“No way,” she raised her chin. “Not this time.”
“You'll be safer at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Take Molly's key.”
Suddenly, Lesko noticed, she folds.
”I need someone there to take calls. Help us coordinate.”
Not a word.
Another thing Lesko noticed was that every time Susan moved, her purse went with her. Usually women plopped them someplace. Not a big thing. He just noticed.
Any other time, it would have been him, not Bannerman, keeping her out of this. But Susan was right here, safe, and Elena wasn't. Maybe Elena was right. Maybe she did fill his plate.
“This Streicher,” Lesko tried to keep his mind busy. “You believe him?”
“Yes.”
“What about that first guy who called? That was who?”
“He might be a man named Dunville. Anyway, the information he gave was the same except for who murdered Lisa and why.”
“What's the same is that they both want you to hit this guy, Marek.”
“The first man certainly does. Streicher knows I have to.”
“What's have to?”
”I can't just react. You know that.”
“Except meanwhile you got half of Washington saying you shouldn't do shit, especially about Sur La Mer, when you weren't going near there in the first place. Not to mention the FBI on our asses, Huff or no Huff.”
Bannerman nodded distantly.
”I had this little cousin when I was a kid,” said Lesko. “I'd go to her house and she'd say don't take any cookies. They're up on that shelf. I didn't even know the damned cookies were there but she knew I'd take some. It was all so she could rat me out.”
A thoughtful stare. Then a smile. From Molly, too.
They were, Lesko realized, trying to imagine him as a kid, getting his ass smacked. So much for parables. Lesko was about to try a more direct approach—such as Bannerman, you schmuck, don 't you smell just a tiny bit of a set-up here?—but the telephone rang.
Bannerman said, “Yes,” and listened.
He mouthed the name Elena.
Theodore Marek needed to calm himself.
Under other circumstances, a visit to his vault would have done it. In the vault there was no night or day. There was only life and beauty. The treasures of centuries. Paintings, rare clocks, and tapestries that once graced the finest homes of prewar Europe. Jeweled daggers once worn by princes. Exquisite chalices and reliquaries from the cathedrals of Minsk and Riga. His wine collection. His coins.
This morning, his vault was a trap.
He could feel it. Something in Scholl's voice when Scholl suggested he bar the door and stay there. Scholl, normally sullen, had seemed entirely too smug.
He had as much as sniffed, recalled Marek, at the denial that he was Tadeusz Ordynsky. Given time, he'll probably start sniffing in earnest. Finding old photographs. Doing computer matchups and the like. Seeking an advantage.
Well ... he has less time than he thinks.
Oh, and Carleton Dunville.
That was his voice on the telephone. No doubt in the world.
Young Carleton might live longer than Scholl. But he'll spend that time begging for death. He'll be given to Felix. Peeled an inch at a time.
The treachery of it.
Worse, the injustice. Laying that girl's murder on the doorstep of an innocent man. Naming Harry and Peter in that other business. Naming Peter, for God's sake. His own flesh and blood. More than likely.
Marek had called Sur La Mer at once. Had spoken to Darby. Told him to wake young Carleton, club him to his knees, then strap him to the table alongside Henry's and wait for Felix to arrive.
But young Carleton was gone. Borrowed Darby's car. The moron gave it to him. Off, he said, for a damage control meeting in Malibu. With Mr. Marek. Another lie. And another arrow pointing to this house.
The call, according to Scholl, came from the airport. The international terminal. A false trail, probably. Scholl's people will track him. Police in six states will be looking for Darby's car, now reported stolen.
And that woman, probably the one named Farrell, had called from the lobby of a Holiday Inn in Brentwood. Scholl seemed doubtful that she was actually staying there. Marek had sent two men to check all the same. Perhaps the two women were staying nearby. Perhaps they'll use that phone again.
He wished Harry would call.
So that he could leave here. Knowing that they had the father.
