The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (20 page)

“It is your conceit, I take it, that you would not be spotted.”

“I certainly would be
by Bannerman, sir
.
He knows me
now.” Loftus kept his voice even. “I had Lesko in mind.
If he were to spot me, it would not necessarily be a bad
thing. We'd see what kind of calls he makes afterward.”

“Very well,” Palmer Reid waved him off. “1
’ll
want
daily reports.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bannerman and Elena.” He'd resumed pacing the
room. “Imagine that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He put his hands on me this morning. You saw that,
didn't you.”

“Actually, u
m
. . . yes, sir.” It did not seem useful
to point out that it was he who had grabbed at Banner
man.

“And he told me never to go there again. He said that to
me,
Robert.”

“Yes, sir.”

Reid paused at an ashtray and stared with disgust at
the single cigarette butt it held. “Who smokes, Robert?”

“Doug Poole, sir. My assistant. He was here earlier.”

“You'll put a stop to that, won't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Reid stared at him. “Bannerman
...
to Lesko . . .
to Elena. For heaven's sake.”

“Yes, sir.”

CHAPTER
7

Doctor Stanley Gelman rarely saw patients
on Monday
.
 
In consequence, he was not missed until Tuesday. Late
Tuesday afternoon, his secretary-receptionist, who had been trying to reach him by phone all day, drove to his
house on Bayberry Road. Though the blinds were
drawn, she could see that one or two lights were on
inside. She rang the bell repeatedly without result. Lis
tening at the door, she thought she could hear running
water. Next, she walked around to the window of
Gelman's attached garage and, leaning over a stack of firewood, she could see her employer's Mercedes and, beyond it, the dim outline of his Buick Regal. She de
cided to call the police.

Paul learned of Gelman's death two hours later. An
auxiliary policeman named John Waldo placed a whis
pered call to one Anton Zivic, who operated an antique
and interior design firm on Westport's Main Street.
Zivic then notified Paul. Apparent cause of death: sui
cide by barbiturate poisoning. Apparent time of death:
sometime the previous Sunday. This was strictly a guess
based upon the unplayed calls that had accumulated
on Gelman's answering machine. The parboiled state of
his body did not permit a reliable forensic determina
tion. No, said Zivic, there was no reason to suspect that
the suicide was anything but genuine. And therefore, no, he saw no reason to confront Billy directly.

On Wednesday afternoon, Zivic called again. An
other suicide. A woman named Sweetzer, discovered by
her husband when he stopped at home during his lunch
hour.
This suicide seemed even more clearly genuine and was, in fact, related to Gelman's. Mrs. Sweetzer,
known as Kit
s
y, had left a suicide note that her husband
tried to snatch from the policeman who found it. The hysterically rambling note suggested a master-slave
sexual relationship with Stanley Gelman, whose own
death had been on the early local news. Kit
s
y Sweetzer had slashed several household photographs of herself,
slashed her own breasts and abdomen, then swallowed
an undetermined number of Seconal tablets, whose bot
tle bore Gelman's name as prescribing physician.

There is no likelihood at all, said Zivic, that Billy was
involved in the Sweetzer death. But there are two trou
bling factors. First, if Gelman had ill-used Mrs. Sweet
zer, he had probably ill-used others and that was the
type of behavior that had prompted an emotional re
sponse in Billy in the past. Secondly, Dr. Russo suddenly
has the look of a man with something on his mind.

Paul Bannerman called a council meeting for seven
o'clock that evening. At his office. Attendance manda
tory.

Paul readied the small conference room at the rear
of Luxury Travel Limited, then stepped out among the
silent computer consoles and racks of tour brochures so
he could watch the council members as they arrived. If
his concerns had any basis, he might see it on their faces
before their expressions could be masked.

The travel agency occupied a double storefront in
the Compo Shopping Plaza on Westport's Post Road.
Directly across from that busy thoroughfare was an
other group of shops, the largest being a Herman's
Sporting Goods store that had replaced a
failed Finast
Supermarket. A woman at the Herman's checkout
caught Paul's eye. Even at that distance he easily recog
nized the bushy raccoon coat and Indiana Jones-felt hat
of Molly Farrell. She was chatting animatedly with the
clerk, another Mario's regular. Now she took her
change, waved goodbye while rushing toward the door,
a yellow Herman's bag, with the grip of a new tennis
racquet sticking out of it, in her hand. Now, outside,
another woman called to her. Barely breaking stride,
Molly went to her, touched cheeks, then dashed toward
the Post Road, jaywalking, skipping and dodging through the evening traffic, answering still another
wave and a honk from a passing car; then, against all odds, arriving safely at the Compo Plaza parking lot.
Paul shook his head. The gesture was matched by Anton
Zivic who, Paul now noticed, was standing in the park
ing lot waiting for her.

