“Round the clock?” Bunce asked. ”I doubt it.”
“Would they not expect her to go there?”
Bunce shrugged. “Not if she has any sense. She'd lay low. Anyway, she'd probably spot them first.”
“You're saying that no one is protecting the father.”
Bunce frowned. “From what?”
“From you and Felix here,” he gestured toward his driver, “if you were to pay him a visit.”
“And whack him? What good is that?”
Marek raised a staying hand. That had not been his thought but he considered it nonetheless. No, he decided. The father's death might have some value as a distraction but in the end it would only escalate matters. Borrowing him would be better. The great advantage of kidnapping over murder is that it's an even greater distraction, lasting longer, and, in the end, one is left with something to trade.
Why should Carleton Dunville hold all the cards?
34
Sumner Dommerich had to get out of there. He would have gone to pieces if he stayed. And they all would have seen it.
He knew that the more he thought about Carla, the more he worried about her, his face would have started turning red and he would be biting his knuckles so he wouldn't scream.
He screamed in the car.
He climbed into the passenger seat so that he could hold his knees up under his chin, balling himself tight so he wouldn't break things, and he screamed through his teeth until he couldn't breathe. No one heard or saw. In five minutes, he was himself again. He felt able to think.
Dommerich wished he wouldn't get like that. Especially when it was for nothing. Carla was probably okay. But if she wasn't, maybe it would be on the radio.
He switched in on and pressed the scan button, waiting as it searched for a news broadcast. He found none. His dashboard clock showed seven minutes after the hour. He'd probably just missed the news. He left it on scan and put his car in gear. He drove toward the Beverly Hills Hotel.
There was always a chance, he realized, that Carla just wasn't answering her phone. One thing he could do was go knock on her door. Bungalow 6. But what if she answered? Then she'd know what he looked like. She wouldn't turn him in, he was pretty sure. Not after he told her where those men went.
He would also tell her that the man at the desk had given out her room number. They're not supposed to do that. That's how rooms get robbed. Anyway, maybe he'd just listen at her door. Maybe leave a note under it. And leave Lisa's jewelry in the bushes where Carla could find it.
He could see as he approached the hotel that something was going on. Some big party, just breaking up. Valets bringing up cars. That was good. They'd be too busy to notice that he was delivering a pizza to one of the bungalows. You weren't supposed to do that either. Dommerich had delivered plenty of pizzas to hotels in the middle of the night but the fancy ones usually made you wait in the lobby to get paid while their own bellboys took the pizza to the room. Half the time, the bellboys would say there wasn't any tip but you'd know from their eyes that they kept it.
Dommerich put on his hat and slipped an empty box into his thermal sleeve. He scribbled an order on his pad and tucked his knife into his belt. The main entrance suddenly lit up. Someone with a video camera and floodlights. They made the doorman blink. Good. Dommerich moved toward the path leading to the bungalows.
The bungalow area, he thought, was like being in the woods. Lots of thick bushes and trees, dark except for foot-high lamps along the winding path. A phone was ringing someplace. As he drew near, the sound seemed to come from Bungalow 6 but he couldn't be sure. The ringing stopped. There was a light on somewhere inside, dim, like from a bathroom. Suddenly, he was afraid. What if someone was there but it was the other woman, Farrell? She was definitely on Carla's side but that didn't mean she'd be on his.
He stood still for a long moment, pretending to squint at his order sheet, trying to decide. Better, he thought, to try to look in the window first. Most of the windows were around the side.
Dommerich had just turned the corner when he heard a spit of static. It was like the sound a bug zapper made except he hadn't seen one and except the noise seemed to have come from where he'd been standing. He froze and listened. He heard a man's voice, speaking quietly but clearly.
“Just some kid. . . . Delivering pizza.''
Dommerich’ s heart began pounding. He eased the knife from his belt.
Another spit. Another voice, very dim. He couldn't hear what it said but the first voice asked “On whose order?” then, “Fine with me. I could use some sleep.''
