The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (3 page)

    
Almost two years now. Lesko could still see him. The
only good thing about dreaming of Katz was at least he
had his face back. Same jacket, though. Same watch.
But Lesko was just as mad at him. For being stupid. For
going dirty. For being greedy. For thinking that the
Bolivians and the Colombians who will slaughter whole
families just to teach one guy a lesson wouldn't blow
away one Jewish cop who keeps ripping off their couri
ers.

He was also mad because the first thing Internal
Affairs wanted to know was how could Detective Ray
mond Lesko, who for ten years was closer to Detective
David Katz than Katz's wife, know nothing about the
house in Sullivan County and the condo in Florida that
his partner bought for cash on a gold shield's salary.

The second thing they wanted to know was where
was Lesko when two
grease balls
with Bolivian passports
plus one other unidentified Hispanic male got splat
tered
all
over a Brooklyn barbershop five days later.

                       
The barbershop was in Brooklyn's East New York
section, not far from Kennedy Air
port. It was a
street of
-
boarded-up tenements that still housed an occasional
squatter. Most of their padlocks had been pried off. Sev
eral of the windows showed scars from fires set by junk
ies and vagrants trying to keep warm. There was one
small
bodega
and a candy store but they were long since
shuttered. A half-dozen rusting cars had been aban
doned and stripped along both sides of a street that was
never swept anymore. The city hadn't even bothered to
put up alternate-side parking signs. Police never pa
trolled the street, certainly not on foot.

Lesko had left Mr. Makowski's car three blocks
away. In Mr. Makowski's trunk was a Brooklyn
wise guy
named Jimmy Splat, which was really a nickname from
when he used to fight welterweight and got his nose
permanently flattened. Lesko would let him out if his
information turned out to be right.

   
He'd watched the barbershop for an hour from a
rooftop down the block. There was no barber pole out
side. The only way you'd know it was a barbershop was
from the faded Kreml Hair Tonic sign in the window
and a small, dusty display of Barbisol products. There
was also a man
in a green barber smock who stood in the
open front door with his arms folded and who didn't
look like he could trim his own nostrils. Jimmy Splat was
right so far. No one ever went there for
a haircut. The man in the smock was a lookout. The smock was for
effect. It also covered a cut-down automatic shotgun
that he wore slung under his left armpit. Lesko decided
it was time to get closer.

He doubled back two blocks and then made his way
over another rooftop, working his way down to the
basement entrance of a building ten yards from the
filthy glass storefront of the barbershop. If Jimmy Splat
was telling the truth, the barber would have company
soon. Le
sko peeked ou
t, then ducked quickly. A late
model car that hadn't been there before was parked at
the curb. Another was coming down the street. Lesko
stayed low and listened. The second car stopped. One
door opened and closed. Then he heard a light clicking
sound moving across the sidewalk. Heels. A woman's
heels. He hadn't expected a woman. Now he heard the
dimmer sound of two sets of feet walking on linoleum.
The barber had left the door. He was walking the
woman back to the rear of the shop. Lesko moved
quickly, a throwaway automatic pistol in one hand and
an oversized leather truncheon in the other.

The barber, Lesko was betting, would look first to his
left when he returned to his post, if only for
a second or
two. He would scan the street starting at the end where
cars would come from. Lesko would only need that
second. He waited, pressed tight against the building
near the frame of the storefront door.

The barber never knew what killed him. His last
sensations were the chill of winter on his face, the sight
of the empty street outside, and then a flash of light and
a loud popping sound, and suddenly he was drowning in
a warm red sea. He felt no pain. Only a certain breath
lessness as his shattered larynx filled with blood and the
swelling blocked his trachea. He was drowning and yet
he was floating. He felt weightless. And tired. If he
could only stop floating he could sleep.

Lesko stopped him from falling. He took the man's
weight under one arm and dragged him the length of
the barbershop to a wooden inner door. Once there, Lesko
propped him soundlessly against a wall as he
stripped the cut-down shotgun from its sling and
counted its load. It was a Remington automatic. Double-
0 shot. Six shells. Four more in the barber's pocket.
Good.

