The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “You know you're a jerk?” Billy stayed with Lesko. They stood, side by side, watching through the glass partition. “You ought to learn who your friends are.”

  Lesko ignored him. He saw one of Susan's hands reach up as if she'd been startled. Bannerman took it. Now he was leaning over her. Kissing her forehead. Touching her cheek. Come on. Get on with it.

  “Helping you, we lost the Doc. He's dead now, too.’*

  The Doc? Oh, yeah. The guy who got knifed and shot up. Funny, he didn't look that badly hurt. But Lesko would never forget what he'd seen Bannerman do. Never hesitated. Never even blinked. Just walked up close and blasted, using his own guy's armpit to muffle the shots. Himself, he couldn't have done that. Not that last part.

  The thing with Elena bothered him as well. Maybe he shouldn't have talked to her the way he did. She tried to help. She did help. He wasn't mad anymore about her whacking him. It was just that he didn't want any of this shit, none of it, near Susan anymore. Maybe she'll come back down, he'll apologize. Maybe he'll write her a letter.

  “Helping you,” Billy turned, poking him as Lesko had poked Bannerman, “even your own friends got shot. You don't care about that either?”

  Lesko was in no mood. His impulse was to swing except this guy was a tank and he knew that another fight would get them all thrown out of there for good. “Wait a minute. What?”

  “The lady who drove you. When she drove back.”

  Lesko brushed the hand away. “What the hell are you talking about?” He suddenly felt ill. In his mind, he saw the young woman who'd stopped them in the corridor. She had a message. And when Bannerman finished with her, when he came back up, his eyes were cold and hard, looking past him like he wasn't there.

  Susan Lesko knew that he was there. And that he was saying good-bye. Very softly. Telling her how sorry he is.

  She tried to blink away the fog. Other faces swam by. Ray and Caroline from the train. But they couldn't have been there. They were dead. She was sure of that. Her father had as much as said so. They can't hurt you anymore, he'd whispered to her. Their deaths were in his eyes.

  “Your father,” Paul was saying, “will stay with you. You're going to be okay. He'll explain why I have to . . .”

  Will he tell me who you are?

  No answer. Not to that. He must not have heard. Now he's saying how he never meant to hurt her. That he did love her. But that it was wrong. A mistake. And it was selfish. He was stepping out of her life. He would never expose her to anything like this again.

  Schmucky lines like those.

  She wanted to tell him to shut up, give her a minute, let her head clear, but the fog was coming back in waves.

  She wanted to say, “Look Bannerman, I'm not stupid. I knew from the start that there was something about you. All those funny looks you get, and I get, from so many people in Westport, as if everybody there knows something I don't. Like, for example, that you're two different people. That's right, isn't it? Like my father, all the time he was a cop. One person while he was working, someone else when he was home. You're that way too.

  “And the way you got close to me. Patient. Taking your time. No wrong moves. Me wondering what a guy like you, sophisticated, world traveler, would see in a twenty-four-year-old cop's daughter from Queens.

  “What is it about you, Bannerman? What is it about Westport?”

  She felt his fingers touching hers. His shadow leaned over her. She felt his lips touching her forehead. They were dry. The shadow backed away. It turned.

  Paul?

  There were things she wanted to say to him. And ask. She couldn't be sure, through the fog, whether she was saying them or not. Or whether he answered. And now he was going. This isn't over, she called. Damn it. You're going to talk to me. Bannerman? But he was gone.

  “Hold it.” Lesko fell in step with him as he hurried down the corridor. “What about Elena?”

  “She's been shot. She's in surgery now.” He kept walking. Billy had gone ahead for their car.

  “Will you wait?” He grabbed Bannerman's arm. “Where is she? How bad?”

  Angrily, Bannerman slashed at Lesko's hand as he turned, his nose an inch from Lesko's. “There are two dead,” he hissed. “They both tried to protect your daughter. One was a friend of mine. The other was Elena's cousin. Lesko, I don't have time for you right now.”

