The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “Wait a minute,” he'd said. “No what?”

  “No suppository. No more cocaine.”

  “Doctor,” Bannerman tried to shake off the fog, “what are you talking about?”

  The doctor, his expression now confused, explained about the suppository and its purpose. A guarantee. A time bomb. In the event that the original dose failed to kill her. Bannerman, for a long moment, could only stare. During his years in Europe, he thought that he had seen every possible way one human being could kill another.

  “Yes, but,” he managed finally, “how would you know to look for such a thing?”

  “There was a phone call,” the doctor told him. ”A man. He suggested that we check for a suppository. Until this moment, I assumed it was you.”

  “Then you didn't speak to him.”

  “No. Another doctor. In the emergency room.”

  ”I would like to see him.”

  The doctor who had taken the call was a younger man, a resident, who had gone with the paramedics to the scene of the attack and had stayed with her until her condition stabilized. The call, he told Bannerman, had been brief. Only a sentence or two but quite insistent. It was taken seriously for two reasons. First, he saw that the girl's ski pants had been torn at the waist as if someone had tried to rip them open but had apparently not succeeded. PerhafJfthe assaüants heard the boys and their dog coming. Second, if there had been a suppository, and it had released its contents, even though the machinery that monitored her vital signs would have reacted violently to it, it probably would have killed her before they could find the cause.

  “This man who called,” Bannerman asked, “can you tell me anything about him?’*

  ”A deep voice,” the doctor shrugged. ”A mature voice. Educated. A Zurich accent.”

  “He was Swiss? You're sure?”

  “Definitely Swiss.”

  Bannerman was more troubled than before. He was not at all in control. Events were controlling him. Too many question marks. Why would a Swiss national be involved? Why would he want to help? How would he know about killing with cocaine?

  But after Lesko's call, the most urgent question, at least, had come into focus. Ray and Caroline. If they now appeared, they would be the ones.

  They would come to the hospital and they would try again. They would wait until he left them alone with Susan. To make a phone call or go to the washroom. They would need only seconds. He would let them try. Susan would be helpless, he'd be putting her at risk. But if they used cocaine, as he was sure they would, the risk would not be great as long as he was near.

  And he would have them. Russo would question them. Inside an hour they would beg to tell who sent them.

  Wait.

  He closed his eyes.

  Hold on a minute.

  It's one thing, he reminded himself, to trust his instincts, and another to become obsessive about a possibly harmless American couple he and Susan had met on a train.

  Zivic had said it. He was not thinking clearly. Chasing at shadows. On the other hand, the call from the mysterious Swiss reminded him of something he should have thought about earlier. Ray and Caroline, if they were the ones, would have called already, maybe claiming to be relatives, maybe using other names.

  Leaving the emergency room, he took the stairs two at a time back up to the main floor corridor where he found a sign marking the cubicle of the hospital's telephone receptionist. There was a woman there, seated at a switchboard. She was young, no more than twenty, bespectacled, no makeup. Probably a farm girl earning extra money between growing seasons. A plastic strip pinned to her blouse said her name was Helge. She looked up at him, questioningly. Her eyes dropped to the two 100-franc notes he was holding in his hand.

  “My name is Bannerman,” he told her. ”I am here with a patient who is in intensive care. Her name is Susan Lesko.”

  ”I know,” she nodded sympathetically, “The girl who was beaten. Have they found the one who did this?”

  “Not yet,” Bannerman shook his head. “There is a chance, a small one, that the person who did it might call to ask about her condition.”

  “There have been several such calls.”

  “Several?” They must have come while the police were questioning him. “From whom please?”

  “With names? One American, two Swiss. The American said he was her father. The Swiss were from the police here in Davos.”

  “The father,” Bannerman asked, “what did he sound like? I mean, what sort of voice?”

  “Like a gangster, I think.”

  Bannerman nodded. That was Lesko. “There were more calls? People who did not leave names?”

  “Three Americans. One Swiss.”

  “Swiss? Can you describe him?”

  “It was a lady. Her accent was ... I don't know . . . from Zurich but also perhaps Italian or Spanish. She was very sad.”

  Bannerman frowned inwardly. Another mystery Swiss. “And the Americans? What did they sound like?”

  “One man, old. Another man, soft voice like you, most upset. The third man, not young, not so old, a cowboy.”

  ”A cowboy?”

  “Like this.” She mimicked an accent that was vaguely Texan.

  “When did this man call?”

  “Just now. Two minutes.”

  He placed the 100-franc notes on her desk. “If the cowboy calls again, will you let me know right away?”

  “This is a matter for the police, no?”

  “This is personal. However, you may tell the police anything you think they should know as long as you tell me first.”

