Bannerman's Law Page 38

  But Dunville could hear. He heard Weinberg rifling through the leather case, handling documents, running his thumb over stacks of them. He could hear Nellie, in the front seat, trying to comfort him. Barbara Weinberg had stayed near the ramp, covering them.

  “It was the key envelope, wasn't it?” he asked.

  ”I beg your pardon?”

  “The key to my safe deposit box. You saw it in my briefcase.”

  “I'm afraid so, yes.”

  “How did you know which branch?”

  “The branch number was on the little yellow envelope. The phone book showed where it was.”

  Dunville gritted his teeth. “Then why, for God's sake, couldn't you have waited until nine? Banks open at nine.”

  “Relax, Carleton. It's not that bad.” Weinberg found the envelope for Hilton Head. “What does the 'B' stand for?”

  “What?”

  “Ashley B. Hammett.”

  “It's Beauregard.”

  “That's certainly southern,” said Nellie.

  ”. . . Thank you.”

  “Do you have a big house in Hilton Head?”

  “It's . . . comfortable, yes.”

  “You should give it a southern name as well. Like Twelve Oaks or The Willows.”

  Dunville grumbled something unintelligible.

  Weinberg had found his second identity. A French name this time. Excellent papers. The deed to a townhouse in New Orleans. Dunville stole a glance.

  “Why do they interest you? You could never use them.”

  “No, but I might want to stay in touch. Where are the Sur La Mer files?”

  ”I don't have them.”

  Weinberg reached to pat his chest. He felt the padded envelope. “I'll tell you what,” he said. “If that bulge is what I think it is, and you give it to me, I'll give you all this,”

  Dunville blinked in disbelief.

  “Just trying to keep it friendly, Carleton. You can even have your Mercedes.”

  “You'd let me go? With the money?”

  “Nellie? Tell him.”

  “He's really very nice, Carleton.”

  “There you have it.” Weinberg held out his hand.

  Dunville sighed deeply. He reached into his pocket and produced the set of disks. Weinberg took them. He zipped the leather case and moved it onto Dunville’s lap.

  “What will you do with those?” asked Dunville.

  “Same as you, I think. Keep them as insurance. Or in case I ever need a favor from one of these people.”

  “And help me find my children,” Nellie added.

  “Yes, that will come first. May I assume that there is no other set of these?”

  “You may.” To Weinberg's stare he added, “That happens to be the truth. I would never have left them behind.”

  “There's no record elsewhere of what I might look like?”

  “If there were, I'd have taken it with me. Do I gather that you're going to stay as Alan Weinberg?”

  “Either that or George Bancroft.”

  Nellie chuckled. Then, “I'm sorry. Private joke.”

  “Carleton,” Weinberg asked, “who else knows that I have the files?”

  “I've warned a few people. They would have called others.”

  “But what was the point of warning them? What could they do?”

  Dunville shrugged. “Prepare themselves, I suppose. Or try to find you first.”

  ”I take it that Theodore Marek knows.”

  Dunville shook his head. “Marek has concluded that you're in league with those women . . . and this Bannerman. But he knows nothing about the files. I despise the man.”

  “Is that why you blamed him for the death of Lisa Benedict? Or was it to leave a bit of confusion in your wake?”

  Weinberg gave him a moment to recover from his surprise.

  “Both, I suppose.”

  “And, to that end, I presume you told Marek that Carla would be coming for him?”

  Another shrug.

  Weinberg rubbed his new chin, thoughtfully. He did not blame Carleton. Weinberg might have done the same in his place. Safety in confusion. But he did not like the thought of Carla stalking Marek, perhaps getting herself killed, over a lie. Or of Marek stalking Carla. She had family here. That made her vulnerable.

  He had corrected the lie, although he wasn't sure why he bothered. Perhaps he felt that he owed that much to Lisa. For failing to have anticipated Henry; failing to have saved her. Corrected it, that is, if the Fenerty girl had passed his message on.

  “Nellie . . ,” Dunville was speaking to her. “I'm very sorry. I really am.”

  She nodded slowly. “You have decent instincts, Carleton. You should try to nourish them.”

