Bannerman's Law (61 page)

“
Fuck you
.”

Ba
nn
e
r
man ignored the response. He patted his pockets
as if looking for a handkerchief, finding none.

“
There were three Dunvilles
,”
he told her.
“
One did
kill Lisa. He
's
now dead. Another Dunville would have silenced DiDi Fene
r
ty. He's also dead. The third Dunville
appears to have been innocent. He's left town. We're not
likely to see him again
.”

She found a tissue in her purse.
“
How do you know
all this
?”

“
I'll tell you. But not for a while
.”

“
Does everybody else know
?”

“
Only some
.”

“
The reliable ones
.”

Bannerman made a face.
“
As it happens
,”
he told her,
“
there's been no chance to brief any of you
.”
He made
a gesture that embraced both cars.

“
We're here now
.”

“
It can wait, Carla
.”

“
Does Susan know? Does she know more about my
sister than I do
?”

He chewed his lip.
“
Stop that. Right now
.”

Waldo turned onto the ramp for Culver City.

”
I need new stockings
,”
she said.

Bannerman blinked at the nonsequit
u
r, then remem
bered. Her knees.
“
We'll get you cleaned up. Elena proba
bly has some to spare
.”

”
I want my own
.”

Bannerman, fed up, turned in his seat as Waldo coasted
to a stop. He saw
Carla's
knife. She held it, more defensively than threatening, close to her body. With her free
hand she opened the door.

“
Don't make me cut you
,”
she said.

₄₉

“
The things I do for love
.”

Alan Weinberg muttered this aloud as Barbara rum
maged through the supply closet at Dr. Michael's office,
searching for a set of whites that would fit him. She found
one jacket that would do if worn unbuttoned.

Weinberg sat in a chair, Kleenex tucked into his shirt
collar, as Nellie went to work with her makeup kit.
She would, she had promised, give each of them a nice
California tan. Age them a few years. Hide the scars.
She had also gathered an assortment of props such as
eyeglasses, stethoscopes, and a well-chewed pipe for
Alan.

Barbara had already dressed in a nurse
's
uniform of
sorts. A white dress and stockings. She would use her own
sneakers. And she had fashioned a sort of wimple out of
a pillow case.

“
You're supposed to be a nun, I take it
.”

“
It hides my hair
.”
She paused at a mirror to check.
“
And it might put them at ease
.”

“
But isn't there supposed to be a black thing that hangs
down the back and sides
?”

“
I'll make one. Another pillow case. It will have to
be white
.”

Weinberg grunted doubt
f
ully. It boggled the mind. A
Jewish nun. Sisters of the Holy Uzi. But, he realized, it
would probably serve its purpose. He did not imagine that the personnel at Sur La Mer were familiar with the dress
code of the various religious orders.

This was all Barbara's ide
a
initially.

Not that she'd actually proposed it. But he'd seen that half-smile grow on her face as Dr. Michael explained how
he planned to pick up the members. He would drive his own station wagon, he said. He would lead a minibus to be provided by the Motion Picture Country House and
driven by one of its orderlies. The minibus carried basic
medical equipment, oxygen, and it had an electric lift for wheelchair patients.

”
I wonder if they'd recognize us
,”
was al
l
she said.

Weinberg
’
s best response, he realized too late, would
have been to feign a heart attack. Anything to interrupt
her train of thought.

But ”I wonder
,”
was what he answered.

And Nellie added,
“
Oh. I would feel so much better
if you two went with Michael
.”

Absolutely not. Weinberg was adamant. They hadn't
gone through all that surgery just to go back and show
off their new faces.

“
That's just the point
,”
Barbara had argued.
“
No one
at Sur La Mer would expect us to come back. If we dress
in whites, they probably won't even look past the
uniforms
.”

“
They won't look at all because we won't be there
.”

“
But we'll see them
,”
she pressed.
“
We'll know what
Marek and his shooters look like in case we ever run into
them again. That could save our lives someday
.”

