Bannon Brothers

by Janet Dailey

  “This is . . . Ann Montgomery,” he heard the anchorman say in a deep, phony voice. “Missing for over twenty-five years in the most sensational kidnapping in Virginia. But she may be alive. Have you seen her?” The image of Ann faded away as the anchor came back on. He stared intently into the camera as if he, not Bannon, was on the case. “Contact us at . . .”

  The receptionist heard someone coming and hastily turned the monitor back around, clicking out of the website and pretending to work.

  An older woman whom Bannon took for the office manager appeared. “Put these in order for filing, please,” she said as she handed the girl a sheaf of papers, then surveyed him. “And you are . . . ?”

  “This is Mr. Bannon,” the receptionist said innocently. “He has a meeting with Mr. Duncan at one o’clock.”

  “I see.” The older woman looked him up and down in a scornful way before going back to the inner offices. No offer of a cup of coffee or other friendly overture for the likes of him. He figured that her low opinion of him was the official one. So much for the adoring young receptionist.

  Bannon headed for a maroon leather sofa, its heavy walnut frame outlined with bronze studs. It was a huge piece of furniture designed to impress legal clients—or intimidate the opposition.

  He stretched out his long legs and waited, but there was no getting comfortable on this thing. He looked around at the tasteful, nondescript framed art on the paneled walls and the potted palm, its luxuriant fronds as well-groomed as everything else. The atmosphere of affluence and privilege was almost suffocating.

  The glass doors swung open behind him. Two men walked by and Bannon had a chance to scope both of them out for a few seconds. One was tall and powerfully built for an older man. Hugh Montgomery. The other—the short one—Bannon pegged instantly for a lawyer. He had on an Armani suit and a gold watch so heavy Bannon was surprised he could lift his hand to wave to the receptionist.

  “Hello, Mary. Any calls for me?”

  She tore off message slips from a spiral-bound book and kept the carbon copies underneath. “Here you are, sir. Your one o’clock is here.” She nodded in Bannon’s direction.

  He was already standing when both men turned around.

  He met the gaze of the taller man. Hugh Montgomery was older and balder than the photos Bannon had seen of him, but he still possessed a masterful air. He looked the part of a modern-day Virginia aristocrat. Old school. Wealthy. The kind of man who appeared in the winner’s circle at major horse races or profiles in upscale magazines. His eyes held a fierceness that Bannon had somehow expected to see.

  “Hello.” Montgomery extended a hand and Bannon had to shake it.

  The attorney was next, coming over to where he was and clapping him on the shoulder. “Mr. Bannon, you are punctual. My apologies. This is Hugh Montgomery, of course. First names, everyone? Hugh, RJ. Were you waiting long? Come into my office, gentlemen. Mary, hold my calls.”

  Bannon went with him, keeping exactly to the side of Hugh Montgomery. He didn’t want those eyes boring into the back of his head.

  They reached Olliver’s private office, which at least looked like a working office, although it was about the same square footage as Bannon’s condo. The vast desk was piled high with stapled documents and other paperwork. More stacks were on the floor. But there was a cleared-off table in one corner and armchairs arranged around it. Maroon leather, of course.

  “Make yourselves at home, you two,” Olliver said. “Be right there. Sara!” he called through the open door, then turned to them. “Anyone besides me want coffee? There’s tea too. Or bourbon, if you prefer.”

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” Bannon said.

  Montgomery echoed his words. His voice was deep, with a weary edge. He rested a large hand on the table. Bannon got the impression of controlled power—barely controlled. The older man was drumming his fingers on the surface.

  The lawyer came back with a cup of coffee that the office manager handed through the door. He set it on the table and took the chair between them.

  “So why am I here?” Bannon decided he might as well get to the point.

  Olliver stirred his coffee with a spoon. “We saw the segment after it aired. Actually, a colleague alerted us. My client wanted to know more. Needless to say, he has a few questions for you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  The lawyer set the spoon to one side. “I should explain that he wanted me to be present. It’s been years—you understand.”

