Bannerman's Law (46 page)

“
She was okay then? She wasn't hurt
?”

“
She was fine
.”

Dommerich heard a long sigh. It sounded like relief.
“
Claude
,”
he lowered his voice even further.
“
If you find her, tell her she
'
d better not come here. Or not to use the
front door if she does
.”

“
I'll tell her
.”

“
Tell her
...
that I'll help her. Any way I can
.”

“
So will I. Don't worry
.”

But now Dommerich
was
worried. If he'd seen Ca
rl
a
at ten, which he hadn't, that would have been long after
she went t
o
H
ickey's apartment. If her father was relieved that she was still okay then, he must have been afraid that
something happened to her earlier. Or that something
might.

It occurred to him, for the first time, that maybe they
thought she did H
i
ckey. Maybe the men with guns were
looking for her too. Maybe they already found her and
that's why he couldn't.
Dommerich, his face flushed
,
hurried from the bar with
out stopping for his change.

Near the long-term parking lot of the Santa Monica
Municipal Airport, Theodore Ma
r
ek waited with his body
guard, Felix, as Harry Bunce disposed of the Lexus. Or
rather, parked it, first wiping it caref
u
lly.

Peter was in Mexico. With some woman. Felix had
suggested the story. He'd been gone for a week. Felix
would provide witnesses who had seen him there. That, if
the question were asked, would be all that Marek knew.

That would be enough for the police if they inquired. That and a well-placed phone call if they persisted. But would it be enough for this Carla Benedict? To say noth
ing of the KG
B.

He almost wished that Harry had disappeared as well.
The Russia
n
had seen his face. He might possibly identify
him. A disappearance would be no more than Harry de
served.
The guy who killed Peter is dead. Mr. Marek.
Trust me. He took three hollow points.

Trust me indeed.

Except that he might need Harry.

And
now,
Ma
r
e
k
brooded,
I
am also to trust young
Carleton. Who has already cost me a useful son
.
Who is
entirely unrepentant of it.

And who, come to think of it, seemed entirely too sure of himself. Almost smug. But on what basis? He had as much to fear as anyone. Sooner or later, Joseph Hickey would be traced to his doorstep. By trained assassins, no
less, who were possibly in league with those two who ran
off. What protection could Dunville have? Clearly, he had a course of action in mind.
I'll settle this by noon tomor
row.
Did he have something to offer in trade? The address of Harry Bunce? A dossier or two? The former Tadeusz
Ordynsky in payment for the Russian?

Marek felt a chill.

Wouldn't the KGB love that, he thought. Wouldn't they love strapping him to a chair, electrodes on his testicles,
taking their time as they asked for the location of every
piece of art that the Nazis had looted during the final days
of the siege of Leningrad, nearly all of which he had
cataloged and dispersed, some of which remained buried
near Pushkin, along with the Russian prisoners who dug the caves, and even the two SS sergeants who had exe
cuted them.

Wouldn't they love a stroll through his house, seeing,
on the walls of his library, the splendid amber panels that
had once graced the summer palace of Catherine the Great.
And then a look at his vault.

No, he decided. Not possible.

Dunville knew nothing of these. No one who had seen
those panels had the slightest idea where they
'd
come from
and no one at all had seen his vault. And Dunville would
not want him taken alive and questioned.

Much more likely, Dunville would try giving him to
that Benedict woman and her friends. Marek fingered the
piece of notepaper on which he'd written all that he'd
learned about her. A dangerous woman. Made all the more dangerous, and possibly unstable, by her grief. In his mind, Ma
r
ek now recalled how
Dunville's
expression had bright
ened when he realized that those women might well have
seen Peter's car and might, by now, have the Marek ad
dress. He might even give it to them. Yes. That's exactly
what he might do. Dunvill
e
had even made a point of
telling him to go home and stay there.

The thought infuriated Marek. Here he was, totally innocent of any involvement in the death of this Carla Bene
dict's sister and he was t
o
be offered in recompense. Or
as a distraction. Hoping that the Benedict woman would not bother to question him, or to take him alive. Hoping
that she would be content to kill him and go home.

“
Mr. Marek? We're all set
.”

Harry Bunce had returned. Marek had barely noticed that his car door had opened and closed. Only that the
interior light had flashed on th
e
sheet of paper he'd been
staring at in the darkness. He told the Mexican to proceed,
then reached for the lamp at his left shoulder.

He read the names. Benedict, Fa
rr
ell, Banne
rm
an.

WASP names, basically.

The odd thing about such names, it struck him, is that
they always seem distinctly no
n
menacing. More like a stu
dent roster at an eastern prep school. And the nickname,
code name, whatever, of this Paul Bannerman hardly could
have been chosen for its intimidation value. What had his
source said? Oh, yes. Bannerman
’s
mother had been an
agent of note before him. Hence, Bannerman’s code name had been Mama's Boy. Still
.
.
.

Marek's
eye worked back to Molly
Farrelí's
name. It
suggested little to him. Not as WASP as the others
.
A
Molly Farrell could be anything from a washerwoman to
a socialite. Carla Benedict could be almost anyone as well
were it not for the notatio
n—l
ikes to work with a knife.

