The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (10 page)

"And yet you're still going to make me ask you
again
"

He shook his head. "I'm FBI. But it was a mistake.
Tonight was a mistake."

"Convince me."

"We got a tip ... an informant ... said you were
seen at the Garden tonight with a woman we have a
Jane Doe warrant on. It was all wrong. I should have
ended the surveillance when I saw how young she was."

"Who's the Jane Doe?"

Loftus hesitated, choosing his words. "The only
name we have is Elena."

Lesko looked at him. "Elena," he repeated. Then,
after a pause, "What makes you think I know this per
son?"

Loftus twisted the corner of his mouth. "Give me a
break, Lesko," he muttered.

"I asked you a question."

"The word is ... we hear you had her, and you let
her walk."

"Whose word is that, Robert?"

"I don't know. Street talk."

"Tell me some."

"
The word is she admitted it.
The word is you blew
away two greaseballs ... three ... but not her. Cer
tain people want to know why. And what deal she made
with you. Her story is that she tried to buy you off and
you said no. But they still want to know how come you
left her alive."

"She's still alive now?"

"She dropped out of sight. But she's presumed at
large."

A funny answer, Lesko thought. If the greaseballs
didn't buy her story it would be just as easy to presume
she's dead. Unless Loftus knew better. Lesko hoped he
did but didn't ask about it. He was silent for
a long
moment. Somehow it hadn't occurred to him that she'd
have trouble explaining why he didn't kill her. And
whether all that powder really ended up on the floor
with the stiffs or did she sweep some up for herself. But
why should he worry? If she got in trouble she'd proba
bly talk her way out of it again with that crazy logic she
uses. Lesko didn't like people like that. Not even when
he liked them.

"Robert," he braced a hand against Loftus's shoulder
and pushed to his feet, "I'm going to walk back down to
the subway now. Your gun will be under the second car
from the comer. Your license I'll mail you in a day or
two."

"Come on, Lesko. You don't need
….”

Lesko ignored the interruption. "In the meanwhile, Robert, I would like you never to set
foot on this street again. Do that for me and I won't ever set foot on May
field Road in Virginia. You got a family down there,
Robert?"

Loftus nodded sullenly.

"And I got one here. We understand each other?"

"Yeah."

"Some day we'll have a beer and we'll have a good
laugh about this little mistake you made here." He
stepped onto the sidewalk "Hey, Lesko."

"Yeah?"

"Why did you let her go?"

"Good night, Robert."

. . . . . .

"Can you check him out?" Lesko handed the photo
license to Buzz Donovan.

"If he's FBI, it's easy. I'll make a call or two." Dono
van stared thoughtfully at the face he'd last seen follow
ing Lesko and his daughter out the door. "You say he
had no other ID?"

"That bother you?"

The older man made a so-so wave with his hand.
"We've all
left
home without
it
sometimes."

"But you'll let me know if he's not kosher."

"Of course." Donovan looked up at him. "Ray,
you're not involved in anything here, are you?"

"If I am, I don't know
it."

"Why would he ... ?" Now it was Donovan who
was choosing his words. "Why would
the FBI think
you're involved with Elena? Would this have anything
to do with that whole Katz thing?"

Lesko understood his discomfort. He knew that
Donovan had heard of Elena. Anyone who'd ever been
briefed on the cocaine hierarchy knew the name. Dono
van also knew perfectly well, though he'd never have
mentioned it directly, that it was Ray Lesko who killed
three men in a Brooklyn barbershop shortly after the
murder of David Katz. But Donovan never had reason
to imagine, until now, that Elena might have been in
volved. And even if she was, Donovan still did not doubt
for
a moment that Lesko was otherwise straight.

"We might have met once." Lesko held up an index
finger for emphasis.

"In a barbershop, by chance?"

Lesko kept the finger up.

"But not before or since." Donovan studied him.
Lesko waggled the finger.

Donovan did something with his hands. The gesture
meant either that he was satisfied with Lesko's answer
or that he'd already heard more than he wanted to
know.

"Listen," Lesko was sorry he had brought up the
name. "I don't even know if Loftus told the truth about
why he was tailing me. He could have pulled that Elena
business right out of the air."

"But it would suggest that there are stories going
around that link the two of you."

"There are always stories. If you listen long enough,
you'd even find people who'd try to tell you Rock Hud
son was a fag."

"You want me to ask?" Donovan tried not to smile.
"What people are saying about you, I mean?"
"I couldn't really give a shit."

Donovan signaled for his waiter. "Give me a day or
two. I'll call you about Loftus."

"Hey, Buzz." Lesko looked down at his fingernails.
"How about checking one more name while you're at
it."

