The Streichers, from the outset, felt no reluctance to become Jews. Axel rather liked the idea. It took him a full week to exhaust his recall of Jewish Princess jokes, all at Bonnie's expense. Their only shared misgiving had to do with the surgery. They liked each other's faces as they were and Bonnie's breasts held tender memories for Axel although she, secretly, had long planned to have them reduced well before she reached forty. This was, she thought, as good a time as any. They had come to Sur La Mer fully realizing that they would leave as different people.
So be it. She was now Barbara. He was now Alan.
The surgery, begun at once, went well except for a stubborn infection that threatened Alan Weinberg's right eye and the breaking of his nose, which caused him to snore. It was this snoring that, during the ninth week of their stay, caused Barbara Weinberg to take a midnight stroll through the lawn and gardens of Sur La Mer.
It was a pleasant night. The dew and the light of a crescent moon had turned the dichondra lawn to silver. Barbara, dressed in her long white robe, left footprints on it as she walked toward the smell of the ocean. A thick hedge halted her progress. A security guard saw her, turned a flashlight on her, but did not dare approach. Alan had crippled one of them during their second month. The man had poked at him when he did not respond quickly to a summons from Henry Dunville. And she had broken the fingers of another who had seized her by the arm when she wandered through a door that was forbidden to them.
And yet, barring the occasional lapse of good manners, she did not blame the guards. They were merely following the instructions of the officious Henry, who seemed to make rules just for the sake of having them. Not that she and Alan would have violated any sensible security measure or even any of the more arcane rules, provided someone had the courtesy to explain them. But Henry could be pointlessly authoritarian. And a nudnik. What was that other word Alan liked? A shvontz. A feckuckhteh shvontz. He was also a bully. A stupid one. He had foolishly thought that Henry Dunville was more to be feared than the former Axel Streicher.
Barbara stood, facing the lawn, admiring her ghostly footprints. She lifted her eyes to the house. Even from the distance of the hedge it took in most of her field of vision. It was only four stories high, not counting the basement and attic, but each floor had thirteen-foot ceilings. The Dunvilles, three of them, kept apartments on the top floor. Household and nursing staff lived on the third. The security guards, numbering at least ten, lived in what had once been a carriage house and barn. “Special guests,” such as themselves, lived in suites on the second floor of the north wing, to her left. There were four such suites but she and Alan were alone there now. Below, on the first floor, were the administrative offices and some of the hospital facilities. The surgery and several classrooms, were in the basement.
The regular patients, so-called members, lived on the first and second floors of the south wing. They took their meals in a formal dining room just off the entrance hall. She had heard them through closed doors but she had seen them, thus far, only from her window. She had counted eleven of them, none younger than eighty or so. She and Alan were forbidden to speak to them or, to the extent possible, be seen by them. They were not to go out of doors during those exercise periods reserved for the members. Henry Dunville’ s rules.
Most of the windows were dark. In two of them she could see the flickering glow of television sets. Barbara yawned. She began walking, slowly, back toward the house. She had retraced her steps about halfway when she felt herself being drawn toward the dim light coming from one of the first-floor windows. It was, perhaps, curiosity. Or perhaps she felt the need for human contact other than that with staff and guards. In any case she resisted the pull, continuing on, reluctant to leave a diverging set of tracks. But by the time she reached the terrace, the pull, or need, had become stronger. She stepped out of her damp slippers and, barefoot, made her way to the window.
It was a casement window, opening to each side, very tall. Inside, heavy drapes had been drawn but one of them had snagged on a piece of furniture. She saw the television screen first. It was quite large and, oddly, it seemed built into the wall as if to resemble a movie screen complete with curtains and a valance. A silent film was being shown on it.
Barbara saw movement. A flitting hand. She hesitated, then stepped closer. It was that old actress, Nellie Dameon. Alan had heard of her although she had not. He said that she was once a famous star, known even in Europe. She sat, every morning, on one of those marble benches over near the trees, close to where the blind man painted. Each of the members seemed to have his or her private place. And private world. Now, Nellie Dameon seemed to be in another one. As she watched the silent film her hands and arms were moving, matching the gestures of the woman on the screen. Her face, from what Barbara could see, was matching the facial expressions as well. Barbara's first thought was that Nellie Dameon was watching one of her own films, reliving a time when she was young and lovely and famous. Before her mind had failed her. She began to back away, regretting having intruded.
But now the camera showed a close-up of the actress on the screen. It was not Nellie. The face was all wrong. Too round. No cheekbones. Beautiful, Barbara supposed, but in an icy sort of way. And the performance, she realized, was awful. A title card flashed on the screen.
“If you leave me, I will die,” it said.
But from the young woman's expression, she might as well have been asking who left the toilet seat up. Barbara smiled. She heard a chuckle from inside. It was followed, very softly, by a voice repeating the words of the title, “If you leave me, I will die,” and another chuckle. Then, in apology, trying not to laugh, “I'm sorry, Marion. Poor dear Marion.” But she laughed all the same.
