Angeles Crest

by P. J. Zander

  “Okay, no, you didn’t say it. Did she or didn’t she?” Uh-huh, the sound of Banyan’s frustration rising.

  “As a matter of fact, she didn’t.” Score.

  “Man, I hope you’re having fun.” The deputy sheriff could almost hear the confusion clank around in Banyan’s head. “Who did, then?”

  “Her son.”

  Another round of silence. “Wait, that’s gotta be at least twenty-five years ago. According to Susan Rossmoor, Nathan wasn’t born yet.” And, another point on the board.

  “Hey, you were listening to me for once. Right—wait one.” His assistant gave him the hand-slicing-across-the-throat sign. Chief wanted to reconvene, now. “Gotta go.” Quintana hung up and tried to savor the rapidly fading enjoyment as he walked down the corridor.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Ernie’s game had stirred him up and kind of pissed him off. Yet, after all the consternation he’d caused the senior detective, if anybody was going to get a laugh at his expense, it might as well be Captain Quintana. Along with being a little agitated, Banyan was caught off guard by the revelation that there was another son and he had killed the old man. He knew he was getting sidetracked, but he was curious and turning over a few more stones might yield some insight into Nathan. As his headache improved, his fatigue decreased, which was timely because he figured he had a sleepless night ahead thinking about the possibilities.

  #

  “Me, again, Chris,” Banyan announced as his friend picked up the phone after a half dozen rings.

  “Whoa, Rusty.” Reed stifled a yawn. “We gotta stop meeting like this or Annie’s going to suspect I’m having secret phone sex.”

  Banyan heard him react to being hit by something, perhaps a pillow, and then both Reed and Anne laughing. “Sounds like you’re in serious trouble.”

  “I’m now among the walking wounded. What can I do for you?”

  “More information. This is family history of a guy I’m checking out. Minnesota shooting. Mid-to-late nineteen eighties, somewhere around there. Domestic, battered-housewife kind of thing. Last name is Rossmoor. Wife’s name is Susan. Call me right back as soon as you have anything. Then, I might have another one for you.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Chris Reed called back. “First let me just reassure you that you didn’t upset our Sunday morning with your eight o’clock call.”

  “Damn it. Sorry, Chris. My apologies to you and Annie. Always forget the one-hour difference.”

  “No worries, man. Here’s the gist. Mother, thirty-six, was pregnant with second child. Old man, fifty-seven, beat her up real good as file photos show. As stated in 1988 court records, fourteen-year-old kid came to Mom’s defense, and shot the guy Dirty Harry style. Three times, tight group, with the .357 magnum Dad kept in the house for Mom’s protection when he was away on trips. Daddy came from South Dakota where a gun in the house was second nature. At the time, homicide rates were pretty low throughout Minnesota compared to the rest of the U.S., so this one made the news big time. Prosecutors thought there was something else going on, and wanted to try son as an adult on second-degree murder. No go. Mother and son got counseling. After legal proceedings, Mom and two boys moved to California to start a new life.”

  Banyan again pondered this surprising news that Chris had just corroborated. “Jesus, she had another kid. Nathan has or had an older brother.”

  “Il est vrai, monsieur, but who’s Nathan?”

  “The guy who put the big hurt on my head a few days ago.” He realized his head hadn’t hurt so far that morning. “What was that about the D.A. thinking there was something else?”

  “There weren’t any details about that in the Minneapolis Tribune or Star. But, the name of the prosecutor was Bjarne Aanensen.”

  “Bjorn as in Borg?”

  “Nope. That’s B-J-A-R-N-E and double A in the last name. Papers said he was a newly promoted Senior County Attorney—they don’t call them D.A.s in Minnesota. Maybe he’s still there or, if not, someone might know where he is.”

  “Good, Chris. Real good. Now, I want you to do a search on big brother. Maybe a Rossmoor in California. See what you come up with.”

  “Whoa, man. Here’s the funny thing. When I looked up Rossmoor in the Minnesota archives, got nothing. Flipped around through various files and found the case under Dwyer. Daddy was Martin Dwyer, prominent in administration at the Mayo Clinic.”

