Bannerman's Law (58 page)

“
Some inconsequential bluster about my possible de
ta
in
ment. The sense of it was that I can avoid that inconve
nience by helping to neutralize you
.”

“
Did you agree to cooperate
?”

“
Of course. In return for the name of the man responsi
ble for Yuri. But now I have that name. I owe Roger
nothing
.”

A weary sigh.
“
Ma
r
ek's yours if you want him. Other
wise, I have to give him to Ca
rl
a
.”

”
I want him, Paul. But next week or next month will
do for me. You, I think, do not have that luxury
.”

“
Well
...
we do if we cancel Lisa's service and leave
town now. But I don't want to leave this hanging. The
time to hit is when everyone else is as confused as I am
.”

“
About Su
r
La Mer
.”

“
To say nothing of Claude
.”

Belk
i
n grunted, dismissing that subject.
“
You have
thoughts about Sur La Mer
?”

Another pause.
“
Probably the same ones you're having
.”

“
That it's a safe house of some kind
.”

“
Given Roger's interest. And the fact that the Streich
ers turned up there. Very possibly
.”

“
And yet Mama's Boy has no interest
.”

“
If it doesn't affect me? None
.”

“
And yet you have shown an interest. And you appear
to be here in force. I believe you, Paul. But who else
w
ill?
”

”
I know
.”
I
rw
in
Kaplan had asked the same question.
”I need a favor, Leo
.”

”
A
safe house of your own
?”

“
One of yours. Room for eight or ten. I need it right
now
.”

“
That is a considerable favor
.”

”
I know it is
.”

”
I will give you a number. Wait two minutes. I will
call it first
.”

The owner of the red Porsche, Chu
l
o, was still seething.
He had better things to do than sit here. Like make s
ome money. This favor was costing him enough already without getting his goddamned car banged up plus goin
g
through the bullshit of getting it fixed right.

Where the hell is K
iki
?

K
i
k
i
, his brother, had gone inside to see who
'
s at break
fast. Also to give the desk clerk som
e
story about meeting
this little redhead last night in the bar, said her name was
Ca
rl
a, was with a ta
l
l brunette, and he'd pay $50 just for
her room number so he could send roses.

Probably a waste of time. The brunette had used a
phone here. That was all. She could be in Vegas now for
all anybody knew.

Chu
l
o sat, his engine idling, where he could see all
exits from the hotel to the rear parking lot. A few suits,
probably salesmen, walking to their cars. One big guy,
mean face, walking up and down trying to remember
where he parked. A guy looks like that, thought Chulo,
and you think he sells car crushers or wrestling
equipment
.
.
.
shit like that. It always turns out they sell
ladies underwear. Or maybe Bibles.

Anyway, enough was enough.

Chulo picked up his mobile phone and punched out
Marek's
number. Three rings. Six rings. Then,
“
Yeah
?”

“
This is Chulo. I gotta talk to Ma
r
ek
.”

“
Chulo, not now, man. We got some heavy shit here
.”

“
Wait a second. Like what
?”

A breath.
“
Bunce and Felix are dead. That redhead
cunt chopped the shit out of them and sent their car right
through the gate here
.”

“
Oh, man. Oh, fuck. By herself
?”

“
She had a car. The other one must have been with
her
.”

“
Oh, man. Where's Marek
?”

“
He took off before the cops came. He went up north.
You understand
?”

“
Yeah
.”
Chulo gathered himself.
“
So anyway, I'm
wasting my time here, right
?”

”
I guess. You want to make some money, go see him.
The redhead and the ta
l
l one are worth a hundred K
.”

“
No shit? Let me talk to K
iki.”

“
Gotta go, man
.”

“
Yeah. Watch yourself
.”

Chu
l
o snapped the mobile phone into its cradle. He
looked up, hoping to see his brother coming, and he did.
But a car eased into his view, blocking it, blocking him.
He reached for his horn, then stopped as he recognized
the driver.

“
Oh, Christ.”

It was that drunken old fart, climbing out, pen and
paper in his hands, stopping now to try to write down his
plate number except he could hardly stand up. Son of a
bitch. Shit-faced at this hour. This time, Chulo would slap
him silly.

