Bannerman's Law
Page 44
“Well, at least I was right about Scholl.''
“When?”
“When they stopped your car. I knew he was the guy.''
“David, you never said a word.”'
”I would have if you weren't sure. See? I give you credit. Try it sometime, Lesko.”
Lesko grunted.
“Anyway, in this whole thing, not one person was ever a hundred percent right about anything.''
“I know.''
“In fact, the only one who knew what he was doing was that Dommerich kid. And things only made sense to him because he was nuts.''
This was another thing that bothered Lesko. A part of him had been rooting for that kid. Another part felt sorry for him. “David? How did he get away with it? For so long, I mean.''
“Now you're asking my opinion?”
' ‘Forget it.''
“The answer is who looks at pizza deliverers? If you see a stranger out in the hall, you wonder. If he's wearing a pizza hat, you don't.''
“I guess. Yeah.''
“Even if the cops warn you, watch out for strangers, who'd worry about a pizza kid if he stopped and asked for directions?”
“Yeah. Right.”
“In college towns, lots of girls hitch rides back to the campus with pizza kids because they know that's where they're headed.”
This had never occurred to Lesko. He hated it when that happened. “David, damn it, how would you know that?”
“It just figures. Or the pizza kid pulls up to some girl and tells her she shouldn't be out walking alone with this nut on the loose. He's only a pizza kid, right? So she hops in.''
“Yeah.”
And the kid knew it, thought Lesko. Poor sick bastard. People probably looked right through him all his life. With the hat on, they probably never even saw him.
Lesko wondered if he'd ever feel the same about ordering pizza.
57
Carla gave the eulogy.
She stood before a packed church, one arm around her father. Yesterday, he'd rushed to her side. Today he couldn't talk. He just clinged to her.
Carla held together reasonably well but she was taking care not to look at the closed white casket in the center aisle.
She told what Lisa meant to her, how Lisa had embodied almost all that was good and decent and loving in her life. George Benedict began to cry. Carla actually kissed his hand.
There must have been three hundred people in the church. About half were students from USC. Kevin the weightlifter in a stretched-out suit. DiDi Fenerty came with her parents but she sat with Molly. The bodyguards were there. They weren't needed. They just wanted to come.
The other half consisted of neighbors, friends from out of town, two carloads of Russians, probably all KGB, and the contingent from Westport, which had grown to fourteen. Andy Huff came with several detectives. He sat with Lesko and Elena. Roger Clew arrived late and stood, uncomfortably, in the rear until Bannerman welcomed him with a nod and motioned him to a pew. John Waldo wandered outside, looking in through the doors occasionally.
DiDi had tried to say a few words. She couldn't finish. Molly had to go up and read the rest from DiDi's notes.
Susan, her expression glazed, wept quietly throughout. Bannerman held her hand. He knew that not all the tears were for Lisa.
The service aside, she seemed much better today. A long talk with Elena had helped. Then he'd taken her to the Venice beach so that she could feel life and warmth all around her. He made her eat something and urged her not to watch the news. She did anyway.
One program said that a journal had been found. It recorded the six college girl murders and a total of ten others, including several men, over a five-year period, his parents being the first. The final entry had been made on the last day of his life. It mentioned Hickey by name. It described Harry Bunce.
Hearing all this helped Susan after all. It helped her come to terms with having put him out of his misery. God knows how many future victims were spared.
They all, except Carla, spent the night at Belkin's safe house where no reporter could find them. Carla stayed at her father's house.
Carla would not be coming back, she told Bannerman. Not right away. She would stay with her father for a while. He'd told her that Yuri was welcome there as well, after he was discharged from the hospital, to convalesce until he was able to travel.
Then, she thought, she would take him home. Back to Bern, where he was stationed. Leo Belkin had already given permission. She said there was a girl, named Maria, who lived in Zurich. She played the cello. Yuri was in love with her. Carla said she wanted to go and visit her, try to help things along. Elena seemed to think she knew the girl. Or of her. A young widow, husband killed in a
training accident, left with an infant daughter. Elena was sure she had seen her play. She would arrange an introduction, perhaps lunch at her villa, where Carla would stay when she comes to Zurich.
John Waldo slipped into the church during the singing of a hymn. The last pew on the right was empty. He found himself standing directly behind Roger Clew.
This gave him dark thoughts. He moved farther to his right. He could also see better now, because he was standing behind a little old lady. She heard him fumbling with the hymnal. She dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief, then turned to show him the correct page. She smiled. Nice lady, he thought. Nice face.
The couple sitting with her glanced back, first the man, then the woman. Waldo might not have noticed except that the man, big guy, had nudged the woman.
The man looked familiar.
Oh, yeah.
The last time Waldo saw him, he was a doctor. Wore glasses. Pipe in his mouth. Except he looked familiar then, too. Waldo noticed a fairly recent scar behind his ear. Another one under the jawline.
The hymn ended and they sat. The priest was getting communion ready. People started whispering to each other. It must be, thought Waldo, that you don't have to be quiet now. He leaned forward.
“Hi,” he said.
The man smiled and nodded, keeping his eyes on the altar.
“You remind me of someone,” said Waldo.
“George Bancroft,” said the old lady, turning.
“Who?”
“George Bancroft,” she said softly. “The actor.”
“Oh, yeah,” he whispered. “Gangster movies. Years ago.”
The old lady reminded him of someone, too. She was probably on that bus where they thought he was one of the patients. That still bothered him. He leaned forward again toward the lady.
“Do I look real old to you?” he asked.
She pursed her lips. “Not so very.”
“How old? Make a guess.”
Nellie studied him. “Not more than eighty, I think. More like seventy-five?”
Waldo grunted. He was nowhere near that.
Not real near.
That did it, he thought. He knew what he was going to do. He was going to get a face-lift.
They could laugh at him if they wanted. But lots of men do it. This big guy did it, and now he looks like an actor.
He would tell Bannerman that he wants to stick around for a while. Get it done here, because Los Angeles is probably where all the best cutters are. Maybe talk Billy into doing it, too. McHugh's not getting any prettier.
Outside, after church, he would ask this guy for the name of his cutter and how much it costs. Maybe he'd bring Bannerman over. Get this guy to help him tell Bannerman why it's a good idea.
Yes.
That's exactly what he'd do.
End
Praise for John R. Maxim
Maxim knows how to pull his readers in.”
Chicago Tribune
“No one does better characterization
or plotting than Maxim.”
Linda Howard
”A page-turner . . . Readers may need to take
blood pressure pills.” (The Shadow Box)
People Magazine
“Maxim does a great j
ob. An intriguing thriller that keeps you guessing until the end.” (Haven)
Providence Journal-Bulletin
“This intelligent thriller (Mosaic) may be
Maxim's best novel.”
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