  Bannon didn’t. But he followed Montgomery’s lead and let the lawyer do the talking. Olliver was getting paid for his time, no doubt. Bannon wasn’t.

  “No adversarial intent. This isn’t a deposition or anything, you know. Just a friendly chat.”

  One with sharp teeth, Bannon thought, catching a glimpse of the shark behind the lawyer’s affable smile. “Okay.”

  “We wanted to know, first of all, if you were officially reopening the case.”

  The case. Neither man had mentioned who was at the heart of the case: Montgomery’s missing daughter. Bannon glanced at the stern, deeply carved face of the older man, not seeing little Ann’s delicate features in him at all. “I really can’t say.”

  “All right.” Olliver nodded. “Were you speaking on behalf of the Wainsville Police Department?”

  Bannon shrugged. “You could find that out with one phone call.”

  “Well, we did make a few inquiries. I was curious to hear what you had to say. I take it your answer is no.”

  Bannon looked at him steadily. “I didn’t think I answered the question.”

  The attorney picked up his coffee and took a sip. “You’re not on trial. You don’t have to answer.”

  Damn straight. Bannon was suddenly very much on his guard.

  “I understand you’re on extended departmental leave,” the attorney went on. “For a very good reason, of course,” he said to his client. “He was shot during a criminal altercation.”

  Montgomery acknowledged that with a nod. Bannon was sure the other man had been thoroughly briefed in advance. The chief must have given Olliver Duncan an earful. Hoebel had never been famous for his discretion or his brains.

  “Getting back to the case you seem to be so interested in,” Olliver continued, “do you know something we don’t?”

  “No,” Bannon replied, pausing, then dragging the bait. “Not yet, anyway.”

  Attorney and client regarded him expectantly. Bannon held his silence. There was a hidden agenda to this meeting and he couldn’t figure it out. He was getting an idea of why Doris had such a low opinion of Hugh Montgomery, though. So far there hadn’t been a single mention of his daughter.

  Olliver glanced at his client, then centered on Bannon again. “A lot of calls came in to our offices immediately after the broadcast. It surprised me, considering you didn’t mention the firm on the air. Mr. Montgomery even received some unwanted calls at his house, and that number is unlisted.”

  “Is it? I wouldn’t know.”

  The attorney sighed. “Naturally you didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “No. I didn’t,” Bannon said. “Complain to the phone company. Not like they care—”

  “But,” Olliver interrupted him, “the police database does allow you access to all phone numbers. I’ll be honest with you—my client is under a considerable amount of stress lately and the broadcast didn’t help. I’m sure you share my concern.”

  Bannon looked at him levelly. “That’s true about the database, but anyone can find out a phone number these days. All it takes is money. Everything’s available online for a price, from incriminating photographs to financial records.” He shook his head regretfully. “There is no such thing as privacy anymore.”

  Montgomery’s fingers drummed on the table.

  The lawyer took another sip of coffee. “This case is a little different. It was long ago, for one thing. So it rarely crops up in databanks.”

  Bannon thought of Doris, slaving away
to enter information for the benefit of the state and the nation. Wait a week, Duncan, he wanted to say.

  “I have to say, the broadcast came as a shock. The anchorman was over the top. But the news is theater, these days. All fake. You weren’t, though. I liked the way you outlined it without giving too many particulars.”

  Faint praise. But the last comment wasn’t quite what it seemed. Bannon had structured his answers to keep the crazies at bay, not to make the Montgomerys happy. The lawyer had to know that.

  “We’d like to continue keeping the details confidential if at all possible. To protect the family. Whatever the cost,” the lawyer added.

  Were they planning to buy him off? Bannon looked from one man to the other.

  “Of course, we can’t unring a bell,” Olliver admitted. “The story is news again, thanks to you. Just one year before the reward will be withdrawn.” He glanced at Bannon over the rim of his cup. “Interesting timing.”

  “Twenty-five is one of those milestone numbers.” Bannon was getting wise to Duncan’s game. Act friendly, catch his opponent off guard, stick in the knife.