  “Hmm. Changed her name. Burying the past for herself and boys? Plausible. So, you’re not off the hook. I still need that search on big brother."

  “Have faith, my son. Already done. Found a few Rossmoors. One, John, killed in a car wreck five years ago. Close at forty years old. Another looks to be about seventy. Third, Cole, is in junior high school.”

  “Well, that leaves me nowhere.”

  “Hold on there, Rusty. Not done. On a hunch, I looked up Dwyer and got not quite a handful of Martins in the Golden State, none of which is a junior. If he still carries Daddy’s name and is a junior, he may have dropped it to distance himself from the slight misunderstanding with pop.”

  Chris was right on, as usual. Yet, his nerdy penchant for this kind of detail work could be deceptive. He was a tough, fearless and loyal friend. Weighing sixty or seventy pounds less than Banyan, Reed nonetheless had jumped in to save his ass a few times in the past.

  “Thanks, amigo. What is it, thirty-five years up there? When are you going to come to your senses and move back down here?” He knew Reed would never sever his love-hate relationship with what he called The Great Land.

  “You know the answer: can’t live with it, can’t live without it.”

  “Well, I wish I could just knock on your door when I need help. Give that beautiful Annie a hug for me and have a good Christmas up there.”

  “Same to you . . . and Ray. . . .” His voice slowed for a moment. “Hey, before you go, let me read you my last note. Martin T. Dwyer, Attorney, Pasadena Professional Building, South Lake Avenue. Could be worth a try. Later, man.”

  #

  For the rest of the day and before calling it a night at the hotel, Banyan was burning increasingly painful brain cells. If the father-shooter turned out to be Martin T. Dwyer, Pasadena attorney, he knew it might have no relevance to Nathan’s actions. But, it was intriguing. Just as he was dropping off to sleep, he wondered why Susan Rossmoor hadn’t mentioned Martin.

  THIRTY-NINE

  When Banyan awoke, his head ached, his eyes couldn’t stand light, and his gut was churning. Pulling himself together, he was in the Tundra by one-thirty that afternoon. His sunglasses cut the glare on a day that was even warmer than the day before. In a few minutes, he was headed south on Lake Avenue. While the city’s Old Town was revitalized in the 1980s and 90s, South Lake Avenue lagged both in planning and execution. While ideas were percolating for a more pedestrian-friendly shopping area, business closures impeded progress.

  In the 400 block, Banyan saw the building on his left. He turned into the central parking lots behind the businesses lining the street and found a space not far from the ground floor entrance to The Pasadena Professional Building. The stainless-steel-on-mahogany directory showed the law offices on the fifth floor. In the mirrored elevator, he shook his head at the image of a tall man in black tee-shirt, ivory silk sport coat, faded jeans and size fourteen Merrell leather and suede sneakers. In truth, the attire was okay. It’s what topped it all that earned the self-critique. He’d try to hide the concussed look and the cynicism around the mouth when he dropped in.

  Each of the partners had a separate suite. He opened the oversized door to Dwyer’s. The receptionist, a pretty young woman named Michele, wished him good morning and asked if he had an appointment.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t, Michele.” He tried to smile away his pessimism. “I do have an urgent matter about which I must confer with Mr. Dwyer.”

  Michele had a skeptical expression and responded quickly. “Mr. Dwyer is busy with a client. Perhaps I can schedule you for, let’
s see . . .” she scrolled through her calendar, “next Wednesday morning.” She looked up with a hopeful smile.

  Banyan said, “Well, that just won’t be possible. I wonder if you’d kindly give this card to Mr. Dwyer and tell him it’s a family matter. I’ll just wait over here until his current appointment is finished. Thank you, Michele.”

  The skepticism returned and seemed to elevate to annoyance. She didn’t say anything and put the card on the corner of her desk next to some decorations, far enough away to negate her being tainted by it. It was neatly quarantined between a Christmas elf and Rudolph.

