Bannerman's Law Page 37

  Dommerich grabbed for a towel.

  ”. . . exclusive videotape, taken by a neighbor at the scene. Police responding to the neighbor's call found. . . ”

  The picture, wobbly, amateurish, now showed a car, all smashed, trunk open, half inside a broken wall. A man moving up the hill toward the camera, waving it off. Other men trying to bend back the gate because another car was trying to get out.

  Dommerich didn't understand. But it was that man. He was sure of it.

  This was wild.

  There was a second man after all. Carla must have got him. Or Lesko. And then they took these two all the way out to Malibu to dump them. But why?

  Then Dommerich understood.

  Carla, he bet, made the second man tell who sent them. And then she beat them back. Maybe she went into the house first, looking for him, and he wasn't there. So she left him a message.

  He missed the name of the man whose house that was. Something about art. Maybe it would be on another channel. Dommerich climbed out of the tub.

  Carla would be looking for that man. The first place she'd look is probably that Sur La Mer place. But he knows what Carla looks like. He would see her coming.

  Wouldn't it be great, thought Dommerich, if he could find ‘him before Carla did. Except they'd never let him through the gates. And there were all those guards.

  Maybe they could work together. Make a plan.

  But first he had to find her again.

  Bannerman would not have noticed the Porsche.

  He looked up at the sound of John Waldo's tires and the grinding of his gears. Waldo tossed his head toward his rear and Bannerman saw it.

  He was more curious than alarmed. A Porsche, bright red, seemed an unlikely vehicle for surveillance. Nor could he imagine why its occupants would be following Susan. Or even know that she existed. Waldo, in any case, would look after her.

  In the meantime, he had one more call to make. He walked the two blocks to the public phone he'd used before and tapped out the number of Queen of Angels Hospital. He asked that Mr. Leo Belkin be paged. He was drumming his fingers to a Musak interlude when he saw the red Porsche, its bumper and one headlight newly crushed, coming back in his direction. He knew at once that Susan was clear.

  As the Porsche went by, the man in the passenger seat glanced in his direction. Bannerman saw recognition—the man who'd put Susan into a taxi—but no great interest in him. He watched as the driver signaled a turn into the Holiday Inn. Bannerman looked back in the direction Susan had taken and saw John Waldo's car approaching. He raised a hand and waved it to the curb.

  “Any idea who they are?” he asked as Waldo neared the public phone.

  “They wouldn't show me.” He cocked his head toward the hotel. “I'll go ask again where it's quiet.”

  “Could they be detectives?”

  “All that gold? No way. They're pimps or dealers.”

  “Why would they have followed Susan?”

  “My guess . . . one guy thought maybe she was Molly. Other guy knew Molly was older.”

  Bannerman blinked. “You heard him say that?”

  “More or less.”

  Leo Belkin answered his page. Bannerman asked him to wait. He covered the mouthpiece. “Get Lesko,” he said. “Tell him what you told me. Then the two of you go ask.”

  “You checking out soon?”

  “Very soon. Why?”

  “Okay we leave them in the parking lot?”

  “The parking lot will be fine.”

  “What if Lesko won't?”

  “Won't what?”

  “Leave them dead.”

  Bannerman chewed his lip. He considered letting Waldo go alone, unburdened by Lesko's fine distinction between people who are killers and people who have killed. But going alone meant twice the risk.

  “It's enough to leave them useless,” he said.

  Leo Belkin listened as Bannerman told him of the phone calls and the events in Sherman Oaks. He was distracted. Yuri had just been returned to surgery. Internal bleeding was suspected.

  The news of this Claude, his part in it, hovering about like some demented fairy godmother, did not help his concentration. He could not begin to understand such a thing. He chose not to deal with it. The appearance of Axel Streicher out of nowhere was confounding enough.

  “He claims that everyone involved in Lisa's death is dead,” Bannerman was saying. “I'm inclined to take him at his word.”

  “Which means,” Belkin replied, “that you are disinclined to visit Sur La Mer. Is this not what Streicher hopes?”

