Bannerman's Law

by John R. Maxim

  It was more of a scuff. Where the ground sloped sharply. Someone had dug a shoe into the carpet of pine needles to boost himself up. Or herself. Waldo grumbled inwardly. From the width, it was a very small shoe.

  Nah. No way.

  He tried to imagine how Carla might have beaten him here. After she took off from Bannerman she would have had to steal a car almost immediately and she'd have to have known exactly where this place is. He had needed an address and a map to find it. On the other hand, she's from California. Maybe she knows Santa Barbara.

  Waldo still couldn't believe it. But the footprint bothered him. He decided to take a closer look. He stepped over the low fence and up the small slope.

  He found more scuff marks and the clear imprint of a sneaker. About a size four. Carla was wearing sneakers. Waldo examined the imprint wishing he'd brought his reading glasses. Still, he could see that it was reasonably fresh. But not that fresh. Pine needles had fallen onto it. And whoever was scrambling around in here was a little bit of a klutz. Carla wouldn't have left so many tracks.

  He was about to turn back when he noticed the trip wire. He examined it critically. It was poorly hidden or at least poorly maintained. Not enough tension either. He climbed a little farther and found another one, same story, except this seemed to be electrified. He also noticed that some of the rocks were greased. What for, he wondered? Sneak in here and we get your pants dirty? Whoever laid this out should be ashamed of himself.

  His curiosity had gotten the better of him. He continued on. Ten minutes later he could see the eaves of the house. A big sucker. Two minutes after that he saw a row of marble benches, a hedge, and a vast lawn beyond it. There were a dozen or so old people scattered over the lawn, a couple of doctors, several guards. The guards carried rifles. He assumed that this was not usual. Must be for the Marek guy. He unzipped his jacket part way, leaving access to the Ingram slung under one arm and the silenced pistol slung under the other.

  Off to his left, overlooking the ocean, Waldo saw a tall elderly man who was making a painting. He was standing at an easel slapping red paint onto a canvas. Red was also the only color on his palette. To Waldo's eye, the picture didn't look like much of anything. Must be modern art.

  “Hey.”

  Waldo heard the voice and froze. Stupid. He'd allowed himself to get distracted. Why do people always stop to watch painters?

  “You. I'm talking to you.”

  Waldo pretended not to hear or see. He knew it was a guard but he realized from his tone that the guard was not greatly alarmed. He would stand still. Let the guard come to him. Then Waldo would quietly put his lights out and slip back down the hill.

  “You hear me? You're not allowed past the tree line.”

  The guard did not approach. He stood, some thirty yards to the right, now snapping his fingers.

  “Anyway, get down to the bus. You're going bye-bye.”

  Waldo understood. The guard thought he was one of these inmates. This was annoying because he was a good twenty years younger than anyone he could see on the lawn. He only looked old. It was the hair, mostly. And this guard was a punk kid with a ring in his ear.

  “Come on. Move. Wake up.”

  Waldo let his jaw go slack and his eyes go vacant. He would have drooled if he had enough spit. He stood there until the guard lost patience and closed the distance between them. Good. Waldo would enjoy teaching him respect. But just then the painter decided he was finished. He had closed up his case and was starting this way with his easel.

  The guard was almost within reach but Waldo knew he'd better wait. Except the guard, this close, still thought he was that old. The guard came on, and tugged at his sleeve.

  “Come on, Pop. Both you guys get down there.”

  Waldo, staring vapidly, allowed himself to be shoved into step with the painter. He could hear the guard muttering behind him. Waldo knew what he was probably saying: “If I ever get like that . . .”

  Right, you little fuck. You don't know how close you came to not even making lunch.

  He could see that two people were already aboard the bus. Others were walking toward it, one by one. Up at the house, another guard, this one leaning on a cane, was standing at the double doors with a tall nun looking over his shoulder. He was calling to someone else, “Captain Darby,” it sounded like. A beery looking man with a cap left one of the doctors and walked up toward the terrace.

