The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “AmyI nitrate, ” the voice said to him.

  Lesko stirred. He thought for a moment that he was in bed. His body felt heavy and it tingled. But now he felt the cool vinyl of his Barcalounger.

  “What?” he murmured.

  “AmyI nitrate is what smells like fruit.'' The voice came from Lesko's right, as if Katz had pulled up a chair of his own.

  “I asked you that before. Where were you?”

  ”I don't know.“ Katz paused before he said that, as if he was trying to remember.

  “Never mind. Amyl nitrate?”

  “Yeah.”

  A bit of the fog lifted in Lesko's brain. “How the hell do you know that?”

  “We took this two-day lecture once in forensics, remember? The guy was telling war stories about ways to kill with toxins so we'd know what to look for. What'd you do, sleep through it?”

  “Oh, wait, yeah.”

  “You spray a guy with hydrogen cyanide . . . what's the other name for it?”

  “Prussic acid.”

  “Right And it's like he has a heart attack. But you got to hold your breath and you got to spray your own face with amyl nitrate first because it accelerates your blood pressure or something in case you sniff a little yourself. Of course, if the guy happens to sneeze back in your face, you're fucked anyway. ”

  “And that's how Donovan got it?”

  “I don 't know. ” Katz shrugged. “Maybe. ”

  Don 't give me maybe. Go ask him. ”

  “How do I do that?”

  “You're asking me? He's dead, you're dead. Go ask around how you guys get in touch with each other.”

  “You said you weren't going to keep saying that.”

  “David, “Lesko took a breath. “Are you going to give me hurt feelings or are you going to try to be helpful here?”

  “You always have to be such a shit. ”

  “David . . .“ Lesko made a gesture of his hands that he hoped would pass for an apology.

  “Anyway, if somebody killed Donovan, what's so hard to figure who did it?”

  Okay, genius. “So tell me.”

  “You had this tail on you, right? Then Donovan makes calls about him, right? Then Donovan gets on to something, right? I figure the Loftus guy. ”

  “After I made him?” Lesko said doubtfully. “And I've got his driver's license and his address in my pocket, he's going to start killing friends of mine?”

  “Then maybe the Bannerman guy. Donovan was asking about him, too. Ask me, Bannerman 's dirty.”

  “Wait a second. What do you know about Banner-man?”

  “Like what? The kind of guy he is, you mean?”

  ”I guess. Yeah.”

  “He's like you. Big guy. Ugly. Except he has this little pencil mustache and he's kinda oily.”

  “That's what I thought. ”

  Lesko kicked the Barcalounger upright and rubbed his eyes. For a minute there, he almost had himself believing that Katz was real. For a minute there it wasn't just a head game. Katz had answers. He knew about amyl nitrate, he knew about Loftus, and he knew about Donovan calling all those Washington guys. But he only knew what Lesko knew. Even if Lesko had forgotten that he knew. What blew it was the way Katz described Bannerman. Katz didn't know shit about him. The description was just a jumble of the ways Lesko himself had imagined Bannerman.

  There wasn't any Katz. Just Lesko talking to Lesko. But maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe it was better than nothing.

  Lesko got up, stretched, and walked over to his phone. He made two calls. The first was to Lieutenant Harry Greenwald.

  “Remember the fruit I smelled, Harry? Amyl nitrate smells like fruit. Check his clothing for traces, also his skin and respiratory system for traces of prussic acid. ... No Harry. I don't know anything. I only know that things were missing that should have been there and that amyl nitrate smells like fruit. . . . Because I just remembered, that's why. And because it's very convenient that he happened to fall so the shower would keep washing his face and maybe fill up his lungs . . . Harry . . . I know nothing else. Zero. . . . Yeah, I'll be here.”

  The second, not counting one to Directory Assistance, was to a number at 21 Mayfield Road, Arlington, Virginia. ,

  “Mrs. Loftus?”

  “This is she.”

  “My name is Raymond Lesko.” He spelled it. “I'm trying to reach your husband on a very urgent matter.”

  “I'm afraid he's not available, Mr. Lesko.”

  “I won't ask you to tell me where he is.” He knew she wouldn't anyway. “But if you could get a message to him, I promise he'll be glad you did.”

  “Does he know you, Mr. Lesko?”

  “Yes, ma'am. And it's very important.”

  “Very well. What's the message?” . Lesko gave his address and phone number. “Please tell him this,” he kept his voice friendly, “If I don't see him here by tomorrow morning, he should assume that I'll see him there.”

  “There? Does that mean here?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” Lesko lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “It means I'll come and meet the family,”

  He broke the connection.