  “It seems to be what a lot of people hope.”

  “Among them Roger Clew?”

  A pause. “How would you know that, Leo?”

  “He called here not ten minutes ago. From an airplane, by the sound of it. He hoped to reach you through me.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Some inconsequential bluster about my possible detainment. The sense of it was that I can avoid that inconvenience by helping to neutralize you.”

  “Did you agree to cooperate?”

  “Of course. In return for the name of the man responsible for Yuri. But now I have that name. I owe Roger nothing.”

  A weary sigh. “Marek's yours if you want him. Otherwise, I have to give him to Carla.”

  ”I want him, Paul. But next week or next month will do for me. You, I think, do not have that luxury.”

  “Well ... we do if we cancel Lisa's service and leave town now. But I don't want to leave this hanging. The time to hit is when everyone else is as confused as I am.”

  “About Sur La Mer.”

  “To say nothing of Claude.”

  Belkin grunted, dismissing that subject. “You have thoughts about Sur La Mer?”

  Another pause. “Probably the same ones you're having.”

  “That it's a safe house of some kind.”

  “Given Roger's interest. And the fact that the Streichers turned up there. Very possibly.”

  “And yet Mama's Boy has no interest.”

  “If it doesn't affect me? None.”

  “And yet you have shown an interest. And you appear to be here in force. I believe you, Paul. But who else will?”

  ”I know.” Irwin Kaplan had asked the same question. ”I need a favor, Leo.”

  ”A safe house of your own?”

  “One of yours. Room for eight or ten. I need it right now.”

  “That is a considerable favor.”

  ”I know it is.”

  ”I will give you a number. Wait two minutes. I will call it first.”

  The owner of the red Porsche, Chulo, was still seething. He had better things to do than sit here. Like make some money. This favor was costing him enough already without getting his goddamned car banged up plus going through the bullshit of getting it fixed right.

  Where the hell is Kiki?

  Kiki, his brother, had gone inside to see who's at breakfast. Also to give the desk clerk some story about meeting this little redhead last night in the bar, said her name was Carla, was with a tall brunette, and he'd pay $50 just for her room number so he could send roses.

  Probably a waste of time. The brunette had used a phone here. That was all. She could be in Vegas now for all anybody knew.

  Chulo sat, his engine idling, where he could see all exits from the hotel to the rear parking lot. A few suits, probably salesmen, walking to their cars. One big guy, mean face, walking up and down trying to remember where he parked. A guy looks like that, thought Chulo, and you think he sells car crushers or wrestling equipment . . . shit like that. It always turns out they sell ladies underwear. Or maybe Bibles.

  Anyway, enough was enough.

  Chulo picked up his mobile phone and punched out Marek's number. Three rings. Six rings. Then, “Yeah?”

  “This is Chulo. I gotta talk to Marek.”

  “Chulo, not now, man. We got some heavy shit here.”

  “Wait a second. Like what?”

  A br
eath. “Bunce and Felix are dead. That redhead cunt chopped the shit out of them and sent their car right through the gate here.”

  “Oh, man. Oh, fuck. By herself?”

  “She had a car. The other one must have been with her.”

  “Oh, man. Where's Marek?”

  “He took off before the cops came. He went up north. You understand?”

  “Yeah.” Chulo gathered himself. “So anyway, I'm wasting my time here, right?”

  ”I guess. You want to make some money, go see him. The redhead and the tall one are worth a hundred K.”

  “No shit? Let me talk to Kiki.”

  “Gotta go, man.”

  “Yeah. Watch yourself.”

  Chulo snapped the mobile phone into its cradle. He looked up, hoping to see his brother coming, and he did. But a car eased into his view, blocking it, blocking him. He reached for his horn, then stopped as he recognized the driver.

  “Oh, Christ.”

  It was that drunken old fart, climbing out, pen and paper in his hands, stopping now to try to write down his plate number except he could hardly stand up. Son of a bitch. Shit-faced at this hour. This time, Chulo would slap him silly.

