The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (46 page)

Don 't give me maybe. Go ask him. ”

“How do I do that?”

“You're asking me? He's dead, you're dead. Go ask
around how you guys get in touch with each other.”

“You said you weren't going to keep saying that.”

“David,
“Lesko took a breath.
“Are you going to give
me hurt feelings or are you going to try to be helpful
here?”

“You always have to be such a shit
.
”

“David . .
.“
Lesko made a gesture of his hands that he hoped woul
d
pass for an apology.

“Anyway, if somebody killed Donovan, what's so hard to figure who did it?”

Okay, genius.
“So tell me.”

“You had this tail on you, right? Then Donovan
makes calls about him, right? Then Donovan gets on to
something, right? I figure the Loftus guy. ”

“After I made him?”
Lesko said doubtfully.
“And
I've got his driver's license and his address in my pocket,
he's going to start killing friends of mine?”

“Then maybe the Bannerman guy. Donovan was
asking about him, too. Ask me, Bannerman 's dirty.
”

“Wait a second. What do you know about Banner-
man?”

“Like what? The kind of guy he is, you mean?”

”I
guess. Yeah.”

“He's like you. Big guy. Ugly. Except he has this
little pencil mustache and he's kinda oily.”

“That's what I thought. ”

Lesko kicked the Barcalounger upright and rubbed his eyes. For a minute there, he almost had himself
believing that Katz was real. For a minute there it
wasn't
just a head game. Katz had answers. He knew
about amyl nitrate, he knew about Loftus, and he knew about Donovan calling all those Washington guys. But he only knew what Lesk
o
knew. Even if Les
k
o had forgotten that he knew. What blew it was the way Katz
described Bannerman. Katz didn't know shit about him.
The description was just a jumble of the ways Lesko
himself had imagined Bannerman.

There wasn't any Katz. Just Lesko talking to Lesko. But maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe it was better than
nothing.

Lesko got up, stretched, and walked over to his
phone. He made two calls. The first was to Lieutenant
Harry Greenwald.

“Remember the fruit I smelled, Harry? Amyl nitrate
smells like fruit. Check his clothing for traces, also his skin and respiratory system for traces of prussic acid.
...
No Harry. I don't know anything. I only know that
things were missing that should have been there and
that amyl nitrate smells like fruit. . . . Because I just remembered, that's why. And because it's very conve
nient that he happened to fall so the shower would keep
washing his face and maybe fill up his lungs . . . Harry
. . . I know nothing else. Zero. . . . Yeah, I'll be here.”

The second, not counting one to Directory Assis
tance, was to a number at 21
Mayfield
Road, Arlington,
Virginia. ,

“Mrs. Loftus?”

“This is she.”

“My name is Raymond Lesko.” He spelled it. “I'm trying to reach your husband on a very urgent matter.”

“I'm afraid he's not available, Mr. Lesko.”

“I won't ask you to tell me where he is.” He knew
she wouldn't anyway. “But if you could get a message to
him, I promise he'll be glad you did.”

“Does he know you, Mr. Lesko?”

“Yes, ma'am. And it's very important.”

 
“Very well. What's the message?”
.   Lesko gave his address and phone number. “Please
tell him this,” he kept his voice friendly, “If I don't see him here by tomorrow morning, he should assume that
I'll see him there.”

“There? Does that mean here?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Lesko lowered his voice to a hoarse
whisper. “It means I'll come and meet the family,”

He broke the connection.

C
HAPTER 15

Susan Lesko was excited, exhausted, in love and in Lon
don. She had not stopped grinning, not since an hour
after sunrise when she first sighted the Irish coast from
the window of the first-class cabin.

She grinned through Customs and baggage claim at
Heathrow and at the sight of her first London taxi
which, at Paul's request, took them on an early morning
tour through Knightsbridge, past Buckingham Palace,
down Piccadilly and back through Mayfair before pull
ing up at the entrance of the Grosvenor Hotel.

By the time the bellman had closed the door of their
suite behind him, Susan had said “Oh Wow!” seven
times by Paul's actual count and a truncated “Oh
W . . .” six times more. She didn't care. She was in
London.

Paul thought a nap might be a good idea. Then
they'd shower and dress, see a bit more of the town,
have dinner at Mirabelle, visit a club or two, then get a
good night's sleep before boarding the Orient Express
in the
morning.

“Are you daft?” Susan turned from their window
where she was already leaning out taking snapshots of
everything in sight. She had also acquired an instant British accent somewhere during the taxi ride from
Heathrow. “Yes, I'm afraid you've gone quite bonkers.”
She ducked back inside and handed him his coat. A
shove toward the door made it clear to Paul that no part
of her one day in London would be wasted in bed.
Especially not on a nap.

By taxi, tube and double-decker bus, they spent the
next six hours prowling through Westminster, the
Tower, Soho, stopping for lunch at Claridge's and tea at
Fortnum & Mason, peeking at 10 Downing Street and
watching the horse parade at Whitehall. Strolling
through Belgravia, in the general direction of Harrods,
Susan spotted a placard in a small public garden that
read:

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN WILL NOT
PICK THE FLOWERS.

OTHERS
MUST
NOT
.

She loved this town.

At Harrods, Susan began hunting for the accessories
that would turn the drop-waisted dress she had brought
along into something resembling a 20's costume to wear
for tomorrow's boarding of the train. The brochure had
suggested it. A floor manager in a swallowtail coat
quickly guided her to just the things. A simple cloche
hat, a black osprey plume, and a four-foot string of imi
tation pearls, to be worn doubled-up and knotted.
These would do nicely.

