Whistler's Angel (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  Who’s in charge is Aubrey. But tell that to Lockwood. If Aubrey only knew

  the shit Lockwood was thinking…

  “Now there,” he said aloud, “is a thought.”

  Lockwood’s carry-on bag was still in the well of the front seat where Lockwood had left it. Kaplan reached in. He thought, yeah, there’s the Glock. He picked it up and pulled back the slide to see if there was a round in the chamber. There was. He ejected it. He put it in his pocket. Doing so might just possibly give him and edge if push should come to shove with Vernon Lockwood. Beneath it in the bag were those cell phones Lockwood brought. Kaplan reached in; he found the one with an “A.” He thought, okay, let’s think about this. How does he explain this to Aubrey?

  Gotta tell him the truth; they’re with Crow; they haven’t popped him. Tell him two reasons. One is Lockwood, one is Poole. The way Crow’s talking, Mr. Poole must have called him after Lockwood got finished with Aubrey. Poole told him we’d help him get Ragland, which is nuts. He wants to get him in the hospital with bombs.

  He’d tell him Lockwood lights up when he hears this guy has bombs. He says we have to save one for Whistler. Now, an hour ago, Lockwood said no bombs, but of course that was when he didn’t have one. The way he’s talking now, he wants to use Crow to blow up Whistler’s boat and everyone on it. He thinks the whole family will be on it by tonight.

  Yeah, Lockwood shot his mouth that it was Whistler and the girl who rained on this guy’s parade. This gives Crow a motive and this way Lockwood’s clean. But we’re only clean if he leaves Crow’s body so there’s no doubt that Crow did this and not us. Except Lockwood, probably, won’t do even that because Lockwood wants Whistler to know it was him. So Lockwood’s in there thinking, maybe he goes in first. He does some knee-capping maybe, makes everyone hurt, then he sets off the bomb and he cooks them. It strikes me that this might depart from your objectives and maybe you should want to have a talk with him.

  That’s good, thought Kaplan. That’s all he would say. Mr. Aubrey might appreciate the call.

  “He plans to do what?”

  Aubrey made him repeat it.

  “And you’re sure that Poole called Crow a second time to suggest this new idiocy with the hospital?”

  “That’s according to Crow. I can’t swear.”

  Aubrey thought for a moment. He remembered the first call and how it had ended. He told Kaplan, “Wait a minute. There was no second call. Crow was only told that to appease him.”

  “Yeah, well, someone better tell that to Lockwood.”

  “Mr. Kaplan, are you able to dispose of Crow yourself?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But what about Lockwood?”

  “I’m coming to that.”

  “I still get my ten grand?”

  “Yes, of course. And by the way, that amount was not ten.”

  “Well, Lockwood said five, but it’s ten if I do good. I hope I’m doing good with this call.”

  “Lockwood’s cheating you, sir. The figure was twenty. I am now prepared to double that for you.”

  “Um…this phone’s okay? You’re sure about that?”

  “I am,” Aubrey promised. “Speak freely.”

  “You’re saying pop them both?”

  “That would seem to be prudent.”

  “That would seem worth a medal for my service to humanity, not that I would refuse the forty grand. But, hey, with respect, I don’t know about this.”

  “If you’re asking for more…”

  “No, I’m not. That’s not it. Not that I wouldn’t like to be kept in mind if you need someone new for Lockwood’s job. But popping them both? We’re talking two bodies. And Lockwood’s no bantamweight, remember.”

  “Are you…handicapped in some way, Mr. Kaplan?”

  “Mr. Aubrey, let me describe what you’re asking. Two bodies, one trunk. Put them in, take them out. I either dig a big hole or I haul them to a swamp. This, I gotta tell you, is how handicaps happen. Could be I get crippled, can’t finish. I also have no one who’s there as a lookout in case, I don’t know, some bird-watchers show. What I’m saying is I’ll need some assistance.”

  Aubrey said, “Hmm. I suppose you have a point.”

  “You got a suggestion?”

  “Are you able to delay them? Keep them under control?”

