Bannerman's Law

by John R. Maxim

  “We were, um . . . trying not to wake you.”

  Alan Weinberg looked up at Nellie from the edge of the tub. Barbara sat at his side. She, like her husband, had papers in her hands. More were spread over the tile floor at their feet. Alan's expression, thought Nellie, was that of a boy caught reading a girlie magazine.

  Hands on hips, Nellie shook her head in theatrical dismay. Alan was more like George Bancroft than he knew. George used to save his most salacious fan letters, the ones making indecent proposals, and tuck them into scripts he was supposed to be studying. She was about to instruct Weinberg on the proper use of a lazy morning by two people who love each other but Nellie saw the grin that now split Barbara's face. The grin said that giving them a few hours to themselves had been, by no means, a wasted gesture.

  “So,” Weinberg shifted uncomfortably, “how did it go at the lake?”

  Nellie did not look at him. Her eyes were on Barbara. “None of your beeswax,” she told him.

  Weinberg, now ignored, glanced from one face to the other. He watched as the brow of one would rise slightly and the lips of the other would purse in response. A subtle eye movement here, an answering twitch there. He was witnessing one of those maddening telepathic conversations of which only women are capable and from which all men are excluded. He felt his color rising. The flare of a nostril, for all he knew, could be describing the length of his penis. Weinberg crossed his legs. The women locked eyes and laughed. Weinberg threw up his hands. Barbara seized his sleeve to keep him from leaving the room.

  “I'm sorry,” she said, but she had to bite her lip. She reached for one of the dossiers that her husband had been holding and told Nellie, telepathically again, that there was a need to be serious for a moment. “Nellie,” she asked, “what do you know about a man named Marek?”

  Nellie's mouth formed an expression of distaste. Sur La Mer had begun to seem far away. She was reluctant to go back there, even in her thoughts.

  “We have to ask,” said Barbara, gesturing with the Marek file. “This sounds as if the Dunvilles use him for their dirty work. Is that right?”

  She didn't know. Not at first. But she allowed her mind to drift. It wandered across the years, sorting through a hundred snippets of gossip and dozens of eavesdropped conversations. She remembered something that Harland had told her.

  “Was there really another war with the Germans?” she asked.

  “Ah . . . quite a while ago, yes.”

  “Harland said that the father used to work for them. But I don't think he was German.”

  Barbara shook her head. “He was Polish, but a war criminal. What about the son?”

  “Little Peter,” she nodded. More distaste. “Peter's not really his son. They gave him Peter after he brought Luisa back. We were glad to see him go. He would stick thumb tacks in Harland’s legs while he was sleeping. Harland had no feeling in them but all the same . . .”

  “Theodore Marek . . .” Barbara's eyes narrowed. “Is this the man Dunville was talking about last night in the car?”

  “The one who ruined Luisa. Yes.”

  Weinberg squeezed his wife's knee. His touch urged a measure of detachment on the issue of child abuse, especially because Weinberg himself had probably blown her to pieces. “It seemed to me,” he said to Nellie, “that young Carleton despised him. If his father were . . . out of the picture, would he continue to use him?”

  Nellie considered the question. Something in Alan'seyes hinted that it was not an academic inquiry. And something else was odd. She had trouble remembering what Carleton the elder looked like. Or caring. Whether she'd borne him or not. “He might have to,” she answered at last. “Harland says the guards all really work for Marek.”

  “Why would that be?”

  She shrugged. “When new guards come, he always brings them. Harland thinks they're all on the lam. That's gangster talk for fugitives.”

  Weinberg thanked her for the clarification. “Did he supply Hickey, by chance?”

  She nodded. “But Hickey wasn't a criminal. They say he was a policeman once. Several of them were.”

  “Nellie ... are you aware that Hickey is dead? And that Peter Marek may be dead as well?”

  As for Peter, she was not a bit surprised. Nasty child. And she had assumed as much about Hickey from what was said in the car. And later, she told Weinberg, it was discussed on the television receiver.