  He sank a good five inches into the deep leather chair and admired the ornately-framed paintings of original Spanish-style Pasadena buildings. The office had a kind of casual elegance. Very dark hardwood floors, rough textured walls painted in an off-white shade and new leather furniture with that distressed old look. The lighting was subdued. Very comfy, he thought. He reached for the copy of US News and World Report on the table in front of him and dedicated exactly zero brain power to it as he flipped through pages, back to front.

  Five minutes passed and he was struggling not to nod off when Michelle’s phone rang.

  “Hodges, Parcell, Dwyer. One moment, please.” She put the caller on hold and rang in to her boss. “Mr. Dwyer, sorry to interrupt you. A representative from Panorama Perspectives is on the line. He would like to know if Thursday is still a good day to start setting up for removing your windows. He says if they get a jump on it, they should be able to finish installation of your new windows by January eleventh. Thursday is Christmas Eve.” She listened to his instructions. “Yes, I’ll tell him.” She pushed a button here and button there. “Sir, Mr. Dwyer says the housekeeper will let you in around ten. Yes, off of Huntington Drive in San Marino. You’re welcome.”

  Banyan sensed her glance over at him, but remained head down, engrossed in the economic woes of the European Union.

  It wasn’t too long before a three-piece suit came from around the corner, said good-bye to the receptionist and exited the suite. Michele got up to deliver the card. They must have been behind a closed door because Banyan couldn’t hear any discussion. At least two minutes had elapsed when she came out, sat at her desk and proclaimed that Mr. Dwyer’s previous appointment had ended a few minutes early and after he finished some paperwork, he would be able to see him.

  #

  The man approaching him was at ease and confident. He was about the same height as Nathan, but lean and athletic. The sleeves on his gray dress shirt were neatly folded over almost to the elbow, revealing muscular forearms. The charcoal patterned tie had a red accent and blended perfectly with charcoal pinstriped slacks.

  “Mr. Banyan?” There was a mannerly smile under the same hazel eyes as Susan Rossmoor. Looking good for son number one.

  “Yes.” They shook hands, which seemed to have an underlying test of grip strength, though he caught a slight wincing in the man’s mouth. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Please.” Dwyer directed him down the hall to his office—comfortable, same chairs as in the reception area, a couple more framed originals plus his degrees and credentials on the wall behind his chair.

  When they were seated, he behind his desk and Banyan opposite, the lawyer, holding his card as if he were going to balance it edgewise on the desk, asked, “Michele said you’re here about a family matter?”

  “Mr. Dwyer, yesterday I spoke to your mother about Nathan and any possible knowledge he might have about Jolene Ojibway’s whereabouts. In some way, either because of his work at the rental house or association with others, I think he knows something that might help me.”

  “You’re here about the young lady who disappeared? You talked to my mother? I don’t quite understand, Mr. Banyan. What is your affiliation?”

  “I’m a close family friend with ties to the L. A. County Sheriff.” It was hard to detect, but he thought he saw the lawyer’s eyes open a little wider at the utterance of the last words.

  “So, you’re an investigator? Do you have a license?”

  “Yes, for the family. No on the license. I get lazy when it comes time to renew. Just another piece of unnecessary bureaucratic rigmarole in my view. I do my work fine without one. Listen, Mr. Dwyer. I realize your time is limited. If I might continue so I can get out of your hair ASAP?”

  Dwyer, presiding over his office, eyed him steadily. “Sure, go ahead.”

  “With the difficult time Nathan had growing up, would you say you were the only one he could lean on, confide in in place of a father?”

  The lawyer sat for a moment, eyes on the business card. Then, as if he’d made a decision, he looked up at Banyan. “Nathan sure had a rough go of it, and still does. I tried to be a role model for him, but one thing that we couldn’t overcome is our age difference, almost fifteen years. By the time he was old enough to ask serious questions about life, I was off in college, and then headed to law school. His mother—our mother—really was the one who raised him. I’ve been there when I could be. It’s a shame. He’s had such a sad life.”

  “Has he ever said anything to you about Jolene, even just in passing?”

  “Well, no. Not really. I mean he was upset when she disappeared. From what I understand, she’s a sweet girl.”