  “Sure. I go shoot them. If I do that, however, I don’t hang around. I’m not going to sit in that house with two stiffs.”

  “You can’t hold them at gunpoint?”

  “How much time are we talking?”

  “The…assistance you need will be forthcoming, Mr. Kaplan, but not for two hours or so, I would think. Can you keep them under control for that long?”

  “Not with guns. That’s too long,” Kaplan told him.

  Lockwood might be a schmuck, but he’s a dangerous schmuck and he’s going to know he’s been downsized. The other guy listens to voices in his head and he thinks he has God on his side. Either one has got to figure he has nothing to lose. They’re going to make a move and he’s going to have to shoot them. That would put him back where he started.

  “Tell you what, though,” said Kaplan, “I can keep them both busy. Crow wants us to scout out the hospital first. We can kill a lot of time doing that.”

  “But you can’t leave Crow alone. Take him with you when you do that.”

  “What, ride around with him? You seen this guy lately?”

  “The problem?”

  “This guy,” said Kaplan, “looks like Dracula with zits. That’s if Dracula took up golf and he shopped at Goodwill.”

  “Dracula with…zits?”

  “Forget it. Don’t ask. I know we can’t let him out of our sight. We’ll throw a sheet over him or something.”

  “And see that he behaves. I’m relying on you.”

  “How and where do we hook up with whoever you’re sending?”

  “Actually, I’m thinking of coming myself.”

  “You personally? For what? When I said I needed help…”

  “You didn’t mean an undersized cripple. I know that.”

  “No offense, you understand.”

  “None taken, Mr. Kaplan. But there seems to be a need for some management control, lest there be any further surprises.”

  “Not just you, though, right? I do need the help.”

  “I am more than your help. I’m your future, Mr. Kaplan. But no, I won’t be coming alone. Where do you suggest that we meet?”

  “Best bet, I think, is right here at this house. You look for our car. It’s a big old green Pontiac. If it’s there, we’re inside and if it isn’t we’re out.”

  “If the green car is there, what then?” Aubrey asked him.

  “You give three quick honks so I know you’re outside. I cover Crow and Lockwood, then I call you in. If you don’t see the car, you come in and wait. Come in through the garage. There won’t be any locks. We get back, you be ready to surprise us, okay?”

  “That sounds like a plan, Mr. Kaplan. Well done.”

  “Mr. Aubrey, they’re coming. I gotta go. Just get here as soon as you can.”

  Aubrey stared at the phone. He was talking to himself. He said, “Felix, that might not have been smart. An impulsive decision, not at all like you. It is thug work. It is why we hire thugs.”

  But the more one tells a thug not to think, the more he makes the attempt.

  So Mr. Lockwood, already the cause of much damage, has once again decided to act on his own. A simple man, he has devised a simple plan. Kill everyone. That's his solution.

  It never seems to occur to people like Lockwood that his victims might have minds of their own. They might not do what he needs them to do; they might not be where he wants them to be. Contingency plans, consequences, flexibility; these are alien concepts to such men. That is why one insists on utter obedience. Do this, do that, do not depart from my instructions. Do not think. I repeat. Do not think.

  Aubrey asked himself, “Why am I telling myself this? Why am I r
epeating what I’ve said to Lockwood at least a dozen times in the past? Why not send to have him shot and be done with it?”

  But he knew the answer. It would bring no satisfaction. For in truth he blamed Lockwood for all that he had lost. The money was the least of it; there would always be more money. His legs, however, would never regain what minimal strength they’d once had. Certain bodily functions would never be restored. Although he’d never been very attractive to women, at least he didn’t think he was seen as grotesque. But now he had to waddle about like a duck. Or a frog. Yes, that’s right. “There goes Kermit, the frog.” He’d overheard that one two or three times. “Like a hemhorroidal gnome” was another.

  No, the only satisfaction would be watching Lockwood’s face as he told Lockwood why he was going to die and why he was first going to suffer. And among those reasons would be what was done to Briggs after Lockwood abandoned him in Denver. Briggs despised him for that. That’s why Briggs would come with him. He would invite Mr. Briggs to do to Mr. Lockwood what Lockwood would like to do to the girl. Strap the man down and cut off his face and then show him the result in a mirror.

