Bannerman's Law

by John R. Maxim

  But now, for the first time in his ten-year relationship with Theodore Marek, providing him with files, doctoring others, protecting Marek's friends and harassing his enemies, Jack Scholl began to feel that he might have the upper hand.

  By the time he'd made his visit to the apartment of the Benedict girl, largely for the sake of procedure, he was already satisfied that she was almost certainly the victim of a copycat. When told by the superintendent that someone was already inside, he presumed the intruder to be a relative but possibly a reporter. If the latter, his own entry, gun drawn, all business, might lead to a very respectful interview. Instead, those two women had humiliated him.

  He knew all about them within the hour. Professional assassins, both of them. He was astonished. Washington was in an uproar. Why, they asked, had he not held them?

  He would have. Had he known. Or had that Detective Huff and those other smirking policemen not intervened.

  Never mind, said Washington. Say nothing to the media. Not even to the others on the task force. Await further instructions.

  Washington, he thought at the time, was overreacting. More than anything else, he decided, they were probably afraid of two female vigilantes stirring up a media circus. Avenging angels, going around executing suspects, that sort of thing.

  He had traced them, that afternoon, to the house of the Fenerty girl. She was their only lead, a name on the dead girl's answering machine. But Fenerty claimed that she knew nothing, had told them nothing. The two women stayed only a few minutes, then left.

  Scholl was sure that she was lying. For one thing, she referred to them as Molly and Carla. The reference smacked of familiarity. For another, there was that beefy young man on the porch who obviously gave an alarm when he pulled up and there were two other men, swarthy, hard-eyed, loitering inside. Unless Fenerty knew more than she was saying, why should she feel the need for bodyguards? Scholl returned to his office where he arranged, without benefit of court order, for a monitoring of Miss Fenerty’ s telephone.

  The shocks, that evening, came in rapid succession. Joe Hickey, a corrupt policeman now on Marek's payroll, slashed to death in the manner of the serial killer. Another man, shown to be a KGB captain, shot. Two men, one bleeding, seen stumbling from Hickey's apartment and rushing off in a white Lexus.

  Marek' s son had a new white Lexus.

  The two women, Benedict and Farrell, positively identified as being on the scene. Benedict—works with a knife— almost certainly the killer of Hickey. Theodore Marek, calling, clearly shaken, demanding details on the people involved, asking if the two who drove off had been identified. Marek, according to Scholl’s readout, had called from Sur La Mer.

  Scholl knew little about Sur La Mer. Only that he was to respect, misdirect, or quash any inquiries that came through his office. He presumed it to be either the center of Marek' s drug operations or a sort of convention center for art forgers. Maybe Marek's son was the bleeder. Maybe he's hiding out there.

  The final shock, or series of them, came late that night. A call from someone named Lesko, denying that the woman killed Hickey, claiming that the Campus Killer did it, offering to catch and deliver him in return for certain guarantees. Also asking about Sur La Mer. And acknowledging that this man, Bannerman, was in town.

  Scholl had never heard of Bannerman—Mama's Boy— before that morning. But Washington certainly knew him. A renegade contract agent, apparently. And very possibly a traitor judging by his involvement with the KGB. But one with “friends” in the State Department. Probably people he's compromised.

  As for that nonsense about the Campus Killer, thought Scholl, it was absurd on its face. Too many inconsistencies. For one thing, no hair was taken. For another, Hickey was hardly a college girl. He was a tough, even brutal ex-police officer with a gun on his hip and yet he had been subdued and tortured. Scholl could see no way in the world that the Campus Killer, thought to be a young man of less than average height, could have done that by himself. Those women did it. Probably with the help of their hulking KGB friend.

  And yet that moron, Huff, bought Lesko's story.

  Washington was also buying it although their main concern seemed to be this Bannerman’ s possible intentions toward Sur La Mer. Marek, no doubt, had friends of his own in government.

  What, Scholl wondered, was really going on here?

  His best guess was that Marek had ordered the Benedict girl killed. He had no idea why. Perhaps she was one of his couriers. Tried to steal from him. Perhaps the Fenerty girl was another. That would make sense. She might know, therefore, who was likely to be given the job of killing Lisa Benedict.

