They had driven west, then south, from the Casitas Reservoir, crossing the San Gabriel Mountains, following the signs to Pasadena. Weinberg's reason for going there was that there was no reason. He knew nothing of Pasadena except that it was associated with an annual football game, a sport to which he was wholly indifferent, and a parade involving roses. Nothing in his background would have suggested that he might go there. Logic would have suggested that he drive through the night, far north or far west, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Sur La Mer, probably leaving the state.
Weinberg, like Bannerman, chose a Holiday Inn as their place of rest for the night. It was near a convention center. Large, busy, undistinguished, no bellboys, no need for anyone but Barbara to be seen. Barbara registered, paying cash in advance. She wrote that she was Mrs. Gabriella Cansino, traveling with her child, Maria, and would need a cot in their room.
Weinberg, with Nellie, waited in the bathroom while the cot was delivered and again while a room service tray was brought in. Alone at last, Weinberg sat with young Carleton's briefcase and opened it. Barbara took it from him. She told him to shower and shave.
Nellie, picking at a crabmeat salad, could not get enough of the television set in their room. There were thirty-one stations, or channels as Alan called them, and all were in color. She could go forward, or backward, or jump from one to the other just by pressing little square buttons with arrows on them.
She had heard about television. She had even glimpsed it once through a window at Sur La Mer. But she had not imagined that there was so much to see. There were programs about nature, cooking, world events, westerns ... there was even Garbo doing Anna Karenina again, as a talkie this time. And in color!
“Where you live,” she asked Barbara, wide-eyed, “do you have one of these?”
“Um . . . what's that?” Barbara glanced in from the bathroom where she was cleaning a residue of adhesive from her husband's face. “Oh,” she said, smiling now. “Yes. Almost everybody has one.”
“And it's free? All of it?”
”Almost all. For what it's worth.”
Nellie raised an eyebrow at the indifferent response. “But it's like having a theater right in your home. Dozens of theaters. How could you bear to do anything else?”
Another smile. Barbara checked her watch. “It's almost ten, Nellie. Aren't you sleepy?”
She shook her head. “I'm too excited,” she said, squirming. “Thank you, Alan. This truly is wonderful.”
Weinberg blinked. Then he remembered his promise. ”I didn't mean television, Nellie. I meant . . . ” He stopped himself. Barbara was wiping his upper lip with alcohol. Just as well.
He turned to the vanity mirror, examining the result. “You haven't told me what you think,” he said.
No, she hadn't.
She would have said that she liked his old face better. But she wanted to hear him say that to her. First. And also that it didn't matter. That to him she was still beautiful. Even more so. She needed to hear that. “It doesn't look very Jewish,” she said.
He grunted. So I'm told. “It's sort of the Jewish gangster look,” he said. “Like George Bancroft.”
“Who?”
“An actor,” came Nellie's voice. “He was very rugged. But a sweet man.”
“Oh,” Barbara muttered.
“Alan?” Nellie again. ”A word with you, please.”
Weinberg excused himself. He went into the bedroom and stood over Nellie. Her eyes not moving from the screen, she reached for the flesh of his arm. She pinched him, hard, and he yipped. She reached for him a second time. He tried to back away but she seized his shirt, pulling him closer.
“Did you tell her she's beautiful?” Nellie whispered.
“I...ah, was going to,” he said. ”I thought we might take a quiet walk after you fall asleep.”
She cocked her head toward the briefcase. “But not until you've played with those papers some more,” she scolded.
“Well . . . actually,” he said, stammering, “there's something in there that I need to discuss with her.” That name . . . Marek, who the other one, Harry, said was injured, possibly dying. He had seen that name.
Nellie reached for the briefcase. She placed it on her lap, then put her salad on top of it. “It can wait,” she said firmly.
At the Los Angeles airport, Molly Farrell waited among the relatives and limousine drivers as Lesko and Elena passed through customs and proceeded to the international arrivals gate.
