The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “Okay,” Clew peeled off his coat and threw it over a chair. “It's done. I won't say it's not a relief. The message I'm supposed to bring back, I take it, is that everyone should now leave well enough alone because you're keeping Reid's private files as insurance against anyone bothering you, which, by the way, you and I both know is horseshit.”

  Bannerman shrugged but said nothing. He handed Clew his glass. “The paper said he died alone.”

  “If he didn't,” Clew curled his lip, ”I don't suppose you'll tell me how you managed to get Whitlow and a Bolivian General in the same room with Reid and then get all three to pick up separate booby-trapped telephones. Even for you, that was neatly done.”

  Bannerman didn't answer. He had presumed one of the eavesdroppers to be Whitlow, but he had not dared hope that the other might be the man who, according to Lurene Carmody, had sent her after Susan. Both bodies, obviously, had been quietly removed along with all physical evidence that they'd ever been there. They would, he imagined, be kept in cold storage until more convenient and unrelated deaths could be arranged for each of them. In any case, Paul was not inclined to correct Clew's assumption that no part of the massacre had been left to chance.

  “Roger,” Bannerman took a seat, “not that I don't enjoy our visits, but why did you come here?”

  “The truth? To find out where your head is. To understand why you did it.”

  “Assuming I did it,” Bannerman corrected him.

  “Hey.” Clew looked at him curiously. “This is me you're talking to. What's with the hedging?”

  “We're discussing a capital crime, Roger.”

  Clew's expression darkened. “You think I'm wired.”

  “Are you?”

  “You'll take my word? Or would you like me to peel down to my shorts?”

  ”A simple yes or no would be fine.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck you, Bannerman. We're supposed to be friends. By now you either know that or you don't.”

  “The answer, I gather, is no.”

  “No, the answer is fuck you.”

  The anger, Bannerman decided, was genuine. As to the truth of it, Bannerman would soon know. Molly Farrell would be outside by now, ready to scan him as he leaves. He was reasonably certain that she would not pick up a wire. He would be saddened if she did. But it would be good to know. He reached for the Scotch bottle and freshened Roger's drink.

  “You asked why,” he said. “I'll answer your question.”

  “Assuming that you did it.”

  “Assuming that, yes.”

  “I'd rather have an apology.”

  “Come on, Roger”—Clew was still glowering at him— “We're not playing for marbles here. You have your agenda, I have mine. That's always been true. I trust you within those limits.”

  Clew sipped from his glass. He put it down. “There's no wire. Not since that first day we met. And even then, I told you about it.”

  Bannerman remembered. He nodded. “As for Palmer Reid, the problem was not so much what he tried to do to me. The problem was that too many people knew about it. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't let it pass.”

  “You could have let us handle him. In our own way.”

  “No, Roger. I couldn't.”

  “Then you could at least show some appreciation. We covered for you. No one's going to know.”

  “You’re missing the point,” Bannerman said quietly, almost gently. ”I need it to be known.”

  Roger Clew lowered his eyes. A tiny nod. He understood. A reputation is a weapon. Use it or lose it. By now, every enemy Bannerman ever made, everyone who'd ever had reason to fear him, but also every friend, had probably heard some version of the story. They would have watched and waited, with great interest, to see what he did about it. All these years, Mama's Boy's only real protection was the knowledge that whatever you tried to do to him, he would do worse to you. Bannerman had no choice. Especially now that everyone knew where he was. And where he'd been during the three years since he dropped out of sight. Clew could see them, in his mind, reaching for maps of the United States, drawing circles around Westport . . .

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Bannerman's voice jerked him back.

  Clew straightened. He faked a yawn. “Not for a penny. Maybe for a steak. All the trouble you've caused, the least you owe me is dinner.”

  Bannerman checked his watch. “I'd like to go work out for an hour or so. Then Lesko wants to meet me at seven, my place. Which reminds me, what about those warrants on Elena Brugg?”

  “You made it harder for us. But it's done.”

  “In that case, I'm buying. How's eight o'clock at Mario's?”

  “Eight's fine.”

  “Is this when I find out about that favor you mentioned?”

  “Are you kidding?” Clew pushed to his feet. “After last Friday, you're lucky we even talk to you.”

  “But you're here.”

  “As a friend.”

  “I'm glad, Roger.” Bannerman leaned forward. ”I hope that never changes.”

  “Fuck you again,” Clew scowled. “I'm starting to get very tired of all these little needles lately. If you have something on your mind, say it.”

  ”I would. I'm just not sure what it is. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “It used to be”—Bannerman seemed to be groping—”fifteen years ago, even three years ago, when you said 'us' or ‘we,’ you usually meant you and me. I guess I miss that. I guess I worry about you.”

  “As I said, I’m your friend. As you said, we have different agendas. The two don't have to cross.”

  ”I hope not.”

  “Hey, look.” Clew rose to his feet. “If I have to sit through dinner waiting for you to drop the other shoe, I'd just as soon go to a movie.”