  Waldo didn't feel he had much choice. It was either climb into the bus or be left standing in the open. Better to mix in with the rest of the white hair. An old woman was getting ready to board. She stopped and intercepted the painter who was about to walk past her. John now realized he was blind. The woman took his easel and case, handing the wet red painting to Waldo. Waldo's fingers smeared it. It didn't make much difference. He held the canvas until he could stick it onto a rack. Waldo took a seat in the rear. The old woman did a double-take but she was more interested in helping the painter. No one else paid much attention.

  At the rate they were going, it looked as if it would take all morning to fill the bus. But then this Captain Darby turned around at the double doors, looking dazed. He cleared his throat and began shouting instructions to move things along. The two doctors seemed surprised. The bus was loaded within five minutes, wheelchair patients last. One was dressed like an Admiral. Waldo was crowded in against another old woman who wore makeup like Vampira's grandmother. She dumped a pile of scrapbooks on his lap.

  Next, the guards' captain came down toward the bus. He was followed, very closely, by the nun—who walked funny—and by a small woman who had a greasy face and hardly any hair. Waldo hadn't noticed her before. The captain was more than dazed. Waldo recognized the look of a man who had a gun barrel tickling his liver. The bald woman marched him to the bus and gave him a front seat.

  The nun had broken off. She walked over to the doctor with the pipe in his mouth. Guy looked familiar. Waldo couldn't place him. Whatever the nun was telling him now, he didn't seem to believe it. The nun was shaking her head, denying something, pointing to the little bald one. The doctor just threw up his hands. He asked her a question. In response, she ran a finger down her clipboard and nodded as if to say that all the patients were accounted for.

  The doctor tossed his head toward the station wagon, which the younger doctor was now starting. The nun climbed in, stiffly. Once seated, she seemed to be tugging at her crotch. The doctor climbed into the driver's seat of the jitney bus and closed the door behind him. He started the engine. The bald one gave him a funny look but mostly she kept her eyes on the captain.

  This was getting interesting.

  Waldo had an idea that there might be a problem at the main gate but that the bald one and the nun had doped out a solution.

  Just in case, he cracked his window and slid his Ingram under the top scrapbook.

  He hoped that the dog was not still hanging around.

  53

  The first four of the reinforcements from Westport had arrived at the airport. It was a condition of using Belkin's safe house that they not be given the address over the phone. They would rent cars and drive to a certain avenue in Culver City where they would look for Billy McHugh.

  When they appeared, Bannerman had the phone in hand, about to make his second attempt to reach Susan. He was already anticipating what she would say: “Relax, Bannerman, I can handle this. I'll call you when Claude calls me. Now get off the line.”

  And she would be right, he decided. He put the phone down. Besides, he wanted to keep it clear for Lesko's call.

  He showed the four where they would be sleeping, where the weapons were, and began briefing them on the events of that morning. One of them, Janet Herzog, had been the closest of any to Carla. He asked where she thought Carla might have gone.

  “She said she wanted her own pantyhose?” Janet answered. “Then she went to get her own pantyhose.”

  This did not strike Bannerman as an insightful response. He was about to point out,
patiently, that Carla had more than underwear on her mind when the phone rang. It was Molly.

  “Turn on the TV,” she told him.

  “Molly?”

  “Hello, Axel.”

  Molly took the call in Kevin's house. Barbells everywhere. DiDi and two of her father's people sat transfixed in front of the television set. The third bodyguard was watching the front with Kevin.

  “Could I ask . . . who all came to California with you?”

  “Why?”

  “Indulge me. Please.”

  She hesitated, then decided there's no harm. “You know about Carla and Paul. Billy's here. You wouldn't know Ray Lesko or his daughter but they're on TV at the moment.”

  “No ... I mean just Bannerman’s crowd.”

  “That's all for the moment.”

  “That's all? Doesn't he usually send an advance man?”

