Bannerman's Law (8 page)

₇

It was half past nine in the evening, California time, when
the TWA 747 touched down at Los Angeles International Airport. Molly Fa
rr
ell, a tall woman, lean, athletic, gentle
eyes, a. face that wa
s
more often described as good rather
than pretty, left Ca
rl
a to wait for the bags and went di
rectly to the Avis desk where she signed the rental
agreement on a blue midsize sedan.

Carla, left to that task, would have rented a Porsche or
a Mercedes. There was no real reason not to, Molly sup
posed. No need to avoid attention. It was more force of
habit. As Carla had argued, not without merit, that in this town a plain blue Chevrolet would stand out more than a Porsche. Most of the late-model Chevrolets, she said, were
probably unmarked police cars.

Nor would Molly, given the choice, have reserved a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Too much people-
watching there. Too many eyes wondering who you are
and whether you're famous. But Susan had made the reser
vations. Paul didn't correct her. He probably decided that
there's no harm in that either. It's centrally located be
tween Lisa's apartment and her father's house. And it's
pleasant enough that it might take some of the edge off
of
Carla's
gloom.

Molly drove, heading north along the San Diego Freeway. Ten minutes later, approaching Santa Monica Boulevard, she signaled a right turn. She could see Century City, on the edge of Beverly Hills, stil
l
glowing red in reflection
of the western horizon.

“
No
,”
Car
l
a pointed.
“
Go straight
.”

Molly hesitated.
“
Sherman Oaks
?”
Where he
r
father
lived.

“
And Woodland Hills
,”
she said.

Where her sister was found.
“
Wouldn't you rather get
some rest first? It's after midnight, our time
.”

Carla shook her head.
“
Let
'
s get it over with
.”

Approaching the exit ramp for Sherman Oaks, Molly signaled again. And once more, Carla waved her forward.
“
Take the Ventura Freeway westbound
,”
she said.

“
It will only hurt you
,”
Molly said gently.
“
And there
won't be anything lef
t
to see
.”

Carla realized that. And that it would hurt. But she
wanted, however irrationally, to feel the presence of her sister. Perhaps she was still alive when the killer brought
her there. Perhaps there was still something of her in the
air.
“
It's the third exit
,”
she said.

Carla saw the place at once. A highway patrolman had been stationed there, with his car, hazard lights blinking.
Farther down the slope she saw an area marked off with
yellow tape. Amber utility lights blinked at either end.
Molly pulled off the shoulder of the exit ramp, stopping
behind the patrol car. She had barely placed the car in
park when the young patrolman in his early twenties, stepped from his car and began to wave them on. Carla
was out her door almost as quickly, her wallet
in hand.
Molly watched as the patrolman s
h
ined his light on her
Connecticut driver's license and on a cropped snapshot
hat identified her as the sister of the Campus Killer's
seventh victim.

The young patrolman did not know quite what to do. He seemed, to Molly, to be trying to reason with her,
perhaps repeating what she herself had said, that it could
only hurt. But in the end he turned with her, shining his
light toward the crime scene, walking slowly. Molly
watched.

The beam washed over a system of squares, marked
off with string, where forensic specialists had done a grid
search. It settled on a particular spot. There was nothing
there now
.
No outline of a body. But Molly could see
where an oblong ring had been flattened by the shoes of policemen, an ambulance crew, a photographer, a coroner
.
She could see the tire tracks of several vehicles.

They were coming back now, the patrolman
'
s light
marking
Carla's
path. Suddenly she stopped, looking
down. She bent over, her fingers brushing something in
the grass. She stayed, for a long moment, then stood erect and touched the young man's arm in thanks. He took her
hand, gripping it as if to comfort her. He watched her go.

Seven victims, thought Molly. She wondered what the young man would have thought if he knew that the woma
n
h
e
was treating so gently had killed at least three times
that number over the years. So had most of them, for that
matter. Except that, as a rule, they never killed for plea
sure. Satisfaction, now and then, but not pleasure. But in
this case, any one of them, even Paul, she suspected,
would make an exception.

Molly started the engine.
“
You okay
?”
she asked.

“
I'm fine
,”
Ca
rl
a answered distantly.

“
What did you find in the grass
?”

“
What
?”
Carla blinked. She was someplace else.
“
Oh.
Those were footprints. They took casts of them
.”