  “I hope to.”

  Weinberg grunted. ”I know you have to run,” he said. He held out the keys to the Mercedes.

  Dunville took them, then hesitated. He looked up toward the figure of Barbara Weinberg, not quite able to believe that she would let him drive past her. At last, he gripped the door handle.

  “Good-bye, Nellie,” he said. “Stay beautiful.”

  Weinberg gave him a gentle push.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Ashley Hammett,” he said. “Stay alive.”

  47

  Theodore Marek, Darby and two new bodyguards with him, stood at the window of Carleton Dunville's office, pounding a fist against his palm, watching the road that snaked up through the morning mist.

  It was well after nine. Marek's faint hope that Dunville still might appear, thinking he was dead or in hiding, was fading rapidly. But Marek clung to it, unwilling to abandon the scene he had envisioned since escaping from his home. Of seeing Dunville’s face when he found him there. Of hearing his fumbling denials. Of then having him strapped to that basement table.

  Poor Felix. He would have enjoyed that so. Perhaps, thought Marek, he would do it himself. Wear one of those rubber aprons. But, no. Better to stand and watch. Make suggestions. Before Carleton was allowed to die, he would feel everything that Harry Bunce and Felix must have felt. ”

  . . . is back. Messed up. Not too bad.”

  That was Darby. Saying something. Marek barely heard because he was seeing Harry Bunce and he was hearing Carleton's voice, speaking to that Fenerty girl, blithely claiming that he, Theodore Marek, had murdered the sister of the redheaded butcher.

  Somehow, she'd been waiting for poor Harry. Caught both of them. And then sent them back. Standing up on that hill. Daring his people to come after her. But he wasn't fooled. An obvious trap. His people would rush out and be slaughtered. Then she would come for him.

  But I am innocent, he screamed in his mind.

  Scholl.

  Where was Scholl all this time?

  Carleton's telephone rang. Marek stared at it for a moment, then flicked a finger at Darby, telling him to answer.

  Whoever it was, it was not Scholl, not Carleton. Doctor someone or other. Darby was arguing with him. He pressed the “hold” button.

  “It's Dr. Feldman,” he told Marek. “Says he wants to move all the members this morning—take them down to the Country House. Says he's got authorization.”

  “Tell him not until your boss says so.”

  Darby spoke into the phone. “Mr. Marek says . . .”

  Marek waved furiously. “Not me, you ass. Dunville.”

  Darby flushed. “Mr. Dunville,” he corrected himself, “has to give the okay. He'll call you when he gets in.”

  Darby listened. He pressed the “hold” button again.

  “He's saying it was Mr. Dunville’s idea. He says he has written authorization from the Motion Picture and Television Fund and wants to know if he needs to bring the cops.”

  “Say you'll call him back.”

  Darby hesitated. ”I don't know, Mr. Marek. He sounds . . .”

  Marek raised a staying hand. He considered the situation. That bastard, Dunville. What's his game? Certainly not a last act of humanitarian concern for the members. Probably wants to prevent t
heir use as hostages. And what has made Dr. Feldman so defiant all at once? Didn't the Dunvilles have some hold on him? Yes, they did. Those files. Feldman's sudden bravado might mean that Dunville had destroyed them.

  Yes. He very well might have. Burning all bridges. Marek seized the hope that Dr. Feldman would know if he had. Has probably been in league with him all along.

  “Tell him to come,” he said to Darby. “The police will not be necessary.”

  Insolent young pup.

  We'll strap him to a table instead.

  Molly Farrell had paid her driver at Twenty-ninth and Vermont, then walked to the Menlo Avenue house of DiDi Fenerty.

  She saw no suspicious cars or utility workers. Several joggers moved up and down the residential streets but all of them seemed of college age. To her surprise, DiDi's friend Kevin was still on the porch. Awake. Doing squats. He saw her coming and rapped on the door. It opened as Molly approached.

  DiDi looked tired but was excited to see her. She introduced her three bodyguards. They were men in their forties, all armed with hunting rifles, no concealed weapons, hard faces, sullen eyes. Molly guessed, correctly, that they were parolees. They studied her face as well, respectfully enough. One seemed awed. DiDi must have passed the night telling stories.

