“Anyway, John Waldo's out there.” Susan tried to ease his mind. “And we'll be down in an hour.”
“He's out there somewhere,” Paul answered. “But he's backing us up, not Carla. He's probably on his way to the airport right now.”
She felt a tingle of satisfaction when he said us. She knew that he meant her, too. Not just himself and Billy.
Billy McHugh was in the back, flying coach. He didn't like first class, Paul had told her. He thinks it makes him stand out. He prefers to blend in. Susan believed that, more or less, until two hours into the flight when she decided she'd go back and visit him. Paul asked her not to. She wanted to know why. He was forced to tell her that Billy was afraid of flying. He always took an aisle seat, last row, where not so many people could see his white knuckles, and near the lavatory in case he felt nauseus.
It was hard to believe. Banerman’s monster, afraid to fly. This was the man who once made it out of Iran on foot, doing more damage along the way than Iraqi mines. She asked Paul what caused it, presuming that it must have been something horrendous that had happened to him. Something claustrophobic. Like being buried alive, with snakes, in some Third World dungeon. He said no. He's just afraid to fly.
“Oh.” Bannerman remembered Anton's other message. “Your father's on his way. With Elena. They'll get in after midnight. He's going to just love hearing about Claude.”
“How do you know he's not some crank? Claude, I mean.”
Bannerman considered it. He shook his head. “Carla would have been the first to think so,” he said. “He must have offered proof.”
“Either way, how did he know Carla? How did he know where she was staying?”
Bannerman stared ahead. “Keep going,” he said.
“The answer is he spotted her someplace, then followed her. He could have been watching her father's house last night but remember it was dark. More likely this morning at her sister's apartment.”
“Why would he have gone to either place?”
“Curiosity,” she guessed. “Compulsion. If a copycat killed Lisa, maybe he's angry about it. He wants people to know.”
Bannerman rubbed his chin. “He wanted Carla to know. But again, how did he recognize her as Lisa's sister?’'
“Wouldn't most people? You said they could almost be twins.”
“Except they'd have to know what Lisa looked like first. When would Claude have seen her?”
“In the newspapers, I suppose. But I think he knew her.”
“Intuition?”
She made a face. “No. You just said it. He wanted Carla to know. To me, that suggests a relationship. Otherwise, all he had to do was call any reporter.”
Bannerman nodded. He remembered what Lesko had said about the first of the serial killer's six victims being from Lisa's neighborhood. And that it's a pattern. The first one tends to be close to home, someone he knows, usually an act of impulse. After that the murders become more deliberate and the killer avoids soiling his own nest.
“That's very good,” he said. “Nice going.”
She knew that he meant it. She appreciated it. But she saw his eyes cloud over as if to say, that's interesting, but I don't really care about him, or his six other victims, except to the extent that he endangers Carla. Or her. Or any of his people. Mama's Boy takes care of his own.
“We might have a shot at catching him,” she said.
“That's not why we're here, Susan.”
See?
Bannerman sipped his drink. He put it down. “But why do you say that?”
Susan smiled within herself. She had set the hook. “This relationship,” she said. “It sounds like it's now with Carla.”
His expression showed doubt “All he did was call her. He's not likely to let her get close to him.”
“He followed her. He might do it again.”
“He might.”
“You could have Billy or John watching for him. Or me.”
“Don't even think it”
“Or my father.”
A vague shake of the head.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Huh? Oh.” He waved a hand as if to show that he'd been thinking of something else. “Your father would be fine,” he said.
Which, Susan knew, was a lie. She could see that he was intrigued by the idea. He wouldn't mind catching Claude. If the opportunity offered itself. If it could be done cleanly and quietly. Lots of ifs. But he would never use her father to do it because her father would . . . might . . . want to hand him to the police. Paul would never do that. Claude, if that's his name, would simply be found somewhere, maybe with a note in his mouth.
Mama's Boy doesn't do courts.
“It's me again.”
Carla had been out the door, Yuri ahead of her, when the telephone rang and she rushed back to snatch it. The same voice, now oddly flat.
“Thank you,” she said, waving Yuri back in. “Thank you for calling back.” She mouthed Claude's name to the Russian.
”I didn't mean to hang up on you. I was getting upset.”
”I know. I was upset, too. I'm sorry.”
‘”That man who was following you? What stuff did he steal from Lisa?”
“Ah . . . could I ask why you want to know, Claude?”
“I'm where he lives. I could see if it's here.”
Carla's eyes widened. She fished a piece of notepaper from her pocket and held it up for Yuri to see. It showed an address in Burbank, written in the hand of the hotel manager. Yuri understood. He mimed a suggestion. Carla would keep this man on the phone. He would drive there. Carla tossed him her keys. Yuri tossed them back. He showed his own and left.
“Claude? Let's see. I'm thinking.” She steadied her voice. “He took her college notebooks, her address books, her calendar . . . ”-
“How about a camera?”
“Yes. She had a Nikon Autofocus with a zoom lens. The strap is blue. Embroidered.”
“That's here. There's a good tape recorder next to it.”