He'd been tempted to take the Fenerty girl as well. Get her to tell what she knows. At least shut her up. But she seemed to be guarded. And it was better to leave her in place to see who else, for Christ's sake, decides to use her as a conduit to those damned women. Fenerty would keep.
The Streicher call, in some ways, was even more troubling than Carleton's. Streicher is clearly this Weinberg who so reduced the Dunville family. But why would he make that call? It was obvious that he's not in league with this Bannerman crowd after all. And, yet, they do know each other. What did Streicher have to gain? An act of professional courtesy? Absurd.
And most troubling of all, how did he know that Theodore Marek was once Tadeusz Ordynsky? Carleton, the bastard, must have told him. But if so, why had Streicher gone out of his way to exonerate him in the killing of that woman's sister?
Streicher, it seemed, was still in the area. Not much of a run for it. Called from Pasadena. Another lobby of another Holiday Inn.
What was he to make of that?
Does the chain give group rates to assassins? Or, as Scholl suggested, might they have found a way to route their calls through the Holiday Inn reservations network?
It was all too much.
The one bright aspect of the Steicher call ... he swore that those women would find nothing at Sur La Mer. No one left there to punish. No point to a raid.
Marek was grateful. It meant that he would be safer there. With the father as insurance. Lock up the vault and go. As soon as Harry Bunce calls.
What could be taking him so long?
43
Lesko had snatched the receiver from Bannerman’s hand.
But Elena knew better than to say much. Only that all were well. They were visiting the family. There had been difficulties. She asked that Paul, not Lesko, call back when he has a moment.
Bannerman returned the call, recording it, from a credit card phone two blocks away. Lesko, now armed with John Waldo's Ingram, went with him, serving as cover while Waldo shopped. Lesko was distracted to the point of uselessness. Twice, Bannerman had to tell him to keep his eyes on the street.
“Why you and not me?” he asked, walking back.
“She thinks I'm more detached.”
“I'm fine, Goddamn it.”
“You won't be.”
Bannerman paused in the lobby to check for messages. There were none under the name he was using or under Molly's alias. He expected none. He was looking for some sign that a bored night operator had been eavesdropping on calls.
Lesko understood what he was doing. He also realized that Bannerman was taking his time, watching for cracks. Lesko was damned if he would give him the satisfaction.
“Bunce, Harold J.”
They listened to Elena's voice.
“The one still alive is Felix Montoya. They work for a man named Theodore Marek.''
Their identification had come late in her account of the past hour's events. She told of them in orderly sequence. Swiss efficiency, thought Bannerman. Lesko would never have let her get through the story. Bannerman had simply listened, as did Lesko now, saying little. He did not mention that he knew two of those names.
She told of the father finding Bunce, of Bunce's condition, and of the simultaneous attacks by Montoya and a third person, then unknown. Billy had defeated Montoya, waited until he could speak, then questioned him with the aid of a garden tool.
“They were sent by this Marek to take Carla 's father as a hostage. Marek feared that Carla and another woman would be hunting hi
m. When Montoya saw Carla, he decided to finish it here. Me as well. He seems to have confused me with Molly.''
“Does he say that Marek had Lisa killed?”
“He claims that Marek is innocent. He says that Marek knew nothing of Lisa until after her death. Bunce, he says, told him that a man named Dunville killed her.''
“Then why did Marek fear Carla?”
“Montoya does not know.''
A pause. “Was it these two who shot Yuri?”
“Montoya says it was Bunce and one Peter Marek, now dead or dying. They were sent by this Dunville to kill Hickey. Montoya does not know why. He says all Hickey did was dispose of Lisa's body.''
“And you're sure it was Claude who killed Bunce?”
“And very nearly Billy as well. He called later to apologize.''
”I beg your pardon?”
“He called Carla, quite upset, relieved that she was unharmed. It seems that he saw Billy lurking in back of the house and assumed that Billy must have come with Bunce. He tried to cut Billy's throat. When that failed, he ran. Billy could not pursue him.''
Bannerman was speechless. Then, “Did Billy feel that this Claude had . . . special skills? Training?”