Barbara's smile widened but she was suddenly puzzled. Hadn't Alan said that Nellie Dameon never spoke? Perhaps someone else, possibly this Marion, was in there with her. She moved closer to the window and peeked in. No, she realized. The actress was alone. She was dressed in a feathery peignoir, seated in a high-backed chair of carved mahogany. The furnishings of the rest of the room were equally heavy. Oriental carpets on the floor. Paintings with gilt Italianate frames. Mementos crowding every surface. Once again, Barbara backed away. Her shoulder touched the casement window. It squeaked.
Barbara cursed herself even as she heard the gasp from within. She closed her eyes and made herself stay still. To run would pile rudeness on rudeness. She stood, just out of sight from inside, and said, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...I was just. . .” Oh. . . heck.
There was no answer. Only a rustling sound and the squeak of a chair. The rustle seemed to be approaching the window. Barbara waited, half-expecting hands to reach out and close it. Nothing happened. She moved closer, showing herself, hoping that the sight of her bandaged face would not startle the frail old woman.
It was Barbara who was startled. Nellie Dameon stood facing her but not seeing her. The eyes were glazed and they were focused, if anywhere, on a point just off Barbara's shoulder. The old woman's jaw was slack and she stood unblinking. She had withdrawn, totally, within herself. But, Barbara realized, she was also making sure that Barbara saw her that way. This was the same woman who, moments before, had laughed and spoken at the screen. Barbara knew what she was seeing here. It was another performance.
“Do you want me not to ... say anything?”
No response. No reaction.
Barbara winced at her own question. What the old woman wanted, clearly, was that she go away, satisfied that she'd been mistaken. But Barbara wanted more than that. She wanted to see life in those eyes again.
Barbara sensed movement behind her. She turned. A patrolling guard had walked to the spot where she had stood at the hedge. He was studying the ground as if looking for spoor. He had not seen where she'd gone to and the plantings of the main house concealed her from his view. But he gave her an idea.
“Could I stay until he's gone?” she asked, tossing her head toward the guard. “I'll get in trouble.” It was
not quite a lie.
The eyes flickered. Nothing more.
Barbara tried a smile. “If you leave me, I will die,” she said.
The light returned. The tiniest grin tugged at Nellie Dameon's mouth. But she forced it away.
“I'll go in two minutes. And I won't say anything that would hurt you. I promise.”
Now, for the first time, the eyes looked into her own. Appraisingly. Intelligently. Her hand came up, nearly touching the bandages on Barbara's face. The eyes asked a question.
“I'm ... uh ... already in trouble, actually. So is my husband. We're trying to start fresh.”
The patrolling guard had seen her footprints in the dichondra. He followed them with the beam of his flashlight, first to the terrace and then to the front door. He stood for a moment as if trying to remember. Had he heard it open and close? The old actress watched him as he pulled a radio from his hip and spoke into it. Then he started toward the house.
The actress wet her lips. A frown. A shake of the head. She held out a hand to Barbara Weinberg.
“You're in more trouble than you know,” said Nellie Dameon.
9
Tuesday morning. Westport.
Susan Lesko, in a blue bath towel, her hair still wet from the shower, answered the phone while Bannerman was shaving.
She heard a brief pause, the hollow sound of an overseas call, then a sucking in of breath and her father's voice. ”Um . . . Hi,” he said simply.
Susan winced. She heard the disapproval. It was nothing overt. But she knew that he was seeing her, imagining her, in some state of less-than-proper dress. Bad enough, he'd be thinking, that she lived with the guy. She tugged the towel an inch or so higher, then realized what she was doing and that it was dumb.
Her father recovered first, clearing his throat. “How're you doing, sweetheart?”
”I miss you.”
“Me too,” he answered. “When are you coming over?”
“It depends.” She smiled. “When's the wedding?”
A low grant. ”A week after yours.”
The smile broadened. It pleased her that, for once, she'd managed to fire the first shot. She was living with Paul, her father was living with Elena. More than a year now. Both of them. She had not quite been able to persuade him that the two were the same. Nor could he persuade her that they were not.
Fathers.
“You heard anything from Carla?” he asked. “How's she doing?”
“Molly called late last night. She's having a tough time but she's holding up.”
“Molly's with her? That's good.” A thoughtful pause. “Listen, when you have an address, Elena wants to send flowers. Me, too.”
“Is Elena there?” she asked. “Can I talk to her after you're finished with Paul?”
“It depends. You got any more cute little stories about me?”
“Nope. Just girl talk.”
“Put Bannerman on. And you behave yourself.”
“Love you, Daddy.”
Bannerman dried his hands and took the phone. Acknowledging Lesko's strained greeting, he listened for several moments, then reached for a pad and pencil and asked Lesko to repeat a name.
“Andy Huff,” Lesko told him. “Like Sam Huff of the Giants. He's heading the investigation of the LAPD and he's a friend of a friend. The FBI agent in charge is a guy named Jack Scholl.”
“You spoke to Huff?”
“Yeah, but not Scholl. I got no leverage with the feds.”
“What about Irwin Kaplan?”
“Irwin's DEA. What would he know about serial killers?”
“Nothing, but he's well connected. Maybe I'll call him myself.”
“Better let me. You make him nervous.”
“Thank you. What could Huff tell you?”
