He guided them to the bench where he'd been sitting. “I didn't tell you last night,” he said, “because I didn't want to involve you, but now you're here. Someone tried to kill Susan. They used cocaine. They stuffed it into her mouth.”
“Dear Lord,” Ray Bass whispered. “Who on earth would hurt a girl like Susan?”
“I don't know.”
“But she's going to be all right?”
“She's beginning to show signs of coming around. But she has a long way to go. And even then . . .” Paul shook his head, unwilling to finish the thought.
“Cocaine.” Caroline found her voice. She spoke the word as if it were something vile.
“Paul,” Ray Bass looked at him levelly, “I have to ask. You're not involved with that stuff, are you?”
“Absolutely not. Neither is Susan. That's what's so hard to understand.”
“Mistaken identity, maybe?”
“I thought of that. I guess it's possible. The police tried to track her movements but they haven't had much luck.”
“Paul,” Caroline touched his arm. “Would it be all right if I went in and sat with her a bit?”
“Give me just a second. I'll go in with you.” Leaving them on the bench, he walked fifty feet to the message office. The girl looked up as he entered, then reached into her drawer for a note pad.
“There were several calls,” she said. “One man said he was her father. One gave the name of Reid. One said he was a friend but left no name. These were Americans. There were three other calls and they were all Swiss.”
She showed him the log. There were scrawled notations after each listing. Lesko's call had come at 18:22 the previous evening. Reid's, at 19:44. The other American, at 20:02. Two of the Swiss calls said polizei after them. The other was from a Frau Brugg, who'd called at 20:55.
“What does this say?” He pointed to the notation after the American who had left no name.
“Cowboy,” she said.
“Cowboy? What do you mean?”
“Like in American westerns.”
“I'll be right back.”
He walked quickly to the front door, where he looked for Gary Russo. He heard the short tap of a horn and turned his head toward its source. Gary was in the hospital parking lot, where he'd found an unlocked car and was seated inside it. Bannerman hurried over to it.
“Have you seen that Saab?”
“It didn't come by here,” Russo answered.
”A middle-aged couple went in a few minutes ago. Did you see them park?”
“They were on foot. They came down that hill,” he pointed.
“Thanks, Gary. Keep your eyes open.”
Bannerman walked briskly back to the door, slowing to a stroll when he came within view of the Basses. He asked them by hand signal to bear with him. He returned to the message office and asked if he might make a call.
“Yes?” The voice was sleepy. It was one in the morning in Westport.
“Anton, it's Paul.”
“Susan?” Alarm leapt into his voice.
“Susan is holding her own. Anton, those people from the train. The Basses. One of them's a hitter. Probably both. They did this.”
“Intuition or evidence?”
“Mostly intuition. I know it, Anton.”
“From this end it seems extremely unlikely. Their identities have been confirmed. The Basses are definitely legitimate and definitely on holiday.”
“The pecan farm couldn't be a cover?”
“Definitely genuine.”
“Then these people aren't the Basses.”
The sound of a sigh. “Paul, you are too personally involved. Please do nothing until Molly arrives with Billy. It should be…two hours.”
“Anton, I have to go.” He broke the connection.
Cowboys. Southerners. All the same to a Swiss. And if that cowboy was Ray Bass, he'd called the hospital more than a full hour before he was even supposed to know that Susan was in it.
The phone rang as he left the room.
At Zurich Airport, in the long corridor leading to Passport Control, Lesko stopped at the first phone he saw and got an operator, who put him through to Davos Hospital. Susan's condition was unchanged. He communicated that information to Molly Farrell through a shrug and pressed on toward the line of passengers waiting for a passport check. Lesko walked on numbly, his mind filled with thoughts of Susan.
Billy nudged him. “Watch yourself. We got company.”
Lesko followed his glance to two men standing wide apart, grim-faced, hands in their overcoat pockets, watching them. Billy drifted past, toward one of them. Molly Farrell, Lesko saw, was already in position to move on the other. `
“Mr. Lesko?”
