The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (57 page)

“Then make sense out of this.”
Katz's voice was be
coming shrill.
“Last night you had Loftus here and he's
not dead. You had Elena in the sack with you, which
incidentally I didn't give you any shit about, and she 's not dead. You had Donovan here with his table and his
fucking table sure isn't dead. ”

“Yeah? So what?”

“I'm telling you, there's a way out of this. Maybe
next time they're here, I'm going to try sort of sliding
over next to them and when they walk out, maybe l
c
an
walk out with them. ”

“What the hell,”
Lesko shrugged.
“Give it a shot. ”

“I'm going to.”

It was mostly a morning for live cops. The first one
came after he'd dried off from his shower and was on his
second cup of coffee. A sergeant named Mosconi from
the local precinct, where they all knew Lesko and
where he lived, knocked on his door and asked him
whether he'd seen what had happened on the street an hour or so earlier.

“No, what? I was asleep.”

“We had a sniper incident.” Mosconi asked if he
could enter and then led Lesko to his window where he
pointed up toward Queens Boulevard. A brown, late-
model Chrysler had plowed into a parked car two down
from Mr. Makowski's fifteen-year-old Chevy. There was
a four-inch hole high on the windshield. Five patrol
cars, their blue lights strobing, had answered the call.
Two of them sealed off both ends of the block.

“Anyone hurt?” No ambulance yet. One man in a
suit waving his arms, talking to two uniforms.

“No.” Mosconi nodded toward the man being inter
viewed. “He's a salesman. Dry-cleaning equipment.
He's on his way to LaGuardia and he's trying to cut over
to the Parkway. Never been down this street before.”

A random victim.

“You didn't hear any shots, Ray?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Neither did anyone else so far. I came up here be
cause I figured if anyone on this street would make a decent witness, it's you.”

“I can't help you,” Lesko shook his head. “I don't
even know who owns a rifle around here.”

“How about veterans? You know any real good
marksmen?”

“How good do you have to be to hit a windshield?”

Mosconi showed a mirthless smile. “Both shots are
through the rearview mirror, one on either side of the
stem. One while he was moving, the other after he
crashed. I'd call that good shooting.”

I'd call it leaving a message, thought Lesko.

But as for the who and the why of it, Lesko had no
idea. It crossed his mind, recent events considered, that
the demonstration might have been for his benefit. But
no. No
way. Demonstrations are useless if they're too
subtle. It's why loan sharks break legs.

Sergeant Mosconi declined a cup of coffee and left.
His uniforms would be going door-to-door and checking
rooftops all morning.

The next cop was Detective Harry Greenwald, who
heard the squeal about a sniper on Lesko's street and drove out from Manhattan.

“Any chance that could have been for you?” he
asked.

“None at all. I just been through that with the
Queens cops.”

“They have anything?”

“Nothing. No shell casings, no witnesses, no motive.
Ask me, it's probably one of those psychos who read
Soldier of Fortune.”

“I wonder,” Greenwald said, then stood waiting.

“You came out for nothing, Harry. Don't waste your
time.”

“You know what else I wonder?”

“What?”

“Three days ago one of your oldest friends got mur
dered. You called it yourself. You know I'm conducting the investigation but you don't call to see how it's going,
do I have any leads, Have we made an arrest. How is that
possible, Ray?”

Lesko realized his mistake. “You're asking if I'm out
looking for the guy myself. I give you my word, I'm not.”

“And you have no idea who killed him.” Greenwald
looked into his eyes.

What the hell. “Nothing I can prove.”

“Try me.”

“Prussic acid,” Lesko said. “Sounds a little like the
CIA, doesn't it.”

“Do you have something or don't you?”

“Last time I saw Buzz he was trying to get a line on
some big intelligence guy in Washington. I think there
was hard feelings between them.”

“Give me a name.”

“Palmer-something. Yeah. I think it was Palmer
Reid.”

