“You're saying you'd like to socialize more.”
“Not exactly.”
“Come on, Susan,” he said gently. “Just spill it out.”
“How come I've never met a single one of your friends?”
“You mean like drinking and poker buddies? I don't have any.”
“And you don't have any family.”
“No immediate family, no.”
“And you're always traveling, mostly alone, and you never miss a thing . . . like recognizing that woman over there . . . and you let people get just so close to you and no closer.”
“Including you?”
“Sometimes I feel that way. Yes.”
“Susan, you know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think the Orient Express is getting to you. Spies, scoundrels and international intrigue.”
“I'm serious, sort of”
Paul sipped his drink, letting Susan wait. “You know,” he said finally, “I'm almost tempted to let you believe I'm a spy.”
She said nothing.
“Because what I really am is basically boring.”
“What are you, Paul . . . really?”
He set down his glass and took her hand. “What I am,” he looked into her eyes, “is a travel agent who's been running around the world for more than 15 years. I travel 10 times as much as the average person and I've probably met 10 times as many people. Some became friends but they're scattered throughout other countries, because that's where they live. All this is true, Susan.”
“Okay.”
“As for Westport, you're right that I don't socialize much. By the time I return from a trip I usually have a pile of work to catch up on and I've had my fill of crowds, cocktails and restaurant food. I've also gained about five pounds, so my free time, when I'm not seeing you, is spent trying to sweat it off. This is true, too.”
“Oh, I can understand that.” However . . she took a breath.. in for a penny, in for a pound. “But you still act like a spy.”
“How so?”
“You have a habit of scanning faces every time we enter a public place. You always pick a spot, like now, where you can watch people come and go. And I think you look away whenever someone points a camera at you.”
“I do all that?”
“Sometimes.”
“You left out that I don't carry a gun. That's another dead giveaway. It means that I can kill with pocket combs, credit cards and little tubes of nasal decongestant. You know what I'm going to do from now on?”
“What?”
“Every time I see a camera I'm going to run up and grin into the lens. I'm going to do that until you beg me, to stop.”
“I take it back about the cameras.”
“Too late. I'm also going to walk right over to that couple and ask them to have a drink with us.” He raised his hands to the sides of his head, forming a pair of blinders. “And I'm going to walk over just like this so I can't scan a single other face on the way.”
She grabbed his sleeve. “Um, I was sort of hoping we'd have this night to ourselves.”
“You're sure?” He kept his hands in place. People at nearby tables were beginning to turn.
“I'm sure,” she grinned, reddening. “Now quit it.”
“You know, Susan,” his voice became a stage whisper, “you're a neat lady but you really ought to learn to be more sociable.”
“Oh, good grief.” She reached for his hands, to try to pull them down.
“You've got to loosen up.” He dropped his hands but it was only to pick up a bowl of potato crisps, which he was now balancing on his head.
Susan hid her face.
For the second time in less than three days, Raymond Lesko sat waiting for Robert Loftus to clear his head. Lesko was reasonably satisfied that he'd come alone. Upstairs sounded normal. Just the mixed noise of two different TV sets and the Murphys on the second-floor front having their regular Saturday-morning argument. Lesko drew his yellow chair up close to Loftus, who was slumped against a Maytag dryer. His hands covered his face. He waited, as he had on Wednesday night, for the pain to reach a level at which he could function.
“Lesko,” he whispered hoarsely. “I'm going to tell you this just once.”
“What would that be, Robert?”
“You ever call my wife again, you go anywhere near her or my kids, I'm going to start by shooting off both your fucking knees. You understand me?”
Lesko leaned closer, showing his teeth. “I know how you feel, Robert, being a family man myself. We had a nice talk about this the other night.”
Loftus looked up at him. “No one bothered your family, Lesko. No one was going to. That happens to be the truth.”
“Maybe.” Still the teeth. “But you do other bad things, don't you, Robert? You blow dust in old men's faces and they die.”
Lesko expected a denial, a look of surprise, some kind of bluff. But Loftus held his gaze and said, “No, Lesko. The fact is, I don't.”
Lesko's impulse was to ask the obvious. Who did? But for the moment he was more interested in Loftus's odd behavior.
“Why did you come here, Robert?”
“Your family's out of this. You keep mine out of it.”
