Bannerman's Law

by John R. Maxim

  “Are you?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  Waldo saw the swelling of Carla's eyes and he saw Elena nod in agreement when she promised that they would not go far. Just girl talk. She needed it. No reason to wake Paul.

  Waldo was not reassured. He'd known Carla too long. “Are you armed?” he asked.

  She shook her head, then gestured toward his trunk. “Maybe I should be,” she said.

  “Better I wake up Billy,” he told her. “Better he tags along.”

  Carla knew that it was useless to argue. And she didn't mind Billy. He would hang back, following in a car, although she couldn't help wondering what a passing police cruiser would think if they saw Bannerman's monster keeping pace behind two small women at night. She agreed to wait inside the lobby doors until she saw Billy follow him outside.

  “You are not to be given a weapon?” Elena asked her.

  “When I need one. Sure.”

  Elena smiled. ”I have one. Is it still under my pillow?”

  Carla hesitated, then sighed. She shook her head.

  Elena opened the clasp of her purse. She left it that way, saying nothing, watching the street, until she felt the weight of the Browning. She closed the purse over it.

  They strolled, Billy following, for twenty minutes.

  “Tell me about her,” Elena had urged.

  And Carla did. She told her about the dream and how it lied. She told of her father and how he had turned his back on her. They reached the UCLA campus. Carla welcomed a change of subject. She began naming the buildings.

  ”I went to school here,” she said. “For two years, anyway.”

  ”A lovely campus,” Elena acknowledged.

  “It's also free. My first choice was Berkeley. That's where the action was. But old George wouldn't spring for the tuition.”

  Elena glanced at her surroundings. “It does not seem that you were deprived.”

  “Yeah,” Carla said distantly. ”I found the action, all right”

  It was not what Elena meant. “You should try to make peace with your father,” she said, aware that she was intruding. “For your own sake, if not for his.”

  Carla snorted. “And say what? No hard feelings?”

  “If that will make a beginning.”

  “He doesn't even like me, Elena.”

  “Perhaps. But now he will need you.”

  Carla closed her eyes. “Your line was supposed to be, Like you? He loves you. How could any father not love his daughter?”

  ”I am not so naive, Carla.”

  “It wouldn't kill you to fake it.”

  Elena took her arm. “You are ... difficult to like. But so was I once.”

  “What? You mean by Lesko?”

  “He despised me.”

  Carla laughed. “Shows how fucking much you know.”

  ”I was mistaken?”

  “Lesko hated Lesko. Most of all because you popped his partner and he still couldn't stop thinking about you.”

  “Then perhaps you are also . . .”

  “I'm not.”

  “Would you like me to call on him? Speak to him?”

  “No. Anyway, what's this to you?”

  “The truth? You believe that without your sister you have nothing. This is a dangerous state of mind. It is why you have no weapon.”

  “And because I don't hate Claude, right? If you talked to the poor son of a bitch, you wouldn't . . .”

  “Where is your home? Is it far?”

  “It's four in the morning, Elena.”

  “Ah. Yes. He is probably sedated.”

  “George Benedict? He likes suffering too much.”

  “Call him, then. Tell him he is in your thoughts.”

  “He'll hang up on me. He wouldn't have let me in the house if I hadn't brought Molly.”

  “Call him. This time you will bring me.”

  39

  Harry Bunce, Felix driving, had made his second pass of the Benedict house. He thought he saw some curtains move. He slid lower in his seat.

  “Take the next right,” he told the Mexican. “Check out the back streets.” With luck, thought Bunce, he might see something that would force them to back off.

  Felix grumbled but he obeyed.

  The Mexican was excited. He liked night work. He even had a special black outfit, a long Jap knife, and this dumb Ninja hat that covered everything but his eyes. Bunce had made him take it off. They were supposed to look like cops, for Christ's sake. He had also tried to talk Marek out of this.