  “You going to her? I'm going with you.”

  “You're staying with Susan. The killing isn't finished.” He pulled an automatic pistol from his hip and jammed it into Lesko's belt. “I'm sending Molly Farrell down here to help you.”

  ”I don't need any of your goddamned women. And don't you tell me what I'm going to—” He didn't finish. Paul seized his lapels and slammed him backward against the wall. Bannerman stepped away, eyes burning, and waited.

  Lesko made no move. His fists formed into clubs and he dropped into a crouch but that much was reflex. Slowly, he straightened. Paul turned away.

  “Bannerman,” Lesko said huskily. “Wait. Wait a second.”

  “Now what?” Paul slowed.

  “Okay. Sometimes I can be a prick where my daughter is concerned. Not just with you. Anyone.”

  Paul listened.

  “On top of that, I was a shit to Elena. I don't even know why, because she was never anything but straight with me. One minute I'm ready to break your back for putting Susan in danger and the next I'm ready to leave her alone here while I run off to Elena. I don't know. I . . .”

  Bannerman's expression softened a shade. Still, he waited.

  “It's okay to send Molly. I appreciate the thought. I'd also appreciate it if you call me when you know something.”

  “You have a place to stay?”

  Lesko shook his head.

  “Use my place. Molly will bring you the key and she'll get you a car.”

  Lesko nodded thanks. “Look ... if you see Elena, if you talk to her, tell her for me ...”

  “Tell her yourself, Lesko.” He walked briskly toward the street at the sound of Billy's horn.

  —11—

  Snow had begun to fall as they drove back to Klosters. The road was becoming slick. But the BMW, its traction improved by the weight of Harold Carmody above its rear wheels, pressed on confidently. Bannerman said little. Billy left him to his thoughts and to his private sorrow. In Klosters, they stopped at a hardware store where Bannerman purchased a hatchet and saw.

  Arriving at his apartment, he found the body of Lurene Carmody bound in a dark blanket and readied for removal. Another blanket, this one for Harold, sat on a chair by the door along with some towels and a bottle of household cleanser for later washing the vinyl floor of the BMW's trunk. Bannerman gathered these and Billy hoisted Lurene Carmody under one arm. Carla Benedict went ahead to see that the way was clear. They proceeded to the garage. Bannerman, with Billy, would dispose of the bodies on their way to the Zurich airport.

  Molly Farrell had packed his belongings, his and Susan's, holding out her toiletries and a change of clothing to be worn when she was able to travel. She would bring these to the hospital.

  It surprised her, somewhat, that he'd asked her to stay with Susan. It was not like him. His normal practice would have been to disperse them all, see them out of Switzerland as quickly as possible and by different routes. If he needed people to stay behind as observers or, as in this case, bodyguards, he would have hired free-lance talent rather than ask one of his own to take on a job that was outside her specialty. A single call, Molly knew, could have had a dozen armed men speeding toward Davos within the hour, probably refusing payment, preferring to be able to say that when Mama's Boy needed reliable people, they were the ones he chose. A more immediate alternative would have been to send Carla or Billy. Both deadly in close quarters. But he'd asked her, an electronics expert, to do the job of a shooter. She questioned him with her eyes and he looked away. Then she understood.

  The BMW, Billy driving, continued northward through thickening snow. They reached Lan
dquart and the autobahn as the sun went down. Twenty kilometers farther, the sky nearly dark, they saw slowed traffic and flashing lights at the place where Elena's car had been overtaken. Billy slowed, staying to the right. The Mercedes was still there, on its side, illuminated by spotlights and by the glow of flares that funneled all traffic into a single lane. Several cars marked Polizei lined the shoulder of the road, their blue lights strobing. Two uniformed policemen paced the shoulder, heads down, searching for shell casings with the aid of a metal detector. But for that, it seemed the scene of an ordinary wet-road accident. Cars crawling past, children pointing, windows being rolled down to ask hushed questions. A silent policeman, shaking his head, not answering, waved them forward.