   
Now he studied the door. It seemed old and brittle.
One kick should do if it isn't dead-bolted on the other
s
ide. If it is, he would kick out a panel and then shoot
through it at anything that moved.

The barber made a gurgling sound and sighed.
Lesko looked at his torso. He was not a big man, but big enough. Lesko eased him off the wall and turned him so
his back was against Lesko's chest and his own chest
faced the door. The shotgun was now in Lesko's left
hand and the automatic in his right. Both hands were
extended under the barber's armpits. He took a breath,
balanced himself, and smashed the door with a single
sideways kick. Lesko and his shield stepped through.

A large back room, a big table, a suitcase on it, two
men near the suitcase, facing him, a woman sitting, her
back to him. The man to his right had light skin, dark
suit; well dressed. He danced to one side and dropped to
a crouch as Lesko entered, his hand darting to a weapon
on his belt. The sight of the barber, dangling like a
puppet off the chest of a huge man, well armed, made
him hesitate. Lesko shot him. Twice. The man stag
gered backward until he struck a wall. He died standing there, a look of disbelief on a young and handsome face,
and then what almost seemed an embarrassed smile.
Lesko was no longer watching as this man slid to the
floor.

The shotgun had pinioned the second man. He too
had dropped into a reflexive crouch but had frozen in
that position. His only motion was the sway of a gold
crucifix
through a shirt unbuttoned halfway down. This
one was also young, middle twenties, but
homely. Dish-
faced, oily skin, crooked teeth. Mixed blood, Lesko
knew, mostly Indian. A mestizo. Slowly, he raised his
hands, palms outward in a calming gesture toward
Lesko. Lesko let the barber fall.

"Be cool now, man." The mestizo forced the words
from a mouth without moisture. "It wasn't us hit that cop. You kiddin', man? You think we want da' kind of
trouble?"

   
Lesko slowly lowered the shotgun until its maw
pointed at the floor by his side. Relief washed over the
man's face. He released his breath and began to
straighten. Lesko swung the automatic and fired low.
The man’s eyes blinked then went wide. His body
snapped into a crouch deeper than before but somehow
he kept his feet. Transfixed, he lowered both hands to
his groin and felt for the place where the bullet had
entered. Finding it, feeling the blood ooze out between
his fingers, he raised one dripping hand to his face and then held it out to Lesko as if in hope that Lesko would
be satisfied.

"Don't ... don't shoot no more," he managed. "We work this out. We still work this out."

Lesko's automatic remained leveled at this man's
chest but his eyes had turned to the woman. She was
seated in a chair, her back to him, facing the paint-
stained table where the open suitcase sat. He knew that
the suitcase contained cash or drugs. Perhaps both.
Lesko could see no part of the woman's face, only her
streaked blond hair, which seemed expensively styled
though even the hair was largely hidden by the up
turned collar of a thick mink coat. She had not moved
since he entered, save for
a violent hitch of her shoul
ders as each shot was fired. Lesko was sure he knew
why.

He'd walked in shooting. No words. So the woman
had to know this was no police raid. She'd know it was a
hit. If the shooter wanted her as well, she knew she was dead meat
anyway. But she had two chances. One was
more like a prayer that whoever was behind her would
not kill a woman. Her much better chance was that the
shooter might be satisfied with the two Bolivians and
the suitcase, as long as it was understood that she didn't
see his face.

It might have worked that way. Lesko was there to
bury two men, boom boom, in and out, the same way
they got Katz. Plus one behind the ear of the barber if
he wasn't dead already. The problem now was that the
woman was a witness, as hard as she was trying not to
be. The
grease ball
holding his guts in had as good as
given Lesko's name when he said they didn't hit "that
cop." Who the hell else could he be? The Lone Ranger?
It was decision time.

Lesko was not at all sure that he could execute a
woman. Maybe it depends on who she is. If she's just
some bimbo who had the bad luck to be here with her
boyfriend, the answer is probably no. But she's not just
some bimbo, is she? She came alone and she came last, as
if the others were waiting for her. And she's got a cool
head. Very controlled. How many people could sit still
like that?