Molly exited the ramp, then swung back onto the Free
way, going east.

“
He wore rubbers
,”
Carla told her.
“
Totes
.”

“
You could see that? At night
?”

“
That kid told me. The cop
.”

”0h
.”

”
I could feel him, though. I could almost see him
.”

“
Ah
.
.
.”
Steady, Car
l
a.
“
What else did he say
?”

It took a moment for the question to register. Carla
shook her head as if to clear it.
“
They recovered her
car today
.”

“
Where
?”

“
Not far from here. In a parking lot at Pierce Junior
College
.”

Another campus. Molly frowned.
“
Which means that's
where the killer
.
.
.
found her
?”

”I guess
/’

“
Lisa was a g
r
ad student at USC
.
What was she doing
at a little junior college? And on a Sunday
.”

“
Maybe she wasn't there. Maybe he just left the car there
.”

The answer gave rise to more questions but Molly de
cided not to pursue them. The detectives, she knew, were
asking them as well. Does this mean the campus killer
forced his way into her car? Or asked for a lift? Why,
afterward, would he go directly to another campus? Why
that one? Had he left his own car there?

Whatever. Let the police and the FBI puzzle it out.
Sooner or later, one piece at a time, they'll close in on
him. Or he'll try to gray a decoy, a policewoman. And, if
she's worth anything, she'll shoot his pecker off, and then
his kneecaps, before her backup can move in.

“
Which exit for your father's house
?”
she asked.

It was a small house, stucco, not much yard, neat, gen
erally modest. He met them at the door. He'd been sitting up, waiting, on the chance that Carla would come tonight. An average
sort of man, thought Molly. Might have been nice looking
once. Tall, almost her height but gone to flesh, hair more gray than brown. She could see some resemblance around
the eyes and mouth but that was about all.
Carla must
have inherited her coloring and size six from her mother.

He leaned an inch or s
o
toward his surviving daughter. an
d his hands reached up, just barely. He seemed to want
to embrace her. That was Molly
'
s impression. But for
some reason, he could not.

Car
l
a mumbled an introduction. Her father did not offer
his hand. Rather, he stared at her for a long moment, a
measure of surprise evident on his face. Molly was used
to it. She did not look like what she was. But then few
of them did.

“
I've made a fresh pot of tea
,”
he told them.

It was not an invitation to enter. Not exactly. Nor did
he step to one side. It was more like saying that if his
daughter wished to come in, he would try not to make her
feel unwelcome.

The living room was comfortable, very California, furniture that was a sort of Ethan Allan Spanish, fake beamed
ceilings, lots of plants. There was a piano in one corner.
Molly tried to imagine Carla, as a little girl, practicing
on it.

Atop the piano there were several framed photographs.
One frame was empty, its photo probably given to the
police. There were three other pictures of Lisa, taken at
various ages, one with her mother, now deceased. There
were none of Carla
.

Molly knew most of the story. Carla had gone to Europe nearly twenty years before, junior year in Paris, met
a guy, an Algerian, who studied electrical engineering by
day and made bombs at night. By the time Carla caught
on, so had the French Secret Intelligence Service. She was given the choice to work for them or to go to prison, more
likely to vanish. By then she was ready to get even with almost anyone. Stayed for four years until she hooked up
with Banne
rm
a
n a
nd he managed to get
the French off her back. Nobody messed with Bannerman
back then.

But for those four years, and the fifteen that followed,
George Benedict had never seen her, had hardly heard
from her. But he heard
about
her. Mostly from the CIA
when they were building their file on her. They told him
stories. Like the one about the Algerian engineer who she blinded with a ballpoint pen on a crowded street in Rome
and then stood by watching as he staggered, screaming
into the path of a trolley. The Algerian's new address had
been a gift from Bannerman.

“
Miss Fa
rr
ell
,”
he said, awkwardly, as he poured her
tea.
“
You
are,ah...
from Westpo
r
t as well
?”

She knew what he meant.
“
Yes. I am
.”

“
And you've been back in this country how long? Al
most four years
?”

“
Just about. Yes
.”

“
Well
,”
he sighed audibly,
“
it's nice that you took
the time to come see me
.”
He flicked a glance toward
Ca
rl
a, then quickly looked away. He filled her cup. The tea was yellow, Carla noted. Smelled more like straw.