The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (8 page)

“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.”

“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.

“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.

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.”

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.

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

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.”

“Just say it, Paul. What can we do?”

“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.”

“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.

“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.