Bannerman's Law (45 page)

The car, a subcompact, was fairly well illuminated by
the lights of the house. He could make out the shape of
a triangular sign of some sort. It was strapped to the car's
roo
f.
He recognized it. One of those pizza delivery compa
nies. He could see the driver, standing at the open hatch,
and he could see the flat square outline of pizza boxes.

Ma
r
ek, behind him, cleared his throat. Dunville contin
ued the slow scan of Tower Road. He saw nothing out of
the ordinary except, perhaps, that when the camera
scanned back to the left
,
the pizza car was gone. Dunville frowned momentarily but decided he could dismiss it. Delivery nee
d
not have taken more than a minute or so. Still, he wondered. Not about the pizza car but about what the
driver may have thought about all that shouting at the gates
of Su
r
La Mer. The answer
.
.
.
nothing. A disabled truck,
an impatient new arrival. He was too far away to have seen
that Harry Bunce had menaced Darby with a gun.

“
No sign that Bunce was followed
,”
he said to Theodore Marek.
“
There's only that one car, delivering pizza
.”

Marek stroked his porcelain nose.
''Pizza
to a dinner
party
?”

“
They have three children. Ages nine through twelve
,”
Dunville answered, although he could not actually recall
whether there were children in that house or not.

Marek stared at the screen.
“
Still
,”
he said,
“
that
driver was there just as Harry arrived. Rather convenient,
don't you think
?”

Dunville affected a sigh. In his mind he could see Marek
’
s thugs tearing the shirts off a dozen or so pizza deliv
ery boys to see if one of them was Ca
rl
a Benedict in
disguise.
“
All that young man cared about was his next
delivery
,”
he said.
“
Harry was not followed to Sur La
Mer. There is still, however, the possibility that the car will be traced to your home
.”

Marek nodded thoughtfully.

”I
don't know about these two women
,”
Dunville
pressed,
“
but if it were Bonnie
...
Barbara Weinberg,
you'd wake up with a knife at your throat and a quiet
voice asking you where Peter is
.”

The older man sniffed.
“
They would never get pas
t.
.
.”

“
Then there's the KGB, of course
,”
Dunville added.
“
They will want to know that as well. Especially if the
one Harry shot is able to identify them both
.”

Dunville realized that he was pushing it. But his hope
was that Theodore Marek would take the hint,
go
home,
ring his Mal
i
b
u
estate with extra guards
,
and become a
stationary target while he
...

“
Where else might they be
?”
Ma
r
ek asked.
“
The
two women
.”

Dunville shrugged.
“
They certainly wouldn't go near the Russian's hospital
.”

“
Hardly. Where else
?”

Dunville rubbed his chin.
“
They might surface for the sister's funeral. But that could be days from now. In the
meantime, they could strike anywhere
.”

Marek said nothing. He was staring at the monitors, his
eyes searching shadows. The predator, thought Dunville,
had become the hunted.

“
Speaking of funerals
,”
he asked,
“
what do you want
done with Peter
?”

Marek blinked as if distracted. Then he seemed to recall that his adopted son, now useless to him, was still in the
basement. He made a vague gesture with those bony fingers.
You see to it, it said It was the sort of gesture made by a
maître
d'
when he wishes a busboy to clean off a table.

Dunville felt a welling of disgust. Some of it toward himself. He had not, in fairness, shown much more com
passion for either of his own namesakes. The redeeming
difference, he hoped, was that he was capable of knowing
it. He had made his decision. A voice inside him said,
“
Good lad. It's about time
.”

He knew the voice. He had imagined conversations
with it many times. It was that of the man whom he
wished
...
or fantasized
...
to have been his real father
.

“
I'm not so good. But you're right. It's time
.”

“Go to Hilton Head, Son. Take up golf. Golf is sooth
ing to the soul
.''

“
I'll see to the members first. And I'll try to protect
you. You and most of the others
.”

“I
know you will
.''

“
But not this man. Not Marek
.”

“I
can
't
stand the son of a bitch either. What do you
have in mind
?”

“
How does one dial the KGB? Any idea
?”

”I doubt they're in the phone book. Anyway, I'd say those ladies deserve first dibs, wouldn't you
?”

“
I
suppose I would
.
Thank you, Father
.''

“
Take care, Son
.”

“
What? Did you say something
?”
M
a
r
ek hooked
that finger behin
d
his ear.

”Um
.
.
.
no
.”

“
It sounded like take care
.’
”

”
I said I'd take care of Peter
.”

“
Oh. Yes
.”