“On the contrary, I think.''
In his mind, Bannerman tried to reconcile the timid young man Carla had described with the apparently effortless butchery of two tough and wary men, to say nothing of having survived meeting Billy in the dark.
Elena read his thoughts. “He is more impressive than you know. He told Carla that he followed Bunce and Peter Marek to Sur La Mer. This would seem to confirm what Montoya said.''
“Carla told you he said this?”
She understood. “He did say it, Paul. I was listening.''
“What else did she say to him?”
“She asked if he was well.''
Bannerman frowned but said nothing.
“Paul . . . when he apologized for attacking Billy . . .“·
Bannerman waited.
“He seemed to think Billy was Lesko.''
A thoughtful silence. “Had Carla mentioned Lesko to Claude?”
“She is now putting her father to bed. I will ask.”
“It can wait. Is Bunce still in the garage? With his car?''
“Yes.”
' ‘Thank you, Elena. Put Billy on.''
The recording ended abruptly.
Bannerman carrying one small overnight bag, escorted Susan to the lobby of the Holiday Inn. He asked the night clerk to call for a taxi, then walked with her to the entrance, stopping inside the glass doors.
“According to Billy,” he told her, “Claude is white, about five seven or eight, high-pitched voice, effeminate gestures. His hair is light, possibly blond, cut short. He's softly built, narrow shoulders, a bit thick around the middle.
Susan nodded, envisioning him.
“Elena disagreed about the voice. She said it's a soft monotone. Youthful.”
“I'm sure I'll know him if he calls.”
“If he does,” Bannerman said firmly, “you'll give him Carla's message and no more. Don't let him think you're keeping him on the phone.”
“Gotcha.”
“And what's the message?”
“Carla says meet her, three o'clock, at the place where she stopped and got out of her car. Where the man following her made a U-turn and ran. She says that only Claude will know where that was.”
“But you don't know. She wouldn't tell you.”
“Bannerman ... I get it. Where will Carla be?”
“Busy. Until three o'clock. Any more questions?”
“Yes. What did you say to Billy?”
”I asked him what Claude looked like.”
“You clicked off the recorder to do that?”
“There were some odds and ends.”
She nodded. “Like what to do with the bodies.”
Bannerman heard her use of the plural. ' ‘Susan, this is not a . . .”
“Don't you dare.” Her eyes blazed.
“Dare what?”
“Don't you fucking tell me this is not a game. Don't you ever say that to me again.”
Bannerman winced. He willed a taxi to appear. None did.
“Those two men were killers, Susan. They wouldn't have thought twice.”
“And it's not just Lisa anymore.”
”I know that too. Don't patronize me.”
Bannerman took a breath. He looked into her eyes.
“In a few days,” he said quietly, “Billy will be making cheeseburgers for you again. He looks forward to your coming in. He likes your smile and the way you touch his arm while you're talking to him.”
Susan blinked.
“This morning he tortured that man, Montoya. By now, he's finished him. He will probably do additional damage to the corpse. Next, he'll hose out George Benedict's garage and then he'll drive the two bodies to the address of the man they worked for.”
Susan wanted to look away. She wouldn't let herself.
“Billy will leave the bodies, parked there, to be discovered. The point of it is terror. The point of terror is advantage. Are you sure you needed to hear this said?”
She tossed her head, ambiguously. But she understood. Corpses and cheeseburgers. Torture and touches.
No, she didn't need to hear it said.
Lesko was alone.
John Waldo had returned with two plastic shopping bags. Molly dumped their contents on the bed, sorted through a pile of tools and black boxes, picked what she wanted and left. Waldo reclaimed his Ingram. Lesko walked down to his room for the pistol Billy had given him. He'd already seen that Elena's was gone.
“Did I tell you?”
Katz. Lesko was in no mood.
“Elena's fine. She did real good, sounds like.”
He pretended not to hear.
“So what's the matter?”