She had called their aircraft in flight. She had told Lesko very little because, she suspected, ground to air communications on commercial flights were routinely monitored. But at least they would know that there were difficulties, and they would know to look for her.
She spotted them easily as they approached the heavy glass doors. Lesko pushing a cart. Elena helping to guide it. More than a year had passed since she last saw him. They both had changed. Remarkably.
Lesko had lost weight. It became him. His color was better, his taste in clothing had improved, and the expression on his face had noticeably softened. It was always a good face, very strong, but one that looked intimidating even in repose. He had perfect teeth. They flashed when he spoke and he had a habit of standing very close, developed, no doubt, during his years as a New York City detective. Those he questioned must have thought that they were about to be eaten.
But now much of that menace seemed gone. Elena's influence, certainly. Molly had to smile. A kinder and gentler Lesko. God save us.
The change in Elena was equally striking. She had full use of her arms, for one thing. When last Molly saw her they were both in slings; machine gun bullets had shattered one arm and one shoulder and others would surely have killed her had they not been stopped by Gary Russo's body.
She was a small woman, not as small as Carla, but she seemed a child in contrast to Lesko's bulk. And yet there was something larger than life about her. She was dressed in a Chanel suit, very little jewelry, hair in a careless shag cut, trim figure. Quite attractive. And the money and breeding showed. But there was something else that made people take a second look, as other deplaning passengers were doing now. A certain serenity. A strength. Molly had not seen it before.
It seemed that more than her arms had healed. There had always been a certain sadness to Elena. It would be, on meeting her, one's first impression. Now, Molly saw no sign of it. Molly remembered the way she used to look at Lesko. It was a look which, for all her wealth and power, seemed to say, / know that you can never love me. But perhaps you can forgive me.
That too was gone. In its place was a look of utter trust and comfort. She adored him. And he did love her. Sometime in the past year, thought Molly, he must have even brought himself to say it.
Molly knew that look. She'd had it herself, she felt sure, during her early years with Paul. And probably still. Even after Susan.
Lesko spotted her and pointed.
Elena waved.
She came forward, her smile genuine, offering her cheek. Lesko waited his turn. When it came, he said that he was pleased to see her again. He bowed at the waist and shook her hand.
Lesko bowing?
A year ago, thought Molly, his greeting would have consisted of “How's Susan? What difficulties?” and he would have stepped closer, slowly baring his teeth, as she answered. About halfway through, one hand would have balled into a fist and he would have said, “Fucking Bannerman. Where is he?”
But this, it seemed, was a new Lesko. Housebroken. With some manners. Perhaps even eager to display them for Elena's benefit.
Count your blessings, thought Molly. Maybe the ride back to the hotel wouldn't be so dreadful after all.
She began briefing them as they approached Yuri's car.
Weinberg had taken Barbara's hand. She allowed it, not responding, saying little. They walked for a while through the hotel grounds, past the outdoor pool, through a garden. Weinberg saw the entrance to a hotel lounge called The Greenery.
He led Barbara through the door. He ordered two cognacs.
It was, he realized, not the wisest thing to do. His face was not quite right. But the room, intimately lit, was further darkened by the shadows of giant tropical ferns and hanging plants. The waitress had hardly glanced at him. This was not unusual. People rarely noticed him when he walked through a door with Barbara. All eyes went to her. Women's eyes as well. Even women who were younger, prettier, men hovering about them.
But none were so elegant. None stood so tall, so graceful, so serenely confident. And, of course, none was so dangerous.
Weinberg shook his head, frowning. No, he thought. Danger had nothing to do with it. These people did not know that she was Bonnie Predd. Then Bonnie Streicher. She would have the same effect, no doubt, as Barbara Weinberg. Surgery did nothing to mute the ... electricity she gave off.
Nor, in fact, was she all that dangerous. Certainly not in the same sense as a Carla Benedict. Carla had always been a ticking bomb. Insult her, slight her, and your life could well be in danger. Not so with Barbara. Insult Barbara and you might very well hurt her, even move her to private tears, but you could not provoke her. In most cases. She was too self-possessed. Most of the time.