  With Marek, arguing was the wrong approach. The way to change Marek's mind was to agree with him. Then he'd listen to your reasons and tell you how dumb they are. But sometimes they'd make him think. Instead, Bunce had tried to tell him why snatching the girl's father was a bad idea. For openers, what's the point?

  Even if it messes up the head of the one who sliced Hickey, there's still the KGB, God knows where and how many, and why would they give a shit? Second, you'd have to kill the guy because once you let him go, his psycho daughter and her friends would be more pissed off than ever. Third, kidnapping is a federal crime. You don't have to cross a state line. Even thinking about it is a conspiracy and that's enough to bring in the FBI.

  This last argument is what convinced Marek that he couldn't lose. Marek owned an FBI agent like he owned a couple of judges. Bunce never knew which one except that he must have had some time in grade. He would put himself in charge of the investigation, says Marek, and his office would end up leaking that the KGB did it.

  Bunce saw nothing on the back streets. No sign of a surveillance.

  Nor could he see the Benedict house from the rear. There was a grade school in back of it, and then some trees in between. He could make out a path through the trees but there was no telling where it led.

  Might as well get this over with, he decided. The best way was the simplest. Pull into the driveway, ring the bell, say he's police, and smack the guy before his eyes can focus. The car belonged to Felix but the plates were off another car back in the airport parking lot. The backseat, this time, had been covered with a tarp from Felix's garage. Bunce fished a blackjack from his pocket and readied a roll of packing tape. “Let's do it,” he told the Mexican.

  But now there were lights in the Benedict house. And blinds were being drawn, all across the front. He told Felix to keep going.

  “We don't have all night,” the Mexican groused.

  “Just hold your water.”

  It was almost five. The black sky had begun fading into gray. And Felix was right. Soon other lights would be turning on. Newspaper and milk deliveries would start. People walking dogs and jogging. He should get this done now. But the pulling of those blinds had bothered him. It was done, he thought, a bit too quickly. And who pulls the blinds on every room?

  “Shut off your lights,” he said. “Turn around.” Bunce pointed to a spot deep in the shadow of several large trees. “Park over there.”

  He handed Felix his cigarette lighter and told him he could go play Ninja now. Check out the house on foot. Try to look in, listen at windows, make sure the father is alone, then flash the lighter if it's clear.

  Felix was happy again. He pulled the hat from under his sweater and, first switching off the roof light, slid quietly from the car.

  Bunce moved to the driver's seat, stifling a yawn. In that moment he lost sight of Felix. Then a hedge near the Benedict house appeared to bulge slightly and a shadow separated from it. No sound. He had to admit that the Mexican wasn't bad. He'd cut at least one throat for Marek already. Probably yelling Banzai! as he ripped. Silly shit like that.

  Headlights appeared in Bunce's rearview mirror. They approached slowly, haltingly. Bunce lowered himself. The car was a small one, too small to be official, and it had something tied to its roof. It paused at the intersection directly behind him and the driver flicked on his high-beams as if trying to read the street signs. It came forward, passing him, he saw the triangular pizza sign and then
. . .

  Shit!

  It was backing up.

  Billy McHugh had agreed to drive them.

  Carla told him, after she called, that her father was overcome with grief. That he was talking suicide. Elena thought the lie unnecessary, and facile, but she did not contradict it. The point, she assumed, was to get there before she changed her mind. Or to keep Billy from pausing to check with Bannerman.

  Billy had taken them to a phone where Elena dialed the number of the Benedict house. George Benedict answered. He needed no softening. He was more than will

  ing, even anxious, to hear his daughter's voice and to know that she was safe.

  Yes, Carla told him, the man in Burbank had apparently killed Lisa. But now, she assured him, she did not kill Hickey.

  “Oh,” was his response. ”I see.”

  Carla blinked. He did not seem relieved to hear it.

  An awkward silence.

  “Well,” she had asked, “how are you holding up?”

  “I've been . . . your friends have been . . . worried about you.”

  “What friends?”

  “Molly. The one you brought. She called a while ago.”

  Damn. “Who else?”