CHAPTER 19    

Caroline Bass watched as Paul entered the bar-salon
car, pausing just inside, his eyes sweeping over several passengers in evening dress who were crowded around
the black baby grand piano and the bar itself.

“There he is, darlin
’
” She touched Ray Bass's arm.
“And there are those careful moves of his again.”

Ray Bass didn't turn. He knew what she meant but
he was sure that it signified nothing. Why, back home,
he thought, you couldn't sit in one of them Yuppie bars
for twenty minutes before noticing that everyone who
walked in the door would hold up for a minute to check out the action, as they say. “Pay it no mind, sweetheart.
Time comes, he won't be around to worry about.”

Caroline raised a hand, waiting for Paul to look in
her direction. “Bannerman,” she said his name softly.
“That name doesn't ring even a teensy little bell with
you?”

“Can't say it does.” He shook his head. “You know
what I bet? Bannerman is one of those manly-type
names they always give to detective shows on the TV. I
bet that's why it sounds familiar.”

“Maybe. Maybe so.”

Now Ray Bass turned and stood. “Hey there, Paul.
Got a seat for you right here.”

Paul heard Ray Bass's voice before he picked him
out of the tuxedos. He made his way into the salon part
of the car, which consisted of plush Art Nouveau chairs
in conversational groupings, each grouping highlighted
by the tasseled shade of a brass Orient Express lamp. All
but two of the chairs were filled by passengers sipping
aperitifs as they awaited the first dinner seating.

“My,” Caroline smiled at Paul, who was in black tie as well, “I swear you look more like James Bond every
time I see you. What'd you do with Susan?”

“She's drying her nails.” He slipped into the seat
nearest the window. “I thought I'd scout ahead.”

“Matter of fact, Caroline was just remarkin' on the
way you size up a room. You wouldn't be one of them
TV detectives, by chance, would you?”

Paul sighed aloud, smiling. “Would you believe Su
san remarked about the same thing? I didn't believe her
until now.”

“What line are you in, Paul?” Caroline asked. “For
real, I mean.” ,

“I run a travel agency back in Connecticut.” He
waited as the waiter set down two more glasses and
poured champagne into his from the Bass's bottle. “As
for that habit I seem to have, I guess I've met so many
people over the years that I'm always just a little sur
prised if I don't run into one of them any place there's a crowd.”

“Happens to me all the time.” Ray Bass agreed,
throwing an I-told-you-so wink to Caroline.

Paul sipped his champagne and nodded apprecia
tively. “What brings you two to Europe in January?” he
asked. “You don't strike me as die-hard skiers.”

“Heck,” Ray Bass laughed, “I don't even walk real
good.” He paused to refill Caroline's glass. “Seems like
I've been hearin' about this train most of my life, and last month Caroline here says, Ray, ain't either us or
that train gettin' any younger. Let's call up, pull our
soup-'n-fish duds outta the cedar closet and let's get 'er. done. Besides, we heard there's no sight in the world to
take your breath away like the Alps in winter and no more comfy way to see ‘em.”

“Speakin’ of sights to see,” Caroline pointed toward
the bar, “here comes Susan now. My, look at all those
turnin' heads.”

Susan had chosen a long, filmy black dress, almost backless, arms and shoulders bare except for two taper
ing strands that flowed up over her breasts and tied
behind her neck. Her skin was flawless and richly
tanned, her jewelry understated, her color rising with
each step she took. Paul and Ray Bass rose as she ap
proached.

“I think I may have overdone it,” she said through
her teeth. “Why don't I run back and get a blanket.”

“Don't you dare,” Paul pulled her seat back. “You're
absolutely lovely*”

“Honey,” Caroline told her, “if I could wear that
dress I'd steal it first time you turned your back.”

Ray Bass chuckled. “She turns her back, it disap
pears all by itself.” He flinched as Caroline threw an
elbow.