This, apparently, he thought, was not one of the times.
”I have met someone else,” he told her, sipping his Hennessy. ”I intend to have an affair with her.”
She looked at him, lips parted, as if she had not heard correctly.
“There was a time,” he said, “when I thought that Bonnie Predd was the loveliest, the most exciting woman I've ever met. It is no longer true.”
A shy smile. Barbara hoped that she knew what was coming. “This other woman,” she asked quietly. “Is her name Barbara, by chance?”
Weinberg made a show of considering the question. He waggled a hand, then gestured dismissively.
“Who, then?”
He did not answer.
“Would you like this cognac poured over your head?” she asked.
He ignored the threat. He looked away. “Her name,” he said, “is Gabriella. Shall I tell you about her?”
The smile returned. “If you feel you must.”
Weinberg held nothing back. Her full name, he said, was Gabriella Cansino, and she was staying in this very hotel. She was a married woman, or possibly divorced, not that it mattered to him either way because he was hopelessly enchanted by her. She was one of those passionate, fiery Latin types. Not at all like those cold Anglo-Saxon ice maidens and fatuous Jewish princesses he'd been accustomed to.
Latin or not, she had golden hair and soft blue eyes to die for and yet her skin was deeply bronzed, healthy, glowing—not the pale and pasty flesh one finds in northern climates. Her breasts were high and firm and perfect— unlike a certain buxom and pendulous Brunhilde he once knew. Her body, thus far, was an unexplored treasure. It would have none of the markings that he knew so well and had wearied of. He hoped, he said, to explore it that evening, button by button, inch by inch, except that Gabriella seemed to be traveling with a daughter. Might Barbara, he wondered, have a suggestion?
“Passionate, you say. Is she athletic?”
“She . . . gave herself to an entire soccer team once.”
“Adventurous?”
“They were scuba diving at the time.”
Barbara was grinning. “Button by button, you said.” “And inch by inch.” “How does she feel about leather?”
“It depends. For wearing or whipping?”
“Backseat leather.” She dangled the keys to the Dunville Mercedes. “Pay the check, Mr. Bancroft. I have fantasies of my own.”
The grin stayed on her face as she led Weinberg through the doors of The Greenery, past the pool and, somewhat carelessly, across the open expanse of the parking lot.
She didn't care. She felt like a teenager again. Hot, eager, mischievous, that same dim thumping deep in her belly as glands opened and flowed. She felt his hand. It explored her hip, her waist, her back as they walked. His fingers closed over a button of the loose silk dress that she wore. It fell open. His hand moved on to the next.
She tried to shake it off. People would see. And it made her shiver. Her whole body tingled. Her new body.
That excited her. It would be like their first time. Certainly without bandages. Two new faces. No bathrobes. Clothing to remove. And she had lost weight. She had never been heayy but it had been at least ten years, well before they met, since her weight had dropped below 130 pounds. Those last few days at Sur La Mer had made the difference. Eating erratically, exercising doubly hard to keep mind and body alert. She was proud of this body. So firm and tight. Now, he was discovering that as well. She could almost feel his surprise, his pleasure, through his fingertips.
Reaching Dunville's car, he took the keys from her. He fumbled for the lock, awkwardly, once dropping them. Her grin widened.
As he bent to retrieve them, her eyes drifted across the second-floor level of the Holiday Inn. She picked out their room. The lights had been turned off. It was fully dark. But she thought she saw movement against the drapes. A shadow moved. Then it seemed to crouch.
Probably nothing, she thought. Nellie closing the curtains.
But she was troubled, even so.
It had been days, she realized, since they'd left Nellie alone.
“Do you think she's all right?” she asked.
“Nellie?” Weinberg followed her eyes. “The door is locked. She'll be fine.”
“She's by herself. What if she's frightened?”
“No, she's . . . ” He stopped himself. Barbara was already reaching behind her back, fastening buttons. He sighed deeply, deliberately. “We're going to go check, aren't we,” he grumbled.
