Bannerman's Law

by John R. Maxim

  Better to hope that they manage to convince Carla that they know nothing. Better to hope that they never /earn who she is. That she buries her sister as quickly as possible and goes back to Connecticut, and to Mama's Boy ... to that town he is said to own.

  Regarding Nellie's children, he regretted lying to his wife. But it was not such a big lie. He would confess it later when she is less distracted.

  He had found two of her children.

  Before they left, he was sure, he would find two more.

  But one of them was certainly Carleton Dunville the elder.

  That knowledge would not bring a glow to Nellie Da-meon's cheeks.

  Molly shook her head in wonder as she steered the Chevrolet, Carla navigating, through waning rush hour traffic. Leave Carla alone for just one afternoon and she becomes chummy with a lunatic who denies killing Lisa; she decides that catching him just now would be unsporting and ungrateful:

  she somehow gets the name and address of the man who apparently did kill

  Lisa - or at least was the one who robbed her apartment, and, from the look of her bed, also finds time to get laid by a Swiss-based KGB operative who just

  happens to be in Los Angeles. *

  “Go north,” Carla pointed. “Hollywood Freeway.”

  Molly saw the entrance ramp. She signaled and turned onto it. Behind her, the sun had touched the horizon.

  “This Claude . . . ” Molly began.

  “It's not his real name.”

  Molly made a face. She had been reasonably sure that a serial killer would not have provided references. “Whatever. You're saying he gave you this other man's address? This Hickey?”

  “Just his license number. He's been following us all morning.”

  “Hickey?”

  “And Claude.”

  “How did you get the address?”

  “From the cops.”

  Molly blinked. “You didn't . . . ”

  “It's okay. They don't have my name.”

  Carla explained that she had gone to the front desk, told the manager her car had been side-swiped by a hit and run silver Honda, gave him the license number, asked him to get her a name and address so that she could file a complaint. Anything for a bungalow guest, he said. He had the address in three minutes, courtesy of a sergeant with the ever-helpful Beverly Hills police.

  Molly didn't like this at all. If Hickey was dead, as this loon had told Carla, Hickey's name would be all over tomorrow's newspapers. The man at the desk, to say nothing of the police sergeant, would remember telling Carla where he lived.

  “Get off here,” Carla pointed. “Olive Avenue. It hits Victory Boulevard in about three miles.”

  Molly signaled, then switched on her headlights. The sun was almost down. She turned right on Olive and then, abruptly, pulled into a Texaco station. ”I need to make two calls,” she said.

  “Do it later. Yuri's alone and unarmed.”

  “This isn't just us, Carla. I need to call Anton.”

  “I talked to him. I told him about Claude. He just said be careful.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Okay, he said stay put. But that was before Claude called back. We're almost there, damn it.”

  Molly ignored her. Anton, she supposed, could wait although he must be going crazy. But what bothered her even more was the knowledge that both Hickey and Claude had been on their tail all morning. That she'd been so deep in thought that she'd failed to spot them. That, not least, she'd led them both to DiDi Fenerty.

  “Two seconds,” said Molly. She shut off the engine, taking the keys. She snatched the torn page of the telephone book, bearing DiDi*s number, and hurried to the public phone. DiDi answered on the second ring.

  “It's Molly,” she said. “Is Kevin still there with you?”

  “There's a whole crowd here. Half the street and a couple of guys who work for my father. They're hoods, basically. Listen, I called . . . ”

  Molly cut her off. “That's good,” she said. “Don't get nervous, but I want you to keep plenty of people around you. Tell them you'd had a death threat. Say the Campus Killer called to gloat about Lisa and that he said you're next. Don't go anyplace alone, and that includes with the police. Keep the lights on all night. If you sleep, make sure that at least two people stay awake, preferably your father's men.”

  ”I know. That's what your friend said. Molly? I called Sur La Mer.”

  Her friend?

  “They said Lisa was never there. But they were lying. I could tell from the way they . . . ”

  “DiDi . . . what friend are you talking about?”