“
I'll take care of everything, Mr. Marek. You sit tight.
Leave those women to me
.”

Marek snorted.
“
If you have an idea, I want to hear it
.”

“
Never fear. I'll settle this by noon tomorrow
.”

“
You can keep this from my door
?”

“
Depend on it
.”

“
If this touches me, Ca
r
leton, you'll see Harry Bunce
one last time
.”

“
Trust me, Mr. Marek
.”

Dunville watched from the flagstone terrace as Theo
dore
Marek's
taillights winked from sight. The Lexus,
Harry Bunce driving, followed close behind.

He could see a soapy puddle where the Lexus had stood. Bunce must have hosed it out and scrubbed it. Marek, he
imagined, would probably have him abandon it somewhere
and claim not to have seen it for days. Or Peter either.

Poor Harry Bunce.

He'll now pass the rest of the night listening to Theo
dore
Marek's
analysis of every word that was said, every nuance, every conceivable scenario up to and including a
KGB plot to drag him before a war crimes tribunal.

Just as well.

Perhaps it will keep them both out of trouble.

Carleton Dunville returned to his office and looked for
the scrap of paper on which he'd noted the number of
Miss DiDi Fene
r
ty.

₃₃

Lesko had two hours to kill.

On his map, Queen of Angels Medical Center looked
fairly close. He could swing by the waiting room. Leo
Belk
i
n might still be there. But a better idea
,
he decided, might be to keep an eye on the restaurant from which he'
d
made his call.

Huff, he knew, could have had an address for tha
t
pay
phone two minutes into their conversation
.
Lesko had no
reason not to trust him. But someone, like Huf
f’
s boss,
might have been tempted to set up a surveillance. So
Lesko watched and waited. He sat in a darkened Mazda
dealership just down Sunset Boulevard.

For an hour nothing happened. Traffic on Sunset was ligh
t.
A
car every five minutes or so. Then, suddenly, two
cars pulled into the lot
,
two men in one, a couple in the
other. The couple entered and took seats at the bar, heads
together like love birds although they had not touched on
their way in. One of the men entered two minutes later
and sat at the far end. The other man never left the car
.

“
That took too long
,''
said Katz.

Lesko understood. It should not have taken an hour.
The cops, from the look of it, had already determined that
he was not there. Probably called the manager. These four
were probably waiting in case he came back to use the
same phone.

“
They got a third car, you think
?”

^“
No
.''
Katz pointed.
'
“
The guy who stayed outside. He
's
their chase
.''

Lesko waited, to be sure. After thirty minutes, he
started his engine.

“
Sit low. They're
lookin’
for a moose
.”

Lesko, crouching, swung onto Sunset, then made his
first right turn toward the Hollywood hills. He saw no
lights behind him. He continued on for a while, then
stopped to check his map. He was almost in Burba
n
k.

He had no special reason for going there. But he re
membered that the reporter on
Bannerman's
TV said that
Hickey, the slashing victim, lived there. Victory Boule
vard. The camera had panned over a white apartment house that looked Mexican. It couldn
'
t hurt to make a
pass.

Lesko found it with no trouble because two patrol cars were still parked outside and a crime scene was lit up and
taped off. Also an unmarked van with its rear door open.
A man wearing an FBI vest was reaching inside. Lesko,
approaching, saw him pull out a towel. He cruised by. As
he passed, he saw another man, in coveralls, lying on his
back under the rear bumper of a parked car. The agent
with the towel began wiping it off. He seemed in a hurry.

Looked like a Chevy, thought Lesko. Must be Yuri
Rykov's
. The towel probably meant they had dusted it for
prints and didn't want to leave powder all over it. The
guy in the coveralls looked like he was rigging something.
A bug? A tracking device? What for?

Lesko checked his watch. It was time to look for an
other phone and it probably shouldn't be in Burbank. He
followed a sign that said Hollywood and stopped outside a
n all-night supermarket. At three sharp, he punched out
Andy Huff's number. Huff picked up on the second ring.

“
It's Lesko. What's the story
?”

“
Ah
...
we might have a deal. I have some ques
tions first
.”

“‘
Is this going to be a nice long chat, Detective
?’'

A brief silence. Then
,
“
I'm just a cop, Lesko. You
know what I mean
?”

Lesko understood. “
Y
eah. I know. Tell them three min
utes. After this
,
I don't call again
.”

Another silence. Lesko heard whispers.

“
Why is Paul Ba
n
ne
rm
a
n
here and whom else has he
brought
?”
Huff asked. He actually said
whom.
That, and
his tone, suggested that he was reading the question.