  “Someone named Claude, a friend of Lisa's, actually. But he asked for you.”

  “Did he.. say anything else?”

  “Only that he'd help you. I gave him a message for you. I told him if you should choose to come here, you should come the back way.”

  “How does it look now. Outside, I mean?”

  “The FBI was out there earlier. They've gone now.”

  “I'll come by around noon. Are we still on for lunch?”

  ”Er . . . sure.”

  They reached Sherman Oaks in thirty minutes.

  George Benedict realized that the business about lunch was a ruse but he was still not sure that she was coming directly. He unlocked the sliding glass door that led to his backyard and sat in darkness waiting.

  A car passed the house. He only glimpsed its shape. Minutes later, it came again, or one much Like it. This time he parted the curtains. Two figures inside. They seemed small enough. He felt sure that it was Carla and the woman named Elena.

  He returned to the sliding doors and stood watching the break in the stand of trees that separated his yard from the school property. It seemed that only seconds had passed when he saw movement. One slender form, and then another in a skirt. He knew Carla at once. She moved like a cat. Always had.

  He switched on a lamp so that she could see her way. In a wink, Carla was gone. The other woman, not as quick, faded back into the trees. Benedict thought he understood. He moved to the front and began drawing blinds. He had closed the last of them when the light flicked off behind him.

  “Carla?” he called softly. Then his heart quickened.

  A shadow, twice his size, was passing through the sliding doors. Going out. He'd been inside.

  “It's okay.” He heard Carla's voice. “He's with me.”

  He could see her now. She was at the door, waving the other woman forward. “Where are the curtains?” she asked.

  ”Uh . . . being cleaned.”

  “Let's talk in the kitchen.”

  “Sir?”

  The driver had reached to roll his window down.

  Bunce groaned inwardly. Some kid. Another dumb hat. Headlights shining toward the Benedict house. But at least Felix was out of sight.

  “Is this Hayworth Avenue?”

  “Haywood. Not Hayworth.”

  “Do you know where Hayworth is?”

  “Next left. Two miles. You can't miss it.” Bunce had no idea. But he wanted those headlights gone.

  ”Oh. Thank you.” Dommerich shifted into drive.

  “Urn . . . hey, kid.” Bunce had begun to wonder.

  “Yes sir?”

  “Who orders pizza this time of night?”

  Dommerich glanced at his order pad and shrugged. ”I don't know. Pizza's good any time.”

  “Yeah. Never mind.”

  “You want a coupon?”

  ”A what?”

  “Three dollars off.”

  “Just beat it, okay? I'm trying to sleep here.”

  “Sorry.”

  The Volkswagen rolled forward, hesitated, then cut toward the curb and stopped. Bunce snarled through his teeth. But at least the kid shut off his headlights. Now he had a little flashlight. He was reaching into the back, rummaging for something.

  Christ. He was getting out of the car.

  “Look . . . kid . . .”

  “Could you just show me?” Dommerich held a large Hagstrom map, one hand underneath it, the other pointing to the streets of Sherman Oaks.

  “Just get the fuck out of . . .”

  Bunce's words ended in a squawk. His hands, too late, rose to protect his throat. He felt the wetness, and the pain, and he tried to shout for Felix. Bubbles of air blew through his fingers.

  He saw the knife. Again, too late. He saw it flash between his elbows and he felt a paralyzing coldness in his chest. He saw a hand, in a clear plastic glove, his chest spitting blood onto it as it pried at his ribs. He tried to grab the hand. It was too slippery. The knife withdrew and struck again, piercing his own hand, pinning it to his chest. Bunce flailed with the other, first at the knife and then at the horn on his steering wheel but the hand seemed to have no will.

  The knife pulled free. It made a sucking sound. He felt a hand at his shoulder, pushing him sideways. The door to the backseat opened. The kid was coming in that way. A part of Bunce's brain wondered why but now he felt the plastic tarp being thrown over his chest and head and the kid was climbing on top of it.

