The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  "Fine."

  "He's kind, and he's gentle, and a little shy, and funny, and very bright. Every now and then he reminds me of you."

  "How so?"

  "I don't know. I haven't pinned that down yet."

  "It must mean he's middle-aged, suspicious, and has a nasty mouth."

  She shook her head, grinning. "Not middle-aged, but he is a bit older. Paul's in his thirties." Late thirties.

  "Been married before?"

  "Never. He's always traveled a lot."

  "That wouldn't stop him from meeting women. It sounds like he just brings them with him. I assume you were just down in the Bahamas with this guy, too."

  "Yes, I was." Susan curled her lip.

  "And you know for a fact he's not married now."

  "Come on, daddy. Don't start."

  "Okay." Lesko raised his hands.

  "He's a good man, daddy. He really is. And he's definitely not married."

  "Listen," Lesko waved off the subject and picked up the check. "Fathers worry about their daughters. It comes with the territory. All I can do is try not to be too much of a pain in the ass about it. Excuse me."

  "I understand that."

  "That'd be another switch."

  Susan winced as the dart struck home. "You know something, Lesko?"

  "What?"

  "I'm dying for you to meet a woman just so I can be as big a pain in the ass as you are. Excuse me."

  "Don't hold your breath. Anyway, when do I meet Paul Bannerman?"

  "Soon. As soon as we get back."

  "What about tomorrow night? I can get my hands on three more Knicks tickets."

  "We just can't," she shook her head. "We're both working day and night to clear off our desks. Anyway, tomorrow night I'll be packing."

  "It's the Celtics. What kind of a creep would pass up a Knicks-Celtics game?"

  Susan reached across the table. Lesko pulled his hands away. "This is where you take my hand again right? It's where you dig in your nails if I don't shut up?"

  "As soon as we get back, daddy. Promise."

  CHAPTER 3

  There was more that Lesko wanted to know about Susan's upcoming trip and about this new man who seemed to have been very much in her life for the past few months. But for the moment, all he wanted to do was get her out of there and see if the guy at the bar tagged along.

  He did not look toward the bar as they walked to the coatroom. But once there, and certain that a tail would not be caught watching them leave, he had a moment to study the man in the topcoat as he struggled into his own. The man could have been a lawyer. Middle thirties, thinning hair, conservative clothes and haircut. And he had money in his hand. He was leaving it on the bar to pay for his still-unfinished drink.

  "I can't eat like I used to." Lesko rubbed his stomach as they reached the street. "You mind if we walk it off a little?"

  "Sure." Susan took his arm.

  Lesko led her on an ambling stroll through New York's theater district, stopping under two marquees to read posters until Susan wondered aloud about his sudden interest in the Broadway stage. A block behind them, the man from Gallagher's bar was showing a similar interest in a window display of "I Love New York" souvenirs.

  "Come on," Lesko kept his voice casual. "We'll walk over to Eighth Avenue and get the subway."

  He was strongly tempted to put her in a cab alone, then walk around the next corner and wait for the man

  to catch up. On Eighth Avenue, after midnight, it wouldn't matter how many people were around or how much noise he made. People would just walk by. Or they'd hang around to see what might be left in the guy's pockets when Lesko finished with him. Another option was to put her in a cab and keep walking to see if by chance it was Susan who was being followed. But first and last he wanted Susan safely home. And he wanted the man behind them to be on foot when he got her there.

  Susan's apartment building, on the Upper West Side, was a block and a half from the subway exit at 79th Street and Broadway. No doorman, but the entrance was well-lit and there were two sets of heavy glass doors. Lesko stopped at the outer doors and offered Susan his cheek. She hugged him, instead.

  Lesko hugged back. "I'll give you a call before you go, all right?"

  "Daddy, is anything wrong?"

  "A little heartburn from the onion rings. I'll walk some more."

  A hundred yards behind him and across the street there was a panel truck with the name of a plumber on its side. The man had stopped behind it.

  "Take care of yourself." Susan gave a final squeeze. "Love you."

  "Love you too, sweetheart." Lesko held on to her. "Listen, don't give me any heat about this, okay? I want you to give me a wave from the window after you've checked out your apartment and locked the door."

  No use arguing. "Sure, daddy."

  "Go on. Go to bed."

  "We'll talk."

  Lesko watched her through the lobby and then stepped into the quiet street where he waited five minutes for the wave from the seventh floor window. Returning it, he motioned for her to close her curtains, which she did after a mimed gesture of exasperation. Satisfied, Lesko moved off toward Columbus Avenue, staying to the north side of the street to thwart any notion she might have of watching him go. He walked until he was well out of possible view, then, almost abreast of the panel truck, he crossed abruptly to the south side of the street. In his hand was his service revolver, which he pressed against his thigh.

  Lesko considered the other man's options. He could try walking away, gambling that Lesko had not spotted him before just now, he could hide behind the truck or even under it, gambling that he hadn't been spotted at all. Either way, Lesko had to assume he was armed and that his hand would be resting on the butt or hilt of a weapon. But the man showed more imagination than that. By the time Lesko reached the far sidewalk his tail from Gallagher's had become a lurching drunk who stood at the panel truck's door fumbling through a set of keys. Lesko smiled harmlessly as he passed. Then he whirled, his left fist whistling as it slammed into the man's kidney.