“Sorry,” he grinned. “I couldn't help that. It's a
source of great pride to me that the two handsomest
women on this whole train are sitting right here at my
table.”

As Caroline muttered something about snake-oil
salesmen, Paul reached for Susan's hand, which she had shyly crossed over her breast and shoulder, and lowered
it in his. “By the way, where are you two headed?” he
asked, only partly to ease Susan's discomfort by getting
off the subject.

“We're ticketed through to Venice,” Ray Bass an
swered. “But we might just get off for a spell at St.
Anton, rent a car, and work our way down through
some of those jet-set playgrounds like St. Moritz and
such.”

“Then you'd be passing right through Klosters,
where we're going,” Susan said. “Why don't you look us
up?”

“Might be a fine idea,” Caroline brightened. “Ray,
you take down their address and phone number just in
case.”

He used a business card for the purpose. Paul asked
for another for himself. The Bass Pecan Company.
Lumberton, Mississippi.

“Pecans,” Paul nodded. “They come from hickory
trees, don't they.”

“They do indeed. So does the walnut, which is a
kissin' cousin but ain't nearly so refined.”

“Don't get Ray started on pecans,” Caroline warned.
“It's not a subject he's bashful on.”

“Fact is, it's a real interestin' nut.” Ray Bass chose
not to be denied. “If we were in some low roadhouse
and the company weren't so elegant, I'd tell you about
the sex life of the pecan. The little devils are hermaph
roditic, you know. That means they go both ways and
don't care which.”

“But you're not goin' to tell, of course,” Caroline
jabbed him, “us being so elegant and all.”

“Their botanical name,” he pressed on, “is
Carya illinoensi
s.
.
That's if you want the real nutty-gritty. It's
the Cree Indians called them pecans. Ate them by the
treeful, and you couldn't find a healthier bunch of Indi
ans. They were a little stupid about real estate, how
ever.”

Paul, smiling, made a time-out sign with his hands
and slid his chair backward. “Of course, I don't want to
miss a word of this
…
”

“Count that day lost when you don't learn some
thing, Paul.”

“But I'd want to give it my full attention.”

“Understood and you're excused. We'll mind Susan
for you.”

Paul stepped from the table and made his way back
past the bar before anyone could tell him there was a facility much closer. He continued on to the sleeping car
where he found Andrew the steward busily trans
forming the compartments into sleepers. He peeled a
£50 note from his pocket. It caught Andrew's attention
.

“Andrew,” Paul spoke softly, “there's a Ray and Car
oline Bass in the bar car. They're very nice but I'd like to
be sure they're who they say they are.” He held up the
fifty. “How about a quick peek at their passports?”

Andrew glanced up and down the corridor. “I'm
sure they're in order, Mr. Bannerman. They're checked
at every border we cross.”

“Just a glance, Andrew. I'll feel better.”

Andrew beckoned Paul to a small service compart
ment at the end of the car. He unlocked it, then slipped
a key into a padlocked wooden cabinet. The Basses,
listed alphabetically, were near the top. Paul took them
and studied them. They seemed legitimate enough. Is
sued in New Orleans. But only this past December. The
only entries were a French transit visa and a Heathrow
immigration stamp. That bothered Paul. He'd like to
have seen more of a travel history. On the other hand,
his own passport, being recently renewed, didn't tell
much about him, either, and Susan's was also new in
December. It could mean nothing at all. Nor had he any
reason to wonder about Ray and Caroline except they seemed to go out of their way to make contact. But he saw no wariness in their eyes; none of the involuntary,
searching looks that would have suggested a prior
knowledge of him. And Ray Bass certainly knew his
pecans; their sex life had probably served him well at
cockta
il
parties over the years.

“Everything on the up-and-up, Mr. Bannerman?”

“Everything's fine, Andrew.” He handed back the
passports, forcing the £50 on him as well. “I think I've
been reading too much Agatha Christie.”