  “This guy. He said not to trust anyone I don't know except you and Carla. Keep the lights on, keep a crowd around, stay away from windows.”

  “Did he give a name?”

  “No.”

  “What did he sound like?”

  “Gee, I don't know. Um . . . Maximilian Schell, maybe?’'

  “The German actor?”

  “Judgment at Nuremberg, Topkapi, The Odessa File,'' she answered typically. “Except he's Austrian. It was Bannerman, right? Paul Bannerman?”

  “When did he call?”

  “Ten minutes ago.”

  “When did you call Sur La Mer?”

  “Just after you left.”

  “And this man specifically mentioned Carla and me?’'

  “By name, yes. Molly, what's going on?”

  “It's okay. You're right,” she lied. “That had to have been Paul.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “Nice two seconds.” Carla glared. “Start the goddamned car.”

  Molly did so, distractedly, and pulled onto Olive Avenue.

  In her mind, she saw DiDi Fenerty dialing the number of Sur La Mer. Identifying herself. Asking questions about Lisa. Doing exactly what she'd told her not to do. Then she saw DiDi getting a call of her own, a man's voice, accented, telling her, warning her, to do exactly what Molly would have told her to do. Are the two calls related? They must be. Right?

  “Who do we know,” she asked, ”a male . . . who has a German or Austrian accent?”

  “Probably hundreds. Why?”

  “No, I mean . . . this is someone who knows both of us by name, probably by sight, and that we're here in Los Angeles. He must be here too. And he might be a friend.”

  “That drops it to zero.”

  “We do have friends, Carla.”

  ”I have one,” she said, pointing. “But he's not German. Drive.”

  Molly brushed a hair from her mouth. That was Carla, she thought. All focus. One thing at a time. She was like a cat moving through tall grass. Eyes front. Oblivious to everything but dinner. Never thinking to watch her back. It was, Molly supposed, what made her so dangerous. It was also why Paul never let her work alone.

  Molly noticed a large storefront, painted yellow. The sign said guns bought, sold & traded in three-foot letters. Speaking of which . . . “Did Anton say anything about sending John Waldo?”

  “He's already here.” She gestured vaguely. “Somewhere. Probably looting a store like that one.”

  Molly blinked. “Who asked for him?’'

  “Paul sent him. Paul and Billy are on their way.” She looked at her watch. “They're landing about now. Half of Westport will be here by Thursday.”

  “Nice of you to share this with me, Carla.”

  No answer.

  “Why this sudden decision to come. Do they know something we don't?”

  Carla shook her head. She shrugged.

  “And didn’t Anton say we should wait for them?”

  Again, no answer.

  “Carla?”

  Molly eased off the accelerator. Carla felt the car slowing.

  ”I like you, Molly,” she said quietly. ”I mean that.”

  “Well, I'm glad, but ... ”

  “But this is about my sister. Don't fuck with me. I mean that, too.”

  Molly said nothing. She thought about turning back. Heading for the airport. But Carla,
she knew, would probably fight her for the keys. Or take a cab.

  What would Paul say?

  Stay with her, probably. Keep her out of trouble.

  And you can't leave Yuri hanging.

  Take care of your own.

  But later, he'd have Carla's ass for this.

  He'd have to wait in line.

  25

  Yuri Rykov took his time.

  He made two slow passes of the mission-style apartment house, keeping it in sight, ready to close on anyone—male, probably young—who stepped from its lobby.

  He saw only one woman, going in, carrying groceries. A light flicked on in a first-floor apartment. In others he could see routine movement, kitchen activity, the glow of television sets. He parked Colonel Belkin's rented Ford in the lot of a store that sold hot tubs and made his way toward the entrance, memorizing the several cars parked at the curb.

  There was a row of doorbells, about twelve. The second one from the top, 2-A, said Hickey in faded ink. He tried the front door. It opened. The lock, he saw, was long broken. He went in, tested the rubber clad stairs for squeaks, settled his full weight on them, and listened. A baby cried somewhere. Music played. A television audience laughed. He climbed the stairs.

