Bannerman's Law

by John R. Maxim

  Lesko had driven due west from the Brentwood Holiday Inn. The signs said Santa Monica and the Pacific Coast Highway. Being this close, he thought, he might as well see the ocean. And Santa Monica was as good a place as any from which to make his first phone call to the LAPD.

  The message he left was: This is Raymond Lesko from New York. Call Andy Huff, wake him up, get him down there. I'll call him in one hour, one a.m., on the nose. Tell, him I got something hot.

  He had killed the hour by first driving south as far as Venice. There was a road along the coast that seemed familiar to him. He asked Katz. Katz said that road was in a lot of movies. He said he'd seen it maybe ten times on the old Dragnet show alone.

  Katz didn't think much of the Pacific. You can hardly see or hear a single wave, he said, and you can't even see the horizon because there's this dirty haze that looks yellow even at night. Katz also thought it looked fake. Like it was painted. And the people rollerskating up and down this long boardwalk thing all looked like zombies. Just skating along, late at night, in bathing suits, faces blank, no smiles. Katz thought all their brains must be fried on drugs but Lesko said that druggies don't skate. Druggies don't do shit, he said. They just do drugs.

  Lesko turned back north and found Sunset Boulevard again. The first part wound around through some dumb little mountains and it eventually leveled off to the section they called “The Strip.” This was also familiar. Katz had seen it in movies and on TV all his life but it also reminded him of parts of Manhattan. Broadway in the seventies. Hookers and dealers on every other corner. Saloons, porn shops, fag movie houses, shit shops like in Times Square, and fast-food restaurants.

  What was different was the people again. More zombies. People in New York were more. . . like. . . awake. On their toes. Lesko said it was just a different life-style. Out here they were just more relaxed. Katz thought it was more than that. New York, he said, had its share of people who walked real slow, and talked real slow, and called everybody “dude” and they were the same as these. Katz said he knew cows that could make better conversation.

  “You know what the real difference is?” he asked. “Look what they're wearing.”

  Lesko saw. More skin than back east. More weird outfits and junk jewelry. Clusters of punks with purple or green hair. Fags dressed like bikers. A few yuppie-type women but the men with them dressed like pimps. Girls not much older than twelve showing off their new tits. “What about it?” he asked.

  “They're in costume,” Katz said.

  “So? People don't dress up in New York?”

  “No, I mean real costumes. Like this was all a movie. And they all had parts.''

  Lesko shrugged off the observation. He checked his watch.

  “You don't get it,” Katz pressed. “These people all think they're actors. They don't think life is real. It's why you don't need brain cells to live out here. Or maybe it's like being in the Marines. Do you know why Marines only need one more brain cell than horses?”

  Lesko shook his head.

  “So they don't shit while they're marching.”

  Katz laughed at his own joke.

  Lesko had to smile. For Katz, that wasn't bad. Then, when he realized he had never heard it before, he frowned.

  This was the part that bothered him about Katz still being around. It was okay when he remembered jokes that Katz had told over the years. It was even okay when Katz noticed things he didn't or shot the breeze with him or even argued with him. Because these were the kind of things Katz would have said if Katz were still alive. Or had said before he got killed. And most of the time, Lesko knew, it was all in his own head. He'd held on to Katz because of all the memories and because Katz was better than nothing. And for a couple of years there, nothing was all he had. Except for Susan.

  But when Katz starts telling him things he flat out never knew or, like now, tells him jokes he's sure he's never heard before, that, Lesko thought, has to make him wonder if he's got a full deck after all.

  “Hey, Lesko. You know why this town looks fake?”

  Lesko decided to ignore him.

  “I figured it out. I think.''

  His watch said five to one. He looked for a pay phone.

  “It's all those TV shows they shoot here. When you actually come see the place, everything looks like a set.''

  He saw a restaurant up ahead, well lit, in a lush tropical setting. Lesko flipped his turn signal.

  “Another thing,” Katz pointed. “You see all those plants? Where's the only other place you ever saw plants like them? Hotel lobbies, right? Fake plants in hotel lobbies. So when we see the same plants out here, and they're real, to us they look fake.”