The old drunk approached his door. Chulo opened it.
He had one leg out when the old man suddenly pivoted
sideways and ducked, as if to turn and run. Suddenly
Chulo felt the door slam back at him. It smashed into his chest, driving him back, stunning him. The door bounced
open. The drunk, pivoting again, shot another sideways
kick. The door slammed, this time against
Chulo's
leg,
snapping it above the ankle.

He sucked air for a scream. But now a hand was at his throat, stopping it. The old drunk was leaning through his window, pressing against the door.
Chulo's
leg was still outside. Through a blur of tears he looked for his brother. Instead, he saw the Bible salesman. The big guy. Coming
toward him. Dragging something. Chulo realized it was
Kiki.

“
Who you looking for
?”
the old man asked.

Chulo arched his body in a show of pain. In the same
motion, he slid the fingers of his right hand under his jacket, feeling for the gun in the small of his back.

“
Hey
,”
said Waldo quietly.
“
You see this
?”

Chulo looked down to see what was tapping at the underside of his nose. He recognized the shape of a si
lencer. His right hand found his pistol, then froze.

“
Tell me all at once
,”
Waldo sighted the barrel down
across
Chulo's
chest. It was aimed at his right knee.
“
Who
you looking for, who sent you, who
'
d you just call
?”

Chu
l
o squealed. Figures appeared a
t
the passenger door.
He saw K
i
k
i
'
s
face, swelling as if inflated, his tongue out,
a forearm across his throat. The face slipped out of view
as the big man reached in and felt for the gun behind
Chulo's
back, crushing his fingers against it.

“
The man asked you a question
,”
Lesko told him
.

”
I don't
...
I don't…”

Waldo adjusted his aim. His gun spat. Chulo felt a
hammer blow against the flesh inside his thigh. His world
turned to pain.

He was aware of the passenger door opening, of his
brother being heaved into the seat, legs last, one at a time.
He heard the big man say,
“
Ahhh, shit
.”

John Waldo peered past
Chulo's
face. The other one's
eyes were slits. He saw no life in them. Lesko was feeling his neck for a pulse, finding none. Waldo grumbled
.
“
Not
that I mind
,”
he asked,
“
but this is your idea of
.
.
.”

“
Don't give me any crap
,”
said Lesko, embarrassed.

Waldo shrugged.

He reached in farther and laid the maw of the silencer
against
Chulo's
knee.
“
Nobody ever told you to respect your elders
?”

Chulo made a wailing sound.

“
Do you remember my question
?”

Chulo managed a nod.

“
Next bad answer, I spray your kneecap all over the
dashboard
.”

₄₆

In th
e
vault of the Century Bank on Wilsh
ir
e Boulevard,
Ashley
B.
Hammett, the former Ca
r
leton Dunville, kissed
the thick envelope that contained his new life.

He wasted no affection on the thick bundles of cash and
bearer bonds or on the envelope containing his former life.
These he crammed into a leather shoulder bag that he'd
found under the desk of Lu
i
sa Ruiz
.
Mr. We
in
berg had taken
his own briefcase. Luisa, sadly, would not miss hers.

The files came next. These, unlike the copies Weinberg
had taken from the office safe, were on computer disks.
He counted them, returned them to their protective pouch,
and slipped them into his pocket.

The safety deposit box was now empty. He was
tempted to drop his wallet into the box as a sort of sym
bolic burial but decided against it. He was not out of town yet. There was still the long drive to the Mexican border,
leaving Darby's car, doubling back to San Diego by bus,
buying new clothes, and beginning his journey to Hilton
Head.

Ashley Bea
u
rega
r
d Ha
m
mett.

A good southern name, that. He would have time to work on the accent.

Ca
r
leton signed his true name to the vault log, perhaps
for the very last time. Not that the Du
nv
ille name didn't
have its uses. Such as getting a bank officer to open up
early for him. But it would soon be a burden well rid of.
M
a
r
ek, if he was still alive, would be clawing at the gates
of Sur La Mer about now, demanding sanctuary or re
venge, depending on his wits. That's if the Fene
r
ty girl
got his message into the proper hands.

Dunville shouldered the bag and made his way to the
parking garage elevator, also unlocked just for him. He
waved good-bye to the officer and guard as the doors
closed over him. He felt like whistling. So he did. He
whistled
Dixie.

