The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (20 page)

“You still should have waited. You could have been sure. And you should have trusted me enough to call me first.”

“Roger, it's done.”

“Not yet, it isn't. Reid's private files. We can't find them.”

“Okay,” Clew peeled off his coat and threw it over a chair. “It's done. I won't say it's not a relief. The message I'm supposed to bring back, I take it, is that everyone should now leave well enough alone because you're keeping Reid's private files as insurance against anyone bothering you, which, by the way, you and I both know is horseshit.”

Bannerman shrugged but said nothing. He handed Clew his glass. “The paper said he died alone.”

“If he didn't,” Clew curled his lip, ”I don't suppose you'll tell 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. Even for you, that was neatly done.”

“Roger,” Bannerman took a seat, “not that I don't enjoy our visits, but why did you come here?”

“The truth? To find out where your head is. To understand why you did it.”

“Assuming I did it,” Bannerman corrected him.

“Hey.” Clew looked at him curiously. “This is me you're talking to. What's with the hedging?”

“We're discussing a capital crime, Roger.”

Clew's expression darkened. “You think I'm wired.”

“Are you?”

“You'll take my word? Or would you like me to peel down to my shorts?”

”A simple yes or no would be fine.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you, Bannerman. We're supposed to be friends. By now you either know that or you don't.”

“The answer, I gather, is no.”

“No, the answer is fuck you.”

“You asked why,” he said. “I'll answer your question.”

“Assuming that you did it.”

“Assuming that, yes.”

“I'd rather have an apology.”

Clew sipped from his glass. He put it down. “There's no wire. Not since that first day we met. And even then, I told you about it.”

Bannerman remembered. He nodded. “As for Palmer Reid, the problem was not so much what he tried to do to me. The problem was that too many people knew about it. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't let it pass.”

“You could have let us handle him. In our own way.”

“No, Roger. I couldn't.”

“Then you could at least show some appreciation. We covered for you. No one's going to know.”

“You’re missing the point,” Bannerman said quietly, almost gently. ”I need it to be known.”

Roger Clew lowered his eyes. A tiny nod. He understood. A reputation is a weapon. Use it or lose it. By now, every enemy Bannerman ever made, everyone who'd ever had reason to fear him, but also every friend, had probably heard some version of the story. They would have watched and waited, with great interest, to see what he did about it. All these years, Mama's Boy's only real protection was the knowledge that whatever you tried to do to him, he would do worse to you. Bannerman had no choice. Especially now that everyone knew where he was. And where he'd been during the three years since he dropped out of sight. Clew could see them, in his mind, reaching for maps of the United States, drawing circles around Westport . . .

“Penny for your thoughts?” Bannerman's voice jerked him back.

Clew straightened. He faked a yawn. “Not for a penny. Maybe for a steak. All the trouble you've caused, the least you owe me is dinner.”

Bannerman checked his watch. “I'd like to go work out for an hour or so. Then Lesko wants to meet me at seven, my place. Which reminds me, what about those warrants on Elena Brugg?”

“You made it harder for us. But it's done.”

“In that case, I'm buying. How's eight o'clock at Mario's?”

“Eight's fine.”

“Is this when I find out about that favor you mentioned?”

“Are you kidding?” Clew pushed to his feet. “After last Friday, you're lucky we even talk to you.”

“But you're here.”

“As a friend.”

“I'm glad, Roger.” Bannerman leaned forward. ”I hope that never changes.”

”I would. I'm just not sure what it is. Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“It used to be”—Bannerman seemed to be groping—”fifteen years ago, even three years ago, when you said 'us' or ‘we,’ you usually meant you and me. I guess I miss that. I guess I worry about you.”

“As I said, I’m your friend. As you said, we have different agendas. The two don't have to cross.”

”I hope not.”

“Move to Westport, Roger. Get out of Washington.”

Clew closed one eye. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“It's all that 'us-ing' and 'we-ing.' Reid used to talk like that. Whatever went wrong with him, you want to try very hard not to catch it.”