Dommerich eased into a deep shadow at the corner of Carla' s bungalow. He heard a rustling of bushes and the scrape of shoes reaching the path. He risked a peek. He saw a man, dressed in a suit and tie, something in his hand. Dommerich could see a bent antenna on it. A walkie-talkie. The man, he realized, had been waiting for Carla.
Suddenly he was more angry than afraid. He saw himself walking up to that man, asking him which way to Bungalow 10, then sliding the knife into his chest as the man told him to get lost. He could drag him back into the bushes and leave him there. He could tell Carla, later, to go look.
Except the man was now walking away. Dommerich waited a few seconds, then followed. The man left the bungalow area and stopped at the driveway. A car pulled up, another suit and tie driving. The headlights washed over the man with the walkie-talkie. The man got in. The car drove off.
Dommerich knew who he was. He had seen him outside Lisa's apartment. He was one of the two from the FBI who had dragged Carla down the stairs in handcuffs and now it looked like he was trying to do it again. Dommerich almost wished that the man hadn't left.
He knew a stakeout when he saw one. And from the way the man from the bushes said Fine with me, it didn't sound as if they'd found Carla someplace else. It sounded like they'd been told to give it up.
Dommerich went back to the side windows and peered through them. He could see two bedrooms. One bed was made, one wasn't. Carla was definitely not there unless she was hiding under her bed. He couldn't imagine her doing that. He also saw pieces of luggage, and toiletries were visible on the bathroom counter. This meant she'd be back. The phone rang again. It made him jump. It seemed to ring a long time before it stopped.
He tore a blank sheet from his order book and wrote her a note. He tucked it under her door. From his pocket he took the handkerchief in which he'd wrapped Lisa's jewelry. He concealed it behind a shrub near the edge of the door and covered it with green leaves. Dommerich returned to his car.
Where to now? he wondered. He turned up his radio. It was still on scan.
He could drive up to Sherman Oaks, he supposed. The FBI was probably watching that house as well—which must be why her father said she should come in the back way. But if the two at the hotel gave up, the ones at the house were probably gone by now too. Still, it was a long way to go for nothing. He'd call again instead. At least tell her father about the note and the . . .
Dommerich jabbed a finger to stop the scan. Too late. It had played part of a news broadcast. He'd heard, ”. . .former policeman, Joseph Hickey . . . the wounded man . . . identity withheld . . . spokesman at the Queen of Angels Medical Center told reporters that ...'■'
Dommerich brightened.
That's where she'd be.
Maybe.
Staying with her friend. Anyway, Queen of Angels was on Vermont Avenue, which was on his way home. It was worth a look. After that, he could use some sleep himself.
“What do you think?” Lesko asked this question of his empty passenger seat.
“The feds want the collar for themselves,'' Katz said, shrugging. “What else is new?”
Lesko nodded slowly, then shook his head. “It's more than that.”
“Like what?”
“Like they got this whole task force that's spent at least a year looking for this Claude creep but suddenly all they care about is Bannerman bothering those nice people up at some movie nut hou
se.''
''So? Ask why.”
Lesko rolled his eyes. “Why didn't I think of that?”
“Not them, you putz. Call Kaplan.''
Lesko blinked. Right. The feds here would have called Washington. Their bosses, once Bannerman’s name was mentioned, would probably have called Irwin. He looked at his watch. A quarter after six, Washington time. Irwin would be trying to get back to sleep.
“Say you're sorry.”
“All night, you had one idea. Don't make a big deal.''
“You're so smart? Tell me why they'd be rigging Yuri Rykov's car back there.”
Lesko had wondered. But mostly about them doing it at three in the morning. And whether his call to Andy Huff had anything to do with it. ”I don't know. Why?”
“The answer is they wouldn't. Think about it, wise ass.”
Lesko nodded slowly. “You're saying it's not Yuri's car? Then whose?” But he knew the answer. Someone who they hope will come get it. Carla? She wouldn't be that dumb. But if they're rigging it, they can't intend to take her. Probably follow her to Claude. Or maybe Bannerman.