Nothing, he thought. Except that Elena should have talked to him, not Bannerman. Why Bannerman?
“Because she knew you'd go bullshit, that's why. One guy gets sliced like a pepperoni. The guy with him would have sliced Elena. Then this yingyang who does college girls almost gets past Bannerman`s monster. Would you have talked to you?”
Pepperoni.
The word lingered in Lesko's brain. For a moment it seemed to mean something. Then he realized. That pizza he ate. He could still taste it.
“Bannerman 's going to hit this Marek guy.''
Lesko shrugged.
“So? Are we in?”
“Let's see what he has in mind.”
“He's gotta hit Marek because Marek tried to hit one of Bannerman`s own. The guy crossed the line. Then he's gonna hit Dunville because Dunville killed Carla 's sister.''
“Says who? The Montoya guy? Maybe he was trying to save Marek's ass.”
“Out of loyalty, right? While McHugh's turning him into a pork chop? Get real.”
“Anyway, Molly says there are three Dunvilles.''
“Carla wouldn't give a shit if there were ten. She'll let God sort them out.''
“Yeah, well I . . . ”
Pepperoni.
The word flashed by again.
“Hey, David?”
“What?”
“The psycho. The Campus Killer. How could he think that was me out there?”
“In the dark? Why not? Same size, same build.”
“It's not just how I look. He knew my name.”
“Bannerman says maybe Carla mentioned it.''
“And described me?”
Thoughtfully. ”I guess not.”
“Then how else?”
“How about the cops? The whole task force has to know you're in town for the funeral. And Huff was telling stories, right? He would have told them you're big and ugly.”
Lesko shook his head slowly. Katz was saying that the serial killer might be a cop. Or someone close to cops. Like a civilian auxiliary or even a janitor. Stranger things have happened. And it might help explain why the task force had
zilch in the way of progress.
But he kept tasting pepperoni. And his mind went back to Queen of Angels and the kid with the pizzas. Monotone voice. Matched McHugh's description, such as it was.
“That's dumb, Lesko.”
“Why?”
“For openers, nobody knew we were going there and we weren't tailed. Plus, nobody at that hospital knew your name except Belkin and he never said a word until the kid was gone.''
”I said Carla's name. He could have heard it.”
“Then he would have stuck around, tried to follow you home. Did he?”
“No.”
“For the timing to work, he would have had to go directly from the hospital to Sherman Oaks. What would have made him do that?”
Lesko shook his head. “Nothing I said to Irwin.”
“So?”
“Forget it. It's dumb.”
44
John Waldo spotted the two men.
He had decided to watch the front for a while, at least until Molly left. She had, otherwise unobserved. But now, minutes later, he could see Bannerman, just inside, standing with Susan. Waldo squinted. Looked like Susan was giving him some shit.
The two men, in a red Porsche, came up Sunset headed east. What caught his eye was their brake lights. The car had slowed just as it reached the front entrance. Then it went on, turning into the parking lot at the far end. It disappeared behind the hotel. Ten seconds later it was back, now at the near end. It paused just short of the building line. The passenger got out. He had a camera. Careful not to show himself, he aimed the long lens at the main entrance.
Bannerman was out there now, helping Susan into a taxi, shutting the door behind her. The one with the camera lowered it. Bannerman was still in full view but the man seemed to have no interest in him. He returned to the Porsche, jabbing a finger toward the departing taxi. He wanted to follow. The driver seemed reluctant. He argued. The other man barked at him. No question, thought Waldo, that at least one of them was interested in Susan. Or in someone who looked like her from a distance. Like Molly, maybe.
Waldo released his clutch and moved out ahead of the Porsche. He shifted gears noisily so that Bannerman, now walking up Sunset, would notice him.
He stayed with the taxi for a quarter mile, then slowed, straddling both lanes. The Porsche quickly closed the distance, hugging the center line in readiness to pass. Waldo weaved in front of it. He could see the driver cursing, heard the blast of his horn. Waldo drifted right and the Porsche made its move.
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