  “Move to Westport, Roger. Get out of Washington.”

  Clew closed one eye. “Where the hell did that come from?”

  “It's all that 'us-ing' and 'we-ing.' Reid used to talk like that. Whatever went wrong with him, you want to try very hard not to catch it.”

  “Hey, David . . . ?”

  Lesko stood in the center of Bannerman's living room, raincoat open, hands in his pockets, waiting as Bannerman showered. It was a condominium unit, very private, guard at the gatehouse, off Greens Farms Road and on the shore of Long Island Sound. “Make yourself at home,” Bannerman had said.

  “David? What about this guy?” he asked, barely audibly. “What do you think?”

  There was no answer. He expected none. Force of habit. A hundred times, over the years, they'd walked into someone's house or apartment, sometimes that of a suspect, and they'd try to get a feel for the guy based on the way he lived. Katz was a schmuck in a lot of ways, Lesko thought, but this he was good at. He could look over a guy's apartment and in ten minutes he could tell you more about him than any shrink. He'd add up a hundred little things; how the place was furnished, what kind of mail piled up, the books and music he liked, and he'd know the guy.

  Even for Katz, though, Bannerman's place would have been tough. Lesko had half-expected it to be your basic bachelor apartment. Chrome fumiture, a stacked stereo, a wine rack, maybe a couple of framed posters on the wall so people would know he's sophisticated, one or two ratty plants, a few copies of The New Yorker on the coffee table, and a wok in the kitchen so people would also know he's a gourmet cook.

  Bannerman's place was nothing like that. The fumiture was big, solid, comfortable. Lots of leather and dark wood. Heavy drapes for privacy. A whole wall full of books, most of them old, none looked like they were there for show. Dictionaries in four or five different languages. A lot of history, most of it European. About half the books were fiction but none were current best-sellers. Lesko recognized titles he hadn't seen since required reading in high school. Complete works of Dickens. Lord Jim. Wuthering Heights. Short stories of Irwin Shaw. No spy thrillers but a couple of Agatha Christies.

  Quite a few record albums. Some of them highbrow but t
here was also a fair amount of soft rock. The Beatles. ABBA. Carly Simon. Framed paintings on the walls, mostly watercolors, shore scenes, a couple of landscapes in oil. The room had a few touches that seemed feminine, probably gifts from friends, maybe even from Susan, but hardly anything that seemed personal. No mementos from trips, no framed photographs on the mantle, not even of “Mama.” He'd avoided peeking into the bedroom. He knew that Susan had probably spent the night there more than once. He did not want Bannerman's bed in his memory.

  Lesko tried to imagine what Katz would have guessed about the man who lived here. An author, maybe. Or a college professor. Someone like that. Quiet. Private. Comes here to shut out the world. The kind of guy who walks away from arguments, probably had his last fight in the sixth grade. That definitely did not describe Bannerman. Then again, maybe it did. Come to think of it, he realized, this whole town is a lot like this room.

  It was also a room that belonged, if you didn't know him already, to a guy you'd like to know better. Nice guy. Very civilized. Maybe that explained what Susan saw in him. Put the other stuff aside, forget for a minute what a coldblooded son of a bitch he can be, including making a cocktail party out of a triple murder, and the fact is he's a guy you could almost be friends with.

  The shower turned off. Lesko waited. A blow dryer started.

  What he did for Elena, for example. He didn't have to, and it probably cost him. Nothing's for nothing. What he also did, letting him listen to Reid getting zapped, giving Loftus the satisfaction of doing it and Elena's uncle the satisfaction of hearing it . . . he didn't have to do any of those either.

  A part of Lesko, that afternoon, had wanted to be the one who threw the switch. Another part was relieved that he wasn't asked. He didn't think he could have done it. Not without being dead sure who all was listening on the other end. And especially with half of Westport watching. Which still seemed nuts. This was a killing, not a fucking school play.

  The bathroom door opened. Lesko turned. Bannerman entered the room buttoning his shirt.

  “You mind telling me something?” Lesko blurted.

  Bannerman shrugged, his expression cool, polite. Which was another thing that bothered Lesko. Just once, he would like to see Bannerman lose it. Just once he would like not to have the feeling that Bannerman always knows exactly what he's doing.

  “Last Friday,” he finished his thought. “The champagne. All those people.”

  “Why the witnesses?”

  ”I guess. Yeah.”

  ”I know it seemed a little childish,” Bannerman answered. A faint smile. As if mildly embarrassed. “But they had a right to be there. Reid would have killed every one of them if he got the chance.”

  Lesko twisted his lip. Childish was not the word he would have picked. Except maybe for the champagne. Which had been Billy's idea. What the hell? It was happy hour. Why not chips and dip? “So now we're all supposed to spread the word, right? Don't mess with Bannerman? How come you left out Susan? She could have put it in the paper.”

  “Lesko. . . .” Bannerman's expression darkened.

