The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “You're not going to believe who the girl is.” Loftus pulled a freshly printed black-and-white photo from the envelope. An attractive young woman in a tennis dress. The courts of the Windermere Island Club were clearly discernible in the background. “Her name is Susan Lesko. Her father is Raymond Lesko.”

  The older man stared blankly, then his brow knitted as the name registered. “Not that New York policeman.”

  “The one who killed two of Elena's people and one of ours. Yes, sir.”

  “And his daughter is now traveling with Paul Bannerman?”

  “It gets worse. The girl's a reporter with the New York Post. ”

  “For heaven's sake.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you suppose Bannerman knows that she's a reporter?”

  “Pending confirmation, sir, this seems to be the same girl he's been seen with since early November at least. He's got to know it.”

  “What is his relationship with her?”

  Loftus wasn't sure how to answer. “It seems to be sexual in nature. They certainly shared a room at Windermere.”

  “Yes, but how could such a relationship have developed?”

  “I don't know if I follow, sir.”

  “Whatever else Bannerman is, he's a consummate professional and a very deliberate man. Why would he enter into a relationship with a newspaper reporter? Could he be planning to go public about Westport? Perhaps to head off any action I might take against him?”

  “In my opinion? Bannerman would never go public. It's not his style.” Nor, Loftus thought, does Bannerman seem at all concerned about any action this old man might take. He travels freely, never a bodyguard, almost certainly unarmed, although he does avoid predictable routines. Probably out of habit.

  “I agree.” Palmer Reid rose to his feet and began pacing thoughtfully. “Could she have discovered what's happening in Westport on her own? And Bannerman is merely trying to distract her?”

  “It's really not a thing one could stumble onto, sir. She'd have to have been told. If she were told, it would take a lot more than sweet talk from Bannerman to keep her from printing it.”

  “Yes. Yes, I agree.” Palmer Reid paused at the sofa and straightened two throw pillows that the man with the shoulder holster had left askew. “Try this, then. The fact that she's a reporter is irrelevant. Bannerman's real involvement is with the father and his relationship with the girl is incidental to that. Perhaps he used the daughter to reach the father.”

  Loftus had nothing to offer.

  “And if the linkage is from Bannerman to the daughter, to the father, what might the next link be, Robert?”

  “From Lesko to Elena, sir. But that doesn't seem very likely.”

  Palmer Reid ignored the last. “Then from Elena, to her people, to our people, to us.”

  “Yes, sir.” Loftus shrugged inwardly.

  “For heaven's sake.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There's still another scenario.” The older man turned, holding the fingers of one hand aloft. He used them to count off the links. “Start with Bannerman, who had been in Westport three years, to Lesko's daughter, to Lesko himself, to Elena who has dropped from sight for almost two years. What if it all goes full circle, Robert?”

  “Sir?”

  “Could Elena be in Westport?” Palmer Reid's eyes were shining. “Could she be living there right now under the protection of Bannerman and his killers? Wouldn't a hole card such as Elena go a long way toward explaining the man's monumental arrogance? His defiance of the entire United States intelligence community? To say nothing,” his voice was rising, “of his insolent dismissal of my own attempts to reason with him?”

  Loftus stood silent.

  “Robert?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your opinion.”

  “I suppose that's possible, sir.”

  “But you don't believe it.”

  “Sir,” Loftus took a breath, his hands clasped behind him. “In my opinion, Bannerman has all the hole cards he needs right now. Secondly, we're almost sure that except for one trip back to La Paz, Elena has been holed up in Europe. Third, Bannerman was never in a position to know anything about Elena, not even that she exists. Fourth, even if he does know Lesko, it seems extremely unlikely that he could connect with Elena through him. Elena was lucky to live through her last meeting with Lesko. She would hardly have kept in touch with him after that.”

  “But Lesko did have a prior business relationship with Elena, did he not?”

  “My opinion, sir, that's just talk. The police didn't believe it, our informants insist there was no connection, and our own people are convinced he didn't even know who she was when he . . . assuming it was Lesko . . . shot up that barbershop.”

  Palmer Reid glared at him. “So it's all one big coincidence then.”

  “No, sir.”

  “What then?”

  “Sir,” Loftus picked his words. “I think there's an answer in all this somewhere. We just don't know enough.”

  “I want you in New York tomorrow, Robert.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get a wire on Lesko's phone and on his daughter's phone. I want surveillance teams on each and I want you to get a third team into Westport. Whitlow will coordinate. Burdick can head the Westport team.”

  “Sir?” Loftus held up his hands.

  “Yes, Robert.”

  “We've lost two men dead and two disabled in Westport already. I suggest we go in force or not at all and certainly not with a team headed by Tom Burdick. The man's gun-happy.”