  “Ah, yes.” Weinberg had forgotten that she might see the news. He would have watched for it himself had he not been preoccupied with Barbara. “Did that report mention anyone else?”

  “Another man was shot but he's alive. One station said he was rumored to be a diplomat of some sort.”

  Weinberg blinked. ”A diplomat?”

  “From the Soviet Union.”

  Perhaps Nellie had misunderstood. “It wasn't an American? A man named McHugh?”

  “The reporter was quite emphatic that he was Russian. He seemed very pleased with himself.”

  “Did he name a suspect?”

  “He talked about the killer of all those young girls mostly. But he didn't seem to think he did this.”

  “Any mention of Carla Benedict?”

  Nellie shook her head. “Just of poor Lisa. Along with the others.”

  Weinberg pushed to his feet. For a long moment he stared thoughtfully into space and then into the bathroom mirror. The new face seemed better this morning although he still looked as if he'd been in a fight. ”I think I'll walk down and get a newspaper,” he said to his wife. His eyes said Come with me. She answered with a nod.

  The private exchange did not escape Nellie. She made no move to let them pass. She watched as they stepped into their shoes and as Alan slid a revolver into the small of his back. Barbara slung her purse to her shoulder and placed her hand inside it.

  “Just a newspaper?” she asked.

  Barbara followed Nellie's eyes to her purse. “And perhaps to make a call from a public phone,” she said. “There won't be any trouble.”

  “Does this phone call involve Mr. Marek?”

  Barbara glanced at her husband, and then Nellie. “We might try to ... distract him if we can.”

  “Couldn't we . . .” Nellie looked away. “Couldn't we all just go and find a boat? Is that so selfish?”

  “We will.” Barbara gathered the files. “And no, it isn't.”

  That assurance, Nellie decided, was probably no less sincere for being curt. She backed away from the bathroom, watching Alan and Barbara as they unlatched the door and stepped into the corridor, one at a time as always, cautiously as always. Telling her not to open it for anyone but them.

  They were a fascinating study, really. Quite nice people. They were certainly kind. But it was astonishing to watch the way they could, in the wink of an eye, step out of one character and into another. Rather like actors. Except that with an actor one usually knew which character was real and which was pretend.

  She could get used to it, she supposed. She could get used to the guns as well but she disliked the thought of having to. It was so much fun escaping. And her first night of freedom was wonderful. There would be plenty of time to see what the world has come to. All she wanted now was to feel wind and salt spray on her face. And not have a care.

  Except about Harland and the others.

  Which gave her an idea.

  She couldn't imagine why the Weinbergs went out to make their call when there was a perfectly good telephone right here with the instructions printed next to the buttons. There was even a directory.

  She opened it and found the number of young Dr. Feldman.

  36

  “Irwin . . . Shit head . . .”

  Lesko was getting aggravated.

  The more he tried to assure Kaplan that Bannerman wasn't there on a hit, the less Kaplan believed him.

  “You're telling me,'' Kaplan challenged, “that Leo Belkin just happened to be in Los Angeles and Rykov just happened to run into Carla. Who the fuck would buy that,
Lesko? And you wonder why people are nervous.”

  Those nervous people, Kaplan had told him, began calling at half past four in the morning, his time. The calls began, in other words, thirty minutes after Lesko had laid out his proposition to Andy Huff. And the calls were from heavy hitters. Two were sitting members of the National Security Council. The last one was from Roger Clew, an undersecretary of state who had built his career on being Bannerman’s control until Clew tried a scam to lure him back out of retirement. It got a bunch of people killed.

  Why all this interest? Kaplan says they wouldn't say. They would cite the usual need-to-know national security bullshit but they still expected Kaplan to tell them whether Bannerman and/or the KGB was planning a hit on Sur La Mer.

  “For the last time, Irwin,” Lesko showed his teeth, “Bannerman didn't know Leo was out here until I told him. Then all he asked Leo was to keep Carla out of trouble until he got here himself.”