  “Do you think he had a thing for Jolene, maybe wanted her to be his girl friend?”

  “If he did, he didn’t talk to me about it. Of course, I wouldn’t expect him to. My brother keeps a lot to himself, Mr. Banyan. He’s a very closed person.” The lawyer looked at his watch. “I do have another appointment in a couple minutes, so if you could wrap this up, I would appreciate it.”

  “Only one or two more questions. Do you have any idea why Nathan got agitated when I asked him if he liked her, or if he was jealous because someone else did?”

  “No, I don’t.” His displeasure was up front. “But, you went to see him, too? Really, Mr. Banyan. The sheriffs questioned Nathan over and over about this, to the point of exhaustion. He told them all he knows.”

  Banyan didn’t respond immediately while he gazed at Dwyer. “Yeah, I know. Right now I’m interested in how he feels about Jolene and what happened. I thought you’d have some insight into that.”

  The lawyer didn’t react.

  “I heard that there was an embarrassing moment in the fall when Jolene went to his house to tell him about a problem at the rental. Apparently, Nathan was hot at it with some lady and the sound effects passed through the walls while she was standing at the front door. When I asked him about this recently, I was lucky to come out of it with only a lump.” He touched his forehead. “He went haywire. I mean enraged. Can you think of any reason he’d want to do me great harm just for that?”

  “What are you getting at?” Banyan saw Dwyer’s jaw tighten and his left forearm muscles flex as he clenched and unclenched his fist. His right hand rested on his desk still holding the card.

  “Well, he wouldn’t instead call you if my questions upset him, to have a sympathetic ear, maybe ease his mind, even get some advice from you on how to handle it? He was acting like the world was coming to an end.”

  Dwyer’s face formed an expression of nonchalance. “It sounds like he might have overreacted. Sorry about that bump. And, no, he didn’t call me.” He stood and extended his hand. “Well, I hope you got what you came for. I really do need to get on to my next client. You can find your way out?”

  Banyan nodded. When they gripped each other’s hands, he again observed a little tension around the mouth. The meeting was over, but the case just got murkier.

  FORTY

  Leaning against the truck with phone in hand, Banyan let the brilliant sun bathe his face and took in a deep, meditative breath, like someone with whom he recently was acquainted. For an instant, Kyle Hemphill replaced his thoughts of Martin Dwyer. It had been little more than a week since he’d met the thinker. Yet it seemed like months—for Kyle, a lifetime.

  “Chris?”
<
br />   “Jesus, you really meant it about knocking on my door, big guy,” Reed replied with a laugh. “What’s up? You call that Minnesota prosecutor?”

  “Uh, no. But, I will soon. Can you take a road trip, less than twenty-four hours on the clock?”

  “As I said, what’s up?”

  “You hit the nail on the head with Martin T. Dwyer. Just met with him. Lawyer in Pasadena. Nathan Rossmoor’s brother for sure. Here’s the deal. One of Jolene’s friends heard this from her. There was an incident at Nathan’s house weeks before Jo was taken that still rattles both brothers. Nathan was making loud love and the sound effects from the two participants could be heard outside the walls. Jo just happened to be on the doorstep because there was a problem at the rental house that needed Nathan’s attention. When I questioned him about it a few days back, little brother landed that haymaker on my skull. Then, a couple minutes ago, Dwyer’s cool couldn’t hide his body language when I asked why Nathan would want to do me in.”

  “The shooter and the headhunter are upset? Why would they care?”

  “Now, that’s the question. I can see why Nathan might be a little embarrassed, though not enough to take my head off. I certainly wasn’t questioning his manhood. But, why Dwyer?” Banyan’s tone was pensive. “Something that happened to his brother over three months ago and he still hasn’t moved on?”

  A few moments went by before Reed spoke. “This is beginning to sound not so good.”

  “Well, you’ll like what’s next, then. Here’s my plan: by this afternoon, you will have a first class seat on Alaska Air, leaving Anchorage on the redeye Thursday AM. You’ll arrive at John Wayne where a Hertz rental will be waiting. Ford Cargo Van. You—”