  Marek, in any case, gave the job to Hickey. The girl's sister returned the favor. Peter Marek and another man— Harry Bunce, like as not—apparently walked in on her. Perhaps Hickey had phoned them for help. Perhaps he spotted Carla Benedict and the Russian as they pulled up in that Chevrolet. Or perhaps Peter merely blundered onto the scene as the Russian was ransacking Hickey's apartment.

  Regardless.

  The key, from his point of view, was that Theodore Marek had, in a rare lapse, left a trail leading back to himself. This Campus Killer business was a ruse aimed at giving Carla Benedict and friends an unimpeded shot at him.

  So be it.

  Scholl would cooperate with Huff. Up to a point. He had lifted his surveillance of the Beverly Hills Hotel and of the Benedict house in Sherman Oaks. He'd had a tracking device wired to that woman's rented Chevrolet in case she was foolish enough to recover it. He would give those people all the slack they needed until he was sure where they were holed up.

  He was almost sure already. Thanks to the Fenerty girl.

  Then he would tell Marek. And sit back and watch. While they slaughtered each other.

  38

  The clock at his bedside read a quarter past four.

  Bannerman, wrapped in a bed sheet, his expression grim, made notes on a telephone pad as he played, for the second time, Molly's recording of her conversation with DiDi Fenerty.

  Susan had slipped into Bannerman’s shirt when Molly knocked. Now, listening to the tape, she searched his garment bag for a fresh one so that he could dress. They would not be going back to bed. Not with Carla missing.

  Her ring raked across something hard within the folds of the hanging bag. She traced her fingers over it, instantly recognizing the shape of an automatic pistol in a belt-clip holster. She was withdrawing her hand when she felt a second weapon, smaller than the first, no holster.

  Billy, she realized, must have quietly stashed them when he stopped by earlier. It surprised her that there were two. She wondered if Billy had taken it on himself to see that she was armed as well. She doubted it. Paul might have finally decided to treat her as a grown-up. But it was not the time to ask. not the time to ask. He was concerned about Carla. And he had just been given the name of the man who'd ordered the murder of her sister.

  “You called her from this hotel?” Bannerman asked Molly.

  ”I made several calls. Yes.”

  Bannerman chewed his lip.

  ”A wire,” Molly told him, “didn't seem likely. Not this soon and not on DiDi's phone.” She pointed to her tape machine. “That conversation, at least, was on a clean line.”

  Bannerman arched one eye.

  ”I know,” she said. ''It wasn't smart.”

  Susan thought she understood. If DiDi's phone had been wired, the call from the man who gave her those names would have already been intercepted. Having DiDi repeat them over a clean line had been of little use. A part of Susan was glad to see that Molly was human.

  Bannerman chose not to press the point in front of Susan. He gestured as if to say that the damage, if any, was already done. He tapped his notepad. “Could Carla have these names?”

  “How?” Molly tossed her hands. “DiDi hasn't heard from her. And I've been with her all this time.”

  “Where else might she have gone?”

  A shrug. ”I called the Beverly
Hills. If she's there, she's not answering. I just tried her father. He hasn't seen her either but Claude, if you believe it, called him a couple of hours ago. Claude's looking for her too.”

  Bannerman stared. “Carla’s father knows about Claude?”

  She shook her head. “He thinks it was just some friend of Lisa's. But he's worried about Carla. He thinks she killed Hickey and he's been seeing cars with men in them.”

  Probably detectives, thought Bannerman, although they should have been pulled by now if Lesko made the deal. His eye fell to the names on his notepad. It was obvious, he realized, that someone, possibly at Sur La Mer, wanted Carla to bloody the names on that list. Perhaps that same someone had played it both ways, told those names that she'd be coming. He was getting a bad feeling about this.

  “How did Carla leave here? Did she take Yuri's car?”

  Molly shook her head. “Lesko has it. He's still not back.”

  Bannerman checked his watch. He was beginning to get a bad feeling about that as well when Molly saw a wash of headlights in the parking lot outside. She stepped to the window. “Here he is now,” she said.