  “Why is the KGB there in the first place?”

  “Spy shit, probably. You want to ask Leo? He's right here.”

  “Forget I asked. I would hate knowing.”

  “Also for the last time, Bannerman doesn't care squat about Sur La Mer. He only . . . Hold on a second.”

  A kid with a quilted pizza box had wandered over and was staring at him. Lesko covered the mouthpiece. “What?” he asked.

  “Mr. Jackson?”

  “No.”

  “Did you order two pizzas?”

  “No.”

  “There's a pepperoni and a sausage. If I can't find who ordered them, you want one for half price?”

  “Kid ... I'm on the phone here.”

  “Sorry.” Sumner Dommerich turned to Leo Belkin. “They're still hot. Want to see?”

  Belkin eased him away from the phone.

  “Wait.” Lesko snapped his fingers toward the KGB colonel. “You got any money? Get us the pepperoni, okay?” He hadn't eaten since his flight.

  “Lesko! Will you stop with the fucking pizza?” Kaplan shouted into his ear.

  Oh yeah. “Here's what you tell them, Irwin. There's no hit, no nothing, as long as they leave us alone. In two days we bury Lisa and we all go home.”

  “And Bannerman delivers this serial killer?”

  “He gives it a shot but the FBI has to give Carla some room. Otherwise we keep her stashed.”

  “How about if he calls Roger Clew on this himself. So I'm not in the middle.”

  “He won't. He's finished with Clew.”

  “Better yet,” Kaplan dropped his voice, “he should call Bart Fuller.”

  Clew's boss. The secretary of state. Same thing, probably. Same reasons. ”I doubt it. But I'll ask.”

  “Lesko,” Kaplan sounded weary. “Does Bannerman want to keep that bug up his ass or does he want answers?’'

  “Those two almost got Susan killed, Irwin. And they got Elena shot. They're lucky I didn't . . .” He stopped himself. “Answers to what?” he asked.

  “Think about it. Go eat your pizza.”

  Sumner Dommerich waited in his car. He thought, not for the first time, that he should have been a spy.

  He'd read about them.

  The good ones, he knew, were nothing at all like James Bond. They were just average looking people like himself. No one ever gave them a second look. And they liked it that way. It never hurt their feelings.

  Dommerich knew that he could sit for hours, at a bar, for example, and the people around him could be having really private conversations and it would be like his stool was empty.

  He didn't mind that. He liked being invisible. But now and then, if they were just joking around or talking about baseball or something, he would make a comment on what they were saying. Not butting in or anything. Just telling them something he knew, or what he thought. That's when, most times, his feelings got hurt. They'd look at him, they'd say “Oh, right,” and then they'd move their heads closer together so he couldn't hear anymore. Sometimes they'd tell him to buzz off. Sometimes they'd laugh.

  It was the girls, mostly, who laughed. They'd either roll their eyes or they'd give him that somebody-must-have-farted look and then they'd put their heads together and cover their mouths. Girls must practice that.

  Lisa wouldn't have laughed. Not Carla either.

  And soon he would know where Carla was. That man with the mean face would lead him to her. Dommerich even knew which car he was driving. Or he was pretty sure. There was a Ford parked in the circle that looked just like the one that pulled up next to him at that hot tub store except that the one who got shot was driving it then.

  Now Lesko had it.

  Lesko.

  Dommerich heard his name when the man on the other end, named Irwin, yelled it. Lesko, stop with the fucking pizza. The third man, the one who bought the pizza, full price, was named Leo.

  Lesko was a little brusque but Dommerich was not offended. He just needed to finish with Irwin. Dommerich would not have interrupted him except that he needed to get closer when he thought he heard Carla's name.

  He'd head it, all right. That and a lot more.

  Lesko is here for Lisa's funeral. That means he's a friend. Someone named Bannerman, another friend, is here to watch over Carla. Everybody seems to know about Sur La Mer, maybe even that Hickey and those other two came from there, and nobody wants to do anything about it.

