The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (41 page)

“You see anything . . . ?” He caught himself. He'd
almost asked David Katz, on the empty seat to his right,
whether Katz noticed anything funny about Ban
nerman's unit
.
Habit. Ten years of driving around to
gether, spotting things on the street, thinking out loud.

Katz would have noticed.
Of all the units here, there
were only two where you had to climb a short flight of
stairs to get to the front door or see into the first-floor
windows. Of the two, only one had heavy curtains fully
drawn. Number eight.

It didn't have to mean anything. Just a thing a cop
would notice. That, and the fact that this complex could
only be reached by a single road or by water, and the
Bannerman's unit had a clear view of both.

The second floor had a deck. Probably off his bed
room. Chances are Susan stayed up there a few times. In
his mind he could see her on the deck. Wearing a bath
robe. He blinked the image away.

“Get off her back, Ray. Susan's a good kid. ”
Katz's
voice. How many times had Lesko heard him say that?
Ever since she started dating boys. Yeah, well, when
your Joni gets a little older, we'll see how you act. Any
kid licks her ice-cream cone, you'll ask him for a fucking
AIDS test. Lesko wheeled the car around and headed
back into the town.

His next stop, after a pass of the main shopping street —they actually called it Main Street—was the Westport
Public Library. Several heads looked up as he entered. Several heads usually did. He started toward the infor
mation desk but was intercepted by a small woman,
attractive, slender, hair in one of those pixie cuts, who
asked if she could help him. Lesko asked if he could see
some back issues of the Westport paper. How far back, she asked? Just recent. Looking for anything in particu
lar? A story about a friend of mine. She led him to a shelf
where there were two weeks' worth in a pile, then to a
table where three other people, one older woman and
two students, were also researching periodicals.

Lesko wasn't looking for anything special. Just
browsing. Susan's suicide and accidental-death num
bers were in the back of his head but he was damned if
he was going to start poring through microfilmed
records as Susan had no doubt done in this very library.
Waste of time. But newspapers can help give you the
feel of a town. He'd
just look through a few, then maybe grab a sandwich and a beer and head back to New York.

The
Westport News
was a biweekly. Published
Wednesday and Fridays. Mostly ads and local news. No
national news at all. He found an ad for Paul Ban
nerman's company. Luxury Travel Limited. Seemed to specialize in big-ticket vacations. Which meant he met
a lot of rich peop
l
e. Which, Lesko guessed, would make
him a pretty good asset. Maybe that's all there is to it.
Maybe Susan could do worse.

The next issue down was from Wednesday, the day
Susan told him about Bannerman. Front-page news was
an argument about whether to tear down some old iron
bridge or have it declared a landmark. Also a debate
over a new truck-weighing station on Westport's stretch
of the Interstate.
The New York Times
it wasn't. He leafed through it anyway.

Suicide.

The word caught his eye. Two suicides. A psychia
trist named Gelman and a woman named Sweetzer. She
was his patient. Despondent over his death. The
Post
would have had fun with this one, he thought. Lots of
possibilities. The most likely of which was that he was
porking her.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” The li
brary lady.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Anything you need, just ask.”

“Do you have a pay phone here?”

She pointed. “Right over past the desk.”

While Lesko made his fifth attempt of the day to
reach Buzz Donovan, Carla Benedict made her second
call of the last fifteen minutes to Anton Zivic.

“Describe his manner. His demeanor,” Zivic said.

“I don't get you.”

“How did he react to the Gelman story? Did he rush
to the phone as if he'd made a discovery?”

Carla thought about that. “Actually, no. He's not
even taking notes. On the whole I'd describe his man
ner as bored.”

“Then perhaps seeing the newspaper item and mak
ing the phone call are not related?”

“Perhaps.”

“For the moment,” Zivic said after a pause, “we will assume that his visit is nothing more than a policeman's
curiosity, to say nothing of a father's curiosity.” Zivic
knew that Lesko's daughter had just told him about
Paul. Lesko's interest in the Gelman items suggested
that she'd also told him why Westport had initially
caught her notice. Zivic would have been surprised if an
experienced investigator took her speculations seri
ously. From Lesko's manner, he did not. In any case, if
the phone
call was to his daughter they would soon
know what was said. “However,” he added, “I will send
John Waldo to keep an eye on him.”

“I've already called Gary. He's probably outside by
now.”

“Surveillance is hardly the doctor's specialty.” Zivic was annoyed. “Please go to the parking lot and tell him
to follow only if John Waldo does not arrive in time. Tell
him that if Lesko makes more than two turns in any
direction other than toward the turnpike entrance, he is
to break off immediately.”

Lesko returned to the table only long enough to pack up the newspaper portfolio and return it to its
shelf. He slipped into his coat. On his way to the door he
passed the library lady coming the opposite way, notic
ing idly that she'd gone outside without one.

His dashboard clock said 4:30. Too late for a sand
wich. He'd wait and have dinner in the city, with Buzz
Donovan, if he ever showed up. Checking his map,
Lesko chose the most direct route to the station.

A white Subaru wagon left behind him, Lesko no
ticed. And it was staying with him down Imperial Ave
nue and right on Bridge Street. It should not have both
ered him because he could see from the road signs that
his route toward the station was also the most direct
route to the Interstate.

“What do you think, David?''
he
asked in his mind.
Without intending to. Habit.

He imagined Katz stretching his arms and clasping them behind his head, because that's what Katz did on
patrol when he wanted to look off guard and un-
threatening.
“No one left the library when you did,”
he
imagined Katz answering.
“No one was walking
through the parking lot. What's left is this guy had to be
waiting in his car:”

“We'll see.”
He continued on, over the iron bridge
they wanted to tear down, then past the turn-off toward
the Interstate, then along a road that curled under the
railroad tracks and led to the Avis office on the north
bound side. The Subaru seemed to hesitate at the turn-
off. Then it followed. As Lesko pulled into the section
reserved for rental cars, he heard its engine slow and then accelerate. He glanced over. A man his age was
driving. Gray hair, tanned, dark topcoat.

A southbound train pulled in as he was paying for
the car. Too late. The next train would be another hour.
Lesko remembered the two commuter bars on the
other side.

“Gary says he's gone into Mario's.” Carla Benedict
said into the phone to Anton Zivic. “I don't like this.”

“You say his car was a rental?” Zivic asked. “When is
the next train into the city?”

“Hold on.” She checked the schedule printed in the
Westport phone book. “Not until 5:45,” she told him.

“Nearly an hour. His choices, therefore, were to sit
in an empty waiting room or to wait where almost any
one else would wait.”

“You're betting an awful lot on coincidence lately,
Anton.”

“I am
allowing
for coincidence.” Zivic asked
whether Dr. Russo had followed him all the way to the
rental car drop-off. He winced when she said yes. Better
send him home, he said. Too late, she told him. He'd
called her from Mario's.

“Is Molly there?” he asked.

“Yes. She recognized him the second he walked in.”

“Is Billy there?”

“Lesko's talking to him.”

It wasn't quite Happy Hour yet, but it was Friday and the bar had a fair-sized crowd. He'd passed up
Dameon's next door because its bar was smaller and the
people standing at it were all blue suits. Mario's had a
better mix. More women, more working stiffs from the
town.