“Well . . .” Lesko hesitated. “He said the evidence, so far, points to the same guy who killed the other six. More or less the same pattern.”
Bannerman thought he heard doubt. “More or less?”
“They think he snatched her Sunday morning, killed her, then waited till dark to dump her. The others were all snatched at night. This one also had heroin in her system. There was something funny about that but he wouldn't tell me what.”
“Can you guess?”
More hesitation. “Probably none of the others did.”
“Lesko,” Bannerman frowned, “what's bothering you?”
“I'm not sure. Something.”
“Would you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Talk it over with Katz. Then call me back.”
A pause. The voice dropped. “Bannerman . . . don't start that shit.”
“Okay, then. Think it over. What could it hurt?”
An audible sigh. But no answer.
“This is for Carla. Maybe you owe her one. For Elena.”
“Don't start that shit either,” Lesko said quietly. “Whatever she did over in Spain, she enjoyed it.”
“For me, then.”
A long silence. “You being good to Susan?”
”I think so. I'm learning.”
A grunt. It sounded, Bannerman thought, like me too. “You gonna be around?”
“At my office. I'll stay until you call.”
”I didn't say I'll talk to…never mind. What I'll do is think. For myself.”
“Thank you.” He saw Susan, blower in hand, asking with a gesture if he was through. ' ‘Hold on. Susan wants to talk to Elena.”
“Me first,” he said. “Let's see how much you're learning.”
Bannerman stepped into the bedroom where he could finish dressing without appearing to listen. But he did. And he watched.
Susan.
Even in the terry robe she now wore, her long brown hair plastered, still wet, against her face, Susan was the loveliest woman he'd ever known. So clean and fresh. Especially inside. And the way her body moved as she spoke. Animated, yet graceful, like a dancing cat. He loved to watch her at any time but especially in the morning. And especially before she woke up. When she slept, she almost always had this little smile. It was there when she made love as well. And also whenever she beat him at anything. Tennis. Scrabble. Doing the Sunday crossword.
Coming home in the evening, he still had trouble believing that she'd be there. That she wouldn't, one of these days, ask herself what she'd gotten herself into. But, as Molly had said, if she hadn't asked herself that a year ago, after he had, twice, almost got her killed, maybe she never would.
She was talking to Elena now. Whispering. Something private. Probably about Elena's efforts to have a child. Lesko had given up arguing against it but there had been two miscarriages already. Still, Bannerman had to smile at the image of this great brute of a man being called home every time Elena's temperature went up one degree.
Lesko, no doubt, had just as much trouble believing that he and Elena were still together after a year. That this elegant and very wealthy woman seemed to love him and admire him, and need him, all the more with each passing week. And that he'd been able to forget that it was Elena, in another world, another lifetime, who had ordered the death of his partner.
Except that the partner, David Katz, was not altogether dead. Lesko, in his mind, had clung to him. Still talks to him. They all knew it. They understood it. You spend ten years with one partner, day in and day out, and before long you're like Siamese twins. You finish each other's sentences, you think as a unit. One partner dies, leaving an empty seat, and you find yourself still talking to him, asking what he thinks. Except in Lesko's case they mostly argue because Lesko has never quite forgiven Katz for being dirty. Or himself for not realizing it in time.
It sounded crazy, Bannerman realized, but it's not so unusual. Widows do it all the time. People pray to dead saints.
None of this, however, had made Lesko any less sensitive about it. Even though Katz's presence had been useful on several occasions. Well, not Katz exactly. And certainly not his ghost. Katz had become, through years of habit, a sort o
f alter ego. Someone to bounce ideas off of. A subconscious, really, that occasionally saw and heard things that Lesko might otherwise have missed. That could be a considerable asset if not denied. Bannerman had tried to persuade him of that. So, in fact, had Elena. But listening to Katz was one thing and admitting it was something else. Bannerman’s request, that Lesko talk it over with Katz, would have gotten his head bitten off were not the Atlantic Ocean between them. What it meant was . . . let your mind flow. Pretend he's still in that seat. Toss it around with him.
No, it doesn't, Bannerman muttered to himself. It means ask him.
“Paul?”
Susan, holding the phone toward him.
“For you. It's my dad again.”
”I know what bothered me.” Lesko's voice. A touch self-conscious. More than a touch defiant.
“What was it?”
I thought about it. By myself.”
”I know. That's what you said you'd do.” Bannerman glanced at the ceiling.
“Just so we're clear on that.”
“We are. Absolutely.” Even if Katz isn’t.
Lesko seemed to want to say more. Drive the point home a little harder. But all Bannerman heard was the sound of his breathing.
“When I talked to Huff,” Lesko said at last, “he kept saying ‘this guy.’ ”
Bannerman shook his head. ”I don't follow.”
“This guy,” Lesko repeated. “Huff only said it when he was talking about the guy who killed Carla's sister. Not when he was talking about the guy who killed the other six.”
Bannerman frowned. “You're saying he doesn't think they're the same man?”
Lesko didn't answer.
“Is it just,” Bannerman asked, “that the pattern is a little different this time? That it was done on a Sunday. And that heroin was involved?”
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