  This last did not ease Lesko's concern. Either that was really Katz talking or that dumb-shit observation had come from his own mind.

  It was useless to ask Katz about it. Katz thought he was still alive. Try asking a ghost if he's a ghost when the guy you're asking thinks he's your partner, still alive, riding with you like always. Try telling him you saw him when half his face was shot away. He'll look at you like you're nuts. “I'm sitting here, right? I got a face, right? Lesko, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Screw it.

  Lesko pulled into a slot and almost patted his pockets for some change before he stopped himself. All he needed was Katz reaching to fish out a quarter.

  Andy Huff was waiting for his call. He asked Lesko for his old badge number and for a few other personal details. Huff had obviously called the NYPD in the meantime. Lesko answered his questions. He appreciated the caution.

  In addition, however, Huff also wanted to know if Lesko had really once bitten a perp's finger off and swallowed it and whether, although he understood that Lesko couldn't answer, he had really blown away five greaseballs and the woman who had sent them to kill his partner.

  It wasn't five. It was three. And he didn't shoot Elena. He left her standing there. And the finger thing was like fifteen years ago. Anyway, he didn't swallow it. That's how you get hemorrhoids.

  Huff, in any case, lost interest in old war stories as soon as Lesko began to lay out Bannerman's proposition. He asked if he could get his partner on the line. Lesko appreciated that as well. Lesko took it from the top as soon as Huff cut off the partner who wanted to know if it's true that once this Brooklyn leg-breaker poked a finger against Lesko's chest and Lesko took the finger and . . .

  The offer to deliver the Campus Killer had won Huffs full attention. Lesko explained, in as few words as possible, the relationship that had developed between Carla Benedict and this man . . . sounds like a kid . . . probably lives near USC, who was known to Carla as ‘‘Claude.” That the carved ex-cop, Hickey, may well have killed Lisa Benedict. That Claude, not Carla, killed him. That two other shooters, connection unknown, had apparently also turned up at Hickey's with the intention of killing him. That Lesko has this friend, sort of, named Paul Ban-nerman who . . .

  “Bannerman's here? In LA?”

  “Maybe.” Lesko hesitated. “What's your interest in him?”

  “Until now? None,” Huff answered. “But he scares the shit out of the feds.”

  “Tell them not to get nervous. All he wants to do is go to a funeral and then go home. In the meantime, he doesn't need any press and he doesn't want any of his people held.”

  “Will he talk to us?”

  “If necessary, he says. And privately.”

  “And that's the whole deal? We leave him alone for a couple of days and he gives us this creep?”

  “Pretty much.” Lesko explained about the possible involvement of someone at a place called Sur La Mer. Carla's sister went there the day she died. Guy at Sur La Mer denies it. Bannerman would like Huff to run it down, tell Lesko what he finds out.

  “How do I get back to you?”

  “I'll call you. When?”

  ”I need two hours, maybe more. I'll have to get the feds in here, the DA, my own brass . . . ”

  “Two hours. I'll call you.” Lesko broke
the connection.

  32

  Theodore Marek waved his sheet of notepaper as if it were a list of charges.

  “Do you feel,” his eyes became hooded, his upper lip curled as he spoke, “that Peter was adequately briefed before he undertook this housekeeping task for you?”

  Dunville knew that look. He imagined that Marek probably practiced it in front of his bathroom mirror. He was in no mood for this.

  “Peter,” he twisted his own lip, “was not briefed at all. He was not briefed because he had no business being there. He involved himself because he saw a chance to inflict pain. He is dead because he made a mess of it.”

  Marek's nostrils flared but his eyes seemed to acknowledge the truth of it. He brushed that subject aside.

  “Carla Benedict,” said Marek, now as if speaking to a child, “is the sister of one Lisa Benedict. Lisa Benedict was raped and murdered two days ago. Her death, according to my friends, was made to look like the work of that serial killer. Do I gather that Hickey knew better? Is that why you borrowed Harry Bunce?”