  But maybe Carla still doesn't know.

  Maybe Lesko and Bannerman aren't telling her.

  Or maybe they would tell her, and go do something, if only the FBI would leave them alone.

  That's it, thought Dommerich.

  Lesko said they'd “give it a shot but the FBI has to give Carla some room” and maybe the FBI already did because they're not watching her hotel anymore.

  That's one more thing he had to tell her.

  Dommerich held his order pad up to the light. More names and notes.

  Somebody named “Crew” or “Clue.”

  “Susan—almost killed.”

  “Elena—shot.”

  By “those two.”

  Those two might be the killers in the Lexus, he thought, yawning. Maybe they also shot two women named Susan and Elena.

  Carla would tell him.

  He yawned again.

  He wished he'd thought to buy some coffee.

  37

  Jack Scholl, special agent in charge of the Campus Killer Task Force, had argued, pleaded, even threatened in his effort to duck that assignment. He was told to take it or retire.

  Scholl's duties, for the five years preceding the discovery of the second victim, had essentially been limited to public relations. He had become the unofficial spokesman of the Los Angeles field office because he, unlike his boss, was comfortable in front of cameras and because he looked and sounded a bit like Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., of the old FBI television series.

  That resemblance, a measure of celebrity, and the fact that he was, by bureau standards, independently wealthy, caused him to be a frequent guest at civic and social functions. Scholl seemed to know everyone. Politicians whispered into his ear. Filmmakers sought his technical advice. Religious leaders sought his moral voice.

  His fellow agents were less than impressed. They regarded Scholl as living proof that it was better to be lucky than smart.

  They remembered a time when he was considered a marginal agent, just good enough to be allowed to put in his twenty and retire. His run of luck had begun with a weekend trip to Las Vegas. Scholl announced on returning that he had won almost $10,000 at blackjack. That windfall served to explain how Scholl managed to live better than most, drive a nicer car, take better vacations.

  At about that time, he also began enjoying a series of well-publicized successes as a federal agent. He led several major drug raids and found two aging Nazi fugitives who were living in Los Angeles. Although Scholl’s boss was inclined to count his blessings, he could not help wishing that some of Scholl’s were more the result of competent investigative procedure—teamwork—and le
ss the result of anonymous tips.

  Scholl's most extraordinary piece of luck came soon after the death of his father. The father, a widower, had died some six years ago, leaving Scholl his Pasadena home and everything in it. Everything, as it turned out, included an attic trunk containing his father's World War II memorabilia. It also contained three rolled-up canvasses by Corot and one Delacroix self-portrait. The paintings were authenticated by the reputable firm of Richardson-Marek, which also determined through the International Institute for Art Research that they had never been reported stolen and had no claims against them. Richardson-Marek sold them to a Japanese auto parts manufacturer for more than $2 million.

  Scholl's boss was surprised that he stayed with the bureau. His fitness reports, for all Scholl's luck, did not auger promotion. The pension would be nice but no longer essential. Scholl, however, not only stayed but thrived. His pool of informants seemed to grow in proportion to his social and media contacts. Scholl's boss could only shake his head.

  After the second victim was found, and the FBI was called in, Jack Scholl was his boss's choice to head the bureau's end of the task force, primarily because no one else wanted the job. Serial killer cases often dragged on for years and were, in the end, usually solved by dumb luck. The real job involved persuading the media that progress was being made. In the event of an arrest, Scholl would be there, in front of the cameras, elbowing his way past whoever made it. That's what he was best at. In the meantime, better him than to waste an agent who had genuine talent.

  Scholl could not have refused. The retirement option was unattractive because retirement would mean the end of his usefulness to Theodore Marek. And Marek, as he'd often pointed out, could always suddenly discover that the Corots and the Delacroix were worthless forgeries and urge a lawsuit by the Japanese buyer. There could be no defense. A charge that Marek had provided them in the first place would be equally ruinous. Scholl would be disgraced. He would lose his pension as well.