  It took her ten minutes to check out the circuitry of DiDi's phones. She found nothing. She rummaged through her shopping bag to find the wherewithal for a different test. When ready, she asked DiDi to place a call, on any reasonable pretext, using a house mate's phone. Molly measured the amperage. It held steady. She asked DiDi to make another call, this time on her own line. The amperage dropped sharply. She let nothing show on her face until DiDi broke the connection.

  “What do you think?” DiDi replaced the phone.

  “That one's okay. Someone listened on yours.”

  “How about Kevin's?”

  “It's probably clean. I'll check before I go.”

  Molly held up a hand to stay further questions as she dialed, using the house mate's phone, the number Paul had given her. He answered on the first ring.

  “You were right,” she told him.

  ”I know. Don't come back here. We're checked out.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Sit tight, but don't get trapped in that house. Can you stay where the other phone is?”

  He means Kevin's. ”I guess so. Sure.”

  “Any ideas on who set the wire?”

  “Could be the Sur La Mer crowd, reacting to DiDi's call. But my money's on the FBI.”

  “Why?”

  A shrug. “They have the means. They were the only other people who talked to DiDi. And they wouldn't have believed that we came up empty here, especially when they saw the bodyguards.”

  ”I was afraid of that.” Bannerman took a breath. “Whoever tapped that phone knew that you called from this hotel. He passed that information to Theodore Marek.”

  Molly groaned. ”I screwed up. I'm sorry.”

  “Forget that. We had a problem but we've dealt with it. Do you still have the keys to your rental car?”

  The blue Chevrolet. “Yes.”

  “Lesko's coming to get them. Warn those bodyguards so they don't shoot him on sight.”

  “That car has a tracker on it, Paul.”

  ”I know it does. In two minutes I'll call you on DiDi's line. I'll ask you where the explosives are. You answer that they're in the spare tire of that Chevrolet and then tell me where you left it.”

  “Um . . . won't they be all over him?”

  “That's the point. Two minutes.” Bannerman broke the connection.

  Molly stared at the phone as if for some clue to what Bannerman had in mind. It did not surprise her, on reflection, that Paul would look for a way to use the knowledge that the car was rigged. The most obvious use was as a decoy. Having John Waldo, for example, take it on a joy ride to tie up several FBI surveillance teams while their people were busy someplace else.

  But he didn't need the phone call to do that. And that business about explosives was almost certain to get Lesko detained. A search of the spare tire, of course, would confirm that the FBI had wired DiDi, but so what? They still wouldn't know which agent was passing information to Marek.

  Maybe, she thought, Paul just wants Lesko out of the way. Except Lesko would see through that in a minute.

  The other phone rang. Molly gestured that DiDi should answer. DiDi picked it up.

  “This is she,” she answered. Her eyes widened. She raised one finger to stay Molly's outstretched hand. “Oh. Um ... hi.”

  She turned toward Molly, jabbing at the handset with her finger.

  “Yes,” DiDi nodded. ”I told her everything you said.” To Molly, she mouthed the name Streicher.

  Molly hesitated, then held out her hand once more.

  Elena, at the wheel of Billy's Ford, struggled to keep her mind on the road. The pounding from the trunk, the muffled screams of rage, made driving difficult.

  Five minutes out of Malibu, with Carla happily describing the destruction of Theodore Marek's wall and gate, Billy had asked her to stop behind a road stand that was not yet open. Elena assumed that he needed to relieve himself. Two minutes later, Carla, stunned and bound, was in the trunk. Her head cleared as Elena slowed for the Sunset Boulevard exit of the Pacific Coast Highway. Billy could see that the noise was unnerving her.

  “You have to put your foot down sometimes,” he said.

  He advised Carla that they were now on Sunset, that the noise could be a problem, and that he would put her back to sleep if she made another sound. She answered with a string of inventive curses but became silent when Billy asked Elena to pull over again.

  Billy waved her on. The threats resumed but at a lower pitch. The pounding stopped entirely.

  A few streets short of the Brentwood Holiday Inn, a car drew close behind her and tapped its horn.