“You had to sneak in my back door to tell me that? You couldn't have called? If all you're here for is a personal ass-kick, why didn't you just ask me to meet you someplace?”
Loftus didn't answer. Lesko suddenly understood.
“Robert,” he sat back, “could it be you wouldn't talk on my phone because there's a wire on it?”
Loftus tried to sidestep. “There's always that chance.”
“If I'm wired,” Lesko told him, “and anyone but you heard the calls I made lately, they know I talked to your wife and they also heard me telling the cops about prussic acid. Robert, I don't think this personal chat is strictly between us anymore.”
Lesko had been watching him closely. Loftus stiffened at the mention of the prussic acid. Then he stared past Lesko at a face only he could see, and his lips curled into a silent curse.
“Who killed him, Robert?” Lesko asked quietly.
Loftus slowly drew up his knees and folded his arms across them. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “You ever get really tired, Lesko?”
“Once or twice.”
Lesko bit his lip. Careful, he told himself. Go easy. Robert Loftus was suddenly getting that confessional look. He'd seen it a thousand times. The look of a man who wanted to talk. But when it comes, you have to give the guy room. He has to do it his own way.
“My wife…” Loftus stopped himself. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. He ran the fingers of one of them over the dryer. Maybe his wife had one like it. “Her name is Katherine,” he said finally.
Lesko waited.
“She teaches high school English.”
He said nothing.
“I've got two kids. Both in high school, not the same one. My daughter wants to play classical piano. My son wants to be just like me.”
Lesko didn't want to hear this. But he knew Loftus needed to say it. He nodded that he understood.
“I'm not what I want my son to be, Lesko. For him, for my daughter, I want nice, I want clean. They think I'm a great guy. Even a hero.” He took another deep breath; another long silence. “Lesko,” he said finally, “if I had known what was going to happen, I would have stopped it.”
“What do you want from me, Robert?” Lesko asked gently.
“I don't know.”
“I believe you about your family. I think I believe you about Donovan. But if you're looking for a pass on this, you'll have to give me something pretty goddamned good.”
Loftus looked up. “The line on you is you're straight. How straight are you?”
“I give my word, I keep it. If you're asking am I dirty, the answer is no. I hurt cops who are dirty.”
“You're so straight, how'd you get friendly with Elena?”
Lesko had s
een that question coming. Normally he hit people who asked it, but from Loftus it was probably reasonable. “I saw her exactly once. Two minutes' worth. But I made an impression.”
“The barbershop?”
Lesko shrugged. “How's she figure in this?”
“If you're as straight as you say, I'm not sure she does. It's a matter of someone adding two and two and getting six.”
Lesko started to ask who. But he found himself wanting to ask something else. “You know her? I mean, personally?”
Loftus nodded.
“Tell me about her.”
”A classy lady. Ballsy. In her own way, she's also very straight.”
Lesko sniffed at that. Calling a drug trafficker straight is like calling a rapist romantic. “If you know her so well, why did you have to ask if I'm friendly with her?”
“It's complicated.” Loftus waved off any further questions and rose to his feet. “If you want to make sense out of this, Lesko, I'm the only one who can help you do it.”
“I'm listening.”
“First we talk deal.”
“Bullshit. Because you're such a wonderful parent I'll try to see you don't get hurt any more than you got coming. That's your deal.”
“Not enough, Lesko.”
“What's enough? A character reference?”
“I might need you to kill some people. You might want to by the time I'm finished.”
CHAPTER 16
Doug Poole could not believe he was doing this. Sitting in Mario's with Anton Zivic and Molly Farrell. Before yesterday, it would have been exciting. Today he was too upset to eat.
They'd walked up to his car. Hi, Doug, how are you? What do you say we grab a sandwich? What was he supposed to do, roll up the window?
They offered him a drink. He should have said no but he had one anyway. Just wine. And then a bacon cheeseburger fixed by Billy McHugh himself. He picked at it, claiming a queasy stomach, and Molly Farrell reached over and took a couple of big bites so Billy's feelings wouldn't be hurt.
By the time coffee came, Doug Poole was almost beginning to believe that the lunch really was just a friendly invitation to break up a useless surveillance. Colonel Zivic telling funny stories. Like how Molly Farrell dressed up as a scooter hooker to get him out of Rome, and how two Russians chased after them in a taxi, never dreaming that Billy McHugh was driving. Molly laughing. Such a nice smile. And she's one of these women who reach out to touch you when they talk. Her touch is warm and soft. Just like anybody's.