  “Tell me, do you really think Ann might be alive?” The lawyer’s tone was bland, almost casual. Yet somehow lethal.

  “I have no idea,” he replied.

  Hugh Montgomery gave Bannon a look that damn near pinned him to the paneling. But he kept his deep voice controlled and smooth. “Would you mind keeping us in the loop on your investigation?”

  “I don’t recall saying I was investigating anything,” he reminded them.

  “Exactly what are you doing?” Montgomery challenged.

  “That would be my business alone.” Bannon went to the door without a backward glance at Montgomery or Duncan, then opened it and went out, closing it behind him to take swift strides down the hall. He could hear the two men talking heatedly, but didn’t get the exact words.

  The receptionist looked up as she saw him go past, then turned her head when Duncan came running after him.

  Bannon was waiting for the elevator when the lawyer caught up.

  “Look,” he puffed, “we really are on the same side—here’s my business card. We’re going to keep a confidential record of the incoming phone calls and e-mails, both to the office and to Monty’s house. We’ll give you printouts, okay?” Duncan gave him a fake-friendly clap on the shoulder. “We’re in this together.”

  “If you say so.” Bannon was thinking that the law firm’s printout could be easily manipulated to send him on wild-goose chases. But it might be interesting evidence, if it came to that. “Send it to me. I’m sure you have my home address.”

  He stepped in when the elevator doors opened and turned around, getting one last look at Duncan. The lawyer’s face was unreadable. Bannon was relieved when the doors shut.

  Bannon pushed the right side of another set of glass doors at the TV station across town. The décor was so damned trendy, it was hard to see the receptionist, just like the first time. There he was, under the exposed ductwork, in an ironic argyle sweater.

  “Is Kelly Johns in?” Bannon asked him.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but—” He stopped. She was coming toward the reception area.

  “Hey, RJ. What are you doing here?”

  He tried not to look at how short her skirt was. “Just thought I’d stop by. I finally saw the segment.”

  “What did you think of it? We got about a million hits on the website.” She led the way to her office with long-legged strides that distracted him from answering until she pointed to a chair for him to sit in. Kelly settled herself behind her desk, glancing at her monitor, then at him.

  “That many?”

  “That many,” she confirmed with a smile. “The bean boys were impressed with our ratings for that one bit. Through the roof.”

  “Good for you.”

  “You know it was.” She clicked the mouse on her desk. Behind her, a printer started spitting out paper. “We received everything from e-mails to pictures. I assume you can use some of it.”

  “You never know.”

  Click. Click. Click. “I’ll forward the list for your reading pleasure and give you a hard copy as well.”

  “Thanks.”

  “We already had an intern screen out the lunatics and the cell phone pictures of Bigfoot, by the way.”

  “Thanks for that too.”

  “Want to do another segment?” Kelly asked. “The ratings were high,” she reminded him again. “They could go higher. Our executive producer thought it might be a good idea to interview you live.”

  “Not just yet.”

  “If you did, you’d be fielding tougher questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Like,” Kelly paused for effect, “what’s in it for you?”

  Bannon smiled coolly, thinking of his meeting with Montgomery and his lawyer. “Maybe I just like trouble.”

  Her dark eyes widened in approval. “Intriguing answer. A touch of mystery. Don’t lose it.”

  There was more than a touch of mystery to this case. But Bannon didn’t voice that thought.

  Kelly twisted in her seat and got a fat sheaf of paper out of the printer. “Here you go. Stay in touch, Bannon. And let me know what happens.”

  “Sure thing.” The phone on her desk rang. Bannon stood. Picking up the receiver, Kelly waggled her fingers in a blithe good-bye.

  Back home, Bannon forced himself to look again at the TV segment, pulling it up from a video website on his laptop. Ann Montgomery’s adult face just didn’t seem real. The station’s graphic artist had started with a photo of Ann as a child and had gone overboard. Computer-generated imagery was only as good as the person who created it, RJ thought sourly.