He followed the sound. And then he saw her. She had moved into the center of the corridor. His stomach took a hitch. She looked very much as she did when he last saw her, wearing a fur, gloved hands folded, chin high but more than a little frightened, but minus the dusting of cocaine that his shotgun had sprayed throughout the barbershop's back room.
“They cops?” He gestured toward the two men.
“They are my cousins.” She held his gaze. “Hello, Mr. Lesko.”
“Hello, Elena.”
“That phone call. It was to the hospital?”
“She's still alive. It was your old pals, wasn't it?”
“They were never my pals.”
“Whatever. Do you know who did it?”
”A Bolivian army officer has called to claim credit. He says you will be next. Then I will follow.”
“You going to give me his name?”
“If we live long enough I will give you more of him than that. But our concern now is Susan. He did not know that his people missed. They will try again.”
“Then I better get going.”
“I am going with you.”
She turned away before he could object. He saw that she was leading him past the lines. He followed, pausing briefly at a glass booth where an immigration official nodded respectfully to her and then gave only the briefest glance at Lesko's passport.
“You have baggage?” she asked.
“Only what I'm carrying.” He hefted a small borrowed bag.
“Come. I have a car.”
“Hold it. I got people with me.”
“Those two?” She gestured with her chin toward Molly and Billy, who were standing within a kick of Elena's friends. “They are reliable?”
“They're Bannerman's people. I guess I trust them.”
Elena waved them forward. The officer put out a hand to stop them but dropped it when he followed their eyes to Elena. He didn't look at their passports at all.
Molly and Billy stopped short of Elena. Molly beckoned Lesko to a private conference.
“I assume that's Elena Brugg,” Molly said.
He nodded. “The other two are bodyguards. She wants to drive me to Davos.
“We've arranged a car of our own. There will be weapons in it. How reliable is she?”
“She asked the same about you. Anyway, you saw she has clout around here. Unless you have more, we can probably use her.”
“I agree,” Molly said crisply. “Stick with us until we get our car. We'll follow her to Davos. You will want to see Susan immediately, but you must give us time to evaluate whatever situation we find there. You will be given a weapon when I see evidence of cooperation. Not before.”
Lesko was impressed. A new Molly. The friendly, sweet-faced bartender was gone. But he wasn't so impressed he was going to follow her around like a puppy.
They passed through the customs gate marked Nothing To Declare. Again, no one stopped them. A knot of people were waiting beyond the gate to welcome passengers. Some held up signs. In the front row was a hard-eyed young man wearing a leather jacket. His sign, crudely hand-lettered, said Mario's. Lesko might have dismissed it as coincidence. But standing next to him was a woman, as small as Elena, who was a Westport librarian the last time Lesko had seen her.
“Fucking Old Home Week, isn't it,” he said to Billy McHugh.
“I did not expect a motorcade.” Elena peered into her rearview mirror at the two BMW sedans that were following close behind. Bannerman*s three friends were in the first. The leather jacket disappeared after he showed them to their car and handed them a satchel that no doubt contained small arms. Elena's two cousins brought up the rear.
“I didn't expect you,” Lesko said. “Thanks for greasing us through. You don't have a spare gun, by chance.”
She hesitated, then shook her head.
Neither spoke for the next several miles. Their lips would move occasionally as if searching for words. Many times during the past two years, Lesko had thought of Elena, imagined conversations with her, but he had never imagined how they might begin. He could think of no opening that would not sound hollow. Finally, he retreated into being a cop.
“Listen,” he cleared his throat. “You got so much pull with immigration, can you get a list of Bolivians who entered the country the last few days?”
“It won't help,” she said. “They would not have sent Latinos to a European ski resort. Your assassin is far more likely to be American or British.”
Lesko grunted. “Which did you used to use?”
Her eyes closed briefly and her hands tightened on the steering wheel. Lesko noticed.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Cheap shot.”
“Do you think we could have a long talk some day, Mr. Lesko? I don't require your affection but I do not feel I deserve your contempt.”
“I said I'm sorry.” He stared at the road. “You want to know the truth, actually I…” Oh, Christ.
“Actually, you what?”