  Bannerman waited until he heard the slam of a car door. He flicked his lamp on and off three times. “He sees us,” said Molly.

  Susan tossed clean socks and a laundered shirt to Bannerman. She stripped off his old one and dressed quickly, choosing tan slacks and a green blouse. Bannerman, finding his trousers, asked Molly to go and wake Billy.

  “Tell him I want him outside with John Waldo,” he said. “We just might have visitors. But you go back to your room. Sit tight in case Carla shows. Call the Fenerty girl. You might as well give her your number in case she has any more mystery callers.”

  Bannerman picked up the phone and dialed. He turned his head. As good a time as any, thought Susan. She reached into his garment bag and found the smaller of the two automatics. She dropped it into her purse. She moved to the bed, straightening it, hiding the baby powder. Her father was funny about such things.

  Bannerman was talking to Anton Zivic. He read the names from his notepad, then listened in silence for a minute or two. He thanked Zivic and replaced the phone.

  Molly had left the door ajar. Susan could hear her father in the corridor in muffled conversation with Molly. She heard him say, “In a minute.” He walked past in the direction of his own room. Susan ran a quick brush through her hair.

  “Anton's heard of Marek,” Bannerman said behind her. “There are rumors that he deals in stolen art. He'll see what else he can find out. In the meantime,” Bannerman made a face, “Roger Clew has been trying to reach me.”

  Susan turned. “After a year?”

  Bannerman nodded.

  “In connection with this?”

  Bannerman shrugged. “One wonders. But he wouldn't say.”

  She saw that his eyes, normally soft, had taken a curious shine. They were going back in time, she imagined, over the years of his relationship with an increasingly cynical Roger who had, in the end, played one game too many. But those eyes, right now, seemed to be lingering on her purse. She searched them for any sign that he had seen her take the gun. She considered mentioning it. She would when they were alone again.

  He noticed that she was studying him. The eyes narrowed slightly and he cocked his head. She had a guilty feeling that he was trying to read her mind.

  “Nothing,” she shrugged dismissively. ”I just like watching you.”

  That made him self-conscious. It always did.

  “You're so controlled,” she said. ”I admire that.”

  She didn't really. Women never did. But the flattery distracted him.

  “I'm in control?” He slipped into his shoes. “You mean now?”

  “You're not exactly flipping out.”

  Bannerman almost laughed. He began counting on his fingers. “We have Carla, who is not in control, missing. We have her pal, the serial killer, out looking for her and even having a chat with her father. We have Molly, who should know better, having compromised our location. We have two different anonymous callers, one of whom wants us to go kill an art dealer. We have two shooters who . . .”

  The telephone rang.

  Control.

  Not to mention Sur La Mer, an angry KGB colonel and what, if anything, Roger Clew has to do with all this.

  Bannerman picked up the phone and listened. Susan thought she heard a soft groan.

  “Okay,” he told Molly. “Go find John Waldo. See what he knows. Then call that girl.” He replaced the receiver, sighing deeply.

  “Billy's gone too,” he said.

  Lesko, his own eyes shining, appeared in the doorway.

  “And where the hell's Elena?” he demanded.

  Sumner Dommerich had fallen asleep.

  When he woke, to banging doors and flashing lights, he thought he had been caught. Two police cars blocked him in. He almost screamed. He wasn't ready yet.

  But his head cleared and he saw that they were there with an ambulance. Two men with blood on them were helped out of it. One onto a Guerney, the other able to walk but wearing handcuffs. He heard “bar fight” and “stab wounds'' and “‘one more dead at the scene.'' Normal emergency room stuff.

  Lesko came out. He had the pizza box in his hand. He took another slice out of it and gave the rest to one of the cops. It seemed, to Dommerich, like something only another policeman would do. And he wasn't bothered by the blood. He said, “Hang in there,” then he walked to the Ford and climbed in.

  Dommerich had been right about the Ford. But it didn't help now. He couldn't get out. All he could do was sit low until Lesko pulled away and then ask one of the cops to move his car.

