s been a few days.”

  “You looking for advice, want help or weaseling out of something?”

  “I can always use your sage advice, Captain Quintana, and I do happen to need your help.”

  There was a pause before the homicide chief spoke. “Somehow, this ties in with the name you gave Lieutenant Meeks. Am I right?”

  “As it happens, yes. Your prescience amazes me.” Although he could picture Quintana making a hand gesture, no utterance came through the phone, so he continued. “Yesterday, Kyle Hemphill was in an accident on Angeles Crest just after he left Wrightwood. I’d seen him twice and told him that your people would be questioning him. He may have ridden up there to clear his head before deciding whether or not he should go in on his own to talk. Since he was heading back down, it doesn’t look like he was bolting. Hard to say if he was involved, but he has a strong feeling that Nathan Rossmoor knows something.”

  “We ran the gardener through the ringer. My detectives got nothing to hold him on.”

  “Oh, yeah. The gardener. You know, Ernie, I do recall that occupation box on the report, but Nathan told me he manages that rental house and other properties. Wonder why he said that?”

  “I don’t know, Banyan. Maybe he’s just another screwed up vet and a little embellishment helps his self-image. Not a big deal.” The captain laughed. “Hell, he’s the son of one of the most successful real estate tycoons in southern California. Always has a job because Mom’ll make sure he’s okay. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste my time with him.”

  “Hey, I really don’t want to after the last visit.”

  “Have a problem?”

  “I had kind of a run in with him.” He absently touched the welt and winced.

  “Exactly what happened?”

  “Not much. He took a swing and planted one on my temple. I quieted him down and talked to him a little. When you first converse with the guy, he seems okay. Then, man, he can flip the mean switch. I think he could be pretty messed up from Iraq, and maybe some other stuff. He and Kyle are pointing fingers at each other, which to me means at least one of them knows something.”

  The detective seemed distracted, like something else was in front of him on his desk. “Well, okay, call again if you get anything new.”

  “Wait, Ernie. One more thing. Can you have someone check the responder reports from Hemphill’s crash? If he and his bike had no help splashing down on the road, then I might as well forget about him.”

  Banyan waited through the long exhale of annoyance. Then he heard an abrupt, “Hold on.” It was close to five minutes when the captain came back on.

  “Got something brewing here. Call you.”

  #

  He pulled out and continued on to Descanso Gardens, near the top of Raylene’s list of easy getaways. The general acreage it occupied had been included in vast holdings claimed for the King of Spain in the latter part of the eighteenth century and remained so until 1869. It stayed undeveloped until 1937 when a newspaper publisher bought the one hundred fifty acres and began developing it for his estate, Rancho del Descanso. Banyan and Ray had been to the ranch of rest several times in past years and it always had a calming effect, a refuge from freeway madness.

  The entrance came up on the left. When flowers were in bloom, even a weekday would find a good number of cars in the parking lot. That winter day, however, much of the attraction for aficionados was absent, though there were those simply seeking a tranquil place to enjoy the sun or, like Banyan, a spot to sort things out. A hundred yards from the ticket gate he saw shafts of sunlight filtered through the branches of a gigantic live oak, bullseying a bench. He sat down and for a moment, closed his eyes. It must have been in the low seventies
. Nearby and distant bird calls filled his senses. His respiration dropped, pulse slowed, trapezius muscles relaxed in the warmth of the sun. His mind cleared.

  Going over what he knew about Nathan, he realized all he had were bits and pieces of the past few years—Iraq War, wounded, house maintenance and gardening, a little drug involvement and, as Banyan had learned firsthand, perhaps a short somewhere in the wiring. He wanted to find out if the ex-soldier’s younger years were marked by that same meanness and violence, and Nathan wasn’t the one to ask.

  #

  There were times when he thought a smart phone with those web connections would be useful. He just never had enough interest to get that connected. Texting was as far as he’d progressed, and that was a hit or miss proposition.

  A woman in her twenties pushing a stroller had stopped near the large live oak to admire its bark. She had just finished a call and was about to put her cell phone back in her purse when she looked toward Banyan. He nodded a greeting and smiled, to which one side of her mouth barely twitched. She hurriedly moved on to another site that had several other visitors. He had stayed seated because he knew his size could scare people off. But there was nothing he could do about his face. The recently acquired goose egg on his temple joined scars and barnacles accumulated over a lifetime, a rather ominous countenance after all. Hey, I may be butt ugly but you just need to get to know me, he chuckled to himself.

  He walked back toward the entrance and saw a man in a business suit talking on his phone. When he hung up, Banyan asked the man if he would look up the address for him. Without hesitation, he was happy to demonstrate his skill using the applications on his fancy phone and soon, with fingers sliding right and left and up and down, had the information. Banyan thanked him and continued out to the truck.

  THIRTY-FIVE