The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (8 page)

"You can't be serious."

"About what?"

"You're looking for
a vigilante
story? In Westport,
Connecticut?"

"Not really." An embarrassed smile.

"That sounded more like a maybe.
”

The smile spread. "Wouldn't that have been great,
though? Talk about human interest stories."

"I can see it now," Lesko snorted. "A bunch of
Westport types are sitting around the patio drinking out
of plastic glasses with little dice in their bottoms. A
teenager drives by with a loud radio and he throws a beer can on their lawn. They decide to put out a con
tract on him and they hire some Mad Max-type to run
the kid into a light pole. They say, hey, this is
even more
fun than our investment club. Why don't we knock off
that guy who let Japanese beetles into the country? And
then I want the guy down the block whose golden re
triever shits on the pachysandra. . . ."
 
Lesko heard a gasp from a woman at the next table. He lowered his
voice. "You haven't told anyone about this, have you?
Like your city editor?"

"I know. He'd take my head off."

"You got it. And before he threw you out of the office
he'd explain to you that conspiracy stories almost never
pan out because conspiracies never work. Murphy's
L
aw. The
Post
wouldn't touch it but you could always
write it for one of those newspapers they sell at super
market checkouts where no one cares whether it's true,
and which the Pulitzer Prize committee wouldn't wipe its ass with. Excuse me. The other thing wrong with a
vigilante angle is that vigilantes don't try to make an execution look like a suicide or accident unless they
totally miss the point of being vigilantes."

"How about a serial killer, then?"

"That's just a hair more likely. Except serial killers
almost
always concentrate on one type of victim. And

they almost always leave some kind of signature."
Susan let out a breath and sat back. "I admitted it
wasn't going anywhere. It's just th
at those figures
were
so striking."

"You want to know what I think happened in
Westport in the last year or so?"

"Sure."

"You gotta be careful with suic
ide
figures. In towns
like Westport, the local cops will play
down
a suicide
especially if it's someone who has money. A citizen de
cided to take the pipe and all you see in the obituaries is
that so-and-so 'died suddenly.' But then
all
you need is
for some new medical examiner or police chief to de
cide a spade should be called a spade
and there, all of a
sudden, is your apparent increase in suicides."

"That wouldn't explain the rise in accidental
deaths."

Lesko shrugged. "Same kind of problem. Let's say
I'm hurt in a car accident and then a few hours later I
have a heart attack. Some will call it an accidental
death, some will call it natural. An insurance company
will fight to have it recorded as natural to avoid paying
double indemnity. But how it's listed can still come
down to one public official deciding what to call it."

“So
," Susan brightened a bit, "a
ll we
have to do is find
out if Westport has tightened its definitions in the past
year or two."

"In which case you wouldn't have much of a story.
But you'll probably never find out because chances are
you won't find anyone who'll admit it. The admission
could invite all kinds of lawsuits, especially by survivors
who think they've been screwed out of insurance
money."

"Maybe I'll just forget about that one."

"Up to you."

"Want to hear my new idea?"

"What?"

  
"Dead partner haunts New York's toughest cop. In
quiring minds will eat it up."

Lesko didn't smile.

"I'm kidding, daddy."

"Yeah, I know." He looked off toward the rear of the
restaurant. "Listen, Buzz Donovan's giving me the high
sign over there. I'll be back in a second."

"I'm sorry. I guess that wasn't very funny."

"No problem. Really." Lesko slid back his chair.

B
uzz Donovan, a florid-faced, tousle-haired man of
seventy who looked more like an Irish saloon keeper
than a former federal prosecutor, said, "Don't look
around, Ray, but do you know any reason why you'd
have a tail?"

Lesko scratched a stain from the lapel of his blue suit
from Barney's. "The guy at the bar, right?"

 
"You spotted him."

Lesko nodded. "Could be he's just looking at Susan.
That happens."

"Maybe. But he's been looking for an hour over one
drink. Hasn't taken his topcoat off."

"Yeah. Thanks Buzz."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. We're going to leave pretty soon. I'll
see if he tags along."

"You taking Susan home?"

"Now I am."

"You want some backup? You have friends here."

"It's okay, Buzz."

"Come back for
a nightcap. Don't let me sit here
wondering."

"Okay. Half an hour or so."

Susan thought he looked a little angry when he re
turned. He tried to hide
it
with a wink. Angry or not, she
decided, she was not sorry she tried to make a joke of
the David Katz
thing. That whole business, the killings,
the headlines. She didn't know how much her father
was involved or not involved and she wasn't about to ask
him. But she also wasn't about to treat him like he had
cancer, tiptoeing around the episode and falling into
uncomfortable silences the way most other people did. After this much time it could use a little lightening up.
And he could use a trip himself. Out of New York, some
place where people had never heard of him. She almost
wished she could take him to Switzerland with her.

"So," he tapped his knuckles on the table to signal a
change of subject. "Tell me about this trip you're tak
ing."

Susan smiled. "Sometimes I think you can read my
mind."

"What do you mean?"

"I was half-tempted to drag you along. You could use
a vacation."

"You could picture me on skis? Maybe I'll also go to
ballet camp."

"That's another thing," she scolded. "Quit being so
down on the way you look. You happen to be a very
impressive man. If you would let another woman, be
sides me, see how wonderfully gentle you can be...."

"Come on," he rapped again, "tell me about Swit
zerland."

"I'm counting the hours now. First we fly Friday
night to London and then we
…”

"Who's this `we'?"

Susan took a breath. "I'm going with a friend,
daddy," she said evenly. "My friend is a man."

"That's nice." It was said without sarcasm.

"You'd like him."

"If you like him, I'm sure I would, too."

"That'd be a switch."

Lesko spread his hands and looked skyward as if
asking God to witness that he had not fired the first shot.
"His name is Paul. Paul Bannerman."

Lesko’s face softened. “Thank you.” He couldn’t remember the last time Susan had volunteered a name.
   “W
hat would you like to know about him, daddy?"

“How
did you meet?"

“
How we met? That's your first question?"

Lesko shrugged.

"Paul lives in Westport. Allie Gregory introduced us
during one of my weekends up there last fall. Allie, by
the way, is just as picky as you are when it comes to who
she thinks is good enough for me."

To say that Allie
introduced
them might have been
stretching it just a little. They met Paul together. But all
her father wanted to know, she felt sure, was that it was
a proper meeting and not a pickup at some West Side
singles bar.

She was partly right. And the answer did satisfy
Lesko. At least it raised no red flags. It didn't sound as if
this Paul Bannerman had gone out of his way to get
close to her.

"What does Paul Bannerman do?" he asked.

“H
e runs a travel agency up there. I'd rather tell you
what he's like."

    
"Fine."

    
"He's kind, and he's gentle, and a little shy, and
funny, and very bright. Every now and then he reminds
me of you."