The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  Silence now. No sound at all. Loftus. stared at the machine grimly. Lesko, his eyes wide and disbelieving, clung to his earpiece. Molly listened for a few seconds more, then broke the connection.

  In the silence, Anton rose to his feet.

  He walked over to the waiting champagne and picked up two glasses. Billy passed out others. Anton handed one to Molly Farrell and raised the other.

  “To Molly,” he said. To Molly who had once demonstrated to him, in a wooden phone booth in Rome, that she was a woman to be taken seriously.

  “To Molly,” they answered.

  Lesko, his headphone still at his ear, his mouth open, said, “What the hell ... was that what I think it was?”

  “I believe,” came the voice of Urs Brugg, “it was a promise being kept. Paul?”

  “Yes, Mr. Brugg.”

  “You will come visit me one day?”

  “I'd like that, sir. First chance I get.”

  “Mr. Lesko?”

  “Yeah. Yes, Mr. Brugg.”

  “You especially. I think we should talk.”

  “Well, you see, I hardly ever get over to. . . .”

  “I gather your horizons have broadened considerably in recent days. Come see me, Mr. Lesko.”

  “I have some things to work out. But maybe. Yeah.”

  Molly broke that connection as well.

  John Waldo, who in his mind saw Palmer Reid's lifeless body, eyes wide, blood from both ears, and two more like him—whoever they were—darts in their brains, messing up the rug, would rather have seen a simple hole in his forehead. That's the trouble with the world, he thought. All this high-tech shit. You lose the personal touch.

  “And you,” he jabbed at Billy's arm. “You keep saying you don't like games.”

  “Who said that?”

  “You do. As long as I've known you.”

  “Yeah, well,” Billy refilled Waldo's glass, “you gotta grow with the times.”

  EPILOGUE

  Palmer Reid's obituary appeared in Sunday's edition of The New York Times. An outstanding career. One of the original Cold War warriors. Served his nation under seven presidents. Died suddenly. Cerebral hemorrhage. Alone at home. Working at his desk.

  The funeral service was held three days later. Roger Clew witnessed the lowering of his casket, then was immediately flown to Connecticut. He appeared at Paul's office. Paul led him to the soundproofed conference room.

  The Secretary, Clew told him, was furious. The act was insane. It could well cost Paul every friend he had in Washington. What would happen if the wrong person got his hands on Palmer Reid's files?

  “How do you know I don't have them?” Paul asked.

  He didn't. Nor did he much care who did, if they existed at all. The question was for the benefit of the wire that his old friend might just possibly be wearing. Wire or no, it had its effect. Roger gazed longingly in the direction of Paul's liquor cabinet. Paul opened it and poured two scotches.

  “Okay,” Clew appeared to surrender. “What's done is done. I won't say we're not relieved in some ways. Still. . . .”

  “The paper said he died alone.” Paul handed him his glass.

  “If he didn't,” Clew curled his lip, “would you mind telling me how you managed to get Whitlow and a Bolivian general in the same room with Reid and then get all three to pick up separate booby-trapped telephones? That was neatly done, Paul. Even for you.”

  Bannerman said nothing. He had assumed one of the eavesdroppers to be Whitlow, but had not dared hope that the other might be the man who, according to Lesko and Elena, had sent the Carmodys after Susan. Both bodies, obviously, had been quietly removed along with all physical evidence that they'd ever been there. They would, he imagined, be kept in cold storage until more convenient and unrelated deaths could be arranged for each of them. In any case, Paul was not inclined to correct Clew's assumption that no part of the massacre had been left to chance.

  “Roger,” he asked, “why did you come here?”

  Clew sipped his scotch. “To chew you out. And then to tell you we covered for you.” He leveled his eyes on Paul. “And to say that you now owe us one hell of a favor.”

  “Roger…” Bannerman stared at him thoughtfully.

  ”Yo.”

  “All this we and us business. Palmer used to talk like that, too. Whatever went wrong with him, you want to try very hard not to catch it.”

  Roger Clew started to speak, but he saw the look in his old friend's eyes.

  “Cheers,” said Paul. He lifted his glass.

  On the following day, Anton met with Robert Loftus and Doug Poole. Poole had asked to stay permanently. Anton, gently but firmly, said no. Roger Clew would see that Poole could return to his job without prejudice. Loftus, however, could remain until reconstructive surgery, already arranged by Anton, could be completed. His wife and children, however, would have to return to their lives. Roger Clew had also guaranteed their safety.