  “Which is what she says she's going to do. An expose about Westport.”

  “She won't.”

  “You're so sure?”

  “Not while her father is an accessory to several murders. If for no other reason.”

  “I'm taking her home tomorrow.”

  Bannerman nodded, but said nothing.

  “Are you going to try to see her?”

  ”I don't think so.”

  “What if she tries to see you? You're right about that newspaper thing, by the way. It's a bluff. She wants you to come talk her out of it.”

  “Just take her home, Lesko.”

  ”I got your word?”

  “That I won't contact her? Yes.”

  “What if she calls you?”

  Bannerman hesitated.

  “She will. I know her. What I want is for you to just hang up on her.”

  Bannerman shook his head. ”I won't do that.”

  “Why not?”

  He didn't answer.

  “You're a pisser, you know that?” Lesko waved his arms. “I've seen you blow away four different people, you never even blinked, but you wouldn't hang up on my daughter because that would be impolite.”

  “Give me a break, Lesko.” Bannerman checked his watch.

  “Anyway, that's not why I came.”

  Bannerman waited.

  “What you did for Elena. Maybe I owe you one.”

  ”I didn't do that for you.”

  “Don't brush it off, Bannerman. Like you said, you might be in a back alley someday.”

  ”I might,” he acknowledged. ”I appreciate it.”

  “There's one other thing. This guy. Clew. You trust him?”

  Bannerman raised an eyebrow. “What's on your mind?”

  ”I don't know. A feeling. Forget it. It's none of my business.”

  “This feeling. Can you put it into words?”

  Lesko shrugged. ”I shouldn't judge. I never saw the guy before last week. You've known him, what, fifteen years?”

  “Just about.” Bannerman nodded. “Tell me.”

  “I've seen him look at you. He's afraid of you. Even on the plane coming over here. I could see it then, too.”

  “You don't mean worried? Nervous?”

  ”I could be wrong.”

  “But you don't think so.”

  Another shrug. “After three thousand arrests, I can tell worried from scared. Me, you make nervous. Him, you scare. The man knows something you don't.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anyway”—Lesko buttoned his coat—“take care of yourself.” He almost extended his hand, but brushed his hair back instead.

  “You too, Lesko.” Bannerman saw him to the door.

  -15-

  Sunday morning. Alexandria, Virginia.

  Irwin Kaplan could have done without the platform tennis. And he could have done without hearing how the game was invented for days like this. What was invented for days like this was the Sunday paper and an electric blanket. The weather was ridiculous to be out in, let alone play games in. There was no sky. Only a low frozen mist that soaked his clothes from one side as he sweated through them from the other. The surface was slick. Hagler had fallen twice. Clew, once.

  If God was good, one of them would break a leg. Himself included. It would spare him, for a while at least, the discussion he'd been dreading for the ten days since the four of them sprinkled dirt on Palmer Reid's coffin.

  Too late now, he thought. The match, in its third and final set, was almost over. Fuller and Hagler against himself and Clew. It could not be called the deciding set because Fuller, with or without a partner, could have blown them out anytime he chose. But he didn't care about winning. Not at paddle, anyway. What he wanted was for everyone to work up a good tired sweat because he had this theory. Maybe more of a superstition. He felt that life and death decisions should never be made by people who are too comfortable. You don't sit around a Palm Springs swimming pool, for example, and decide whether Jack the Ripper should be put back to work.

  Another part of his theory, Kaplan knew, was that a hard game of paddle tended to clear the mind. Fast, aggressive, fought at close quarters, almost like hand-to-hand combat. Great for purging hostilities. Plenty of chances to smash a wet ball into the net man's face. Especially when the net man is Hagler, who you really don't like very much. But also Bart Fuller for not, as Kaplan had secretly hoped, slamming the door on Roger's brainstorm when he'd first brought it up.

  Kaplan had come today hoping there was still that chance; Hagler hoped the opposite. They'd arrived at Fuller's house together. Hagler had collared him in the driveway, eager to show him his latest printout detailing the Ripper Effect that followed the sudden death of Palmer Reid. Reid's body had barely cooled before Hagler was at his computer asking it what would happen next. The computer thought about it for maybe ten seconds before producing a list of more than fift
y people who would now either resign, retire, or otherwise run for cover. By the Friday following the funeral, half of them already had. A week later, most of the rest were gone as well. Hagler, he suspected, had helped things along by letting it leak that Reid might not have died of natural causes and that his private files, in any case, could not be found.

  Roger Clew, thought Kaplan, should have been equally enthusiastic, if not over the death of a man he despised, then at least over the first real test, however unplanned, of the Ripper Effect. But he was not. He'd seemed distant. Distracted. Almost frightened. That was not like Roger, but it was, to some degree, understandable. Roger had built a career on the perception that he was the one man who enjoyed Paul Bannerman's trust and could control him. Take away that control and all bets are off concerning any further testing of the Ripper Effect.