  The man arched and gasped, sucking in a breathless scream as Lesko took his head and rammed it against the lettering of the plumber's name. Lesko raised his .38 and hooked it under the man's jawline 'keeping him from falling as his free hand patted down the rigid body.

  He found a shoulder holster. It was empty. The Smith & Wesson, also a service model, was tucked under his belt, where it could have been drawn more easily. Lesko pocketed the revolver, then patted further for a second weapon. Finding none, he tore loose the man's wallet and pocketed that as well.

  "We'll start with your name." Lesko's teeth were bared.

  "I can't ... I can't brea ...... The man's chest heaved and his throat made choking sounds. "Your name," Lesko repeated.

  Another gasp. A shudder. Lesko could feel the man's body sagging down against the truck. But he could also feel the muscles in the man's shoulders. They were taut, not flaccid. And Lesko could feel the spring being readied in the younger man's legs. Lesko lowered the gun and shifted it, unseen, into his left hand. Then he pressed his right thumb hard between the man's shoulder blades and backed off a step. "Okay, let's walk," he said.

  The man pivoted and sprang, his left hand whipping toward Lesko's thumb. He spun, his knee cocked in the direction of Lesko's groin, the butt of his right hand aimed at where Lesko's nose should have been, his left hand groping for the gun that was no longer there. He froze in mid-motion, realizing first that Lesko had danced out of reach and second that the muzzle of Lesko's gun had now appeared from the wrong direction and stopped three inches from his forehead.

  "Don't you feel stupid?" Lesko asked.

  The man stared, then sagged.

  Lesko knocked him cold.

  Robert Loftus, his driver's license read. 21 Mayfield Road, Arlington, Virginia. Credit cards said the same. But no official ID. No business cards.

  There was a stone stoop close by. A townhouse, No lights except for the third floo
r. Lesko dragged him from the curb and propped him in a sitting position on the cold marble steps. He sat close to him, pressing him firmly against one of the twin stone balustrades of the stoop. Finding his penlight, he began a closer examination of the wallet's contents.

  Robert Loftus was a cop. Some kind of cop. Lesko was sure of it the moment Loftus tried that disarming maneuver. It's a good maneuver. Hardly ever fails. As long as you know which hand you're disarming. Okay, Robert. What kind of cop are you? Probably federal, if your address means anything.

  "Hey, Robert," Lesko whispered. He jabbed his ribs with his elbow.

  The younger man coughed, then moaned.

  Lesko jabbed him again. "Come on. You're drooling all over that nice coat."

  "Wait . . ." Robert Loftus managed. "Wait a second." He lowered his face into his hands.

  "You want to tell me who you work for, Robert?"

  ". . . No one."

  "Yeah, well, I'm just going to have to keep your driver's license until I find out. What if you have to cash a check for groceries, meantime?"

  “Fuck you."

  Lesko rammed his upper arm against Loftus's mouth so he couldn't scream. Then he brought the butt of his gun down hard on the other man's kneecap. It made the dull, hollow sound of a brick being crushed. Lesko felt the man's teeth trying to bite through his coat but the jaws had no strength. He waited for the first surge of agony to subside.

  "Just so we understand each other," Lesko said almost gently, "you do know that's my daughter I was

  with tonight, don't you? Just nod if you know." Loftus's head jerked rapidly, his face contorted in pain.

  "Well, I have to tell you, I don't have any patience at all with people who involve her in things like this. On top of that, you almost ruined a very nice evening. Who do you work for, Robert?"

  ". .. The government."

  "You want to be any more specific?"

  "... Your government." He regretted the wisecrack instantly and reached to cover his knee.

  But Lesko only sighed and slid his body even closer. "You see, Robert, basically I believe that. Because if I didn't think you were one of the good guys, I would have already snapped your spine and dumped your body over in Central Park somewhere so my daughter shouldn't worry she lives in a high crime neighborhood. Do you in any way doubt that, Robert?"

  "No ... I know about you."

  "And yet you're still going to make me ask you again"

  He shook his head. "I'm FBI. But it was a mistake. Tonight was a mistake."

  "Convince me."

  "We got a tip ... an informant ... said you were seen at the Garden tonight with a woman we have a Jane Doe warrant on. It was all wrong. I should have ended the surveillance when I saw how young she was."

  "Who's the Jane Doe?"

  Loftus hesitated, choosing his words. "The only name we have is Elena."

  Lesko looked at him. "Elena," he repeated. Then, after a pause, "What makes you think I know this person?"

  Loftus twisted the corner of his mouth. "Give me a break, Lesko," he muttered.

  "I asked you a question."

  "The word is ... we hear you had her, and you let her walk."

  "Whose word is that, Robert?"

  "I don't know. Street talk."

  "Tell me some."

  "The word is she admitted it. The word is you blew away two greaseballs ... three ... but not her. Certain people want to know why. And what deal she made with you. Her story is that she tried to buy you off and you said no. But they still want to know how come you left her alive."

  "She's still alive now?"