  Lesko stayed in Westport those four days, waiting for the fallout that never came, watching over Susan as the predicted aftereffects of her cocaine overdose faded into nothing worse than lightheadedness and nightmares. On the fourth day he sent his cop friends homes with thanks. He spent the fifth day teaching Billy McHugh to shoot pool and helping him paint his landlady's kitchen.

  On the sixth day, Susan, her own face nearly healed, announced that she was going home. Lesko, carrying her suitcase and ski bag, took her to New York City by train and saw her safely to her Manhattan apartment. He asked if he might stay the night. She said she needed time alone. Lesko took a cab to his Queens apartment.

  Susan, on the morning of that sixth day, had considered calling Allie Gregory. She needed a friend. Someone she could talk to. But there was so little she could tell Allie. A part of her was afraid that if she began talking at all, she wouldn't stop. Worse, still another part was afraid that if she did, Allie would not be surprised. That Allie, or more likely her husband Tom, was also a part of this . . . thing ... in Westport. So far, she hadn't met anyone here who wasn't. She went home.

  But three days later she was back. She took the train to Westport, crossed the tracks to Mario's sat down and ordered lunch. She came again the next day. And the next. And the next.

  It was early afternoon during the third and final week of her vacation time. The lunch crowd at Mario's had thinned. Susan entered, waved hello to Billy Mc-Hugh, and took a small table by the front window. Billy caught Molly Farrell's eye and gestured with his head. Molly picked up a menu and walked to Susan's table. She pulled out a chair and sat.

  “Susan. This is getting a little dumb,” Molly said, not unkindly.

  “I know it is,” she nodded.

  “Why don't you just go over to his office and get it over with?”

  “He knows I'm here, doesn't he?”

  “Except for today, yes.”

  “I keep hoping he'll come and have this out. If I go over there I'll get mad, or say something stupid, or God forbid I'll start crying in front of his travel agents. I do better in restaurants.”

  “Speaking of which, what can I get you?”

  “Just a salad, I guess.” She took a bread stick from the basket and bit off an end. “Can I ask you something personal, Molly?”

  “Sure.”

  “How do you stay like you are? I mean, with everything you've done.”

  Molly looked into her eyes. She did not see a reporter there. Only a hurt young girl trying to understand people like them. “You grew up with policemen,” she answered. “Some get better, some get worse. We're not all that different.”

  “And like policemen, you're only comfortable with your own kind?”

  “As a rule, that's true. Sad, sometimes. But true.”

  “And you've never seen an exception?”

  ”A few. But I've seen some real disasters.”

  “Molly,” Susan touched her hand, “I would just love to be able to turn off what I feel and walk away from this. My father's trying to do th
e same thing. I don't know if you noticed, but he's in love with a woman who, two years ago, he'd have happily sent to prison.”

  “I could see it,” Molly nodded. “He's struggling with it, just as you are.”

  “And like Paul is?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then why doesn't he have the guts to come and talk it through? Damn it, I'm going to keep coming here until he does or until I lose so much respect for him that I don't care whether he comes or not.”

  Molly rose to her feet. “What kind of salad?”

  “Hello, Susan.”

  She'd seen him come in. He stopped first for a few words with Billy. She kept her eyes on her plate, which she'd barely touched. Now that he was here, standing over her table, all the words that she had imagined saying to him were gone. There was nothing. Except that she was getting mad.

  “You're a real pain in the ass, you know that, Bannerman?”

  “'Um…”' He placed a tentative hand on the empty chair. “That's basically what Molly said. Also that if I don’t come over of my own accord, she'd get Billy to drag me over. May I sit down?”

  “If you like.”

  “Have you had lunch?” He looked at the salad.

  “No, and I don't want to dance, either. Sit down.”

  Paul obeyed. He, too, on his way over, had thought about what he'd say. And what she'd say. So far, Susan was not following the script. “Susan,” he said carefully, “can we start by trying to be friends?”

  “I hate that word.” Bannerman glanced toward Billy as if for help. Billy turned his back.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Why don't you start? The way this is going, I'll never get any of the good lines.”

  “Okay,” she folded her arms and sat back. “I'm writing an expose for the New York Post. All about you and Westport.”

  “Come on, now.”

  “That's a good line? I'm talking a can't-miss Pulitzer and you give me dialog like that?”