“
So could minding our own business. No
.”

“
And we'll see how they're deployed. You'll be able to tell Molly
.”

Weinberg hesitated. That argument, having Ba
nn
e
r
ma
n
in their debt, had a suggestion of merit. Still, it seemed
foolhardy. What if they get in and find that Ma
r
ek won
'
t
let them out again? In fact, why should he let them go
at all?

But Barbara had that look of hers. That half-smile. He knew that he could argue all morning and in the end she
would say something like,
“
You're right. It's foolish for
both of us to go. You wait here with Nellie
.”

And she would mean it. There would be no question
of laying down the law. One doesn't marry Bonnie Predd
and expect her to become a geisha overnight.

In the end, all he could do was what he did. Call Molly.
Tr
y
to dissuade her, at least. Failing that, ask for three
hours' grace.

That and try to believe his wife when she swore that
she had no other motive spinning around under that wimple. No yielding to sudden impulses such as she had when taking her leave of Ca
r
leton the elder. No plan to leave
Theodore Mare
k—t
hat abuser of childre
n—s
titched to the
wall under the
“
benefactors
”
plaque bearing his name.

She said she wouldn't dream of it.

Susan could not remember feeling so alone.

Carla's
belongings, and Molly's, scattered throughout
the bungalow, seemed like ghosts. She busied herself with
straightening the rooms.
Carla's
things, in particular, affected her in that they seemed so ordinary. She could not
have said why. Or what else she expected.

She heard people passing outside, chatting idly, just
another day. She wanted to be with them. She had drifted
to the window, watching them turn toward the lobby en
trance, when she saw the bellboy step aside for them and
then continue on in her direction.

He was carrying what looked to be a small bouquet
of flowers and he was heading toward the door of Bunga
low 6.

She was surprised more than alarmed. He was a young
man but, beyond that, he bore no resemblance to Paul's
description of Claude. And she ha
d
seen him in the
lobby earlier.

Susan, with the Beretta in hand, answered his knock
through the bolted door.

“
Flowers for Miss Benedict
,”
he said.

She asked that he leave them outside.

When he left
,
but while still in her sight, she quickly
opened the door and snatched the flowers, then bolted the
lock again. She put the Beretta back on safety and t
u
cked
it into the smal
l
of her back.

The bouquet was a small FTD assortment in a miniature
brass watering can. She opened the card. It read:

I hope you
'
re okay
.
Your friend, Claude.

The card envelope bore the address of the hotel's gift
shop but the handwriting was not in the cramped, painful
script of the note he'd left under the door. She realized
that he must have ordered them through a florist some
distance away
.
This handwriting, practiced and feminine,
was probably that of the gift shop clerk.

It was such a tiny bouquet. Mostly carnations. A harm
less little thing, and yet it made her shiver.

But what, she wondered, did it mean? That he would
not be calling again? All she could do was wait.

A half-hour passed. In that time she understood anew
why her father had clung to the man she'd grown up
calling Uncle David. She even tried talking to him, asking
him about the flowers. He didn't answer. Then a different
bellboy came. With cookies this time.

Once again, she asked that he leave them outside. She
waited until more people passed before unbolting the door
and retrieving them. The cookies were by Famous Amos.
The bag, well sealed, showed no sign of tampering. The
note, again from the gift shop, read,

Thes
e
are my favorite. Your friend, Claude.

Something about the cookies disturbed her. More so
than the flowers. She couldn't say what.

Uncle David?

Still no answer.

More time went by. Perhaps twenty minutes. It passed
slowly. She had just stepped into the bathroom when she
heard another knock at the door.

“
Yes
?”
she called.

“
This time it's a pizza
,”
came the voice.

“
Oh
.”
The bellboy, she thought, must be wondering
what comes next. A chocolate cake?
“
Just leave it,
please
.”

“
Not too long, okay? It's no good cold
.”