  CHAPTER 15

  Susan Lesko was excited, exhausted, in love and in London. She had not stopped grinning, not since an hour after sunrise when she first sighted the Irish coast from the window of the first-class cabin.

  She grinned through Customs and baggage claim at Heathrow and at the sight of her first London taxi which, at Paul's request, took them on an early morning tour through Knightsbridge, past Buckingham Palace, down Piccadilly and back through Mayfair before pulling up at the entrance of the Grosvenor Hotel.

  By the time the bellman had closed the door of their suite behind him, Susan had said “Oh Wow!” seven times by Paul's actual count and a truncated “Oh W . . .” six times more. She didn't care. She was in London.

  Paul thought a nap might be a good idea. Then they'd shower and dress, see a bit more of the town, have dinner at Mirabelle, visit a club or two, then get a good night's sleep before boarding the Orient Express in the morning.

  “Are you daft?” Susan turned from their window where she was already leaning out taking snapshots of everything in sight. She had also acquired an instant British accent somewhere during the taxi ride from Heathrow. “Yes, I'm afraid you've gone quite bonkers.” She ducked back inside and handed him his coat. A shove toward the door made it clear to Paul that no part of her one day in London would be wasted in bed. Especially not on a nap.

  By taxi, tube and double-decker bus, they spent the next six hours prowling through Westminster, the Tower, Soho, stopping for lunch at Claridge's and tea at Fortnum & Mason, peeking at 10 Downing Street and watching the horse parade at Whitehall. Strolling through Belgravia, in the general direction of Harrods, Susan spotted a placard in a small public garden that read:

  LADIES AND GENTLEMEN WILL NOT PICK THE FLOWERS.

  OTHERS MUST NOT.

  She loved this town.

  At Harrods, Susan began hunting for the accessories that would turn the drop-waisted dress she had brought along into something resembling a 20's costume to wear for tomorrow's boarding of the train. The brochure had suggested it. A floor manager in a swallowtail coat quickly guided her to just the things. A simple cloche hat, a black osprey plume, and a four-foot string of imitation pearls, to be worn doubled-up and knotted. These would do nicely.

  Another woman, Susan noticed, seemed to be shopping for much the same items. They'd exchanged looks, polite smiles, but did not speak. Susan paid for her purchase, nodded once more, and went off to collect Paul who had wandered into the food halls. Finding him, she announced that it was his turn to be done over. She led him to the menswear department where she selected a colorful shirt with wide stripes, a brass-knobbed walking stick and an inexpensive Panama hat. These, she decided, would go well with his blue blazer and cream-colored slacks. He argued, uselessly, that she was dressing him in a 1920s summer outfit in the middle of winter. She didn'
t care.

  There, looking at men's shirts, was that woman again. And once more, Susan had the impression that she was considering similar purchases. The woman looked away, but not before smiling and nodding what Susan took to be approval of her choices. Susan winked in return. The woman watched them leave.

  In Lesko's Queens apartment, at the same hour, but five time-zones earlier, the telephone rang. He let his answering machine take the call.

  “You called it, Ray.” Harry Greenwald's voice. “We have to wait for a lab workup but the M.E. thinks he has traces of cyanide. You get back to me fast, all right? We have to have a nice, no-bullshit conversation about this.”

  It rang again 20 minutes later. Lesko waited for his recorded message to play. No voice followed. Just a long hesitation. Then the connection was broken.

  Lesko couldn't be sure—the hang-up could have been anyone—but he had to assume that Robert Loftus, a very angry Robert Loftus, had heard from his wife and would be paying a visit. But an angry Robert Loftus was not likely to trot up the front steps and ring the bell. Lesko went to his clothes hamper and scooped out an armload of soiled laundry. He stepped into the hallway, double-locked his apartment door, and walked down the three flights to the laundry room in the back basement.

  There was a yellow plastic chair in the room facing two washers and two dryers. He moved it next to the machine farthest from the door, piled his laundry on the machine, then found an empty detergent box in the trash can. He tore off what remained of the top and inserted his fist, which was wrapped around a cocked automatic pistol. Next, he sat in the yellow chair in such a way that all but his head and shoulders were protected by the washing machine. He sat, not moving, for only ten minutes before he heard the service door outside being quietly opened and closed.

  No other sound at first. Then slow, careful footsteps on the basement cement. One pair of feet. Lesko lifted the detergent box with its bath towel muffler and took aim at the laundry-room doorway. The yellow chair creaked as he leaned forward. Lesko cursed silently. The feet stopped.

  “Lesko?” came a male voice. Loftus's voice.

  Lesko waited.

  “Lesko? My hands are empty.”