“
Hey, David . . . ?”

Lesko stood in the center of Bannerman's living room, raincoat open, hands in his pockets, waiting as Bannerman showered. It was a condominium unit, very private, guard at the gatehouse, off Greens Farms Road and on the shore of Long Island Sound. “Make yourself at home,” Bannerman had said.

“
David? What about this guy?”
he asked, barely audibly.
“What do you think?
^”

There was no answer. He expected none. Force of habit. A hundred times, over the years, they'd walked into someone's house or apartment, sometimes that of a suspect, and they'd try to get a feel for the guy based on the way he lived. Katz was a schmuck in a lot of ways, Lesko thought, but this he was good at. He could look over a guy's apartment and in ten minutes he could tell you more about him than any shrink. He'd add up a hundred little things; how the place was furnished, what kind of mail piled up, the books and music he liked, and he'd
know
the guy.

Even for Katz, though, Bannerman's place would have been tough. Lesko had half-expected it to be your basic bachelor apartment. Chrome fumiture, a stacked stereo, a wine rack, maybe a couple of framed posters on the wall so people would know he's sophisticated, one or two ratty plants, a few copies of
The New Yorker
on the coffee table, and a wok in the kitchen so people would also know he's a gourmet cook.

Bannerman's place was nothing like that. The fumiture was big, solid, comfortable. Lots of leather and dark wood. Heavy drapes for privacy. A whole wall full of books, most of them old, none looked like they were there for show. Dictionaries in four or five different languages. A lot of history, most of it European. About half the books were fiction but none were current best-sellers. Lesko recognized titles he hadn't seen since required reading in high school. Complete works of Dickens.
Lord Jim. Wuthering Heights.
Short stories of Irwin Shaw. No spy thrillers but a couple of Agatha Christies.

Quite a few record albums. Some of them highbrow but there was also a fair amount of soft rock. The Beatles. ABBA. Carly Simon. Framed paintings on the walls, mostly watercolors, shore scenes, a couple of landscapes in oil. The room had a few touches that seemed feminine, probably gifts from friends, maybe even from Susan, but hardly anything that seemed personal. No mementos from trips, no framed photographs on the mantle, not even of “Mama.” He'd avoided peeking into the bedroom. He knew that Susan had probably spent the night there more than once. He did not want Bannerman's bed in his memory.

Lesko tried to imagine what Katz would have guessed about the man who lived here. An author, maybe. Or a college professor. Someone like that. Quiet. Private. Comes here to shut out the world. The kind of guy who walks away from arguments, probably had his last fight in the sixth grade. That definitely did not describe Bannerman. Then again, maybe it did. Come to think of it, he realized, this whole town is a lot like this room.

The bathroom door opened. Lesko turned. Bannerman entered the room buttoning his shirt.

“You mind telling me something?” Lesko blurted.

Bannerman shrugged, his expression cool, polite. Which was another thing that bothered Lesko. Just once, he would like to see Bannerman lose it. Just once he would like not to have the feeling that Bannerman always knows exactly what he's doing.

“Last Friday,” he finished his thought. “The champagne. All those people.”

“Why the witnesses?”

”I guess. Yeah.”

Lesko twisted his lip.
Childish
was not the word he would have picked. Except maybe for the champagne. Which had been Billy's idea. What the hell? It was happy hour. Why not chips and dip? “So now we're all supposed to spread the word, right? Don't mess with Bannerman? How come you left out Susan? She could have put it in the paper.”

“Lesko. . . .” Bannerman's expression darkened.

“Which is what she says she's going to do. An expose about Westport.”

“She won't.”

“You're so sure?”

“Not while her father is an accessory to several murders. If for no other reason.”

“I'm taking her home tomorrow.”

Bannerman nodded, but said nothing.

“Are you going to try to see her?”

”I don't think so.”

“What if she tries to see you? You're right about that newspaper thing, by the way. It's a bluff. She wants you to come talk her out of it.”