  "She dropped out of sight. But she's presumed at large."

  A funny answer, Lesko thought. If the greaseballs didn't buy her story it would be just as easy to presume she's dead. Unless Loftus knew better. Lesko hoped he did but didn't ask about it. He was silent for a long moment. Somehow it hadn't occurred to him that she'd have trouble explaining why he didn't kill her. And whether all that powder really ended up on the floor with the stiffs or did she sweep some up for herself. But why should he worry? If she got in trouble she'd probably talk her way out of it again with that crazy logic she uses. Lesko didn't like people like that. Not even when he liked them.

  "Robert," he braced a hand against Loftus's shoulder and pushed to his feet, "I'm going to walk back down to the subway now. Your gun will be under the second car from the comer. Your license I'll mail you in a day or two."

  "Come on, Lesko. You don't need….”

  Lesko ignored the interruption. "In the meanwhile, Robert, I would like you never to set foot on this street again. Do that for me and I won't ever set foot on Mayfield Road in Virginia. You got a family down there, Robert?"

  Loftus nodded sullenly.

  "And I got one here. We understand each other?"

  "Yeah."

  "Some day we'll have a beer and we'll have a good laugh about this little mistake you made here." He stepped onto the sidewalk "Hey, Lesko."

  "Yeah?"

  "Why did you let her go?"

  "Good night, Robert."

  . . . . . .

  "Can you check him out?" Lesko handed the photo license to Buzz Donovan.

  "If he's FBI, it's easy. I'll make a call or two." Donovan stared thoughtfully at the face he'd last seen following Lesko and his daughter out the door. "You say he had no other ID?"

  "That bother you?"

  The older man made a so-so wave with his hand. "We've all left home without it sometimes."

  "But you'll let me know if he's not kosher."

  "Of course." Donovan looked up at him. "Ray, you're not involved in anything here, are you?"

  "If I am, I don't know it."

  "Why would he ... ?" Now it was Donovan who was choosing his words. "Why would the FBI think you're involved with Elena? Would this have anything to do with that whole Katz thing?"

  Lesko understood his discomfort. He knew that Donovan had heard of Elena. Anyone who'd ever been briefed on the cocaine hierarchy knew the name. Donovan also knew perfectly well, though he'd never have mentioned it directly, that it was Ray Lesko who killed three men in a Brooklyn barbershop shortly after the murder of David Katz. But Donovan never had reason to imagine, until now, that Elena might have been involved. And even if she was, Donovan still did not doubt for a moment that Lesko was otherwise straight.

  "We might have met once." Lesko held up an index finger for emphasis.

  "In a barbershop, by chance?"

  Lesko kept the finger up.

  "But not before or since." Donovan studied him. Lesko waggled the finger.

  Donovan did something with his hands. The gesture meant either that he was satisfied with Lesko's answer or that he'd already heard more than he wanted to know.

  "Listen," Lesko was sorry he had brought up the name. "I don't even know if Loftus told the truth about why he was tailing me. He could have pulled that Elena business right out of the air."

  "But it would suggest that there are stories going around that link the two of you."

  "There are always stories. If you listen long enough, you'd even find people who'd try to tell you Rock Hudson was a fag."

  "You want me to ask?" Donovan tried not to smile. "What people are saying about you, I mean?" "I couldn't really give a shit."

  Donovan signaled for his waiter. "Give me a day or two. I'll call you about Loftus."

  "Hey, Buzz." Lesko looked down at his fingernails. "How about checking one more name while you're at it."

  Donovan motioned to the waiter for two more of the same as he reached for his notebook and pen. "Shoot," he said.

  "Paul Bannerman. Spelled like it sounds, I guess. He has a travel agency up in Westport, Connecticut."

  "Is this connected to the other thing?"

  "No. No connection."

  "So who's Paul Bannerman. And what are you looking for, exactly?"

  Lesko squirmed in his chair. "This is strictly personal, all right? It's a guy Susan's seeing.
All I want to know is he's clean."

  Donovan stared over his glasses. "If Susan gets wind of this, Ray, she'll have you for breakfast. And me for dessert."

  Lesko sat back. "I know. I'll tell you what. Just forget it.”

  "I'll see what I can do."

  CHAPTER 4

  Susan had told her father that she had met Paul Bannerman through Allie Gregory. It wasn't precisely true. It wasn't quite a lie, either.

  True enough, she was in Westport at the time, still searching for some common cause behind the town's extraordinary suicide and accidental death rates. Still poring over records at the town hall and newspaper accounts at the library. But for want of a single bit of hard information that might turn a statistical oddity into a bylined feature story, Susan was rapidly becoming discouraged.

  By autumn, however, Westport itself had become the attraction. The fall colors of New England were reaching their peak. Lawns parched by summer were made lush again by September rains. Road stands were bursting with potted mums, pumpkins, Indian corn and plastic jugs of fresh apple cider. And because the weather was at last cool enough for people to climb to their attics and clean them out, there was the usual last great rush of garage sales before winter. Allie Gregory loved scouting the garage sales. They'd helped her fill many bare corners of her new home at a fraction of the cost of new furnishings and accent pieces.