Zivic, elegantly dressed, slender, of medium height,
with silver hair and mustache, stood sternly erect, his
arms folded, facing Molly Farrell. His posture suggested
severe disapproval. He shook a finger at her. Now the
same finger stabbed in the direction of the pedestrian
crossing at the corner. Paul had to smile. Zivic was, no
doubt, attempting to explain the function of stoplights
and crosswalks. Molly's impenitent response was to kiss
his cheek, pull the tennis racquet from her bag, and
begin an enthusiastic description of its virtues. Zivic
refused to look at it. He would not be derailed: Dashing
across busy, darkened streets is not to be forgiven. He
turns his face from her. Her expression becomes
wounded contrite. A gloved thumb raises her mouth.
Zivic tries not to look but he can't help seeing. He
throws up his arms, defeated. Molly, her grin restored,
seized his arm and marched him toward Paul's office.

Her eyes met Paul's before she reached the door.
The smile remained, a wave of greeting. He watched to
see if the eyes stayed overlong on his. He thought they
did, for only the barest moment. She was a tall woman,
standing half a head above Anton Zivic, and she moved
with an athlete's grace. She was a lovely woman, Paul
thought. Not traditionally pretty. Just a wonderfully warm and open face, a wide mouth with laugh lines
permanently etched at the corners, large brown eyes
that seemed curiously sad, almost timid, when in re
pose. But Paul knew, there was nothing timid about those eyes. And they missed very little
.

Molly entered, Anton following. Behind them, Gary
Russo's white Subaru wagon pulled into the parking lot.
Carla Benedict rode with him. Paul met their eyes as
well. Russo nodded to him, then looked away. Carla
squeezed Russo's arm and, Paul was sure, said some
thing through her teeth. Paul nodded, but the nod was
to himself.

“Well?” Paul spread his hands when all five were
seated. “Who's going to tell me?”

Gary Russo straightened. “I assume you're asking
about Gelman.”

“Gelman and the woman, yes.”

“Woman?” Carla Benedict paused in mid-reach for
an ashtray. “What woman?”

Paul glanced at the faces of Molly and Russo. Like
most of Westport, they had heard about Gelman. They
seemed genuinely surprised at the mention of a woman.

“Her name is Katherine Sweetzer,
a.k.a.
Kitzy
Sweetzer. A patient of Gelman's. Apparently sexually
abused by him. Killed herself upon learning of
Gelman's death.”

“It's news to me,” said Gary Russo. “I never heard of
her.”

Paul reached into a folder and produced a photo
copy of an enlarged 5×7 snapshot. The copy s
h
owed
crimp marks where the original had been indented by a
picture frame and it showed that the photo had been
slashed and then taped back together. He passed it to Molly Farrell. “Ever seen her in Mario's, Molly?”

“No.” She seemed relieved. “No, Paul, I haven't.”

“What about Gelman? Did he ever come in?”

“Not that I know of. Do you have his picture?”

Paul produced a newspaper file photo taken at a charity function a year earlier. It showed several peo
ple. Gelman's face was circled with a marker. He
handed it to Molly.

“I've never seen him before, either.” She shook her
head.

“All right,” he set both pictures down, “I'll ask it
another way. Do any of you have any reason to believe
that Billy had anything to do with either of these sui
cides?”

Russo leaned back. “From what I hear, Gelman mainlined his Valium stash while sitting in a hot tub.
That doesn't sound like Billy's kind of work.”

“That's right,” Carla agreed. “Ask me, all you have here is an unethical shrink who was probably about to
get his license lifted and one sappy woman who decided
she couldn't live without his cock. Good riddance on
both counts.”

Paul ignored the observation. “I want to know
whether this dead woman happens to have been one of
Billy's new friends. Molly?”

“Billy didn't know her,” she answered earnestly.
“I'm as sure of that as I can be.”

“That's right,” Carla nodded. She tried holding his gaze. He chose not to ask, even if that were true, how
she could have known it
?

“Paul.” Anton Zivic, his accent vaguely Slavic, spoke
for the first time. “If some of us speak too quickly,” he
glanced toward Carla, “it is because we all wish to be
lieve Billy is innocent. We understand your discomfort.
You go away for two weeks and practically on the day of
your return there are two fewer people in Westport,
each,
as before, no great loss to the community. But this
time I think the suicides are genuine.”

“I'm trying to believe that as well.” He studied Carla
and Gary for a long moment. ”A couple of things need
to be repeated. The first is to make sure all our people
understand, especially those of you in this room,
that no
action in violation of any law
is
to be taken without my
express approval. Any question on that?”