  “I prefer to think of him as decisive.”

  “Sir, please.” Loftus closed his eyes. “I can give you the wires but I suggest we hold off on the surveillance teams. For one thing, I think Lesko would spot his. And Bannerman would spot any team we put on the daughter if he's with her. Why don't I just go up .and look things over myself?”

  “It is your conceit, I take it, that you would not be spotted.”

  “I certainly would be by Bannerman, sir. He knows me now.” Loftus kept his voice even. “I had Lesko in mind. If he were to spot me, it would not necessarily be a bad thing. We'd see what kind of calls he makes afterward.”

  “Very well,” Palmer Reid waved him off. “1’ll want daily reports.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bannerman and Elena.” He'd resumed pacing the room. “Imagine that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He put his hands on me this morning. You saw that, didn't you.”

  “Actually, um . . . yes, sir.” It did not seem useful to point out that it was he who had grabbed at Bannerman.

  “And he told me never to go there again. He said that to me, Robert.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Reid paused at an ashtray and stared with disgust at the single cigarette butt it held. “Who smokes, Robert?”

  “Doug Poole, sir. My assistant. He was here earlier.”

  “You'll put a stop to that, won't you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Reid stared at him. “Bannerman ... to Lesko . . . to Elena. For heaven's sake.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Doctor Stanley Gelman rarely saw patients on Monday. In consequence, he was not missed until Tuesday. Late Tuesday afternoon, his secretary-receptionist, who had been trying to reach him by phone all day, drove to his house on Bayberry Road. Though the blinds were drawn, she could see that one or two lights were on inside. She rang the bell repeatedly without result. Listening at the door, she thought she could hear running water. Next, she walked around to the window of Gelman's attached garage and, leaning over a stack of firewood, she could see her employer's Mercedes and, beyond it, the dim outline of his Buick Regal. She decided to call the police.

  Paul learned of Gelman's death two hours later. An auxiliary policeman named John Waldo placed a whispered call to one Anton Zivic, who operated an antique and interior design firm on Westport's Main Street. Zivic then
notified Paul. Apparent cause of death: suicide by barbiturate poisoning. Apparent time of death: sometime the previous Sunday. This was strictly a guess based upon the unplayed calls that had accumulated on Gelman's answering machine. The parboiled state of his body did not permit a reliable forensic determination. No, said Zivic, there was no reason to suspect that the suicide was anything but genuine. And therefore, no, he saw no reason to confront Billy directly.

  On Wednesday afternoon, Zivic called again. Another suicide. A woman named Sweetzer, discovered by her husband when he stopped at home during his lunch hour. This suicide seemed even more clearly genuine and was, in fact, related to Gelman's. Mrs. Sweetzer, known as Kitsy, had left a suicide note that her husband tried to snatch from the policeman who found it. The hysterically rambling note suggested a master-slave sexual relationship with Stanley Gelman, whose own death had been on the early local news. Kitsy Sweetzer had slashed several household photographs of herself, slashed her own breasts and abdomen, then swallowed an undetermined number of Seconal tablets, whose bottle bore Gelman's name as prescribing physician.

  There is no likelihood at all, said Zivic, that Billy was involved in the Sweetzer death. But there are two troubling factors. First, if Gelman had ill-used Mrs. Sweetzer, he had probably ill-used others and that was the type of behavior that had prompted an emotional response in Billy in the past. Secondly, Dr. Russo suddenly has the look of a man with something on his mind.

  Paul Bannerman called a council meeting for seven o'clock that evening. At his office. Attendance mandatory.

  Paul readied the small conference room at the rear of Luxury Travel Limited, then stepped out among the silent computer consoles and racks of tour brochures so he could watch the council members as they arrived. If his concerns had any basis, he might see it on their faces before their expressions could be masked.

  The travel agency occupied a double storefront in the Compo Shopping Plaza on Westport's Post Road. Directly across from that busy thoroughfare was another group of shops, the largest being a Herman's Sporting Goods store that had replaced a failed Finast Supermarket. A woman at the Herman's checkout caught Paul's eye. Even at that distance he easily recognized the bushy raccoon coat and Indiana Jones-felt hat of Molly Farrell. She was chatting animatedly with the clerk, another Mario's regular. Now she took her change, waved goodbye while rushing toward the door, a yellow Herman's bag, with the grip of a new tennis racquet sticking out of it, in her hand. Now, outside, another woman called to her. Barely breaking stride, Molly went to her, touched cheeks, then dashed toward the Post Road, jaywalking, skipping and dodging through the evening traffic, answering still another wave and a honk from a passing car; then, against all odds, arriving safely at the Compo Plaza parking lot. Paul shook his head. The gesture was matched by Anton Zivic who, Paul now noticed, was standing in the parking lot waiting for her.

