The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (40 page)

“It's my own.” Reid's color rose. “They burned it the
same day. A personal insult to me.” He picked up the
photo.

Donovan's eyes drifted back over the others.

“She was beautiful,” Reid said sullenly.

“What was?”

”A Grand Banks trawler. Custom-designed. All-teak
decks. Named for my dead mother. I never even got a
chance to have her photographed under power.”

“The man must be a monster,” Donovan said dryly.

“Well?”

“I'm thinking.”

The photographs had shocked him. The story of the
gang rape and sexual torture of a child had its effect. But
Donovan didn't necessarily believe a word of it. Over
the
years he'd heard too many such embellishments
from Palmer Reid. He had a sense that this little girl could just as easily have been a nun or a cripple or
somebody else's sainted mother if Reid had thought of
either first. The beaten men could have been anyone.
The burned men in their boat as well. They may or may
not have had wives and children. And he had trouble
believing they'd enter Westport by boat, as opposed to a
highway ramp or country road, for the relatively inno
cent purpose of surveillance.

Be that as it may. What ruined the desired effect of
all this was Palmer Reid, who had the sensitivity of a
mackerel, focusing his only creditable emotion upon his
own stupid boat.

“The part about Ray Lesko,” Donovan said, “and his
daughter, and their being involved in a drug conspiracy
with Elena and this Bannerman. . . .”

“I know. It's hard to believe.”

“I think it's the most ridiculous story I've ever heard
in my life.”

Reid flushed but recovered quickly. He gestured to
the photographs as if they proved everything. Donovan
dismissed them with a wave.

“I may not know Bannerman,” he said, “but I do
know the Lesko family and none would ever be in
volved in such a thing. What I know
about
Bannerman
is that he withdrew from government service three
years ago but that his reputation for integrity prior to
that time seems to have been the highest.”

“He was never in government service,” Reid said
darkly. “H
e
was a contract agent, bound by no code of
loyalty or decency, and he. . . .”

“I know what a contract agent is,” Donovan glared
back at him. “And I know what you are.”

“Meaning?”

“That whatever Bannerman is now and whatever
he's done, I would sooner trust him—to say nothing of
Susan Lesko's judgment of him—than a man who has
hardly uttered a truthful sentence in his entire adult
life.”

Palmer Reid's eyes went dead. After a long moment he slowly shook his head, then placed his hands on his
knees and pushed to his feet. Bending over the coffee
table, he gathered the photographs, taking care to place
them in order, and returned them to his pocket.

“Mr. Gorby.” he called to the door.

The big man opened it. “Yes, sir?”

“You have an errand not far from Mr. Donovan's
residence, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.” Buzz Donovan heard a car starting up in
the driveway. He could see the other man, Burdick,
apparently off on an errand of his own.

“Take him home, please.”

Donovan stood. “Just run me down to the Scarsdale
station.
I’
d prefer the train.” While I decide what
charges to bring, you son of a bitch.

“I wouldn't hear of it,” said Palmer Reid.

Lesko's last appointment of the morning extended
into lunch. He excused himself, went to a phone, and gave Buzz Donovan's number another try. Still no an
swer.

He was getting worried. Donovan was no kid. Could
have had a heart attack, a stroke, maybe he fell down
and broke a hip. Lesko found the number of Donovan's
building superintendant, identified himself, and asked
the super to go open Donovan's apartment and take a
look. He'd wait at this number.

The dream he had that morning came back to him.
He'd told Katz to go look for Donovan. That's all he
needed. Donovan dead somewhere and Katz turning
up tomorrow morning with his ghost. Katz with the
bagels and Donovan with the coffee. Which would be okay, he could at least get some answers, as long as Donovan didn't make a habit of it. He could ask Dono
van. . . .

Hold it.

Steady, Lesk
o
.

Cut that crap right now. Last time you even began to
believe in ghosts was when the nuns at Our Lady of
Sorrows said all the kids had these guardian angels who
hung
around all the time watching out for them. You believed that until enough bad things happened to you
and your friends to conclude that either an awful lot of
guardian angels were asleep at the switch or the nuns
were jerking your chain. Even so, it was six months
before you could even take a shit in peace.

The phone rang. The super. No sign of Mr. Donovan.
No sign he was sick or anything. Lesko thanked him and
asked if he'd go back up and leave a note to get in touch
as soon as he got in.

Next Lesko dialed a Queens number and asked Mr. Makowski, his neighbor, whether he could use his car
for a few hours if he came home now. Mr. Makowski
said sorry, not until Saturday. Car's in the shop getting a
new radiator. Lesko said thanks anyway.

He'd just about given up on the idea of
going
to
Westport, which didn't really have much point anyway,
but on the other hand the prospect of going home to
Queens seemed especially lonely. What with Susan go
ing away. Lesko checked out of the Regency and
walked with his suitcase to Grand Central. Next train,
the board said, was in four minutes. Lesko let out a sigh.
If he'd walked slower he would have missed it. So?
Make up your mind. Subway to Queens or train to
Westport? What the hell, he decided.

The train was more full than he expected. People
quitting early for the weekend. Lots of blue suits and
briefcases; quite a few wome
n
, some of them half in the
bag, having started their weekend with a long, wet
lunch
.
He found a seat and settled back. Straight ahead
of him on a bulkhead was a poster for Hennessey's co
gnac. He'd
seen the ad before in magazines. A young
guy and a girl in a ski lodge sipping Hennessey's. A fire going, snow outside, both of them covered with nothing
but quilts to show they'd just been screwing.

Lesko got up and moved.

The train ride to Westport took just over an hour. He
followed the flow of detraining passengers toward a tun
nel going under the tracks to the southbound side.
Lesko had no plan. He still didn't know why he'd come.
But he was here.

Half the people from the train seemed to be headed for either of two bars that stood facing the station. One called Dameon's, the other called Mario's. On the near
corner there was a little variety store and newsstand. Lesko went there. He bought a street map and asked
where he might rent a car. The counterman said he'd
passed a little Avis office on the other side. Lesko
thanked him, then went to a phone where he looked up the addresses of Paul Bannerman's home, Bannerman's
travel agency, and the Westport Public Library.

As Bannerman himself had done three years earlier,
Lesko spent the better part of an hour driving around
Westport and gathering impressions. It was more
spread out than he'd imagined. He saw no one in pink
pants, but they were for summer. Most people seemed
to wear ski jackets. Still plenty of ducks on mailboxes, though. And everyone seemed to be driving a BMW or
a Volvo. Most of those either had college decals on the
rear window or those dumb yellow signs that used to say
Baby On Board
but which now said
Lawyer On Board
or
Ex-Wife In Trunk
so everyone would know they had
a sense of humor. Not a bad town otherwise. Not for
him, but not bad.

Bannerman's office looked legitimate enough. Lesko
crept by it in his car. Three women sitting at computer
consoles and another one handing a stack of brochures
to a BMW lady. So, four employees at least. Must be making money.

Bannerman's residence turned out to be a condo
complex down by the water. There was a manned secu
rity booth at the entrance. Lesko got past the guard
with no trouble, saying he lived in town and was think
ing about going condo now that the kids were gone, and
he just wanted to look over the grounds. The guard
handed him a card with the realtor's name. Lesko also
saw the guard write down his plate number as he pulled away. That impressed him. Most such guards were use
less and were primarily for show. He found Ban
nerman's unit. Number eight. On a corner.