There was a line drawn from her name to another nota
tion below. Marek followed it. Ah, yes. The father. George
Benedict. Sherman Oaks.

Marek looked at his watch.

The FBI, he knew, had been there looking for the
daughter. He wondered, aloud, if they might still be watch
ing the house.

“
Round the clock
?”
Bunce asked. ”I doubt it
.”

“
Would they not expect her to go there
?”

Bunce shrugged.
“
Not if she has any sense. She'd lay
low. Anyway, she'd probably spot them first
.”

“
You're saying that no one is protecting the father
.”

Bunce frowned.
“
From what
?”

“
From you and Felix here
,”
he gestured toward his
driver,
“
if you were to pay him a visit
.”

“
And whack him? What good is that
?”

Ma
r
ek raised a staying hand. That had not been his
thought but he considered it nonetheless. No, he decided.
The father's death might have some value as a distraction but in the end it would only escalate matters. Borrowing him would be better. The great advantage of kidnapping
over murder is that it's an even greater distraction, lasting longer, and, in the end, one is left with something to trade.

Why should Ca
r
leton Dunville hold all the cards?

₃₄

Su
m
ner Dommerich had to get out of there. He would
have gone to pieces if he stayed. And they all would have
seen it.

He knew that the more he thought about Ca
rl
a, the
more he worried about her, his face would have started
turning red and he would be biting his knuckles so he wouldn't scream.

He screamed in the car.

He climbed into the passenger seat so that he could
hold his knees up under his chin, balling himself tight so
he wouldn't break things, and he screamed through his teeth until he couldn't breathe. No one heard or saw. In
five minutes, he was himself again. He felt able to think.

Dommerich wished he wouldn't get like that. Espe
cially when it was for nothing. Carla wa
s
probably okay.
But if she wasn't, maybe it would be on the radio.

He switched in on and pressed the scan button, waiting as it searched for a news broadcast. He found none. His
dashboard clock showed seven minutes after the hour. H
e'd probably just missed the news. He left it on scan
and put his car in gear. He drove toward the Beverly
Hills Hotel.

There was always a chance, he realized, that Car
l
a just
wasn't answering her phone. One thing he could do was
go knock on her door. Bungalow 6. But what if she an
swered? Then she'd know what he looked like. She
wouldn't turn him in, he was pretty sure. Not after he told
her where those men went.

He would also tell her that the man at the desk had
given out her room number. They're not supposed to do
that. That's how rooms get robbed. Anyway, maybe he'd just listen at her door. Maybe leave a note under it. And
leave Lisa's jewelry in the bushes where Carla could
find it.

He could see as he approached the hotel that something
was going on. Some big party, just breaking up. Valets
bringing up cars. That was good. They'd be too busy to
notice that he was delivering a pizza to one of the bunga
lows. You weren't supposed to do that either. Dom
m
erich
had delivered plenty of pizzas to hotels in the middle of
the night but the fancy ones usually made you wait in the
lobby to get paid while their own bellboys took the pizza
to the room. Half the time, the bellboys would say there
wasn't any tip but you'd know from their eyes that they
kept it.

Dommerich put on his hat and slipped an empty box
into his thermal sleeve. He scribbled an order on his pad
and tucked his knife into his belt. The main entrance sud
denly lit up. Someone with a video camera and floodlights.
They made the doorman blink. Good. Dommerich moved
toward the path leading to the bungalows.

The bungalow area, he thought
,
was like being in the
woods. Lots of thick bushes and trees, dark except for
foot-high lamps along the winding path. A phone was
ringing someplace. As he drew near, the sound seeme
d
to come from Bungalow 6 but he couldn't be sure. The ringing stopped. There was a light on somewhere inside, dim,
like from a bathroom. Suddenly, he was afraid. What if
someone was there but it wa
s
the other woman, Fa
rr
ell?
She was definitely on
Carla's
side but that didn't mean
she'd be on his.

He stood still for a long moment, pretending to squint at his order sheet, trying to decide. Better, he thought, to
try to look in the window first. Most of the windows were
around the side.

Do
m
me
ri
ch had just turned the corner when he heard
a spit of static. It was like the sound a bug zapper made
except he hadn't seen one and except the noise seemed to have come from where he'd been standing. He froze and
listened. He heard a man's voice, speaking quietly but
clearly.

“
Just some kid.
.
.
.
Delivering pizza
.''

Dommerich
’
s heart began pounding. He eased the knife
from his belt.

Another spit. Another voice, very dim. He couldn't hear
what it said but the first voice asked
“On whose order?”
then,
“
Fine with me. I could use some sleep
.''

Dommerich eased into a deep shadow at the corner of
Carla'
s bungalow. He heard a rustling of bushes and the
scrape of shoes reaching the path. He risked a peek. He saw
a man, dressed in a suit and tie, somethin
g
in his hand.
Dommerich could see a bent antenna on it. A walkie-
talkie. The man, he realized, had been waiting for Ca
rl
a.