  Lesko chewed his lip. What the hell, he thought. “Come in slow, Robert. The hands first.”

  Loftus entered, nothing in his hands, but he held them defiantly at his sides. “No guns, Lesko,” he hissed, “I'm here to beat the shit out of you.”

  Lesko's brow went up. He rose from the yellow chair and allowed the wrapped detergent box to fall from his pistol. He glanced pointedly at the weapon and then at Loftus. “How's that again, Robert?”

  “This time it's personal, you bastard.” He stripped off his coat and motioned Lesko forward. “I'm going to take you apart.”

  “Well,” Lesko shrugged and stared, “I certainly wouldn't want that, would I, Robert?” He took two quick steps and whipped the automatic pistol against the side of Loftus's skull.

  On Main Street in Westport, in the shop operated by Anton Zivic, the former GRU colonel was showing a mountainscape of the Dolomites to a lady who felt that the wall over her piano needed more drama. A sales assistant interrupted. A Miss Farrell, she said, was calling from New York. She says it's urgent.

  Zivic took the call in his office. He knew that Molly had driven to the city. She'd gone, as Paul had asked, to remove the listening device from Susan Lesko's phone. He pressed a button and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello, Molly. Any difficulty?”

  “I got in and out, no trouble. Susan's wire is lifted.” Molly took a breath. “Anton, I found another one.”

  “Another bug?”

  “Actually, two. Living room and bedside. Both are infinity transmitters.”

  “I see.” Infinity transmitters, unlike the device Molly had planted, could pick up any sound in the room whether the phone was in use or not. They were obviously better than a drop-in relay, but Paul would never have permitted the bugging of Susan's bedroom. “Were they installed before or after yours, do you know?”

  “Definitely after. I did a sweep when I installed mine. I guess whoever installed this one didn't bother,”

  “Palmer Reid, you suppose?”

  “Who else?”

  “Did you leave them in place?”

  “Sure,” she answered. “But they'll know someone found them, Anton. I have to assume that the noise I made handling them was enough to set off the voice activators. Reid's people would know that the apartment's supposed to be empty. Should I wait around to see who shows up to check?”

  “No, it's not useful.” Someone would surely come, but probably not a familiar face. “Better you come back to Westport, Molly. Something I don't like is in the air here.”

  “Did something else happen?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. You know this young man, Doug Poole?”

  “The superfan. What about him?”

  “On Thursday his manner was one of enthusiastic admiration. On Friday he did not appear, but he is back today. Today he sits low in his car and his manner is sullen. I saw fear in his eyes when I came to open my shop.”

  “I'll be there in an hour. We'll take him to lunch.”

  About two hours after leaving Harrods, Susan saw the woman again. Susan and Paul, having changed for dinner, were having a cocktail at a bar just off the lobby of the Grosvenor Hotel. The woman had also changed and she was now with a pleasant-looking man of middle age, probably her husband. They sat in the lobby proper, chatting, people-watching, enjoying the atmosphere.

  “Do you see that couple?” She touched Paul's arm.

  “The woman from Harrods,” he nodded.

  “What'll you bet they're going on the train tomorrow, too?”

  “You're probably right.” Paul was sure that at least a dozen of tomorrow's passengers would be staying at the Grosvenor. It was a first-class hotel and it was immediately adjacent to Victoria Station. He had chosen it for that reason. He knew that other travel agents would have done the same.

  “Why don't we ask if they'd like to have a drink with us? Maybe even join us for dinner.”

  Paul hesitated. “I was hoping we'd have this night to ourselves. Anyway, Mirabelle is booked solid. I made our reservation a month ago.”

  Susan dropped her eyes. Her expression became distant.

  “Does that disappoint you?” he asked.

  “Oh, no.” She straightened. “Nothing like that.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Well . . .” she began pushing an ice cube around her glass. “Paul . . . you know, you're really a very neat guy.”

  “And don't you forget it.”

  “You're great fun to be with, interesting, a world-traveler, and a wonderful lover, but you're also a very mysterious guy.”

  “What's so mysterious?”

  “You jumped right past wonderful lover. When a woman says that, you're supposed to blush and say something modest.”

  “That's because it isn't true. That body of yours could excite a stump. Now what's so mysterious?”

  “Lots of things,” she shrugged.

  “But you're going to make me pry them out of you one by one.”

  Susan made a face, half-wishing she hadn't brought it up, half glad that she finally had. But okay, she thought, let's start with the easy ones. “How come a neat guy like you doesn't seem to have any. . . ,”

  “Go on.”

  “The only people you and I have ever been out with are my friend Allie and her husband Tom. And that was only twice, both times at their house.”