But then came the questions. Colonel Zivic sort of glided sideways into them, first telling a John Waldo story that led to an apology for John's roughness the other day. Then to the talk they had had when he regained consciousness.
“Doug,” Zivic dropped his voice, ”you assured us that Palmer Reid's interest is purely a curiosity about a possible relationship between Paul Bannerman and Raymond Lesko. Is that correct?”
Here it comes, Doug thought. “That's what I'm told. It's really all I know.”
“You also said you don't believe any such relationship exists.”
“My boss, Mr. Loftus, doesn't believe it.” Doug wished he had another glass of wine. “But he says almost anything Paul Bannerman does makes Mr. Reid crazy. Mr. Loftus is trying to keep him from overreacting. That's why he sent me here. Just to keep Mr. Reid happy.”
“The tap on Susan Lesko's phone, Doug. This is for the same reason?”
Poole's jaw tightened. He sipped his coffee. “Please don't insult me, Colonel Zivic,” he said into his cup.
“It is simply Anton now, Doug. And I do not understand the insult.”
He lifted his eyes. “Sir, I'm not in your league, but I'm not a jerk, either. Don't think you can buy me a sandwich and spring any question you like on me just because I admire you.”
“No insult was intended,” Anton said earnestly. “If Mr. Reid is as curious as you say, the first thing he would do is tap Mr. Lesko's phone. This should surprise no one. If Susan Lesko is believed to be a link in this connection, her phone would be tapped as well. This is not common procedure?”
“I guess.” He relaxed a notch.
“And are you satisfied, Doug, that there is nothing sinister happening on our end? That we wish only to be left in peace?”
“It seems a waste of talent. But I guess, yes.”
“And that it would be tragic, therefore, if a false premise led to aggressive measures and then to retaliation?”
“Yes.” Poole was beginning to perspire.
“And of all Palmer Reid's people, you realize that you are the most accessible to retaliation?”
Molly knew where Anton was headed. She placed a hand on the young agent's arm. “You're not on a surveillance, Doug. You're live bait. Whatever Palmer Reid is up to, his first sign that we're on to him will be when you fail to report in. Can't you see that?”
“Mr. Loftus doesn't operate that way.”
“Can you say that about Mr. Reid?”
Doug Poole's heartbeat answered for him.
Molly picked up a fresh napkin and dipped a corner of it into Doug Poole's catsup. She folded the napkin and stuffed it into his breast pocket. “That's catsup from a Billy McHugh cheeseburger. As far as you're concerned, it's better than lamb's blood.”
Doug Poole blinked, confused.
Anton had seen Molly do this before. An effective bit of theater. “Miss Farrell has just offered you a considerable gift, my young friend. If you accept it, whatever else may happen, the angel of death will pass over your house.”
Poole ran his fingers over the bulge. He felt just a bit silly. He also felt safe. “What do you want from me, Mr. Zivic?”
“When first we talked, you were not afraid. Today you are. Tell us why this is.”
Lesko stuffed his laundry into one of the machines, borrowing some detergent from a box another tenant had left behind. That done, he took Loftus's service revolver from his own back pocket, shook out the cartridges, and handed both to Loftus. Better safe than stupid.
“Talk to me, Robert,” he said.
“What I'm going to do,” Loftus snapped the weapon into his shoulder holster, “is tell you a story. What you have to do is try to listen, believe what I'm telling you, and not draw any conclusions on your own. People drawing conclusions is how we got into this situation in the first place.”
“So tell.” Lesko backed away a prudent distance.
“Two years ago, back in that barbershop, there was a young guy wearing a suit, the one they listed as an unidentified Hispanic male. He was one of ours.”
Lesko remembered. The good-looking one who had moved for a gun and died first. “He was undercover?” Lesko frowned. He could have lived without knowing that.
“Not exactly. We put him there but they knew it.” Loftus hesitated as if looking for the simplest way to explain this. “Would it surprise you to know,” he asked finally, “that the agency skims a lot of money off the South American drug traffic?”
It didn't. Not unless it was the DEA. “What agency?”
The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) Page 27