”A Marantz?”
”I don't ... oh, yeah. Marantz.”
“Son of a bitch. Not you, Claude.”
”I know. I told you it wasn't me.”
“Claude what about the notebooks and things?”
“Hold on a second.” She heard the phone touch a wooden surface, followed by a stillness and then the sounds of papers. Several drawers opened and closed. “No.” His voice came back on. “He's got things like that but they're his. How about jewelry? He's got chains and bracelets here.”
“Is there a chain with a real gold bar on it from a Swiss bank?”
“It says Credit Suisse. Is that it?”
“Yes.” Carla took a breath. It stuttered. Dommerich thought he heard a sob.
”I could take Lisa's things if you want. I could leave them for you someplace. If I leave them for when the police come they'll probably keep them for a long time.”
“The police? You're not going to call them, are you?”
“No. But they'll come. He'll start to smell.”
“Claude . . . who will smell?”
“Joseph Hickey. I... got even for Lisa. And for you.”
Carla closed* her eyes. “Do you mean he's there, Claude? Right now?”
“He's here. He's dead.”
“Look, Claude . . . ” Molly, she thought, will never understand this. ”I want you to do two things. Take her jewelry and get out fast. Right now. There's someone coming there. He`s my friend but so are you. I don't want him to find you there.”
A long pause. “Were you trying to catch me, Carla?”
”I wanted Hickey. Not you. Get out of there, Claude.”
“Okay.”
“Call me tomorrow about the jewelry. Tomorrow morning. Will you do that, Claude?”
”I guess.”
She looked at her watch. “Claude?”
“That's not really my name.”
”I know. But thank you. Now go.”
Carla broke the
connection. She looked up to see Molly Farrell standing in the doorway.
24
For the second time in two days, Barbara Weinberg covered the tall arched windows of Carleton Dunville's office. She had spotted four guards thus far, all armed with assault rifles and in varying degrees of concealment. There would be others at the main gate.
She was not greatly concerned. She had even considered releasing the two guards now held in the lavatory, if only to make that facility more accessible to the five who remained.
There would be no attempt to storm the office while both Dunvilles were there. The guards would wait for them to leave. They would probably try for two head shots as they approached one of the Dunville Mercedes. Until, that is, they saw Carleton the elder walking between them with the barrel of the Ingram in his mouth.
Her one disquieting thought was that Carleton the younger might, if left behind, order them to go ahead and shoot unless his relationship with his father improved markedly between now and then. They'd better bring both of them.
Her husband sat at Dunville's desk, sipping a cognac from a bottle he'd found in one of the drawers. He was studying the files. With greater care this time. As he finished each set he placed them in Carleton the younger’s briefcase, the contents of which he had also studied and, for the most part, discarded. One item in the briefcase was a small cardboard wallet containing the key to a safety deposit box. He fingered it, curious as to the box's contents. No use asking, he supposed. And the key did him no good. He left it on the desk.
Weinberg had already packed the cash from the safe. It amounted to almost $40,000. Hardly a full refund. Barely ten cents on the dollar. But it would do until they could safely gain access to their own money.
He had tried, earlier, to send another message by fax. Carleton the younger had replaced the broken machine. The fax did not go through. He stared at the machine for a moment, then shrugged. Although he did not seem greatly troubled by its failure to send, Barbara knew what it probably meant. The machine in Santa Fe must have been found, probably destroyed, Ruiz—or whomever—along with it. He returned to Çarleton's desk.
Two more hours until dark.
She understood her husband's desire to wait. Darkness makes escape easier and pursuit more difficult, but that was not the half of it. He did not want to ride around looking like a mummy in broad daylight. People would notice. He might frighten children. Nor did he want to remove his bandages in the presence of either Dunville because he preferred not to show them his new face. That was why, she realized, he'd asked for their medical files. They included before photographs and computer renderings of what they'd look like after. The renderings could probably be reconstructed from memory but, if so, there was at least a good chance that they would fall short of the real thing.
She glanced over to check on Nellie. The actress was seated in the far corner, out of the way of any possible crossfire or shattered glass. Barbara had half-expected her to wander off as was her habit when in the presence of staff. But she hadn't. She sat glaring at Carleton the elder. When her eyes did glaze over from time to time, Barbara imagined that she was seeing the face of young Lisa Benedict.
Both of the Dunvilles seemed to find her presence unsettling in the extreme. She wasn't sure why. Perhaps they were searching their minds for any remarks made within her hearing over the years. Or any deeds done within her sight.
The younger Dunville had tried to negotiate. He offered his word, his personal guarantee, that none of them would be harmed. He acknowledged that all of this had been the fault of his half-brother and now his father. He would do anything within reason to make amends provided that no further damage were done. He even pointed out the ludicrousness of two swollen-faced fugitives and a ninety-some-year-old movie queen in a stolen car hoping that they would not attract attention.