He was so at peace with himself, so almost weightless,
that he nearly got into the wrong car. It was a Mercedes,
the twin of several kept at Sur La Mer. A thin old woman was sitting in the back seat. He was glancing around for
Darby's car when his mind did a double-take. That old woman looked remarkably like Nellie Dameon.

“
Ohhh
,”
he sighed aloud.

And the man walking toward him from the rear
.
.
.
the woman walking toward him from the ramp, one in
shadow, the other in silhouette
.
.
.

“
Oh, no
.”

' ‘
No-no-no-no-no.
”

The lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel was bustling with
guests checking out, others en route to breakfast or the
pool, bellhops stacking luggage by the main entrance, a
reporter and cameraman waiting for some celebrity or
other.

Susan, key in hand, approached the most ha
rri
ed-
look
i
ng clerk, and asked for mail and messages for Bungalow 6. He groped for several telephone slips plus one large envelope bearing the return address of a construction firm
and handed them to her. She took a seat in the lobby and went through them, taking her time, watching
for anything
furtive in the behavior of the clerk. She saw nothing, no
sign that he'd been given instructions.

Nor did the large envelope show any evidence of tampering. She knew what it contained. Blueprints of Su
r
La
Mer from the Fene
r
ty girl
'
s father. She left it sealed. The
slips were all old messages. One for Molly, three for Ca
rl
a. The first was from Carla’s father, the others were from Claude.
Just seeing his name gave her a chill.

On Paul's advice, she walked down the stairs to the
basement coffee shop, down a narrow hallway, then dou
bled back. No one had followed her down. She doubled back once again and exited by the gift shop, turned left,
and followed the signs to the bungalow. She passed number 6, seeing no one idling in the bungalow area
,
no gar
deners working. Once more, she doubled back. She placed
her key in the lock and saw the note as she opened the
door.

The writing was in longhand, the letters cramped and
tiny, the lines crooked. Susan felt the chill again. It read:

Dear Carla:

Lisa's things are in a hanky behind the berry bush right
by the door. It's all I found. I wish I asked if I could keep
just an earring to remember her by.

Two men were hiding but they went. Where are you?
Are you okay? I'll call you after ten so you can sleep.

Your friend (Claude)

Susan leaned over the bush and probed with her
fingers.
She found the handkerchief, then stepped inside and
locked the door before unfolding it. It held several chains
and bracelets, a miniature gold bar from Credit Suisse, three pairs of earrings and studs.

A wave of melancholy came over Susan. She knew that
they were all gifts from Carla, given at Christmas and
birthdays over the years. Last year, in Z
u
rich during all that trouble, Ca
rl
a had probably found time to shop for the gold bar. Susan put them in her purse.

Then, while she thought of it, she removed the Beretta
from her purse and checked its mechanism, the spring of
the firing pin, and the barrel for obstructions as Billy had
taught her. Chambering one round
,
she walked through the
bungalow checking all places of possible concealment, all window latches.

She sat on the edge of the bed that was made up,
certainly Molly's, and set the Beretta down. She pulled
Claude's note from her shirt pocket and read it again.

It was written on an order pad of the type used by
lunch counters. The kind that said
“
Thank You
”
across
the top except that the top of this one had been torn away.
There was a tiny lot number at the bottom. Possibly custom printed. Her father would know, or would know how
to find out.

She looked at the handwriting. More strange emotions.

The cramped, tortured letters, for all she knew, were
the warning sign of a tortured mind. She wondered if all
serial killers had such handwriting. Just looking at it made
her uneasy.

But not the words.

As much as she loathed this young man for the sick,
terrible things he had done to all those girls, the words
had an undeniable
.
.
.
sweetness to them. There seemed
no question that he mourned Lisa. And cared about Carla.
Lonely, brittle Carla. For the first time, perhaps, Susan
could understand why Carla had responded to him.

She checked her watch. A quarter to nine.

A little more than an hour until that phone rings and
she hears his voice. More people from Westpo
r
t should
start arriving by then. Plenty of time for them to get into
position on Rodeo Drive. If Carla goes for it.

Susan doubted more than ever tha
t
she would.

Ca
r
leton Dunville sat glumly in the rear of Darby's car,
`
his head turned toward the window. Weinberg had asked