”I already told you
.”

“
What is his interest in Sur La Mer
?”

”I told you that, too
.”

More whispers.

“
As far as we know
,”
Huff was reading again,
“
Sur
La
M
er is a legitimate institution but we will check it out
further. Do we have Bannerman
’
s word that he will take
no action on his own
?”

“
Tell him yes, Detective. As long as they're straight
with him and they don't fuck with me
.”

Huff took a breath.
“
What is the KGB's interest in Sur
La Mer
?”

Lesko frowned.
“
Tell them you have one minute,
Andy. You want this Campus Killer or don't you
?”

“
We
...
I want him. I want him bad
.”

“
Do we have a deal? Yes or no
.”

“
The
.
.
.
Los Angeles Police Department will not
interfere with Bannerman or any of his people before mid
night Thursda
y
if he will promise us an interview, his
place or ours, within forty-eight hours of that time
.”

“
He can put that in t
h
e bank
?”

“
You have the word of the LAPD. You hear what
I'm saying
?”

”I hear you
.”
Fucking FBI.
“
You all understand that
there are other shooters involved, right? And that we don't
know who they are
?”

“
We understand
.”

“
So if I, or Ba
nn
e
rm
an, see anyone who looks
f
unny, or we spot a tail, we're going to know these people must be them because you just gave me your word that they
won't be LAPD, right
?”

“
Um
.
.
.
you got it, Lesko
.”

Lesko heard a smile.

“
I'll be in touch
,”
he said. He replaced the phone.

Su
m
ner Domme
ri
ch was getting upset.

All he could think of, driving back from Santa Barbara
,
was how glad Ca
rl
a would be that he had followed those
men. And now he couldn't find her.

He had left the Pacific Coast Highway at Sunset Boule
vard and stopped at the first bar that he knew to have a
phone booth with a door on it. It was in Westwood
,
a
beer and burger hangout for UCLA students. He would go
there sometimes when he began to get those feelings. Almost always, he knew, he would see at least one girl there who was snooty and stuck-up and blond but he didn't care
about that now. All he cared about was that phone.

He dialed the number of the Beverly Hills Hotel.
But
the man said there was no answer from Bungalow 6.

There was no use going home. He would only have to
go out again to use a public phone that wasn't too close.
Dommerich found a place at the bar where he ordered
some potato skins and a glass of milk. He would try again
in an hour.

There was no answer the second time either. But by
then he had heard the kids at the bar talking about him.
And what he'd done to Hickey. He asked them about it.
They said it was on TV.

They said it was different this time because the victim
was a guy and because there was also this big shoot-out
but the police weren't saying much about it. One of the
TV reporters, though, said that the dead man had been
seen that morning near the apartment of the serial killer'
s
seventh victim and so they began wondering if this man,
Hickey, was actually the Campus Killer himself. Maybe
the friends of one of his victims, or even the mob or somebody, tracked him down before the cops could.

The bartender said he heard that they blasted their way
in but Hickey also had a gun and he hit a couple of them
before they got him and carved him up.

Domme
ri
ch tried not to smile.
“
That's what I would
have done
,”
he said.

He was instantly sorry because he saw the way some
of them looked at him. A big guy in a Grateful Dead shirt
said.
“
Yeah. Right
.”
A blond girl, half-stoned, put her
chin on this guy's shoulder and giggled into his ear. He
looked at Dommerich and smiled. A mean smile. He said,
“
You got milk on your upper lip there
,
killer
.”

Dommerich picked up his napkin. He pressed it, hard,
against his mouth as he glared at these two. He would
remember both of them.

He left his stool to try Ca
rl
a again. She was still not
in. This time he left a message that
Claude
called and
it's important. He broke the connection, then slapped his
forehead.
I know,
he thought.
She
'
s probably at her fa
ther's house.
H
e
remembered George Benedict, Sherman Oaks, from the newspapers. He called information, then
tapped out the number.

Carla wasn't there either. Her father was still up. He
sounded funny. He asked Dommerich if he was one of her
friends from
...
it sounded like
Westport.

Dommerich said,
“
No, just from here. Mostly I knew
Lisa. I'm really sorry
.”

George Benedict mumbled a thank you. His voice
dropped almost to a whisper.
“
Your name again
?”

“
Claude
.”

“
How recently have you seen Carla
?”

”A
few hours ago
.”
Sort of.

“
What time, exactly
?”

“
About ten, I guess
.”
Dommerich did not know why he lied. Except sometimes it's a good idea when people try to pin you down.