  ”I will do it, yes.” She picked up the money and held it out to him. “The gratuity is unnecessary. Your friend should not have been beaten.”

  “You're a decent young woman. Thank you. Can you describe the older American?”

  “You know the actor who plays General Patton?”

  “Um . . . George C. Scott?”

  “Yes,” she brightened. “Similar voice. But not so strong. Said he will pray for her.”

  Bannerman frowned. A raspy voice, authoritative, pious, like General Patton. The description fit Palmer Reid. He was annoyed but not alarmed. Reid might or might not have had him watched. But with satellites, instant global communications, every intelligence network, friendly or otherwise, would probably be reading the Davos police reports by morning.

  The other American, young, upset, sounded like Roger Clew. Odd that he left no name. Bannerman needed to call him in any case. Have him get Carla and Russo released by the Davos police in time to be useful for a change. So far, the most useful person he'd talked to all day was a telephone operator named . . .

  “Helge,” he forced a smile. “May I call you Helge?”

  She shrugged. “It is my name.”

  The money was still in his hand. He raised it. “Are you sure you won't . . .”

  “Go to your lady, Mr. Bannerman.”

  Less than an hour passed. A nurse brought him a note from Helge. There had been another call from a cowboy. This time a woman. Still no name given.

  Now Bannerman knew he was right. The first cowboy would have been Ray, the second, Caroline. To Helge, an apparent fan of American films and television, their Mississippi accents would be cowboy voices. They were the ones. And they knew that Susan was still alive.

  Bannerman checked his watch. It was after nine. By now, he guessed, they would be somewhere outside. In a car. Slowly circling the hospital building. Looking for signs of a trap. Once satisfied, they would drive away, back to Klosters, where they would go through the motions of a surprise visit. They would find a credible means of learning the terrible news. Soon they would call. This time they would give their names.

  From the first-class lounge of JFK's Swissair terminal, Lesko dialed into the answering machine at his apartment and listened to his messages. The first two were from Loftus, almost a day old. One nervous, the next scared. Reid was on to him. He was heading for Westport. Meet him there.

&
nbsp; He never made it. Not in one piece. By the time Lesko got to him his face looked like it was meat axed. But he was alive, just barely. The two men who did that to him, according to Bannerman's Westport pals, were not.

  Elena's voice came on. His jaw tightened. Although she said little, he could hear the anguish. She left a number, this time her own. He pulled a credit card from his pocket and, tuming his back on the two escorts who hovered within earshot, tapped out a series of digits. Elena picked up on the second ring.

  ”I heard,” he said, brushing aside an attempt to tell him gently. “I'm coming over.”

  He listened, impatiently, as she expressed her sorrow and her remorse over her failure to protect his daughter. “All I want to know,” he said, “is who did it.”

  A small hesitation. “Just come, Lesko. Come to Zurich.*’

  “Was this about us? About what happened in Brooklyn?”

  ”I am not sure.” Another pause. “It is not so simple.”

  “Then who? Who the hell else kills that way?”

  ”I . . .” she fell silent.

  “Elena,” he hissed, “don't hold out on me.”

  ”I will not,” she promised. “Come to Zurich. We will talk.”

  “Where will you be?”

  ”I will meet your flight. I will provide anything you need. Cars. Bodyguards. Money.”

  Lesko made a face. The last time she provided body-guards they weren't worth a shit. But he didn't say it. “What I need is some answers. And I need a gun.”

  “We will talk.”

  “What about the gun?”

  “We will talk, Mr. Lesko.”

  “Mr. Lesko . . .” The woman, Molly Farrell, waited until he replaced the phone and stepped close to him, almost touching. She was tall, almost his height. He guessed her to be about thirty-two. With the fingernail of one hand, she began scraping a spot on his suit that may or may not have been there. “Have you looked at your passport?” she asked.

  He had. His face was on it. But everything else was false. The name was Dumbrowski. “What about it?”

  “If you make one more phone call,” she said quietly, “or give us trouble in any way, I will give your real name to the nearest customs officer, or to the nearest Swiss policeman.”

  He glared at her.

  “Further, if you do manage to get your hands on a weapon, I will take it from you, even if Billy here,” she gestured toward the silent, burly man who waited several feet away, “has to cripple you first”

  Lesko showed his teeth. She touched a finger to his lips.

  “You're a proud man, Mr. Lesko,” she told him, her expression pained, her manner almost apologetic, ”a very tough man. I know that you find it hard to take me seriously. But for all our sakes, please try.”

  He looked at the eyes. They were older than thirty-two.

  “There's one more thing.” She took his hand in both of her own and held it against her breast, trapping him. ”I also know that you're hurting, and angry, and that for want of a better target you're probably going to lash out at Paul. If you even look as if you intend to harm him, if you do anything whatsoever that might endanger him, I will shoot you dead on the spot. No more talk. No other warning.”