  One door on the second floor was well ajar. Rykov glanced at the pattern of letters on the others. The open door was 2-A. As he approached, slowly, he saw a glint of something that had been traced on the varnished wood of the door. It was, he realized, a face. A have-a-nice-day face. A smile. Except that the eyes were crosses instead of dots. He touched a finger to the smile, it came away stained red.

  Silently, Yuri stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He saw the body at once but he ignored it. It was no threat to him. He waited, listening in the dim light. He sensed no other movement. He heard no sound of breathing. Rykov moved forward, crouching slightly, his thick arms crossed in front of him in readiness for sudden attack. If it came, he hoped for a knife. He did not fear knives.

  The kitchen, the hall closet, were empty. The living room, though cluttered, offered no place of concealment. He checked the bedroom, all closets, the bathroom. He was alone, except for the man whose bloody smile matched the one on the door.

  He knelt beside it. The eyes and mouth were open. The mouth had been stuffed with what looked like wadded tissue. The jowls flapped loose and open like those of a hound he owned as a boy. They had bled very greatly. The rear-most molars were visible. The cuts, he realized, had been made while the man still lived. He saw two puncture marks on the chest. These, he thought, had not killed him either. Not quickly, at least. Someone had wanted to watch this man die. The eyes, it struck him, were those of a madman. Or a man driven mad by the horror of what he must have watched being done to him. Tears, still damp, streaked over his cheekbones and made pools in his ears.

  He noticed that the body had been dragged several feet. He saw marks made by heels and a trail of blood that seemed to have come from between this man's legs. He rolled the body onto its side and saw another wound. The flesh of his buttocks and thigh were torn, certainly by a bullet. The fabric of his trousers were scorched at its point of entry. The smell of cordite remained. It seemed to have

  been fired from this man's own gun. He saw the empty holster tucked inside the belt.

  Now Yuri saw the gun. A revolver. It lay at the base of the dead man's couch as if it had been tossed or kicked aside. He picked it up. Blood on the barrel. One round had been fired.

  Rykov shuddered in spite of himself. Carla had said that the man who called her, who said he had done this, had the voice of a boy. The voice, perhaps, but this was no boy. To seize a man like this, to pin his arms, to hold him down and butcher him so, great size and strength would be required. Even he would have had difficulty. The dead man was not so small.

  Outside, close by, Yuri heard the sound of tires scuffing at a curb. Carla, perhaps. He approached the window from one side. It was not Carla.

  He saw two men. They sat in a car, a white Lexus, making no move to step out of it. The one in the passenger seat was speaking into a telephone or radio. Both men were looking straight ahead. It seemed to Yuri that the car ahead of them, a silver Honda, was of special interest. The passenger nodded. He put down his phone. The driver stepped from behind the wheel. With gestures, he told the second man to stay. The passenger protested. The driver insisted. Now he closed the car door after him. He did so gently, as if to make no sound. He wore a raincoat. He reached under it, adjusted something at his belt, and walked toward the front entrance.

  The second man stayed. He sat there, the engine running, looking up at Yuri's window. Yuri, unseen, stepped back.

  The two, thought Yuri, had the look of policemen. But the car was wrong. It was too expensive. Also, they had separated. Policemen, on business, always stay together. He knew that from American television.

  Yuri had a sense that the man in the raincoat was coming to this apartment. If so, he had no wish to be found there. True, he had diplomatic status. Of a sort. But it would not prevent publicity. Leo—Colonel Belkin—would be embarrassed, his mission compromised, and Captain Yuri Rykov, he thought, would be in very hot potatoes.

  He wished now that the two had entered the building together. He could jump from the window. It was only four meters. Then he would stay, close by, to warn Carla when she came. But he could not jump. If the man in the car was police, this would look very bad.

  Yuri crept to the door. He listened for a moment, then carefully closed the bolt. The door had a chain as well. He chose not to use it. It would give evidence that someone was inside. The wood, in any case, was old and dry. The chain, even the bolt, would prevent nothing.