“
Sure. Thank you
.”
She heard him walk away.

Funny, she thought, that her father would tell her not
to send out for pizza. She tried asking him, not David
Katz, why he would say that.

“
Just don't
,”
she imagined him saying.
“
Do what I tell you
.''

Susan opened the door, keeping it on its chain. She
looked down at the pizza box, no note this time, and it
suddenly struck her what had bothered her about the cook
ies. They were a gift shop item. The flowers, prepaid,
could have been ordered anywhere but there's no FTD for
Famous Amos cookies. They must have been ordered in
the gift shop itsel
f.
Claude must
.
.
.
might
...
be here.

She closed her right hand over the Beretta at her back
and reached for the chain on the door.

“
He's been watching you
,”
came a voice. Her own.
“
Twice you picked up the things he sent. He knows you're
not Car
l
a or Molly
.''

What would Molly do? Susan wasn't sure. What she
would not do was scare him off. Or blow this chance.

Swallowing hard, she threw off the chain and opened the door wide. She crouched, one arm extended as if to
reach for the box. She heard a sound, then withdrew, brac
ing herself. A white blur appeared in the doorway at the
level of her chest. Another pizza box. A figure behind it,
charging at her. Pivoting, she blocked the box with her
free hand and kicked under it, aiming the edge of her shoe
at the leading knee. The figure squealed and stumbled.
Susan gripped the rigid box, keeping it between them. She
kicked again as Billy had taught her, this time at the side of the knee. A scream. She saw a flash of steel. It swiped
at her under the box but the man holding the knife was
already falling. He struck the table that held the cookies
and the flowers and the telephone. They crashed to the
floor with him.

“
Drop it
,”
she said, her chest heaving.

He was clutching his knee, his face contorted by pain.
He looked up at Susan and at the pisto
l
she held in a
combat grip. His eyes darted about the room as if looking for a place to hide. They stopped at a point behind Susan,
near the still open door. The eyes went wide.

“
Get her
,”
he wailed.

She knew better than to turn. ”I said drop it. Drop the
fucking knife
.”

Domme
ri
ch ignored her. He pointed the knife past her.

“
She hurt me
,”
he blubbered.
“
Get her
.”

A shadow moved across the floor. Susan spun. Her
finger squeezed the trigger but the Beret
t
a did not fire.
Horrified, she remembered that the safety was on.

“
Easy
,”
came a voice from outside.
“
Don't shoot
me
.”

Carla's
voice. Susan's heart pounded.

She would have.

“
Lesko
?”

Roger Clew, sitting in Jack
Scholl's
car, watched in
disbelief as the familiar figure climbed out of a taxi and
into the blue Chevrolet. Raymond Lesko.
The
Raymond
Lesko. Who hadn't even bothered to scout out the street.

“
You know him
?”
asked Scholl.

Clew nodded, perplexed.

He had only met Scholl ten minutes earlier. Clew had
called him by radio phone on his way from the airport.
Patched through to Scholl
’
s car, he learned that a surveil
lance had been set up around a rental car that had been t
raced to Ca
rl
a Benedict. Scholl had reason to believe that
the car was soon to be reclaimed, possibly stocked with
explosive devices.

“
This reason to believe
,”
Clew asked, frowning.
⁴
'Where'd
it come from
?”

*'I
can
'
t tell you that. But it's solid
.”

Clew watched as Lesko pulled out into traffic
.
“
Don't
fuck with me
,”
he said darkly.

Scholl's
color rose.
“
We
.
.
.
might have a wire. Some
local girl. They've been passing messages through her
.”

”
A
legal wire
?”

Scholl answered with a shrug.

”
I want to hear the tapes
.”

”
I
.
.
.
destroyed them. The bureau could be embar
rassed if
.
.
.”

Clew looked at him, more disbelief. And then at
Lesko's
Chevrolet, now headed south in no particular
hurry. Another FBI car had fallen in behind.