  He could feel the warmth of her body. Her heartbeat. The rise and fall of her chest. His own pulse had quickened but hers had not. He felt himself becoming flustered. But not angry. If the man, Billy, had said those words, Lesko knew that one of them would have been on the floor by now. And he knew that she knew it. From her tone, the words aside, she could have been talking to some drunk in that Westport bar she ran, saying she likes him, she cares about him, and that's why she won't pour him another vodka and she won't let him drive home and maybe hurt himself or somebody else.

  Except for the eyes.

  Lesko took her seriously.

  Nearly four hours elapsed since Helge told Bannerman of the second call and before the third call came. He took it at Helge's desk. It was the one he'd been waiting for. It was Caroline.

  “Paul?” Her voice was tight with concern. “We just heard. Is Susan all right?”

  “We don't know yet. Caroline, are you in town?”

  “We're still in Zurich. But we were heading down your way and tried to call you to make sure you'd be around. Ray suggested I try leaving a message at your local real estate office, said there probably isn't but one place in town that rents out apartments. The woman there told us Susan got hurt real bad.”

  Zurich, thought Bannerman. That was better. Less transparent than a sudden appearance in Klosters. And it gave them more distance in case they detected any strangeness in his manner.

  “It's bad. It's just as well you didn't come. She may not make it.”

  “God in heaven,” she gasped. “Paul, what happened?”

  Bannerman, through gestures, asked Helge to confirm that this was same voice she'd heard earlier in the evening. Helge nodded.

  “Sorry,” he said, his voice weary, ”I thought you knew. Someone tried to kill her.”

  “Oh, my stars. We thought ... we just assumed a ski accident. Paul, me and Ray can be there in two hours.”

  “No,” he told her. “No use ruining your own vacation. Anyway it's late and the doctor says there won't be any change until at least this time tomorrow. Of course, ífyou're coming this way in the morning . . ,”

  “Just say it, Paul. What can we do?”

  “I guess you might stop in, spell me for a while. I'll need some sleep by then.”

  Bannerman could hear a muffled conference on the other end. He could make out none of the words but he could guess their content. A weighing of risks. The morning might be better. She could be dead by then. If not, he would be exhausted. They might still decide to come at once but he dared not press them to wait.

  “Paul?” Caroline came back on the line. “Ray says no way we're not coming. We'll be there at first light if not before.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He broke the connection.

  Helge stared up at him.

  “It was these people?” she asked.

  “Perhaps. I'm not sure.”

  She shook her head. “She called before this. She knew what happened to your lady. Now she calls and she does not know. I think you are sure.”

  “Helge”—he spread his hands—”I need time. In the morning I will have help. If they see police they will not come. My friends are better than police.”

  She looked at her hands. ”I was beaten once,” she said quietly. “It was a young man I was seeing. He was drunk.”

  Bannerman blinked but said nothing.

  “His father was rich. The police did not arrest him. He left me with these.” She touched a bump where her nose had been broken and traced a scar high on her cheek.

  “I'm sorry. I truly am.”

  “Your friends are better, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  ”I will wait for them as well.”

  Bannerman could think of nothing to say. He reached out, he did not know why, and touched her hair. It seemed to please her. He walked from the room and returned to Susan's bedside. He allowed himself to doze.

  Elena Brugg's telephone rang. Reluctantly, she reached for it, first making the sign of the cross. It would not be Lesko. He would be on his flight by now. More likely it would be Uncle Urs with news of the girl. She said her name, then held her breath.

  “Good evening, Elena.” An oily voice. In Spanish. Or-tirez? No, not possible.

  “Who is this, please?”

  “You forget old friends so soon, dear lady?”

  “Ortirez.” She spoke the name drippingly. “Where are you?”

  “At my house,” he said, his manner cheerful, “enjoying a fine lunch on this beautiful day.”

  She could hear birds in the background. And children. “What do you want, Colonel?”

  “Ah, but I am now a general. And I live in a grand house. Indeed, it was once your house, Elena.”

  “You are scum, Ortirez.
” This man a general. The uniform must have cost him millions.

  He laughed aloud. “Such brave words. But from such a distance.”

  “Then come to Zurich and I will say them to your pig face.”

  “Ah, but I am there in spirit, Elena. This very day I have made you a present of the daughter of Detective Lesko.”

  Elena put a hand to her mouth. It was as she feared. She had suspected the trafficantes, certainly. But Ortirez? He was a fool and a brute, not given to poetic methods of killing. He would have poured gasoline on the girl and watched her dance.

  “Did you hear what I said, great lady?”