Another woman, Susan noticed, seemed to be shop
ping for much the same items. They'd exchanged looks, polite smiles, but did not speak. Susan paid for her pur
chase, nodded once more, and went o
ff
to collect Paul who had wandered into the food halls. Finding him, she
announced that it was his turn to be done over. She led
him to the menswear department where she selected a
colorful shirt with wide stripes, a brass-knobbed walk
ing stick and an inexpensive Panama hat. These, she
decided, would
go we
ll
with his blue blazer and cream-colored slacks. He argued, uselessly, that she was dress
ing him in a 1920s summer outfit in the middle of win
ter. She didn't care.

There, looking at men's shirts, was that woman
again. And once more, Susan had the impression that
she was considering similar purchases. The woman
looked away, but not before smiling and nodding what
Susan took to be approval of her choices. Susan winked
in return. The woman watched them leave.

In Lesko's Queens apartment, at the same hour, but
five time-zones earlier, the telephone rang. He let his
answering machine take the ca
ll.

“You called it, Ray.” Harry Greenwald's voice. “We
have to wait for a lab workup but the M.E. thinks h
e
has traces of cyanide. You get back to me fast, all right? We
have to have a nice, no-bullshit conversation about
this.”

It rang again 20 minutes later. Lesko waited for his
recorded message to play. No voice followed. Just a long
hesitation. Then the connection was broken.

Lesko couldn't be sure—the hang
-
up could have
been anyone—but he had to assume that Robert Loftus,
a very angry Robert Loftus, had heard from his wife and would be paying a visit. But an angry Robert Loftus was
not likely to trot up the front steps and ring the bell.
Lesko went to his clothes hamper and scooped out an
armload of soiled laundry. He stepped into the hallway,
double-locked his apartment door, and walked down
the three flights to the laundry room in the back base
ment.

There was a yellow plastic chair in the room facing
two washers and two dryers. He moved it next to the
machine farthest from the door, piled his laundry on the
machine, then found an empty detergent box in the
trash can. He tore off what remained of the top and
inserted his fist, which was wrapped around a cocked
automatic pistol. Next, he sat in the yellow chair in such a way that all but his head and shoulders were protected
by the washing machine. He sat, not moving, for only
ten minutes before he heard the service door outside
being quietly opened and closed.

No other sound at first. Then slow, careful footsteps
on the basement cement. One pair of feet. Lesko lifted the detergent box with its bath towel muffler and took
aim at the laundry-room doorway. The yellow chair
creaked as he leaned forward. Lesko cursed silently.
The feet stopped.

“Lesko?” came a male voice. Loftus's voice.

Lesko waited.

“Lesko? My hands are empty.”

Lesko chewed his lip. What the hell, he thought. “Come in slow, Robert. The hands first.”

Loftus entered, nothing in his hands, but he held
them defiantly at his sides. “No guns, Lesko,” he hissed,
“I'm here to beat the shit out of you.”

Lesko's brow went up. He rose from the yellow chair
and allowed the wrapped detergent box to fall from his
pistol. He glanced pointedly at the weapon and then at
Loftus. “How's that again, Robert?”

“This time it's personal, you bastard.” He stripped
off his coat and motioned Lesko forward. “I'm going to
take you apart.”

“Well,” Lesko shrugged and stared, “I certainly
wouldn't want that, would I, Robert?” He took two
quick steps and whipped the automatic pistol against
the side of Loftus's skull.

On Main Street in Westport, in the shop operated by
Anton Zivic, the former GRU colonel was showing a mountainscape of the Dolomites to a lady who felt that
the wall over her piano needed more drama. A sales
assistant interrupted. A Miss Farrell, she said, was call
ing from New York. She says it's urgent.

Zivic took the call in his office. He knew that Molly
had driven to the city. She'd gone, as Paul had asked, to remove the listening device from Susan Lesko's phone.
He pressed a button and picked up the receiver.

“Hello, Molly. Any difficulty?”

“I got in and out, no trouble. Susan's wire is lifted.”
Molly took a breath. “Anton, I found another one.”

“Another bug?”

“Actually, two. Living room and bedside. Both are
infinity transmitters.”

“I see.” Infinity transmitters, unlike the device
Molly
had planted, could pick up any sound in the room
whether the phone was in use or not. They were obvi
ously better than a drop-in relay, but Paul would never
have permitted the bugging of Susan's bedroom. “Were
they installed before or after yours, do you know?”

“Definitely after. I did a sweep when I installed
mine. I guess whoever installed this one didn't bother,”

“Palmer Reid, you suppose?”

“Who else?”

“Did you leave them in place?”

“Sure,” she answered. “But they'll know someone
found them, Anton. I have to assume that the noise I made handling them was enough to set off the voice activators. Reid's people would know that the apart
ment's supposed to be empty. Should I wait around to
see who shows up to check?”

“No, it's not useful.” Someone would surely come,
but probably not a familiar face. “Better you come back
to Westport, Molly. Something I don't like
is
in the air
here.”

“Did something else happen?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. You know this young man,
Doug Poole?”

“The superfa
n
. What about him?”

“On Thursday his manner was one of enthusiastic
admiration. On Friday he did not appear, but he is back
today. Today he sits low in his car and his manner is sullen. I saw fear in his eyes when I came to open my
shop.”