Donovan motioned to the waiter for two more of the same as he reached for his notebook and pen. "Shoot,"
he said.

"Paul Bannerman. Spelled like it sounds, I guess. He
has a travel agency up in Westport, Connecticut."

"Is this connected to the other thing?"

"No. No connection."

"So who's Paul Bannerman. And what are you look
ing for, exactly?"

Lesko squirmed in his chair. "This is strictly per
sonal, all right? It's a guy Susan's seeing. All I want to
know is he's clean."

Donovan stared over his glasses. "If Susan gets wind
of this, Ray, she'll have you for breakfast. And me for
dessert."

Lesko sat back. "I know. I'll tell you what. Just forget
it.
”

"I'll see what I can do."

CHAPTER 4

Susan had told her father that she had met Paul Ba
n
ner
man through Allie Gregory. It wasn't precisely true. It
wasn't quite a lie, either.

True enough, she was in Westport at the time, still
searching for some common cause behind the town's extraordinary suicide and accidental death rates. Still
poring over records at the town hall and newspaper
accounts at the library. But for want of a single bit of
hard information that might turn a statistical oddity into
a bylined feature story, Susan was rapidly becoming
discouraged.

By autumn, however, Westport itself had become
the attraction. The fall colors of New England were reaching their peak. Lawns parched by summer were
made lush again by September rains. Road
stands were
bursting with potted mums, pumpkins, Indian corn and
plastic jugs of fresh apple cider. And because the
weather was at last cool enough for people to climb to
their attics and clean them out, there was the usual last great rush of garage sales before winter. Allie Gregory
loved scouting the garage sales. They'd helped her fill
many bare corners of her new home at a fraction of the
cost of new furnishings and accent pieces.

It was at one of these, with Allie, that Susan first took
notice of Paul Bannerman. It was a perfect Saturday morning and the place was a brown-shingled, nine
teenth century farmhouse that had a separate garage at
the end of a long, steep driveway. The owners had set
up one table full of knickknacks, and another, two-
thirds of the way up, for taking money. The larger
pieces of furniture were displayed just
beyond. There was more in the garage itself. Allie lingered at the
knickknack table, too long a time to suit Susan. Newly
arriving buyers had already gone past them. And new arrivals had a way of snatching up exactly the things
Susan might want to buy, just before she spotted them.
She pushed on toward the garage. She was hoping to
find an old-fashioned plant stand for her apartment. Or
some books. You can find some marvelous books at ga
rage sales.

There was no plant stand, but the books were there.
Three cartons of them, plus a great stack of those won
derful
hardbound American Heritage
magazines. And it
happened again. A tall, youngish man, one of those
who'd passed her in the driveway, had reached them
first. He was standing over them, dressed in a blue shirt,
jeans and deck shoes, a look of dreamy pleasure on his
face as he leafed through the illustrated pages. As she
waited her turn, his obvious delight made Susan smile. He
looked up at her. A nice face. A gentle face. Maybe n
ot quite so young after all. Eyes somewhere between
blue and green. Intelligent eyes. He was the type who always seemed to marry his college sweetheart right
after graduation. She'd be blond and she'd still have her
figure after having two bright and gorgeous kids who'd
be in junior high about now.

He acknowledged Susan's presence with a small, shy
smile of his own. She moved her lips in silent apology for
having intruded, smiled once more, then moved off to
join Allie Gregory who was writing a check for a pewter
saltcellar. She did not return to the garage. This was
their fourth stop arid it was almost time for lunch. Susan
glanced back up as they walked to Allie's car. He was
_t
looking back at her, watching her go.

The next day, Sunday, Allie and Susan decided to
look in on a start-of-season sale at a ski shop called Sun
dance on Westport's Post Road. Susan was in the market
for a new pair of skis, her four-year-old Rossignols being
too short for her now, but she ended up concluding that
she'd do as well in New York without having to lug them
in on the train. They wandered into the other room
Where ski clothing was displayed. The same man was there.
The same faded blue jeans and well-worn deck shoes. The day being cooler, he wore an Irish-knit
sweater with a hole at one elbow. He was trying on ski
parkas. Still no sign of a wife or girlfriend. No gold band
on his finger. No rings at all.

She nudged Allie Gregory. “That man was at one of
the garage sales yesterday.”

“What man?”

“The good-looking one just putting on that orange
jacket. Do you know him?”

“I think I've seen him around.”

“Orange isn't his color.”

“Oops. He's looking.”

“Rats,” Susan whispered. “This is the second time
he's caught me staring at him.”

“So? Just go say hello. This is Westport, not New
York.”