  ”A cowboy job,” Billy muttered contemptuously.

  ”Uh-huh,” Bannerman nodded, agreeing. It had been hastily conceived. Messy. Too many ways for it to go wrong. Whoever hired them, apparently this Ortirez, either didn't know how to pick the right men or was desperate to see that Elena never lived to make good her threat. Probably both.

  Billy glanced at him. “You okay? You want to talk?”

  ”I need to think. But thank you, Billy.”

  The BMW sped on. In another fifteen minutes, darkness was total. Their headlights picked up signs leading to the Wallensee, a deep freshwater lake that had frozen over during this unusually cold January. Billy flicked his tum signal and climbed the exit ramp.

  The shore of the Walensee was less than two kilometers to the east. A single lane road led to a cluster of boarded-up summer cottages. He backed the BMW between two of them, its rear end a few feet from the shore. There they waited for thirty minutes as their eyes adjusted to the night. Billy nodded that he was ready. Taking the hatchet and saw, he walked out onto the ice where he cut two holes fifty yards from shore and as far apart. Returning to the car and satisfied that they were unobserved, Billy hoisted Harold Carmody over his shoulder and made his way to the larger of the two holes. He slid Harold through the ice, then returned for Lurene. Bannerman, meanwhile, made a bundle of the Carmodys' legitimate travel documents, weighted by their weapons and Billy's as well, and dropped these through the smaller hole. Their false papers, identifying them as Ray and Caroline Bass of Mississippi, had been left in their pockets and purse. Bannerman replaced the disk of sawed ice, then returned to the larger hole, dropped in the tools, and did the same there. He could feel, through his feet, the two bodies gently bumping against the underside of the ice. They would sink within the hour. The holes would freeze solid by morning. Fresh snow would probably cover all traces. If not, any visible signs that remained would look like the work of ice fisherman. The bodies would surface sometime in April. They might never be correctly identified by the police. But the people who lived in his world would know who they were and who put them there. He would see to that. Satisfied, Bannerman returned to the car.

  His mind now clear of that task, Bannerman tried to focus on the conversation he'd had with Urs Brugg and on the action that he must now take as the result of it. But it was difficult. There was the road to watch, ahead and behind. They were vulnerable here and unarmed. And there was Susan. He saw her in his mind. Sitting up by now. Moved to a private room. Hearing, from her father, all the lies she'd been told. But he'd never lied. He wanted her to know that. Perhaps Molly would help her to understand.

  Molly.

  He had no business asking her to stay. He knew it and so did she. What's more, he would soon have need of her back home. A job more suited to her skills. Not that Molly couldn't protect Susan. He had bet his own life on her more than once. It was just that she and Susan knew and liked each other. They'd had lunch together several times, played tennis once. Susan would talk to Molly. Listen to her. Trust her. Maybe.

  He'd considered sending Carla, to keep her mind off Gary Russo. Maybe he should have. Carla would have jumped at the chance to drive the last nail into that relationship. Good riddance, she'd say. You shouldn't have let yourself get involved with an outsider anyway. Especially a reporter whose father is a cop. Especially that cop. Besides, Carla had told him more than once, she's just a kid. You need your ashes hauled, find a hooker or pick one of us. We're all happy to oblige. You won't have to tell us you love us and we won't ask any questions you can't answer. Try telling the truth to that kid, she'll run screaming from the room, first back to daddy and then to her city editor. Next day we'll have the network news all over Westport.

  Bannerman knew she was probably right.

  Even so, he could have choked her.

  Molly, on the other hand, had encouraged him. Susan was young, she said, but not that young. And forty-ish was hardly old. Susan was also bright, thoughtful, energetic, had a good sense of fun and she was kind. Being her father's daughter, she was not likely to be fragile. “She could be good for you,” Molly had said. Could it last? Long-term, probably not. But most relationships end. Why treat this one any differently? Everyone has secrets that they can't or shouldn't share. Get what you can out of it, give what you can, tell her what lies you must for her own sake as well as your own.