  The old drunk approached his door. Chulo opened it. He had one leg out when the old man suddenly pivoted sideways and ducked, as if to turn and run. Suddenly Chulo felt the door slam back at him. It smashed into his chest, driving him back, stunning him. The door bounced open. The drunk, pivoting again, shot another sideways kick. The door slammed, this time against Chulo's leg, snapping it above the ankle.

  He sucked air for a scream. But now a hand was at his throat, stopping it. The old drunk was leaning through his window, pressing against the door. Chulo's leg was still outside. Through a blur of tears he looked for his brother. Instead, he saw the Bible salesman. The big guy. Coming toward him. Dragging something. Chulo realized it was Kiki.

  “Who you looking for?” the old man asked.

  Chulo arched his body in a show of pain. In the same motion, he slid the fingers of his right hand under his jacket, feeling for the gun in the small of his back.

  “Hey,” said Waldo quietly. “You see this?”

  Chulo looked down to see what was tapping at the underside of his nose. He recognized the shape of a silencer. His right hand found his pistol, then froze.

  “Tell me all at once,” Waldo sighted the barrel down across Chulo's chest. It was aimed at his right knee. “Who you looking for, who sent you, who'd you just call?”

  Chulo squealed. Figures appeared at the passenger door. He saw Kiki's face, swelling as if inflated, his tongue out, a forearm across his throat. The face slipped out of view as the big man reached in and felt for the gun behind Chulo's back, crushing his fingers against it.

  “The man asked you a question,” Lesko told him.

  ”I don't ... I don't…”

  Waldo adjusted his aim. His gun spat. Chulo felt a hammer blow against the flesh inside his thigh. His world turned to pain.

  He was aware of the passenger door opening, of his brother being heaved into the seat, legs last, one at a time. He heard the big man say, “Ahhh, shit.”

  John Waldo peered past Chulo's face. The other one's eyes were slits. He saw no life in them. Lesko was feeling his neck for a pulse, finding none. Waldo grumbled. “Not that I mind,” he asked, “but this is your idea of . . .”

  “Don't give me any crap,” said Lesko, embarrassed.

  Waldo shrugged.

  He reached in farther and laid the maw of the silencer against Chulo's knee. “Nobody ever told you to respect your elders?”

  Chulo made a wailing sound.

  “Do you remember my question?”

  Chulo managed a nod.

  “Next bad answer, I spray your kneecap all over the dashboard.”

  46

  In the vault of the Century Bank on Wilshire Boulevard, Ashley B. Hammett, the former Carleton Dunville, kissed the thick envelope that contained his new life.

  He wasted no affection on the thick bundles of cash and bearer bonds or on the envelope containing his former life. These he crammed into a leather shoulder bag that he'd found under the desk of Luisa Ruiz. Mr. Weinberg had taken his own briefcase. Luisa, sadly, would not miss hers.

  The files came next. These, unlike the copies Weinberg had taken from the office safe, were on computer disks. He counted them, returned them to their protective pouch, and slipped them into his pocket.

  The safety deposit box was now empty. He was tempted to drop his wallet into the box as a sort of symbolic burial but decided against it. He was not out of town yet. There was still the long drive to the Mexican border, leaving Darby's car, doubling back to San Diego by bus, buying new clothes, and beginning his journey to Hilton Head.

  Ashley Beauregard Hammett.

  A good southern name, that. He would have time to work on the accent.

  Carleton signed his true name to the vault log, perhaps for the very last time. Not that the Dunville name didn't have its uses. Such as getting a bank officer to open up early for him. But it would soon be a burden well rid of. Marek, if he was still alive, would be clawing at the gates of Sur La Mer about now, demanding sanctuary or revenge, depending on his wits. That's if the Fenerty girl got his message into the proper hands.

  Dunville shouldered the bag and made his way to the parking garage elevator, also unlocked just for him. He waved good-bye to the officer and guard as the doors closed over him. He felt like whistling. So he did. He whistled Dixie.