  “It's Waldo,” said Billy. “Give him room.”

  She allowed him by, then followed as he drove past the Holiday Inn's entrance, giving a thumb's down signal as he did so. Billy caught a glimpse of a police cruiser, lights strobing, in the rear of the parking lot. Elena saw more coming from the opposite direction.

  Two blocks farther, Waldo gestured toward the far side of Sunset and pulled to the curb. Elena saw Paul where Waldo had pointed. He was speaking on a public phone, watching their arrival. He straightened as he appeared to notice that Carla was not in sight. Billy made a “calm-down” gesture that seemed to reassure him.

  “Looks like we moved out,” said Billy.

  Bannerman, surprised that Molly had not kept that phone free, used the time to check in with Anton Zivic. Several men and women would be arriving soon from Westport. He needed to be sure that they knew where to go. He gave Zivic an approximate address. They were to rent cars and cruise the area until intercepted.

  “They are to call me on arrival in any case,” Zivic told him. “Paul, why don't you all simply leave?”

  Bannerman watched as an ambulance passed and headed for the Holiday Inn. “It's tempting, but that won't end it. I'm afraid it's gone too far.”

  He told Zivic of Carla's latest episode as recounted by the man named Chulo. That Chulo's boss, Marek, had apparently fled to Sur La Mer. Of Axel Streicher coming back from the dead and of his involvement with Sur La Mer. Of the fact that information from a probable FBI wiretap on the Fenerty girl's phone had been promptly passed on to Theodore Marek.

  Zivic smacked his lips. “All this and a benevolent serial killer. Do you still intend trying to take him?”

  “We'll see how the day develops. We may not have that luxury and, anyway, I don't think it will help us at this point.”

  “Tell me that you do not intend going to Sur La Mer in force.”

  “I'm not suicidal, Anton. But we'll have to see to Marek.”

  Zivic's grunt said that he was somewhat relieved. Not in force and certainly not in daylight. Unfamiliar ground, probably well guarded, no time to prepare
and rehearse. Possible interference from Roger Clew. If it were Zivic's decision, he would blacken John Waldo's face and send him in alone, at night, and by morning it would probably be done.

  “If Marek is indeed Ordynsky, I have some interesting information. Do you want it now?”

  “Thank you. Yes.”

  Bannerman listened to a brief biography. Polish born, studied art at Leipzig, recruited into the Nazi Einsatzgruppen in 1942, assigned to Group A—the Baltic area—special assistant for art to General Franz Stahlecker. Looted Soviet treasures during the retreat from Leningrad. Stahlecker was either killed by Estonian partisans or else murdered by Ordynsky—take your choice. Ordynsky surfaced throughout Europe several times, selling stolen art. He vanished permanently in the mid-1950s, with the KGB hot on his trail, and, until now, was thought to have been caught and executed by them.

  “Anton, could Leo already know this?”

  “Not likely. Unless you told him that Marek was Ordynsky.”

  ”I didn't.”

  “However, the fact that I made inquiries might soon get back to the KGB. They would want this man very badly. They would like to recover that stolen art even more. Also, they will want to know why Mama's Boy is interested.”

  Bannerman shrugged it off. Too remote. He had enough on his mind. Lesko was already on his way to the Fenerty house and he needed to make that call. Then he needed Waldo to pick up those Sur La Mer plans from Susan. And look in on her.

  He thanked Anton again and broke the connection. He tapped out DiDi Fenerty's number. DiDi answered, not Molly.

  “Is my friend there, please?”

  “Is this ... ?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh . . . wow . . . she's ... ah, on the other line.” Then she blurted, “The dynamite's in the trunk of the blue Chevrolet. It's parked outside 2800 Victory Boulevard in Burbank.”

  Bannerman, startled, heard Molly's whispered voice correcting her. “Semtex. In the spare tire.”

  ”I heard,” he said. “Thank you. Please hang up the phone and get out of there.”

  “Well . . . she really wants you to call back. She's . . . um, you know when you go bowling? And what unions do sometimes?”

  “I'll call back. But not there.” He broke that connection as well.