  That's what he did. But this other cop saw his pizza hat and asked him if he had any more. Dommerich gave him the sausage pizza that Lesko didn't want. It was almost cold. Dommerich would have thrown it out anyway.

  From what he could see, the Ford had turned north on Vermont. Dommerich raced after him. He caught up with one car, then another, but neither was the Ford. There wasn't much traffic. All he could see up ahead were trucks. He knew that Lesko must have turned off.

  In a way it was just as well. You can't go zooming up behind people at night and expect them not to notice. Especially one who might be a cop.

  Dommerich was tempted to go home. He had almost no chance of finding the Ford. It could have gone anywhere.

  His one slim hope was that Lesko might be headed for the Beverly Hills Hotel. He realized that it was almost no hope at all but it was all he could think of to try. Anyway, maybe Carla would be back there by now and he wouldn't need Lesko to find her. Dommerich made a U-turn, then went west on Beverly Boulevard.

  The Ford wasn't there. Neither was Carla. Bungalow 6 was still dark except for the bathroom and he could see a corner of the note he'd left under the door. Dommerich decided that he would try to use his psychic powers.

  He knew he had some. Lots of times, they would speak to him. Like when he knew which girls were rotten even if they didn't laugh at him. Like when they said, yesterday, that he should go watch Lisa's apartment. Like when they told him to go to Queen of Angels in the first place. They wouldn't have bothered, he realized, if all they were going to do was show him Lesko and then let Lesko get away without leading him to Carla.

  He listened for a voice.

  He heard lots of them.

  That was the trouble with voices. One said go look for her up in Benedict Canyon, probably just because her name is Benedict. A stupid one said go to a movie.

  But one said maybe she went home.

  And maybe she did.

  Her father sounded like he wanted her to. He probably left the back door open. Tell her to come the back way, is what he said.

  It wouldn't hurt to go look. Except he was really tired.

  He'd find some coffee on the way.

  All Carla had intended was to take a walk.

  She'd slept poorly, dreaming of her sister. In the dream that woke her, Lisa w
as afraid. She was running from someone. Carla ran after her, calling to her, but Lisa wouldn't stop. Suddenly there was her father. He caught Lisa. He held her until Carla could reach them. And Lisa cringed.

  “She won't hurt you,” her father said. “She wouldn't hurt you for the world.”

  Then Carla saw her sister's face and she realized that Lisa was running from her. She was pointing at Carla's hand. Carla looked down. The hand held a kitchen knife. Carla woke up crying.

  She realized that the dream made no sense. That Lisa was never, for a minute, afraid of her. Her father's part, confirming that, made no sense either. Carla remembered his face. He was actually taking her side. And she had never, except once, used a kitchen knife.

  The dream wouldn't fade. The tears kept coming. She thought of waking Molly but decided against it. Molly would want to stay up with her, rub her back or something, and remind her of all those things Lisa had told her computer about her wonderful sister. That would only make it worse.

  She had dressed quietly and slipped into the corridor. She passed Lesko and Elena's room, then hesitated. Through the door she could hear the sound of the television, turned low. She knocked softly, not really knowing why, and instantly regretted it. But there was no answer. She continued down the corridor, almost reaching the stairs when Elena softly called her name.

  Elena couldn't sleep either. Jet lag. Lesko was still out. She saw Carla's swollen eyes and asked that she come and sit. Carla entered the room and pretended not to notice as Elena lowered the hammer of her Browning to half-cock and slipped the pistol back under her pillow. Elena had clearly heard the knock.

  Carla was in no mood for television. She needed to talk. She needed some air. Elena insisted on joining her, going first to her closet for a comfortable pair of shoes.

  Even the parking lot seemed confining. Carla steered Elena toward Wilshire Boulevard, then turned in the direction of the UCLA campus. They had walked only a few yards, mostly in silence, when a car exited the parking lot behind them, blinked its headlights, and pulled to the curb in their path. Elena stiffened. Carla touched her arm. It's all right, she said. She recognized John Waldo. She explained his role, sort of a guardian angel with an Ingram. Wants to make sure she's not planning a solo visit to this Sur La Mer place.