  “Oh, yes. John Waldo. I'm sorry, Axel. I have a lot on my mind.”

  A long silence. Muffled whispers.

  “Axel . . .” Why the tap dance, she wondered. Her sense was that John was the object of the probe. She also found it odd that she showed no interest in why the Leskos might be on television. “What's this about?”

  “Ah . . . nothing, really. I thought I saw John Waldo ... on the highway. But that's not why I called, actually.”

  She waited.

  “Theodore Marek is dead. Or ... does Paul know that already?”

  Another undertone. But no. She'd just spoken to him. ”I don't think so.”

  “Well, he is. My word on it. Tell him that there will be no more mischief. Miss Fenerty can relax as well.”

  She said nothing.

  “Molly? Did you hear me?”

  “Carla's been arrested, Axel. Turn on the news.”

  More whispers. Molly heard a blurted audio and the rapid switching of channels. Then news about the serial killer. She listened and watched at the same time, giving Streicher a full two minutes. He came back on.

  “Carla knew him?”

  “It's a long story.”

  “They should be giving her a medal. Why are they talking about Hickey?”

  “They think Carla did that one. A man named Bunce. Claude ... I mean, Dommerich did . . . but the FBI isn't buying it.”

  A thoughtful pause.

  “Has Roger Clew turned up?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  “He will. Tell him to deal with it.”

  “Axel, we're not holding many cards. The price could be high.”

  She heard a chuckle. It annoyed her.

  “How would you like all the aces? And a queen or two in the bargain.”

  “Axel…”

  ”I know. What is there to be jolly about? Tell Bannerman this. Roger, and I'm sure Barton Fuller, will do anything he asks if he says four magic words. The words are these. ‘I—meaning Bannerman—have the files.’”

  “What files?”

  ”I think they'll know.”

  She shook her head. “Come on, Axel. Paul's supposed to take this on faith?”

  “If not Paul, you. Don't doubt me on this, Molly.”

  She let out a breath. “Okay, I have the files.”

  “All of them. Over two hundred of them. Since 1932.”

  “From Sur La Mer, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “They'd want to see a sample.”

  “Good thought. Give me a fax number.”

  She gave him two. Mario's in Westport and in care of herself at the Beverly Hills Hotel. “Axel...if this really works. . .”

  “Bannerman will owe me. I know.”

  ”I was going to say me. I'll owe you.”

  Another silence. Then, ”I did love you, Molly.”

  “Is Bonnie right there?”

  “She is. She knows it.”

  “Don't be a jerk. Axel. Go find a life.”

  The Weinbergs had not lingered at the Motion Picture Country House. Genuine nurses had begun helping the members off the bus. Darby, head low, mixing with them, crept away under the impression that no one had noticed.

  Alan and Barbara shook hands with Dr. Michael, thanking him for the offer of his station wagon. They would call him, tell where he could retrieve it. In return, he extracted a promise that he would hear from Nellie from time to time.

  It was then that Alan noticed a short, white-haired member whom he could not recall seeing at Sur La Mer and who, although his appearance showed the ravages of Alzheimer's, looked remarkably like old John Waldo. He was holding a stack of scrapbooks, being tugged along by the actress who thought she was Theda Bara. Weinberg, blinking, lost no more time in leaving.

  En route to Dr. Michael's house, Barbara told him that he must have been mistaken. No, she had not taken a final head count but neither had she seen anyone who resembled John Waldo. Why, in any case, would he penetrate Sur La Mer just to ride a bus back out? Weinberg had to agree. He would ask Molly nonetheless. Find out, at least, whether Waldo is even in California.

  The greater shock, on speaking to Molly, was to learn how busy Carla Benedict had been.

  “The poor dear,” said Nellie, watching the continued coverage. “First her sister, and now this.”

  “She'll get through it,'' said Barbara. “She's very tough.” But Barbara had her doubts. Carla had never been known for her stability, but she was certainly vibrant, sharp, like the edge of her knife. Now, on the TV screen, she looked dead inside.