”
I want to talk to Lesko
,”
he said.
“
Take him right
now. No guns
.”

“
Negative
.”
Scholl shook his head.
“
He'll lead us to
Banne
r
ma
n
. I want them all
.”

Clew let out a breath.
“
How many agents in this
surveillance
?’'

“
Eight, not including us. Four cars
.”

“
And how many at that house where the car went
through the wall
?”

“
Four
.”

Thirteen agents, thought Clew. All tied up by a diver
sion in Malibu and musical cars in Burba
n
k. The LAPD,
meanwhile, is neutralized because Bannerman promised
them the serial killer if they'd give him room. They be
lieved it, he supposed, because they wanted to.

Clew had no doubt of what was happening here. It was
Bannerman, clearing the children off the streets. Ban
nerman was about to hit Sur La Mer.

He reached for Scholl
’
s radio phone and handed it to
him.

“
Take him
,”
he said,
“or
I'll have your ass for
breakfast
.”

The KGB safe house in Culver City was a union hall
for migrant workers.

A nice idea, thought Banne
rm
an. A dormitory upstairs. Other quarters for staff. A steady flow of middle-class, well
-
dressed whites with social consciences. Hot meals provided by a nearby Catholic church. It even had a gov
ernment grant. It functioned, Leo Belk
i
n assured him, quite
legitimately and quite in the interests of the migrants al
though the key organizers were all KGB operatives.

Belkin had joined him there, feeling the need to take a
break from his vigil and also to smooth his way among
nervous Soviet agents. Not the least of his reasons for
coming was to remind Bannerman that a favor of this
magnitude would require a substantial quid pro quo, if
only to keep peace with Belkin
’
s superiors.

“
Can you spare some people
,”
Bannerman asked,
“
to
keep an eye on
Marek'
s house and gallery
?”

“
To what purpose? You say he's fled
.”

“
Trust me on this. It's in your interest
.”

Belkin was noncommittal. But Bannerman knew that
he'd see to it.

Bannerman tried Susan from a secure phone. He got a
busy signal. Annoyed, he told Belkin how Car
l
a had bolted
from the car. Possibly headed back to the Beverly Hills
Hotel and her supply of pantyhose. More likely headed
for Sur La Mer. John Waldo had gone there in hope of
intercepting her. And otherwise to scout it. Billy was out
side flagging new arrivals. Elena was resting.

“
And if Carla gets there first
?”
Belkin asked.

“
Then she's on her own
.”

“
This does not
.
.
.
force your hand
?”

Bannerman sighed. He shook his head slowly.

Leo Belkin saw sadness, not anger, in his manner. The
words, and their tone, said that he had already reconciled
himself to the loss of Carla. He would not risk other lives
to save her from herself. Belkin wondered, even if she s
urvived, would Ba
n
ne
r
man ever allow her to return to
Westpo
r
t.

“
What will you do, Paul
?”

“
I'll wait
.”

“
But not for long, I think
.”

Bannerman shook hi
s
head again, distantly.

He realized that Belk
i
n expected, even hoped for, some
dramatic response
.
He was, after all, the famous Mama's
Boy. And that was the problem.

He would not deny that the legend had its uses. But it
was a burden just as often. Two winters ago he'd gone to
Switzerland to ski, only to ski, and people died because
they simply would not believe that. Even now, Leo Belkin
could not quite accept that he had no deeper purpose in
coming to California. Or that he knew as little as he did.

He had no idea what Axel Streicher wanted to protect.
Or why he needed until noon. Or what Roger was afraid
of. There must be dozens of people, he thought, perhaps
hundreds, who were at this moment trying to find him,
and, failing that, trying to anticipate his next move. Won
dering what the phantom Se
m
tex was for.

Let them.

If everything they think they know is wrong, their actions will be wrong. He had no wish to die for their mistakes either.

His next move, he now decided, would be to take a nap.

After he tried Susan again.