  He was so at peace with himself, so almost weightless, that he nearly got into the wrong car. It was a Mercedes, the twin of several kept at Sur La Mer. A thin old woman was sitting in the back seat. He was glancing around for Darby's car when his mind did a double-take. That old woman looked remarkably like Nellie Dameon.

  “Ohhh,” he sighed aloud.

  And the man walking toward him from the rear . . . the woman walking toward him from the ramp, one in shadow, the other in silhouette . . .

  “Oh, no.”

  ' ‘No-no-no-no-no. ”

  The lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel was bustling with guests checking out, others en route to breakfast or the pool, bellhops stacking luggage by the main entrance, a reporter and cameraman waiting for some celebrity or other.

  Susan, key in hand, approached the most harried-looking clerk, and asked for mail and messages for Bungalow 6. He groped for several telephone slips plus one large envelope bearing the return address of a construction firm and handed them to her. She took a seat in the lobby and went through them, taking her time, watching for anything furtive in the behavior of the clerk. She saw nothing, no sign that he'd been given instructions.

  Nor did the large envelope show any evidence of tampering. She knew what it contained. Blueprints of Sur La Mer from the Fenerty girl's father. She left it sealed. The slips were all old messages. One for Molly, three for Carla. The first was from Carla’s father, the others were from Claude. Just seeing his name gave her a chill.

  On Paul's advice, she walked down the stairs to the basement coffee shop, down a narrow hallway, then doubled back. No one had followed her down. She doubled back once again and exited by the gift shop, turned left, and followed the signs to the bungalow. She passed number 6, seeing no one idling in the bungalow area, no gardeners working. Once more, she doubled back. She placed her key in the lock and saw the note as she opened the door.

  The writing was in longhand, the letters cramped and tiny, the lines crooked. Susan felt the chill again. It read:

  Dear Carla:

  Lisa's things are in a hanky behind the berry bush right by the door. It's all I found. I wish I asked if I could keep just an earring to remember her by.

  Two men were hiding but they went. Where are you? Are you okay? I'll call you after ten so you can sleep.

  Your friend (Claude)

  Susan leaned over the bush and probed with her fingers. She found the handkerchief, then stepped inside and locked the door before
unfolding it. It held several chains and bracelets, a miniature gold bar from Credit Suisse, three pairs of earrings and studs.

  A wave of melancholy came over Susan. She knew that they were all gifts from Carla, given at Christmas and birthdays over the years. Last year, in Zurich during all that trouble, Carla had probably found time to shop for the gold bar. Susan put them in her purse.

  Then, while she thought of it, she removed the Beretta from her purse and checked its mechanism, the spring of the firing pin, and the barrel for obstructions as Billy had taught her. Chambering one round, she walked through the bungalow checking all places of possible concealment, all window latches.

  She sat on the edge of the bed that was made up, certainly Molly's, and set the Beretta down. She pulled Claude's note from her shirt pocket and read it again.

  It was written on an order pad of the type used by lunch counters. The kind that said “Thank You” across the top except that the top of this one had been torn away. There was a tiny lot number at the bottom. Possibly custom printed. Her father would know, or would know how to find out.

  She looked at the handwriting. More strange emotions.

  The cramped, tortured letters, for all she knew, were the warning sign of a tortured mind. She wondered if all serial killers had such handwriting. Just looking at it made her uneasy.

  But not the words.

  As much as she loathed this young man for the sick, terrible things he had done to all those girls, the words had an undeniable . . . sweetness to them. There seemed no question that he mourned Lisa. And cared about Carla. Lonely, brittle Carla. For the first time, perhaps, Susan could understand why Carla had responded to him.

  She checked her watch. A quarter to nine.

  A little more than an hour until that phone rings and she hears his voice. More people from Westport should start arriving by then. Plenty of time for them to get into position on Rodeo Drive. If Carla goes for it.

  Susan doubted more than ever that she would.

  Carleton Dunville sat glumly in the rear of Darby's car, ` his head turned toward the window. Weinberg had asked

  that he keep his eyes averted and avoid, for his own sake, a close look at Weinberg's new face.