  Truly amazing, thought Dunville. Take any situation, no matter how complex, and Theodore Marek will plunge right to the sordid heart of it.

  “Who, therefore, murdered the girl?” The bony finger pointed through the floor again. ”I leap to the assumption that it was Henry.”

  Dunville hesitated, then nodded.

  “And who poked out Henry's eyes? Certainly not this same Carla Benedict.”

  Dunville told him, in broad terms, what had happened. He was not eager to get into a discussion of Alan and Barbara Weinberg but there seemed to be no help for it. His father's body, after all, lay in a bag right next to Harry's. Marek would have unzipped it. And outside, Marek's driver and bodyguard—a Mexican named Felix—would be passing time with the guards about now, learning, at the very least, that the two Dunvilles had been taken out at gunpoint by two of the special guests. One of whom was said to have blinded Henry, allowed him to suffer for a while, and then executed him.

  Marek listened with what appeared to be growing amusement. Dunville knew that it was nothing of the sort. It was, rather, as if he were hearing a reading from Alice in Wonderland.

  “And these Weinbergs,” asked Marek, the finger signaling a question, “they were willing to throw away their investment just for the sake of avenging a girl they didn't know?”

  “It was ... an act of impulse. They feared retribution. They decided to run.” Dunville chose not to mention the files. There were others he would warn. But not this man.

  “What is their background?” Marek asked. “Who are they?”

  “They were agents. For the East Germans, primarily. Apparently they became an embarrassment.”

  Marek's brow shot up. “They were assassins? Like this Bannerman?”

  Dunville shrugged. “I wouldn't know about Bannerman.”

  “Carleton . . . ” Marek brought both hands to his cheeks, miming dismay. “Don't you suppose that the people in that line of work all know each other?”

  “The Weinbergs recognized the two women,” Dunville acknowledged. ' ‘They saw them on videotape. But there has been no contact between them if that's what you're thinking.”

  “On whose word? Theirs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how did those women find Hickey?”

  Dunville’s lips parted but he said nothing. He had, somehow, in the rush of events, not thought to wonder.

  That girl who called, Fenerty, was clearly convinced that Lisa Benedict had been to Sur La Mer on the day she died. She would have told the sister. But he could have handled that. He could still have denied knowledge of any such visit. But Fenerty could not have known anything that would have led to Hickey. The only possibility he could imagine was that, when Hickey was following the two women this morning, they must have somehow turned the tables and followed him to his home. Hickey had, in the interim, been to Sur La Mer. Therefore, they would have to have followed him there as well. Worse, Hickey had, by the sound of it, not died quickly. They must have questioned him. Tortured him.

  Marek thought he saw the truth in Dunville’ s eyes. “If the Weinbergs have made contact with them,” he said, “they'll be coming here next, won't they? After you.”

  Dunville nodded slowly but his mind was racing. He almost wished that Marek was right. That the Weinbergs would contact this Carla Benedict, explain to her what happened, tell her that there was no one left to punish. Except for that business with the Russian.

  “Or after you,” he said.

  He scarcely knew, at first, why he had said that. It might have been wishful thinking. A desire to deflect any assault on Sur La Mer, perhaps even prevent it. But the lingering thought of Hickey being followed there had blended into the image of Peter Marek and his white Lexus.

  “Peter's car,” he said. “Is it registered to your address?”

  The older man blinked. Dunville could see it dawning on him that his son had used his own car. Dunville could see him cursing Peter for that stupidity, and Harry Bunce for permitting it. At last, slowly, he shook his head. “I'd know by now,” he said. “My contacts would have warned me if the police had the license number.”

  “Not the police. Those two women. If they were on the scene when the police arrived, they must have been close by when Peter was shot. They would have seen Harry dragging him to the Lexus.”

  It was more wishful thinking. But if true, if they did turn their attention to the owner of that car, it would, at the very least, buy him time.

  Marek stood for a long moment, averting his eyes, absently tapping his nose. Then he began pacing. Dunville had no trouble reading his thoughts. He knew the man. And he knew that Marek, right about now, was wishing that he had a bomb big enough to turn all of Sur La Mer into cinders. And everyone in it. End once and for all any possible connection with his past. Marek' s eyes fell on Dunviüe's safe.