  “She reminds meof me,” said Nellie, “when the pain became more than I could bear.”

  Barbara understood. After Tom died. After the drugs and the liquor stopped helping. Still, it was hard to imagine Carla being that fragile after half a lifetime of sudden death. Perhaps, she thought, none of it had ever hit so close to home before. Or perhaps there really is such a thing as one too many. If anything ever happened to Axel, that might be her own one too many.

  “Nellie, we'd better go.”

  ”I wish we could help her,” said Nellie.

  ”I think Alan just did. They won't hold her very long.”

  “Holding is what she needs.”

  “Her friends will take care of her. She'll be fine.”

  “Could we go to the service? Just to make sure?”

  “Ah ... What service?”

  “For young Lisa. It's tomorrow. The man on the television just mentioned it.”

  Barbara glanced at her husband. He was glaring back at her. The glare was unnecessary. She took the old woman's hand.

  “Come on, Nellie. Let's go pick out our boat.”

  54

  The headquarters of the Campus Killer task force was located in the Municipal Building in downtown Los Angeles.

  Elena had reached Lesko there. She brushed aside his threats of what he would do to Bannerman and said that they were coming. She asked what entrance they might use in order to avoid the press. Lesko asked Huff. Arrangements were made.

  The large squad room fell silent as Bannerman entered, Huff and Elena with him. Huff had met them inside the basement garage. Lesko came forward. Elena intercepted him, a hand against his chest, warning him with her eyes to be still.

  “Where is Susan?” Bannerman asked Huff.

  Lesko glared at him. “You happy now? You got everything you want?”

  Huff gestured. “My office. Straight ahead.”

  “And Carla?”

  Huff pointed to a closed door. ' ‘Interrogation, but she hasn't opened her mouth. I sent a lawyer in. She won't talk to him either. There's also your friend from the State Department. He's waiting for you down the hall. There's a conference room.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hold it. Right there.”

  A balding man in a suit pushed forward, his hand at his hip inside his jacket.

  “He gets five minutes,” Huff said to Sholl.

  “He gets nothing,” Sholl barked, “until I say so. And nobody sees the girl until she's booked.”

  Lesko stepped forward. “It's time we had a talk, shit h
ead.”

  Bannerman, ignoring this, walked to the door of Huff’s office. He rubbed his face as if to soften it, then knocked. Susan did not answer. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Relax,” said Lesko quietly. “I'm going to do you a favor.”

  He had put an arm around the shoulder of the special agent in charge. He led him to a quiet corner.

  “You're not going to book my daughter. You don't even want to question her.”

  “Why don't I?”

  “Here's what you do instead. Today and tomorrow you talk to the press, you take a few bows. You're already figuring how to grab credit for this, right?”

  “Take your hands off me.”

  Lesko squeezed him. “The day after that, you put in your papers. Go raise chickens or something.”

  “What? Who the hell do you . . .”

  Lesko dug in his nails. “You see, Jack, I know you're dirty. Now you're going to get all out of joint, tell me I'm crazy, but in your head you're wondering how I know, right?”

  Lesko watched his eyes. Scholl was wondering. Probably seeing the empty tire. Thinking back. Trying to piece it together.

  “You won't figure it out, Jack. Aside from being dirty, you're stupid. I mean, that's why they gave you the shit jobs, right?”

  Scholl's color rose.

  “The good news is I probably can't prove it. The bad news is I don't have to. It's enough that we know. You understand what I'm saying? We're not talking due process here.”

  Lesko watched the color drain.

  Susan was at the window, staring out at nothing, a polystyrene cup in one hand.

  Bannerman could see her reflection in the glass. He knew that she could see him as well. She didn't turn.

  He heard Molly's voice in his mind. Molly was saying, ”Just go to her, put your arms around her, hold her, don't talk except to say that you love her. For God's sake, don't pat her.”

  What about the coffee cup?

  “Bannerman . . .”