  Well…perhaps not. Briggs would probably decline. Briggs would say, “Let’s just shoot him and go home.” All the same, he’d make the offer. It’s the thought that counts. And it might, as Lockwood said, get him back on the horse. It’s true enough that he’s never been the same.

  Briggs and…we need muscle. Mr. Kaplan wants muscle. Robert would do. Mr. Poole’s young assistant. Robert’s also a bodyguard who does not have much to guard because Poole won’t come out of his office. Aubrey reached for his intercom and buzzed Poole’s extension.

  “Mr. Poole, I’m in need of a strong and willing back. I’m going to borrow Robert for the day.”

  “I…might need him,” Poole answered, dry of mouth.

  “Mr. Poole, you’re in a building that is virtually a bunker. Take a pill, get some sleep, this will soon be behind you.”

  “You’ll see to…?”

  “Yes, I will. Now tell Robert to come see me. Tell him that we’re going to expand his horizons. Above all, make it clear that he’s to do as he’s told. He is not to think or speak until tomorrow.”

  TWENTY EIGHT

  As Whistler had expected, a guard had been posted outside number 231, Ragland’s room. But not a policeman. A security guard. He was armed, but he was yawning. Not much of a deterrent. The guard barely glanced at Claudia as Claudia approached him, led by Mrs. Ragland, hand in hand.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” she’d asked.

  He presumed that she didn’t mean from last night. She had left him to wonder what she did mean. Whistler had waited near the elevator bank. That had been his intention. It was part of the agreement. And so far, the only part that had gone right.

  Mrs. Ragland emerged from the room a while later. She’d left the plastic bag but she still had her purse. More to the point, she had also left Claudia. Whistler muttered to himself in disgust. So much for two minutes, he thought. Mrs. Ragland approached him, but more tentatively this time, and once almost stopping and turning around. He supposed that she was reluctant to be missing whatever she thought Claudia might be doing in that room.

  She asked him, distractedly, “Have you ever been shot?”

  “I’ve…” He stopped himself. He said, “No, ma’am.”

  “He’s sleeping,” she said. “They’ve been giving him morphine. Miss Geller said she’d like to sit with him a while. She said that’s if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Yes, I mind and she knows damned well that I mind. But all he said in response was “How is he?”

  “He’s alive. Thanks to you two. That’s the main thing.”

  “I meant the wound itself. I’d heard it isn’t too bad.”

  She said, “Well, it’s high. And no organs were affected. You’d think that a shoulder wound wouldn’t be serious. Western heroes in the movies shrug them off, barely wincing. But the shoulder is a complex bit of machinery. He might not regain the full use of his arm.”

  “I hope that you’ll be pleasantly surprised, Mrs. Ragland.”

  He’d said that to offer his good wishes, nothing more. But it caused her to brighten and look into his eyes. An expression of…what? Of gratitude? Hope? Her face then turned and looked down toward the room. It was as Whistler had feared. She thinks Claudia’s in there healing him. Coming here had been a terrible idea.

  “Look…Mrs. Ragland.”

  “It’s Olivia, Adam.”

  “Olivia…”

  “You still don’t remember me, do you?”

  A helpless shrug. “You do look familiar. I thought that you looked familiar last night. I’m still not able to place you.”

  “Well, it’s been a long time. I wasn’t sure either. You’ve filled out and matured quite a bit.”

  As she said that, she reached and touched a hand to his chest. She said, “In fact, you’ve gained weight since I saw you last night. What’s that under your sweatshirt? A vest?”

  Whistler backed away. “Mrs. Ragland…”

  She said, “Claudia, too. She seems a little top-heavy. I tried to get Philip to wear one, but he wouldn’t. How good are those things? Would one have helped him at that range?”

  “Mrs. Ragland…”

  “Olivia.”

  “Where have we met?”