“There's the hospital,” Katz pointed.
Lesko saw it off to his right. Big place. The only building in the area still fairly well lit. Nothing looks quite so lonely, he thought, as a hospital at night.
“We could check it out. See what the reporters are saying.''
Not a bad idea, thought Lesko. The press would still be hanging around in case Yuri dies, meanwhile schmoozing with orderlies to see what else they could learn. He also wouldn't mind talking to Belkin. And it was as good a place as any from which to call Irwin.
Lesko flipped his turn signal.
Molly Farrell counted ten rings before the night operator confirmed that no one was answering. Molly, her eyes on Carla's empty bed, cursed under her breath.
She looked at her watch, uselessly. It was almost four. But she had no idea how long Carla had been gone.
Molly identified herself as the other guest staying in Bungalow 6. She listened for any strangeness in the operator's voice and, hearing none, left a message asking Caría to call her the moment she gets in. Ms. Benedict, she said, knows where to reach her.
“There's another message for you, Ms. Farrell. A Ms. Fenerty called a short while ago. She says it's urgent and you have the number.”
Molly snatched at her purse and found the torn page from the telephone book, hopeful that Carla might have gone to DiDi's house. And was there now. She could only guess why. Perhaps to feel closer to Lisa. Or perhaps someone had tried to get to DiDi.
It would be better, she realized, not to make these calls from her hotel. But Molly had no car with which to get to a distant phone. And please God, come to think of it, don't let Carla have gone to get that Chevrolet.
No. She would have had to take a taxi all the way to Burbank. She could just as easily have taken the taxi to DiDi's house. Molly punched out the number. DiDi answered on the second ring.
“It's me,” Molly said. “Is everything okay?”
“Hi, M . . .” DiDi stopped herself. “Can I talk on the phone?”
Molly appreciated her discretion. But she'd decided that a wiretap was unlikely. “It's all right. Is Carla there, by chance?’'
“Ah . . . should she be? I haven't seen her since she left.”
“Just wondered. She went out a while ago. What's urgent, DiDi?”
”I had a phone call you won't believe. Were you and Carla up in Burbank last evening?”
“Tell me about the call.”
“It was this man. He said to tell Carla that the Russian was shot by a man named . . .”
“Hold it,” Molly snapped. She thought quickly. “Are your father's men still there with you?”
“They're right here.”
“Is there a neighbor's phone you can use? Not one of your house mates'.”
“Kevin's place. He's still sacked out on the porch.”
Molly asked for the number. She said she'd call it in ten minutes. DiDi's bodyguards were to go first and make sure the street was clear. She broke the connection, grabbed a pocket recorder, then hurried downstairs to the lobby phone. It would have to do. The remaining minutes passed slowly. She rang Kevin's number. DiDi picked up.
“Can the bodyguards hear you?” she asked.
“They're waiting outside. But I'm afraid I already told them.”
“No sweat.” But she grimaced. “Start from the beginning.”
“That man, Hickey, who was cut up last night? He's the one who came here claiming to be a cop.”
”I know.”
“He killed Lisa.”
“He might have. Tell me about the call.”
“And another man was shot there. A Russian named Rykov?”
“How did you know that name?”
“The man who called knew it. He said Rykov was shot by two men driving a white Lexus. Its license number is. ... Do you have a pen?”
“I'm getting this. Go ahead.”
DiDi read the tag number from her notes. “The two men were Harry Bunce and Peter Marek.” She paused to spell both names. “Peter Marek, if you're ready for this, is the son of Theodore Marek. The art dealer? Richardson-Marek?”
The firm name was vaguely familiar. Perhaps she'd seen a catalog in Anton Zivic's shop.
“Except,” DiDi paused for effect, “Theodore Marek's real name is Tadeusz Ordynsky.” She spelled that name as well. “Ordynsky was, and is, a fugitive war criminal and an art thief. Somehow Lisa found that out. He had her killed by that man, Hickey, who was cut up last night in Burbank. Then he sent these other two to silence Hickey but Carla beat them to it ... says this guy . . . and they ran into this Rykov who is, by the way, a KGB agent. Do you believe this?”