Suddenly he was more angry than afraid. He saw him
self walking up to that man, asking him which way to
Bungalow 10, then sliding the knife into his chest as the
man told him to get lost. He could drag him back into the
bushes and leave him there. He could tell Carla, later, to
go look.

Except the man was now walking away. Dommerich waited a few seconds, then followed. The man left the
bungalow area and stopped at the driveway. A car pulled
up, another suit and tie driving. The headlight
s
washed
over the man with the walkie-talkie. The man got in. The
car drove off.

Dommerich knew who he was. He had seen him out
side Lisa's apartment. He was one of the two from the
FBI
who had dragged Ca
rl
a down the stairs in handcuffs
and now it looked like he was trying to do it again. Do
m
m
e
ri
ch almost wished that the man hadn't left.

He knew a stakeout when he saw one. And from the
way the man from the bushes said
Fine with me,
it didn't sound as if they'd found Carla someplace else. It sounded
like they'd been told to give it up.

Domme
ri
ch went back to the side windows and peered
through them. He could see two bedrooms. One bed was
made, one wasn't. Carla was definitely not there unless
she was hiding under her bed. He couldn't imagine her
doing that. He also saw pieces of luggage, and toiletries
were visible on the bathroom counter. This meant she'
d
be back. The phone rang again. It made him jump. It
seemed to ring a long time before it stopped.

He tore a blank sheet from his order book and wrote
her a note. He tucked it under her door. From his pocket
he took the handkerchief in which he'd wrapped Lisa's
jewelry. He concealed it behind a shrub near the edge of
the door and covered it with green leaves. Dommerich
returned to his car.

Where to now? he wondered. He turned up his radio. It was still on scan.

He could drive up to Sherman Oaks, he supposed. The
FBI was probably watching that house as wel
l—w
hich
must be why her father said she should come in the back
way. But if the two a
t
the hotel gave up, the ones at the
house were probably gone by now too. Still, it was a long
way to go for nothing. He'd call again instead. At least tell her father about the note and the
.
.
.

Dommerich jabbed a finger to stop the scan. Too late.
It had played part of a news broadcast. He'd heard,
”.
.
.former policeman,
Joseph Hickey
.
.
.
the wounded
man
.
.
.
identity withheld
.
.
.
spokesman at the Queen
of Angels Medical Center told reporters that
...'■'

Dommerich brightened.

That's
where she'd be.

Maybe.

Staying with her friend. Anyway, Queen of Angels was
on Vermont Avenue, which was on his way home. It was
worth a look. After that, he could use some sleep himself.

“
What do you think
?”
Lesko asked this question of
his empty passenger seat.

“
The feds want the collar for themselves
,''
Katz said,
shrugging.
“
What else is new
?”

Lesko nodded slowly, then shook his head.
“
It's more
than that
.”

“
Like what
?”

“
Like they got this whole task force that's spent at
least a year looking for this Claude creep but suddenly
all they care about is Banne
rm
an bothering those nice
people up at some movie nut house
.''

''So? Ask
why
.”

Lesko rolled his eyes.
“
Why didn't I think of that
?”

“
Not them, you putz. Call Kaplan
.''

Lesko blinked. Right. The feds here would have called
Washington. Their bosses, once Bannerman
’
s name was
mentioned, would probably have called
I
rwin. He looked
at his watch. A quarter after six, Washington time. Irwin
would be trying to get back to sleep.

“
Say you're sorry
.”

“
All night, you had one idea. Don
't
make a big deal
.''

“
You're so smart? Tell me why they'd be rigging Yuri
Rykov's
car back there
.”

Lesko had wondered. But mostly about them doing it
at three in the morning. And whether his call to Andy Huff had anything to do with it.
”I don't know. Why
?”

“
The answer is they wouldn't. Think about it, wise
ass
.”

Lesko nodded slowly.
“
You're saying it's not Yuri's car? Then whose
?”
But he knew the answer. Someone
who they hope will come get it. Car
l
a? She wouldn't be
that dumb. But if they're rigging it, they can't intend to take her. Probably follow her to Claude. Or maybe
Bannerman.

“
There's the hospital
,”
Katz
pointed.

Lesko saw it off to his right. Big place. The only building in the area still fairly well lit. Nothing looks quite so
lonely, he thought, as a hospital at night.

“
We could check it out. See what the reporters are
saying
.''

Not a bad idea, thought Lesko. The press would still
be hanging around in case Yuri dies, meanwhile schmooz
ing with orderlies to see what else they could learn. He also wouldn
't
mind talking to Belk
i
n. And it was as good
a place as any from which to call
Ir
win.

Lesko flipped his turn signal.

Molly Far
r
ell counted ten rings before the night operator confirmed that no one was answering. Molly, her eyes o
n
Carla's
empty bed, cursed under her breath.

She looked at her watch, uselessly. It was almost four.
But she had no idea how long Ca
rl
a had been gone.

Molly identified herself as the other guest staying in Bungalow 6. She listened for any strangeness in the opera
tor's voice and, hearing none, left a message asking
Caría
to call her the moment she gets in. Ms. Benedict, she said,
knows where to reach her.