Bannerman's Law (6 page)

It was a comfortable office. The desk faced a couch
and two chairs set around a low table in a conversational
grouping. The door seemed sturdy enough. Two large win
dows looked out on the front lawn and gave a clear
view
of the driveway. The office had its own washroom. While
Carleton Dunville made up his mind, it would do nicely.

As his wife busied herself with the safe, he had the
woman, Ruiz, order a plate of sandwiches and two pots of coffee from th
e
kitchen. He told her exactly what to
say. He listened on an extension, satisfying himself that
no alarm had been given. Still, it was only a matter of
time until Henry found his voice again, or managed to
unlock the door and come groping his way up from the
basement.

We
i
nberg opened a narrow coat closet that was built
into the paneling. Inside, hidden, was the cabinet that con
tained the guns.

“
Do you have a key, by chance
?”
he asked the woman named Ruiz.

She shook her head, her expression sullen.

Barbara Weinberg looked up from the safe. Rising, she
stepped to the coat closet and glanced inside.
“
Just kick
it in
,”
she said.

Weinberg, under his bandages, made a face. He had expected a measure of artistry. He braced himself, raising one leg.

“
Wait
.”
Ruiz winced. She reached into her pocket,
producing a ring of keys.
“
I'll open it
,”
she said.
“
But you won't need guns
.”

“
We share that hope
,”
he said.
“
Open it all the same
.”

It was, he thought, a rather odd collection. A dozen or
so pistols, including his own, all different models. One
Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun with a sound sup
pressor, two Ingrams, two
U
zis. He took the MP-5 for
himself and one of the Ingrams for his wife because these
two had extra clips while the others had, in some cases,
no ammunition at all. And they'd been dumped into the
cabinet carelessly and at random. Ruiz appeared to read
his mind.

“
He doesn't like guns
,”
she said.

Weinberg said nothing. He checked the action of his
weapon.

“
He doesn't like Henry either. Vengeance will not in
terest him
.”

“
What will
?”

“
Containing this
.”

“
What will he do about Henry
?”

“
He might ask me to
...
give him something for
the pain
.”

We
in
berg looked at her. He found that he believed her. He saw no hint of pity concerning Henry. The concept of
filial devotion was equally foreign to her and, therefore, per
haps to young Ca
r
leton. Still
...
the matter of insurance.

He asked Ruiz to take a seat on the sofa. He sat at the desk. There was a Canon fax machine behind it. He moved
it onto the desk. He found a blank sheet of paper and
began writing on i
t
in larg
e
block letters.

“
What's your first name
?”
he asked.

“
Lu
i
sa. What are you doing
?”

He fed the paper into the machine and punched a series
of numbers. The machine hummed. He caught th
e
sheet
as it cleared the stylus and held it up for her to see.
It read
...

BOX 617

IF NO MESSAGE, MY VOICE, AT WEEKLY
INTERVALS, PLEASE ASSUME WORST. ASSUME C
.
DUN
V
ILLE, JR.,
AND ASSOCIATE L. RUIZ, SUR LA MER
,
SANTA BARBARA, RESPONSIBLE.
KILL THEM. PAYMENT GUARANTEED VIA CJP.
REGARDS, STREICHER

Luisa Ruiz bit her lip.
“
You made an agreement
,”
she
said darkly.

“
It included leaving here alive
.”
He turned to his wife.
“
How's it co
m
ing
?”
he asked.

“
Got it
,”
she answered. The safe door swung open.

The former Bonnie Streicher sorted through several
piles of documents, discarding most of them. There were
bundles of cash as well. Old bills. She made a rough
estimate of the amount, then pushed the money aside. Be
neath it, she found a locked leather folder. She broke it
open and pulled out three
m
anila folders. She knew at
once that she'd found what she was looking for.
“
Wow
,”

she said softly at one point. She began handing the papers
to Weinberg.

“
He won't forgive this
,”
Luisa said, sucking in a breath.
“
He can't
.”

“
No harm to me
,”
Weinberg answered absently.
“
No
harm to him
.”
His mind was on the documents. They
were single-sheet biographies, clipped together in pairs. One sheet a true history of an individual, the other an
invented history. There were dozens, his own among them.
Axel St
r
eiche
r—A
lan Weinberg. Some went back thirty,
even fifty years. He removed the clips that held them to
gether and, after writing out a cover sheet, began feeding
them into the fax machine, although not his own or that of his wife. The cover note said

BOX 617

HOLD FOR ME. NO ACTION UNLESS NO CONTACT.
STREICHER

That, too, he held up for Ruiz to see.