  Zivic, elegantly dressed, slender, of medium height, with silver hair and mustache, stood sternly erect, his arms folded, facing Molly Farrell. His posture suggested severe disapproval. He shook a finger at her. Now the same finger stabbed in the direction of the pedestrian crossing at the corner. Paul had to smile. Zivic was, no doubt, attempting to explain the function of stoplights and crosswalks. Molly's impenitent response was to kiss his cheek, pull the tennis racquet from her bag, and begin an enthusiastic description of its virtues. Zivic refused to look at it. He would not be derailed: Dashing across busy, darkened streets is not to be forgiven. He turns his face from her. Her expression becomes wounded contrite. A gloved thumb raises her mouth. Zivic tries not to look but he can't help seeing. He throws up his arms, defeated. Molly, her grin restored, seized his arm and marched him toward Paul's office.

  Her eyes met Paul's before she reached the door. The smile remained, a wave of greeting. He watched to see if the eyes stayed overlong on his. He thought they did, for only the barest moment. She was a tall woman, standing half a head above Anton Zivic, and she moved with an athlete's grace. She was a lovely woman, Paul thought. Not traditionally pretty. Just a wonderfully warm and open face, a wide mouth with laugh lines permanently etched at the corners, large brown eyes that seemed curiously sad, almost timid, when in repose. But Paul knew, there was nothing timid about those eyes. And they missed very little.

  Molly entered, Anton following. Behind them, Gary Russo's white Subaru wagon pulled into the parking lot. Carla Benedict rode with him. Paul met their eyes as well. Russo nodded to him, then looked away. Carla squeezed Russo's arm and, Paul was sure, said something through her teeth. Paul nodded, but the nod was to himself.

  “Well?” Paul spread his hands when all five were seated. “Who's going to tell me?”

  Gary Russo straightened. “I assume you're asking about Gelman.”

  “Gelman and the woman, yes.”

  “Woman?” Carla Benedict paused in mid-reach for an ashtray. “What woman?”

  Paul glanced at the faces of Molly and Russo. Like most of Westport, they had heard about Gelman. They seemed genuinely surprised at the mention of a woman.

  “Her name is Katherine Sweetzer, a.k.a. Kitzy Sweetzer. A patient of Gelman's. Apparently sexually abused by him. Killed herself upon learning of Gelman's death.”

  “It's news to me,” said Gary Russo. “I never heard of her.”

  Paul reached into a folder and produced a photocopy of an enlarged 5×7 snapshot. The copy showed crimp marks where the original had been indented by a picture frame and it showed that the photo had been slashed and then taped back together. He passed it to Molly Farrell. “Ever seen her in Mario's, Molly?”

  “No.” She seemed relieved. “No, Paul, I haven't.”

  “What about Gelman? Did he ever come in?”

  “Not that I know of. Do you have his picture?”

  Paul produced a newspaper file photo taken at a charity function a year earlier. It showed several people. Gelman's face was circled with a marker. He handed it to Molly.

  “I've never seen him before, either.” She shook her head.

  “All right,” he set both pictures down, “I'll ask it another way. Do any of you have any reason to believe that Billy had anything to do with either of these suicides?”

  Russo leaned back. “From what I hear, Gelman mainlined his Valium stash while sitting in a hot tub. That doesn't sound like Billy's kind of work.”

  “That's right,” Carla agreed. “Ask me, all you have here is an unethical shrink who was probably about to get his license lifted and one sappy woman who decided she couldn't live without his cock. Good riddance on both counts.”

  Paul ignored the observation. “I want to know whether this dead woman happens to have been one of Billy's new friends. Molly?”

  “Billy didn't know her,” she answered earnestly. “I'm as sure of that as I can be.”

  “That's right,” Carla nodded. She tried holding his gaze. He chose not to ask, even if that were true, how she could have known it?

  “Paul.” Anton Zivic, his accent vaguely Slavic, spoke for the first time. “If some of us speak too quickly,” he glanced toward Carla, “it is because we all wish to believe Billy is innocent. We understand your discomfort. You go away for two weeks and practically on the day of your return there are two fewer people in Westport, each, as before, no great loss to the community. But this time I think the suicides are genuine.”

  “I'm trying to believe that as well.” He studied Carla and Gary for a long moment. ”A couple of things need to be repeated. The first is to make sure all our people understand, especially those of you in this room, that no action in violation of any law is to be taken without my express approval. Any question on that?”

  “It is as before,” Zivic said. The others nodded.

  “The second is that Billy doesn't get another chance. If he kills again on his own, or if he's arrested or charged with any previous killing, I'm going to have to execute him.”