“Parts of it,” she said thoughtfully. “Carla didn't kill Hickey.”
DiDi hesitated. ”I guess I'm sorry to hear that,” she said.
“This man,” Molly asked, ''Was he the same one who called before? The German accent?”
“You mean Paul Bannerman?”
“Um . . . yes.”
“No,” she said. “This one sounded like that FBI agent, Harris, who you said was a phony. Two real ones have been here, by the way. They seemed more interested in you two than in Lisa.”
“How much did you tell them?”
“Almost nothing. That you picked up some of her things and left.”
“Nothing about Sur La Mer?”
“They never asked. They just . . .” DiDi fell silent, as if she'd remembered something else.
“They just what?”
“Not them. The man who called. You know who else he sounded like?”
Molly waited.
“He also sounded like the man I spoke to at Sur La Mer. The one who said Lisa was never there.”
For a time, in the chill of the night, Nellie thought she was still at the lake.
Her eyelids flicked open, sleepily, as she felt her arm being raised. Far to the east, she could see the first gray sliver in the predawn sky and, near the window, the dark branches of a tree waving as if to greet it. She felt the covers being brought up over her shoulder. Tom's hand brushed against her cheek. She murmured softly, and smiled. In seconds, she was dozing deliciously.
She did not sleep for long. The murmur of a cool lake breeze had begun to take on a mechanical sound. More like that of an air-conditioner. In the distance, she could hear the throaty growl of passing trucks. Her eyes snapped open.
The glow in the east was lighter than before, although far from blue. She knew that she was back.
Nellie turned one ear toward the heavy curtain that she'd drawn across her cot and listened for Alan and Barbara. She was prepared, if she'd heard them stirring, to try to go away again. To allow them another hour or two of privacy. She wouldn't mind another toss with Tom herself. Besides, she wanted to be sure that she could do it. Go away, that is. At will. Without benefit of her bench or her chair.
She heard other sounds now,
soft whispers, but they did not seem to be coming from the bed on the other side of the curtain. They were farther away and muted. Nellie frowned. She slipped one arm from under her blanket and felt for the briefcase which she'd taken to bed with her. It was gone. She realized at once that it wasn't Tom who had lifted her arm. It was Alan, wanting those silly papers again. He had taken them into the bathroom and closed the door. She heard Barbara in there with him.
Nellie eased herself out of bed and cleared her throat, loudly, in a way that would tell Alan and Barbara that she was awake and that they were about to be scolded.
Sumner Dommerich knew a Pizza Hut on Sunset that practically never closed. He stopped to buy two large pies, one pepperoni, one sausage.
It bothered him to buy from a competitor, especially because his company and Pizza Hut had been in this big race to see who opened the first franchise in Moscow and Pizza Hut had won. But it was not his fault that none of his own stores were open. Anyway, no one would know the difference now that he'd taken them out of the Pizza Hut boxes and written them up on his own order form.
It said that someone named Jackson had ordered them. There wouldn't be any Jackson at the hospital, probably, but there was a good chance that someone else would take them if he gave them a deal. Someone is always hungry for a pizza. And this way no one would wonder why he was there. Dommerich put his hat back on and drove to Queen of Angels.
There were two men with cameras and one security guard at the entrance to the emergency room. All three were smoking. We didn't order any pizza, they said. Try the waiting room.
At least a dozen people were sitting or pacing there. Two cops were questioning a black man with a bandaged cheek. A doctor was talking to a young couple who looked worried. The woman was holding a teddy bear. A big, tough-looking man, probably a detective, was talking on a wall phone. A much smaller man stood near him, sucking on a pipe that wasn't lit. There was no sign of Carla. But she might be with her friend, he thought. Or in the ladies room or the chapel. Dommerich decided to wait a few minutes. Then he would roam the hallways looking for a room with a policeman standing guard. He hoped they didn't only do that on TV.
Bannerman's Law Page 30