Barbara had to agree. And she tended to believe him. So did her husband. Young Carleton might even have been able to back up the guarantee because it was clear that a palace coup had taken place before their eyes. Several times now, he had angrily ordered his father to shut up, once threatening to shoot him himself. The father, for his part, could not get over the fact that his son had, once again, left those files in an office safe that, by now, might as well have been a box of chocolates for all that it deterred Barbara Weinberg. She had to agree with that as well. Still . . . gift horses ...
But the question of an armistice was moot.
Carla Benedict was in town. She knew where her sister had spent the last day of her life. She would be coming.
True, the younger Dunville might simply insist that if the girl had come to Sur La Mer at all, the visit had to have been covert. She sneaked in. But he would not be able to explain why Lisa Benedict's apartment had been subsequently stripped of any reference to Sur La Mer. And, now, he would not be able to produce the woman she came to see. That, or he'd try to pass someone else off as Nellie.
“Want to see something?” Her husband spoke, rising from behind the desk.
She nodded, keeping one eye on the activity, or lack of it, outside, the other on the Dunvilles.
“Better close the drapes,” he said, approaching. “We'll be backlit soon.”
He was right. She saw that the shadow cast by a jacaranda tree was already longer than its height. She'd allowed her mind to wander. Very dangerous. But she heard no reproach in his voice. He pulled the drawstrings himself and returned to her side.
”I think I've found the children,” he said, whispering. There were several files in his hand.
“Nellie's?” she asked softly.
“Maybe. It's hard to tell.” He separated one of the older files, dated 1943, into its before and after segments. Each showed a photograph. Although nothing so radical as plastic surgery had been done, the difference was striking. The man in the before photograph was about twenty pounds overweight, seemed in his late thirties and had a cruel, rather stupid face. The same man, months later, could have been a banker. The extra weight was gone, the hair fashionably cut; he had a trim mustache and conservative clothing. Even the expression had changed. It was, thought Barbara, like looking at an actor's composite. One actor playing two very different roles.
“This one,” said Weinberg, “came here with a woman, apparently his mistress. By the time they left, six months later, they were not only ‘married’ but they had a child who was already a year old.”
“Which means they got it here?”
Weinberg pointed to a notation at the bottom of the after file. It identified the baby's mother, although only initials were used. It described her coloring, her ancestry and the nature of her illness. The notation speculated that the illness was not likely to be hereditary.
“Whose initials are they?”''
“A former member, I assume. Probably another actress. She's not here now so she's probably dead.” He riffed through the papers he was holding. “I've found about twenty just like this,” he said, “and I'm not even halfway through the files.”
Barbara's expression darkened. “You're saying they used this place as a baby farm. To provide ready-made families?”
Weinberg nodded.
She could not quite believe it. “They never offered us one,” she said.
“Dunville asked,” he reminded her, “how we'd feel about having a child. He said that a family is an excellent cover. You wouldn't discuss it.”
“Because I can't. My insides are ... ”
”I know,” he said soothingly. “He saw that you had strong feelings. He backed off. But he was not talking about having your own.”
She stared, remembering. Still, she was skeptical. “But where would they get a child now?” she asked. “The members . . . they're all old.”
Weinberg only shrugged. But he could guess. Babies were stolen all the time. From maternity wards, from strollers outside supermarkets, from playgrounds. Also children, up to five or six years old. He had little doubt that if Barbara had shown interest, a child, even two, wo
uld have been found for them. Custom ordered. The right coloring. Probably from a nice young Jewish family.
But he chose not to say that to Barbara. Although she could no longer have a child of her own she was still very much a woman. It was the sort of thing that would eat at her. Distract her. She needed to keep her mind on how they might survive the night.
“Those initials,” she asked. “Do any of them stand for Nellie Dameon?”
“Not that I've found,” he lied.
“Ask Dunville. The father. Take him into the bathroom. Shove his face in the toilet and . . . ”
“Darling ... ” He touched her with his elbow.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Nellie's children would be at least in their late fifties by now,” he reminded her. “They might have children of their own, even grandchildren. All the lives of their own. All are innocent of this.”
”I want to help her find them,” she said stubbornly. “Ask Dunville.”
He shook his head. “Then he'd know where you're going. He would be waiting.”
She frowned. “Not if he's dead.”
Alan Weinberg closed his one eye.
She felt it. ”I know,” she said. “Priorities.”
He touched her again. He gestured toward the remaining files on Carleton the younger’s desk. “I'll see what I can find,” he said, turning toward them.
“Alan.”
He stopped.
“We should warn that girl,” she whispered. “If they've sent people after Hickey, they might send them after her as well.”
“Warn her? What will I say?”
“You'll think of something. Call her.”
Weinberg sighed inwardly. He obeyed.
A better solution, he thought afterward, would have been to make a clean sweep of the Dunvilles. It would certainly cover their own tracks. And it would keep them from bleating his name should Carla Benedict begin tickling their genitals with the point of a knife. But too many others knew. The guards, who were afraid of him, certainly knew that he was Axel Streicher. The instructors knew. And, probably, some of the medical staff. He couldn't get them all. Nor would he have the stomach for a slaughter on that scale unless they had done him a serious injury. Harmed his wife, for example.
Bannerman's Law Page 20