  “Sixteen years ago, Adam. It was at your mother’s funeral. We spoke for a few minutes afterward.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re saying…”

  “Yes, I did know your mother. I knew her quite well. We met in Chamonix two years before that. Do you still have the place in Chamonix?”

  “My father does. Would he know who you are?”

  “Harry would have known me as Olivia Torrey. This was long before I met and married Philip. But he might not remember me. It’s been all these years. And I really only spoke to him three or four times. He didn’t like having me around.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Because of my job. BBC correspondent, Paris Bureau at first, then Geneva. No, Adam, it wasn’t a personal dislike. He warmed up toward me some when he saw me at the funeral. He heard me sobbing aloud when Leo Belkin tried to speak and again when Paul Bannerman had to finish Leo’s eulogy.”

  That last part had certainly happened, thought Whistler. But she didn’t have to have been there to know it.

  “You call Belkin ‘Leo’ as if you were friends. How well did you know Leo Belkin?”

  “Not well. He said call him Leo, so I did.”

  “And you knew who he was?”

  “Then? A KGB general. And you were in your third year of college, I believe. You were going to school somewhere out west. Colorado?”

  Whistler still couldn’t place her. That’s assuming this was true. There’d been dozens who’d offered their condolences to him. He said, “I wasn’t aware that there were journalists at the service.” In fact, they’d been told to stay away.

  “I wasn’t there as a journalist. I was there as a friend. I was sitting with some of Paul Bannerman’s people.”

  “Now you’re saying you knew Bannerman? How?”

  “Through your parents, of course. He often came to Chamonix. After he spoke, or rather after the service, Molly Farrell and I walked with you for a while. Molly said that she’d send you a book. Do you remember?”

  He began to. “Yes,” he said, “and she did. Can you tell me what sort of a book?”

  “A small volume of poems that she got from your mother. That was my book, Adam. My poetry. I wrote it.”

  It came seeping back. He remembered it, some of it. He did not recall hearing her name at the time, or else he’d heard it but hadn’t retained it. He did, however, remember the name that was on the jacket of that slim little volume. He’d looked at it many times since. Olivia Torrey. The book’s title was ‘Shimmerings.” This woman was telling him the truth.

  He said, “Your hair was longer. You were wearing…the same dress?”


  “Hardly the same, but close enough. Basic black.”

  “You had lilacs pinned to it. I remember the lilacs.”

  “Your mother loved lilacs. That’s why I wore them. I sent a bouquet to your house a year later after I heard about your sister. I’d have come to her service, but I wasn’t invited. Your father kept that one very private.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “I think I’d better tell you how I came to know your mother. We did meet in Chamonix, as I’ve said. We did become friends. We skied together quite a lot. But I went there contriving to meet her, get close to her.”

  Whistler made a mental shrug. A great many people did. But he asked, “To what purpose, Mrs. Ragland.”

  “The old story…young reporter looking for her big break. Writing poetry didn’t put my name up in lights. Most of us had heard of your infamous father, but nobody knew much about him. I’d hoped to do a feature on him, followed by one on Paul Bannerman, Leo Belkin, and maybe a book about all three of them later. I thought it would have made a heck of a book. Molly Farrell, alone, would be worth a whole chapter. Then there were the twins, and the crazy one, Carla. Oh, I had a ton of anecdotal material. Men like John Waldo and Anton Zivic and that monster, the silent one…what was his name?”

  “I would guess you mean Billy McHugh.”

  “Are they still with Paul Bannerman in Westport, do you know?”

  “I’m…told that they’ve all settled down. Even Billy. I would leave that alone, if I were you.”

  She said, “Oh, believe me. I have no intention.”

  “This book,” he asked. “You never wrote it, I assume?”

  “I couldn’t. Your father found me out very quickly. I’m sure he warned your mother, but she didn’t avoid me. Far from it, she took me under her wing and suggested other subjects more worth writing about. I took her advice and it worked out very well. In fact it led, much later, to my meeting Philip and collaborating with him on few. We shared a Pulitzer Prize. Did you know that?”

  “Your report on enlightened drug policies,” he said. “I just saw that on TV this morning.”