  “My file,” he said. ”I don't suppose it's . . . ” The bony finger pointed.

  Dunville forced a smile. “Hardly,” he said.

  Marek took the smile for smugness. He resumed pacing.

  As he walked, he drew a piece of notepaper from his pocket and stared thoughtfully at it. “We have two addresses for the Benedict woman,” he said. “One is her hotel. The other is where her father lives. If she's gone to either, the police should have her by now.”

  Dunville said nothing. He watched as Marek stepped to his phone and dialed a number. The conversation was brief. Marek broke the connection. He glanced at Dunville and shook his head. He dialed again. Another brief exchange, instructions given. He replaced the phone.

  “The police haven't found them,” he said distractedly. “No activity at my house, either.”

  The night is young, thought Dunville. He resisted the urge to say it.

  Marek stared at the phone. His finger ran down a list of Sur La Mer extensions. It stopped at one marked with the letter GH. “Is this the gate house?” he asked.

  Dunville peered and nodded.

  “If another car had followed Harry Bunce up here,” Marek asked, “might your guards have been alert enough to notice?”

  Dunville doubted it. They'd been busy with that stupid truck. But he was pleased to see that Marek's imagination was taking hold.

  The video scanners, at least, had been in operation. Dunville called the gate house, confirmed his doubt, then led Marek to a small office at the rear of the main hall where the monitors were kept. He asked the guard on duty to replay the tapes from the Tower Road cameras.

  There, on one monitor, was the Lexus, Harry Bunce driving, mouthing shouts at Darby to open the gates, Darby shouting soundlessly at someone else. Now, Harry Bunce, climbing out, pulling a pistol, thrusting it between the bars. In seconds, the gate swung open. The gate camera stayed with the Lexus until it disappeared from view, then returned to its sweep of Tower Road.

  A second camera had recorded the approach of the Lexus. Dunville rewound that tape. No car had followed
the Lexus but, just before it appeared, another pair of headlights came up Tower Road. That car seemed to hesitate, then swing suddenly to the left. The camera did not follow it. It continued its scan to the other end, then returned, pausing on the activity at the large Tudor-style house just across from the gates. A party was in full progress. Many cars were parked on Tower Road and on the side street. One, in the driveway, still had its headlights on. That must be the car that turned left, thought Dunville. He touched the pause button and peered at the screen.

  The car, a subcompact, was fairly well illuminated by the lights of the house. He could make out the shape of a triangular sign of some sort. It was strapped to the car's roof. He recognized it. One of those pizza delivery companies. He could see the driver, standing at the open hatch, and he could see the flat square outline of pizza boxes.

  Marek, behind him, cleared his throat. Dunville continued the slow scan of Tower Road. He saw nothing out of the ordinary except, perhaps, that when the camera scanned back to the left, the pizza car was gone. Dunville frowned momentarily but decided he could dismiss it. Delivery need not have taken more than a minute or so. Still, he wondered. Not about the pizza car but about what the driver may have thought about all that shouting at the gates of Sur La Mer. The answer . . . nothing. A disabled truck, an impatient new arrival. He was too far away to have seen that Harry Bunce had menaced Darby with a gun.

  “No sign that Bunce was followed,” he said to Theodore Marek. “There's only that one car, delivering pizza.”

  Marek stroked his porcelain nose. ''Pizza to a dinner party?”

  “They have three children. Ages nine through twelve,” Dunville answered, although he could not actually recall whether there were children in that house or not.

  Marek stared at the screen. “Still,” he said, “that driver was there just as Harry arrived. Rather convenient, don't you think?”

  Dunville affected a sigh. In his mind he could see Marek’ s thugs tearing the shirts off a dozen or so pizza delivery boys to see if one of them was Carla Benedict in disguise. “All that young man cared about was his next delivery,” he said. “Harry was not followed to Sur La Mer. There is still, however, the possibility that the car will be traced to your home.”