“Like I said on the phone…you made an impression.” He could feel heat rising on his cheeks. His mind recalled the dreams he'd had, the ones with Elena beside him in his bed. They were dreams, not fantasies, so he had no need to be embarrassed by them. Still, if she ever knew…
“Thank you,” she said.
“Don't make a big deal.”
Now he felt a pounding at his temples. He covered the one nearest her lest she notice. This was humiliating. The closest he could remember feeling like this was way back when he worked Vice and a couple of times he met hookers he couldn't help liking, and they liked him too because he was straight and he never hit on them for sex or money. Up to him, he'd have left them alone to make a living. On the other hand, none of those hookers ever killed his partner.
“Do you ever think about Katz?” he asked. Shit! Stupid question. The words just came out.
She frowned. “No.”
“You don't…um…you don't by any chance ever dream about him?” How he wished he hadn't asked that, either. “Never mind,” he said. “Just wondered.”
“Mr. Lesko,” she said softly, “if you're asking whether I feel any remorse, we had this discussion two years ago. As for bad dreams, I assure you that I have enough devils of my own without Detective Katz.”
“It's just Lesko,” he murmured.
“Please?”
“You don't have to call me Mister. It's Ray or it's Lesko. Unless it's me who's impolite calling you Elena.”
“Elena is fine. Which do you prefer?”
“Lesko's okay.”
“Lesko, then.”
The pulse at his temples eased a bit. “Elena, I want you to know I appreciate this.”
“You are entitled. I owe you a debt.”
He turned to look at her. “How do you figure?”
“Two years ago I bargained for my life. You did not take it, nor did you take payment. I consider that the debt remains.”
“Oh, for…”
“Please?”
“Will you stop with that? You and that weird logic of yours? I didn't shoot you back then because I didn't feel like it. I didn't feel like it because . . . Ah, the hell with it.”
“Lesko?”
“What?”
“I admire you as well.”
“Ahhh . . .” Shit!
He never said he admired her. He said…kind of…that he liked her. A little. Mostly she just made him crazy. What he should be feeling is hating her guts because if there wasn't any Elena, there probably wouldn't be any Susan lying in a coma up in those mountains there.
“I take it,” Elena searched for a change of subject, “that you have dreams of Detective Katz.”
“Forget it.”
“If his death still troubles you, if you want to talk, I don't mind.”
“It's nothing like that.” Lesko shifted uncomfortably. “It's not like regular dreams. Sometimes, even when I'm awake, I catch myself arguing with him like I did when we were partners. It's more like a habit.”
“I understand, I think.”
“What? That I'm nuts?”
“It sounds like the behavior of a lonely man.”
“Hey. I'm not so lonely.”
His reply carried not much conviction and he knew it. He raised a hand before she could say more. Next she'd ask him how he spent his time and she'd start sounding like Susan. He wasn't so lonely. He went to ball games. He still had friends. He went to Gallagher's.
“How much further?” he asked.
“Ninety minutes. Perhaps less.”
“Elena…my daughter's all I got.”
She didn't answer.
“Elena, what's going on here?”
“I am…I am not sure.”
“Yeah, but that should have been an easy question, shouldn't it. I killed some Bolivians and blew away their shit. My daughter gets found with the same shit stuffed down her throat. Then you get a call from some grease ball, no offense, who says you and me are next.”
Elena understood him. That much, however unpleasant, was reasonably straightforward. “But you know there are others involved.”
“Bannerman and Reid,” he nodded. “Bad conclusions. Connections that don't connect. Bad blood between Reid and Bannerman. But if that's where the answer is, why is the victim still Susan? Could Reid hate Bannerman so much that he'd kill his lady friend out of meanness? And if the answer is yes, why make it look like something else?”
“Lesko, may I give you some advice?”
“Go ahead.”
“You are a very direct man.” She reached to touch him as she said this. “You will never understand a man like Palmer Reid because he does nothing except circuitously. Also, you are trained as a policeman. You think in terms of gathering evidence and making arrests. It is true you have killed, but only, I think, when your blood was hot. You are not a killer.”
The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) Page 42