  Billy approached the table, to Paul's considerable relief. He set down two glasses of wine. “That's the good stuff,” he said to Susan. “Yours is on the house. His isn't.”

  “Thank you, Billy.”

  “Also I'm bringing two bacon cheeseburgers, medium rare. A salad's no kind of lunch in the winter. He raised a finger to Susan. “Don't argue.”

  “That's very sweet, Billy,” she smiled.

  Paul gave him an I'll-get-you-for-this look, then stared at his place mat until Billy left. “Susan,” he spread his hands, “I know that you're not going to write about us. Why are you even talking about that?”

  “I'm a woman scorned. I'm allowed to get nasty.”

  “I didn't scorn you. Didn't your father explain why?”

  “Listen,” she said evenly. “I've been explained to up, down and sideways. My father says a nice girl like me doesn't belong with killers, but he couldn't explain why I belong with him. Molly likes us together but she's afraid I think you're Robin Hood. Carla says a candy-ass like me would only be a distraction who would mope and moan every time you're ten minutes late for dinner, and I'm probably not even a good lay.”

  “Carla said that?”

  “I read between the lines.”

  Molly had replaced Billy at the bar while he went to grill the cheeseburgers. She was leaning on her elbows, watching, enjoying Paul's discomfort. He glowered at her. Glad you're having a nice time.

  But this was only making it harder. They'd have their cheeseburgers, the meal would end and, as empty and aching as it made him feel, he would have to make Susan understand. Maybe if he told her how he'd tapped her phone for four months. Or that he'd used her as bait in Davos. Her father was supposed to have told her these things but he hadn't.

  Or maybe if he went into detail about the little office party they'd held two weeks ago. Would she still think Molly was such a good egg if she'd seen her kill three people with the flip of a switch? And then see all of them drinking champagne afterward?

  Not that he'd wanted to do it quite that way. The cheering section was Carla's idea. The champagne, surprisingly, Billy's. They all had a right, he supposed, to be in on handing the final bill to a man who'd done his best to kill most of them at one time or another. Her own father would have happily thrown the switch. But toying with Reid, prolonging it, was essentially childish, not to say unprofessional. Susan would have been sickened.

  Now Susan has convinced herself that he and her father are the same. She knows, at some level, about the things her father has done but there was always a distance between herself and those acts. Between them, Susan and Paul, there would not be that distance. True, he was backing away, handing it over to Anton. But he was still Mama's Boy. He could back away just so far. Roger Clew knew that. He seemed to be betting on it.

  “I hear,” Susan glanced toward Molly, “that Uncle Billy's going to marry his landlady.”

  “That's…a long way off. They have what I'd call an understanding.”

  “Do I go see her and tell her to run for her life? I mean, Billy may not be a walking disaster like Calamity Carla, but I bet he can get rough when he has to.”

  “Billy is, um, different.” Paul wished he hadn't even touched that one.

  “Anyway, I've made a decision.”

  “Am I going to hate hearing this?”

  “I'm going to shoot somebody tonight.”

  Paul closed one eye.

  “Then one more every week until I get used to it.”

  “Every week,” he repeated blankly.

  “Until you say, ‘Hey, maybe this kid's my kind of woman.’ And then you'll take me on the ski trip that you still owe me, don't forget; and after that I'll dump you and let you sit outside my building five nights straight before maybe I let you come crawling back, you creep.”

  Paul looked skyward. “It must be in the genes.”

  “And don't you forget it.”

  “You're really going to shoot someone tonight?”

  “Someone with six kids and a sick wife.”

  “Maybe I should stop you. Maybe I shouldn't let you out of my sight tonight.”

  “There's always tomorrow.”

  “Maybe before then we can take a walk. Down along the beach. We'll talk.”

  “About how it can't work?”

  “About how to keep your father from beating up on me when he hears we're even thinking about it.”

  “Thinking about it can't hurt.”

  “No, maybe it can't.”

  She saw Billy coming with two platters. “Maybe we can reach what you call an understanding.”

  ”A day at a time?”

  “I want my damned ski trip.”

  “After that, I mean.”

  Four in the morning. Lesko didn't even have to open his eyes. He heard Katz in the kitchen. He heard the paper bag with bagels or Danish. And he heard Elena, snoring softly beside him. He'd been waiting for this. Lesko eased his face off the pillow as Katz entered the room.

  “Where the hell you been?” he hissed.

  Katz jerked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Looking for a clean cup,” he said innocently.