  He paused the segment on the CGI face. Generic, not smiling but confident, with a rich-girl glow. It didn’t remotely jibe with his sense of who Ann Montgomery might be now, not that he had a damn thing to go on. If she was alive, the resemblance to her baby pictures could be definite or not there at all. Some faces really changed as kids grew. No matter how much people wanted to believe in age progression, it wasn’t a science.

  Bannon wondered what Hugh Montgomery had thought of it. He could add that to the list of questions he was never going to get to ask.

  He went into the kitchen and found a forgotten container of takeout lasagna. Good enough. He’d nuke the germs out of it. Food was food. While it was in the microwave, he returned to the living room and sent the TV station list from his laptop to his huge plasma TV.

  One click opened the file and then the microwave beeped.

  He got up to deal with his dinner and slung the lasagna on a plate, returning to the living room. He waited for the food to cool off some while he got comfortable. Scrolling down through the e-mails, he wasn’t surprised by what he saw. A couple of wackos the intern hadn’t caught. Fans of cop shows who wanted to be detectives. Natural-born busybodies. And, of course, a few that began, “I am Ann Montgomery.” Yeah. And he was Captain Kangaroo.

  Bannon clicked it closed and concentrated on his food. It was delicious, for week-old lasagna.

  The thing to do, he decided, was to go with the verifiable ones first. If the name, address, occupation, and other personal data could be checked out, that might cut the huge task down to manageable size. If the responder sent an image or described a woman who was too young or too old, nothing doing. If some sightings by different people recurred in a geographical area, that counted as a clue right there and a further verification.

  He had a monumental task ahead of him. And for what? He pushed the dirty plate away, feeling the lasagna settle in his stomach like a lump of cement.

  The whole thing had started out as a favor, more or less, for Doris. Yet, in just one week, he’d made an enemy out of Montgomery, and he wasn’t even getting paid for this.

  He dragged a hand through his hair and tossed a glance at Babaloo. “Can curiosity really kill a cat?”

  The phone rang. Ba
nnon flung himself over the end of the couch to reach it, peering at the number. Doris’s cell number. So she was back from the storage facility.

  “Hello?”

  “RJ?”

  “Who else? I’m glad you’re back.”

  “Are you? You sound awful.”

  “I just ate the Lasagna of Death. I may not make it until morning.”

  She didn’t laugh. “RJ, you have to get the visuals back to me. Hoebel’s on the warpath. He got a call right before he left today, Jolene told me. From Hugh Montgomery. The chief wants me to get him all the Montgomery files by tomorrow so he can go through them.”

  “Did you mention the missing file he signed for?”

  “Hell, no. Are you crazy? Why would I do that?”

  Brave words. She sounded genuinely scared. “Just asking. What did you find out?”

  “The original Montgomery evidence file wasn’t there or I couldn’t find it. I went through every box with a Wainsville label—they do have the cold cases up to the beginning of the Ms. And Hoebel authorized only the cheapest storage in rooms below ground level. So I couldn’t get a cell call out, and when I got back to the motel, I found out that the damn battery was dead—”

  “You went to all that trouble for nothing?”

  “Not quite nothing. I did find a file with documents photocopied from the originals, but not the originals. It was in the wrong box,” she said. “The transmittal form had Jolene’s initials on it and last month’s date. So it was sent down before you and I got interested.”

  Bannon nodded. “Any idea why it was copied?”

  “Damned if I know. It was all letters, and like you said, they were mostly from cranks. But there was that one, supposedly from Ann’s ‘new mother,’ that I would swear was the real deal.”

  “Why?”

  “The tone of it. And that’s how she signed it.”

  “It wasn’t necessarily written by a woman,” Bannon pointed out.

  “Don’t say that,” she begged. “I don’t want to think about a man abducting Annie.”

  “Statistically, that’s what we should be thinking about.” She went quiet and Bannon changed the subject. “Just a photocopy, huh? That means no original fingerprints and no envelope with DNA licked onto it. But it’s better than nothing.”