“
Do you have any idea what you've done
?”
she
asked quietly.

”I certainly hope so
,”
he said with a grunt. He had
unplugged the machine and turned it onto its back. With
a silver letter opener he began prying off bits of plastic,
tearing at its circuitry.
“
Would you mind calling again
about those sandwiches
?”

Two hours passed. Weinberg heard a car. He motioned
his wife to the window where, carefully, she moved one
slat of the blinds. A white Mercedes. A man in a dark
suit climbed out of it.

“
It's Ca
r
leton
,”
she said. She watched as two men in
blazers came out to meet him. One was limping badly.
“
Someone released those guards. Which means they must
have found Henry
.”

The guard with the limp was gesturing in her direction.
He was agitated. Now he was cocking his head vaguely in the direction of the surgery. His hands came up to his e
yes. He made a gouging motion toward one of them and a ripping motion toward the other.

Carleton D
u
nville the younger winced, possibly for ef
fect. His half-brother's overall condition was no longer
news to him although Barbara had omitted certain details.
He raised his own hands, waggling his fingers in a calming
manner. No, the guards would not be blamed. She watched
as he asked several questions, once checking his watch, twice glancing down the driveway in the direction from which he'd come. Then, as if on signal, another car ap
peared. A white Fiero, dented front left fender. It squealed to a stop behind Ca
r
leton's Mercedes. The driver, a squat, coarse-looking man, long hair bunched behind his head,
started to get out but Carleton waved him back and, with
words and gestures, seemed to be sending him to the rear of the building.

“
Who is this
?”
She motioned Luisa Ruiz forward.

Ruiz reached the window in time to see the car drive
off.
“
His name's Hickey
.”
She said.
“
Henry uses him for
this and that
.”

“
Such as burglaries
?”
Barbara asked.

Ruiz shrugged, then nodded.

“
And disposing of bodies
?”

“
Not until now
,”
she lied.

Another hour passed. The phone rang. Ruiz, upon
Weinberg's
nod, picked it up.

“
It's Mr. Dunville
,”
she
said.`''He's
outside. May he come in
?”

“
Certainly. It's his office
.”

Weinberg, standing behind Ruiz, leveled his weapon at
the door. His wife, her back to it, covered the two windows. Carleton Dunville knocked, then entered.

He was an elegant man. Mid-thirties, slender, erect, dark hair going prematurely gray. His features showed
little resemblance to those of hi
s
half-brother. If he were
an actor he would have been cast in sophisticated
drawing
room comedies. A touch of David Niven, a little Tony
Randall, even down to the black double-breasted suits he f
avored. Were it not for the eyes, he might be dismissed
as a fop. But the eyes were alert, intelligent, and their
usual expression, i
n
repose, was one of detached amuse
ment. Now they were cold.

Ignoring the weapons, they fell first on the open safe,
then on the ruined fax machine, then on the sprays of
dried blood that stained Barbara
Weinberg's
white
bathrobe.

Luisa Ruiz coughed. She had picked up the two cover
sheets and the small stack of files that Weinberg had
transmitted.

“
May I
?”
she asked Weinberg, gesturing with them
toward Dunville.

“
By all means
,”
Weinberg nodded.

Ca
r
leton Dunville
’s
expression barely changed as he
sorted through the pages.
“
Did you open the safe for
them
?”
he asked Ruiz.

”I opened it
.”
Barbara Weinberg said, her attention
still on the windows.

Dunville found he
r
biography at the bottom of the
stack. Her credentials.
“
Ah, yes
,”
he said. He tilted his chin in the direction of the fax machine.
“
And the point
of that vandalism, I assume, is to keep me from printing
out the number you dialed
.”

“
Until you've had time to
...
regain your perspective. Yes
.”

Almost a smile.
“
About what was done to Henry, you
mean
?”
A small shake of the head.
“
You over-estimate
my attachment to him. This, however, is another matter
entirely
.”

“
Nothing will come of it
,”
Weinberg said,
“
if no harm
comes to us
.”