“Two minutes,” she said, patting him.
Weinberg made a fist. He pounded the Mercedes, lightly. But he followed her.
Fucking Bannerman.
Lesko was mouthing the words at him even as he hugged his daughter. Susan embraced Elena in turn. Behind Lesko, Molly said with a nod that she'd told him all she knew. Bannerman had no need to ask how he reacted.
Lesko turned to Molly and gestured toward the door. “Why don't you get Elena checked in?” he asked. “Take Susan with you. They can get caught up while Paul and I have a talk.”
Elena took his arm. She reached for Bannerman’s hand. “We will all have a talk,” she said firmly.
Lesko mumbled something into her ear. “I'm not going to ... ” was all that Bannerman heard but he could imagine the rest: “I'm not going to hit him . . . like he did the first time they met. I'm not going to shoot him . . . like he did in Marbella. I'm just going to ask, nicely, whether Bannerman ever goes anyplace where everyone is still alive by the time he leaves.”
His next question would have been about Susan. Also asked nicely, Like: “Are you going to get Susan on the next plane out of California or do I crush your face the first time Elena gives us two minutes alone?”
“What's the latest on Yuri?” Lesko asked instead.
“Holding his own. Leo just left for the hospital.”
“And where's Carla?”
“Down the hall with Billy. I told her to get some sleep. Why don't you and Elena do the same and we'll talk in the morning?”
Lesko shook his head. Two drinks and an ounce of NyQuil had put him to sleep by the time he was over Scotland. But for Molly's call, they would have slept through to Los Angeles. He reached into his pocket for a pad on which he'd jotted the outline of Molly's summary. It crossed his mind to insist that Susan take a walk. But a glance at her told him that she knew more than he did. The same eye contact told him that she would not leave in any case.
“Just so I have this straight,” he said, reading, “you think this dead guy, Hickey, killed Carla's sister.”
“It's a possibility.”
“And you think he's connected with this loony bin up north?”
“We don't know that either. But if there's a connection, the police may wel
l have established it by now.”
“And you're willing to leave this strictly to the cops? Why doesn't that sound like you?”
Bannerman was tired. And he was becoming annoyed. “The memorial service is on Thursday morning,” he said quietly. “By that afternoon, I want all of us on a flight back to Westport. In the meantime I want no trouble with the law and none of our names in the newspapers.”
Lesko remained doubtful. He glanced at Molly. “What if, like Molly thinks, this Sur La Mer is behind everything?”
“In that case,” Bannerman told him, “our council will discuss it and decide what action, if any, is appropriate. If there is no direct threat to us, and if the police have the situation in hand, we may well decide to do nothing.”
It was, Lesko thought, what he'd wanted to hear. Still, he frowned in spite of himself. “Carla's sister gets carved up, and by you that's not a threat?”
“No,” Bannerman said evenly. “It isn't.”
Lesko understood, he supposed. Hit Bannerman or one of his people, on purpose, and Bannerman hits back fast and hard, always in a way that leaves the survivors scared shitless. He has to. It's his only protection. But Lisa Benedict did not die, apparently, because she was Carla Benedict's sister. And anyway, the guy who probably did it was dead.
“Council or no council,” he said, “how do you stop Carla?”
“For her own good, and ours,” Bannerman answered, “we'll stop her.”
How, Lesko wondered? Chain her to a bed? He chose not to ask. “This serial killer,” he said—he could still hardly believe this part—“he's not a threat to you either, right? Would you still try to take him if you didn't need him for a trade?”
Bannerman hesitated. “Yes. But we would end it.”
Elena touched Lesko's hand before he could speak. She was looking at Bannerman. Her eyes, and a nod, said that she would end it as well. There would be no media circus, no trial, no years of appeals.
“On the matter at hand,” she said to Bannerman. “you realize that Lesko behaves in one way when his daughter is involved and in quite another when she is not.”
Bannerman's Law Page 25