  He put his eye to the peephole. His right hand still held the revolver. He thought of putting it back where he'd found it. But if this man now quietly climbing the stairs was indeed a policeman, and he was coming to this door, there would be time enough to put it down. If he was not a policeman, it might be good to have it ready.

  The man, Yuri's age, well dressed, approached the door. He stopped. He seemed to be listening. Yuri, his fingers lightly touching the knob, felt it turn from the outside. Through the peephole, Yuri saw what seemed to be another move toward the man's waist. Yuri shifted his position, hoping to see whether the man held a gun. The floor squeaked. The barrel of his own revolver tapped lightly against the door.

  The man smiled.

  It was a pleasant smile. Friendly. He took one step back and waved at the peephole with his fingers. Something large and black came into view. Yuri's brain screamed a warning. He ducked sideways.

  He heard a dull crack, like a hammer against soft wood. Bits of the door exploded inward. Splinters gouged his cheekbone. A bullet fragment took part of his ear. Three more cracks stitched the door at the level of his chest. A bullet broke his right arm, another smashed his ribs. Yuri reeled backward, tripping on carpet, crashing to the floor.

  He heard a new noise, much louder. A foot against the door. It flew open. The man in the raincoat ducked behind the frame and looked in. The smile, if anything, had broadened. Seeing Yuri down, he entered, both hands thrusting a pistol before him. The silencer was longer than the weapon itself and fully three inches wide. The man followed it through the door, training it on Yuri. He was about to shoot again, squarely into Yuri's chest when he hesitated, squinting. He was looking at Yuri's face. Confusion. The eyes drifted further. They saw the other set of feet, the body in line with Yuri's. They saw what was left of Joseph Hickey's face.

  Yuri tried to raise his revolver. The arm that held it was useless. With the other, he snatched at the silencer, feeling its heat. He pulled hard. The man fell to one knee but he did not let go. Yuri's thumb found the hammer. He squeezed. The man could not fire. Yuri twisted it. The man squealed; his fingers were breaking. He turned his head toward the window and screamed a name. His mouth and his throat were now inches away from the powerful hand that gripped his weapon. The long silencer was bending. Yuri released it.
He snatched at the man's throat. A squawk. He dug in his nails and ripped. Part of the throat tore free.

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  The man in the raincoat tried to crawl. Numbed fingers still held his weapon. Yuri rolled, swiftly, painfully, on his ribs. His left hand, wet with blood and tissue, clawed at the revolver held in his right. He fumbled for the trigger.

  A second man appeared, framed in the doorway. He saw one man on his side, another on his back. He saw his partner on his knees, blood streaming down his raincoat, heard his wet choking cough, saw him trying to raise his weapon. His own pistol had no silencer. He had heard no doors opening, no shouts from other tenants. He chose to wait but he kept his sights on Yuri's chest.

  The man in the raincoat saw Yuri rolling back toward him and now he saw the revolver held in a bloody hand. He swung his silenced weapon to Yuri's head and pulled the trigger. The bent silencer exploded. Thin shards of steel sprayed the room. The bullet, deflected, raised dust a foot from Yuri's head. The man in the raincoat cried out and fell backward. Yuri extended his left arm and fired twice. The noise was shocking. One bullet tugged at the flowing raincoat, missing the man. The second struck his armpit as he spun to avoid it. He fell against the window, smashing it.

  Yuri swung his revolver toward the man in the doorway. The man fired first. He had aimed at Yuri's face but his shot struck Yuri's gun, slamming it back against his jaw. The room filled with flashing lights. Yuri was floating. He sensed, rather than saw, that the man from the doorway stepped into the room and rushed to his partner. He was pulling him to his feet. More gagging sounds. Dimly, he heard footsteps moving to the place where the man named Hickey lay. He heard words.

  “Holy fucking Christ,” is what Yuri thought was said. It struck him as an odd expression.

  He remembered nothing after that.

  Sumner Dommerich did not know what to do. Too much was happening.

  He had been sitting in his car, watching to see who would come, when the big man drove by twice, looking at the apartment, and then pulled in right next to him in the parking lot of the hot tub store. For a second there, he thought that the man knew.