“I can't just . . . what'll I say to him?”

“Tell him orange isn't his color.”

Twenty minutes and five ski jackets later, Susan and}
Allie decided that a red Austrian-made parka would be
just about perfect for him. It had wide khaki trim across
the shoulders and lots of zippered pockets. Very hand
some. Made him look rugged. The khaki went with his
thick, curly hair. A Navy outfit might have brought out those marvelous eyes a little better but she was already
getting tired of him in blue.

The man, though he'd never actually been given a
vote in the matter, seemed equally pleased and grateful
for the help. The fact is, he admitted, the only decent-
looking things he owned were bought at the urging of
one female friend or another. He was not much of a
shopper.

“I take it you're not married,” Allie said brightly.

“No. I'm not.” That shy smile again.

“Where do you ski?” Susan rushed to ask, horrified
that Allie was about to swing into a series of embarrass
ingly unsubtle questions meant to determine whether he was divorced, widowed or gay.

“Europe mostly. How about yourself?”
             
\

“Just here in the East. But someday Europe. It's one
of my dreams.”

“Well, if you decide to go, I'll be glad to recommend
a few places.”

“That sounds as if you've been to them all.”

A modest shrug. “I travel quite a bit. The fact is, I run
a travel agency here in Westport.”

“Susan loves to travel,” Allie Gregory beamed.
“Why don't you take her address and put her on your
mailing list?”

Susan struggled not to roll back her eyes.

He saw her discomfort. “To be honest, I've been
trying to think of a way to learn more about you. I'm
Paul Bannerman, by the way.”

“Susan Lesko.” She held out her hand and, out of
habit, watched his face for any sign of recognition.

All through her teens and into her twenties, the name, her father's name, had often been in the news.
Years of crime stories on page three of the
Post
and the
Daily News.
But it was a feature article in a Sunday
magazine section, entitled “New York's Toughest
Cops,” that made him something of a celebrity and
even led to an occasional mention in the nightlife col
umns. After that, it seemed as if every other person
she'd meet would ask “Are you by any chance related
to
...
?” Not that she minded. Susan enjoyed her fa
ther's fame and she especially enjoyed telling strangers that Raymond the Terrible Lesko was a big teddy bear,
down deep. But then, at the beginning of last year, the
newspaper stories turned ugly. TOUGHEST COP’S
PARTNER MURDERED. . . . LESKO PARTNER A
CROOK? . . . LESKO QUESTIONED IN DRUG
SLAYINGS. And finally,
‘
TOUGHEST COP’ QUITS.

If the name meant anything to Paul Bannerman,
however, he didn't let it show. “I'll be needing a couple of new sweaters soon,” he raised his elbow to show the
ragged hole. “I'd hate to come in here alone and pick
out the wrong color.”

They browsed around Sundance for a while. The
owner, a man named Glenn, offered cups of hot spiced
wine to Susan and Allie, and then chatted privately with
Paul. Then Glenn came over and invited Susan and
Allie to take their pick of ski hats as their reward for
helping Paul make up his mind before the styles
changed again.

Paul was invited for steaks that evening at the
Gregorys'. The following morning, Monday, he met Su
san for an early breakfast and drove her to her train. He
called her at the
Post
that same afternoon. He'd be in
the city the day after, and wondered if she'd care to join
him for dinner. She said she'd like that. Had she ever
been to The Four Seasons? She said she'd love that. On
Tuesday evening, as Susan happily picked her way
through a menu large enough to roof a small house, a
listening device was being installed on the telephone in
her 79th Street apartment.

They saw each other often during the weeks that
followed. Susan would come to Westport on weekends or whenever her days off fell. Or Paul would drive into
the city, sometimes twice a week. He knew the city
well. In fact, he seemed to know the Upper West Side
better than she did. He took her to West Side restau
rants ranging from the extravagantly romantic, such as
the Cafe des Artistes on West 67th Street, to the messy-
but-fun, such as Sidewalker's on 72nd Street, where an order of spicy Maryland crab is dumped right onto the
paper tablecloth. Susan learned along the way that Paul
could order quite comfortably in French and Italian and
could make himself
understood in German. She was impressed and said so. It seemed like a lot of fluency,
even for a travel agent, but Paul brushed it aside, saying
that his linguistic abilities were limited to menus and airport signs. Their evening at The Four Seasons not
withstanding, it became clear that Paul preferred to
avoid the more famous midtown restaurants. She half-
wondered whether The Four Seasons had simply been first-date bait, but she wasn't complaining. The West
Side restaurants were fine and, as Paul pointed out, she
might as well get to know her own neighborhood.