  Susan, he hoped, would open up with Molly. People just naturally did. Molly would tell her what she could, help her understand, take some of the edge off whatever her father was saying to her.

  “You're thinking about Susan, right?” Billy asked quietly. They had entered the airport grounds. He was following the signs for rental car retums.

  Bannerman sat up. “Among other things.”

  ”I liked her,” he said. “And you know what? She liked me too, I think.”

  “Everyone likes you, Billy.” Bannerman turned his head toward Westport's favorite bartender. “You've made more friends than any of us.”

  “That's what Molly says.” A shy smile. The statement pleased him. It still felt funny, a little, but he was getting used to it. All those people, every day, getting off the train and coming into Mario's for a drink. Talking to him. Not afraid of him. Telling him jokes. In his whole life, before, he couldn't remember anyone ever telling him a joke. Or talking sports with him. Mostly, before Westport, they'd just stare for a second and then look down. Sometimes they'd get smart with him to show they weren't scared. He'd look back at them, not saying anything, wondering why they were being jerks. Then their spit would dry up. For certain people, it was good they were afraid. But for others, sometimes that hurt his feelings.

  People did like him. He had friends. And it didn't feel funny any more and it didn't cause problems for Paul like in the beginning. Back then, before he got used to it, he figured that if you got a friend, and the friend gets in trouble, you help him out. His friends would come into Mario's and sometimes they weren't smiling. He'd ask what's wrong and mostly they'd tell their Uncle Billy. You'd be surprised, the problems people have. Guys getting sued, or cheated, or fired off their jobs. Burglars working their neighborhood, taking their stuff. Women getting beat up by their husbands but afraid to move out. Women getting raped. And not just by street punks either. One was by her dentist after he gave her gas. Another was by her shrink.

  He had helped them out. Some of them. He made it look good. Like accidents and suicides. Before you knew it they were smiling at their Uncle Billy again and talking about nicer things. He never said anything. For a couple of years, nobody even noticed.

  Then one day Susan Lesko shows up in Westport to help this friend of hers from college move into her new house and she finds this little book about Connecticut that's full of statistics. It says Westport is a good place because crime, especially the last couple of years, is so low. But it also says people there are more careless than almost anywhere else in the state because they keep drowning in bathtubs or getting electrocuted and that they must worry a lot because a lot of them take the pipe. It wasn't such a lot. It was like eleven. But Susan thinks maybe there's a story for her paper and she starts snooping around. Paul thinks maybe she knows about us so he gets to know her and finds out she doesn't. It's just those statistics. At first he feel
s better but then he starts wondering about them himself. He asks around. Then he asks straight out. You can't lie to him. It was the only time since he first knew Paul that Paul almost yelled. Anyway, he promised he wouldn't do that any more. Not unless Paul or Molly or Anton Zivic said it was okay and how it should be done. Carla's on the council too but she didn't get a vote on this. She'd always say yes because she's a little mean. Also, she'd suggest complicated stuff like letting a guy wake up with his own cock in his mouth. That's games. He didn't like games. When you go to fix something, you fix it. Speaking of which . . .

  “Paul?”

  “Yes, Billy.”

  “All what happened here. It's Palmer Reid, right?”

  “He denies it.”

  “Right. And he sent flowers.” Billy curled his lip. “What about this guy, Loftus? He doesn't tie Reid in?”

  “Not to this. Not to Susan.”

  Loftus.

  Molly had briefed him. He'd been sent by Reid to watch Lesko. Lesko had spotted him, grabbed him, ended up offering him a way out from under Reid, and probably his life, if he'd cooperate. Loftus told him about Reid and Mama's Boy, also about Reid and Elena. But these, as far as Loftus knew, did not connect. Reid obviously learned that his man was trying to deal. Probably tapped Lesko's phone. Sent two men to silence him. Do it near Westport. Make it look like he, Bannerman, ordered it. But the two men came too close. Anton had Loftus now. Gave him sanctuary. Perhaps they'd get more out of him when he could speak again.