  A light blinded him. That flashlight. It moved from one eye to the other and then to his throat. Like a doctor would do. The kid seemed satisfied.

  “You know who I am?” Bunce heard him ask.

  40

  “Hold on a minute,” Scholl said to Theodore Marek. “She's getting another call.”

  As Marek waited, seething, on the other end of the line, Scholl brought the headphone to his ear. He was alone with the equipment. He had sent his technician for coffee.

  “Miss Fenerty?” Male voice. Deep. Trace of accent.

  “This is she.” Voice sleepy.

  Scholl's readout showed a Pasadena exchange.

  ”I called last evening. You've had no difficulty, I take it.”

  “Except for no sleep. Who are you, anyway?”

  “I'm a friend. Truly. Do you know where the ladies can be reached? Say yes or no. No more.''

  ' ‘Maybe.''

  “Can you get a message to them?”

  ' ‘Maybe.''

  ' ‘Please write down these names.''

  Scholl listened, in considerable surprise, as the caller gave essentially the same- information contained in the call he'd just played for Theodore Marek. Even the details of Marek's past life, which were news to Scholl and which Marek, not convincingly, ridiculed. All that was missing was the charge that it was Marek who ordered the death of Lisa Benedict.

  “They . . . already know this.''

  A pause. “May I ask how?”

  “Hey . . . look. You're a voice on the telephone. Why should I. . .”

  “I am Axel Streicher.'' He spelled it.

  A silence.

  “Your two friends will know the name. Tell them that I said not to waste time on Sur La Mer. Shall I spell that?”

  “I've heard of it. What if they ask why?”

  “The man who strangled Lisa Benedict is dead. Before she died, Lisa took his left eye. Before this man died, my wife took his right eye. No one who so much as touched her is still alive. Tell Carla that she has my word on it.”

  Sounds of weeping. Sobbing. Then a choked, “I'm sorry.”

  “'I know that she was your friend.''

  “Why?” Regaining control. ”I mean, why Lisa?”

  “A stupid man did a stupid thing. That is the long and he short of it. Tell Carla that she wi
ll find no motive`beyond what I have said.''

  “The other man said she died because she found out that Marek was Ordynsky.''

  A hesitation. “What other man?”

  “Listen . . . I don 't think I. . . ”

  “Never mind. I can guess.''

  A pause. Then, her voice stronger, “Sur La Mer. That's where she died, isn't it?”

  “Yes.”

  ' ‘And you were there.''

  ' ‘Not as she died. I would have stopped it.''

  A longer silence. Then, “Nellie Dameon.” Just that. The name.

  “Hmmpf.” A sound of ... surprise? More like approval. “What about her, Miss Fenerty?”

  “She can speak, can't she?”

  “Can and does, Miss Fenerty. Nellie Dameon speaks very well indeed.”

  41

  “Do you?”

  Bunce tried to suck air. His head heaved with the effort. Dommerich took it to mean no.

  ”I know you, though,” he said.

  What struck Harry Bunce, even through his pain, was the flatness, the lifelessness of the voice.

  But the pain was unbearable. The kid was not very big but his full weight, knees and all, was on Bunce's chest now filling up with blood. Bunce couldn't speak.

  ”I saw you leave Hickey's. You thought Carla cut him didn't you.”

  A rush of bubbles.

  “So now you're here to hurt her.”

  Bunce tried to shake his head. The knife punctured his chin, stopping it. He went rigid. In his head he saw Hickey, grinning up at him. And those eyes. The look of a man who died insane. And Bunce understood. This kid was saying he did it.

  Dommerich saw that he knew. “Uh-huh. It was me.”

  Bunce tried again to shake his head, denying not the truth of it but the knowledge that it was happening to him as well. His brain screamed. This kid. The real Campus Killer? How the fuck could that be?

  He knew that he was finished. He almost welcomed death, if only it came quickly so that the pain would stop. But it wasn't right. He had gone to kill Hickey himself. And he wasn't after this Carla. He didn't even want to be here. He wanted to say these things so this kid would not cut him again.