The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (75 page)

Lesko looked at him, scowling. “You're jerking my chain, right?”
F
rom across the aisle he heard a heave of
Molly Farrell's chest.

“It's true,” Billy insisted. “You shouldn't be embar
rassed, either. Paul had an Indian named Running Wolf
and a girl in blue jeans named Jennifer. He told me.”

Lesko looked skyward. This conversation was ap
proaching lunacy. All the more so because he now had
no doubt of Billy's sincerity. He tried again, dropping
his voice still further. “This Palmer Reid I should shoot.
I know I should shoot him for Donovan but how about
for my daughter?”

“For everything. It's always Palmer Reid.”

“There aren't times when it's someone else?”

“When it looks like someone else, that's when it's
Palmer Reid the most.”

“Let me see if I got this.” Lesko looked pained. “We
go down to Davos, we figure out what happened and
who did it, and if the answer isn't Palmer Reid we know
it's Palmer Reid.”

“Lesko,” Billy's eyes turned dead again. “You don't
want to make fun of me.”

Lesko matched the look. “My daughter's in a coma. I
look like I'm in the mood for jokes?”

“You asked me
.
I told you. You do what you want.”

The seat belt sign came on.

Bannerman returned to the hospital just before mid
night. He'd napped, off and on, for two hours. Better
than nothing. And it helped to clear his mind.

He was even less certain than before that the Basses
were responsible for the attack upon Susan. It was a
possibility, nothing more. If they were the ones, how
ever, they might well not wait until morning to make
another attempt. Granted they would have to get past
the security guard and the night nurses. But a resource
ful professional would always find a way. Better not to
take the chance.

He checked the little room where the call director
was. No one on duty. The security guard, however, was
in place outside the glass partition in full view of Susan's
curtained bed. He went in to look at her. Her face was
different. There was a frown, a grimace, that had not
been there earlier. A hand twitched. A leg quivered. He
walked to the nurse's station.

“The cocaine is wearing off,” the duty nurse told
him. “Her body is trying to purge itself of the poison.”

“She looks like she's in pain. Isn't that a good sign?”

“Perhaps,” the nurse said. But her eyes told Paul
that it meant very little. A bodily function. A mechani
cal process involving her brain's circuitry but not its
intellect. He returned to the corridor and sat.

An hour passed. His head had begun to nod when he
heard movement at the outer glass door of the hospital.
He stood up, tensed and waiting. Carla Benedict
pushed through the inner door, Gary Russo following
close behind. She approached him, hesitated, then hugged him. Gary Russo put his arms around them
both.

They stayed for half an hour, Russo checking Susan's
charts and talking to the duty nurse, Carla more sub
dued than usual. She'd blown an assignment, she knew
it, but it was not within her to express remorse. Paul told
them both to go. Get a few hours sleep. Carla was to
take the first morning train to Zurich Airport. Be there
to meet the flight. Report at once if they are detained by Swiss police or Immigration. Gary was to be back at the
hospital by six. Watch the main entrance from outside.
Warn him of any suspicious activity. Keep an eye open
for a black Saab with a blue ski pod on top. If he sees
one, let Paul know at once. Bannerman told the security
guard he could quit at five. He found a coffee machine at the rear end of the main corridor. He settled down to
wait.

It was half-past six, not yet full daylight, when he saw
the young switchboard operator enter the front door
and walk to her office. He stood up, walked toward it
from the opposite direction, and as he did so, he noticed
two figures standing in the half-light outside the hospi
tal entrance. They stood motionless for a second or two,
then, abruptly it seemed, pushed through the doors.
Caroline entered first, Ray Bass close behind. Ray car
ried a box marked with the logo of the Dolder Grand Hotel. Caroline approached Paul with her arms ex
tended, embracing him. They'd been up half the night,
she said. Sick about this. No use trying to sleep so they
came on down. Ray held up the box. Got the hotel to
pack up some coffee and rolls for you, he said. How is
she?

He guided them to the bench where he'd been sit
ting. “I didn't tell you last night,” he said, “because I
didn't want to involve you, but now you're here. Some
one tried to kill Susan. They used cocaine. They stuffed
it into her mouth.”

“Dear Lord,” Ray Bass whispered. “Who on earth
would hurt a girl like Susan?”

“I don't know.”

“But she's going to be all right?”

“She's beginning to show signs of coming around. But she has a long way to go. And even then . . .” Paul
shook his head, unwilling to finish the thought.

“Cocaine.” Caroline found her voice. She spoke the
word as if it were something vile.

“Paul,” Ray Bass looked at him levelly, “I have to
ask. You're not involved with that stuff, are you?”

“Absolutely not. Neither is Susan. That's what's so
hard to understand.”

“Mistaken identity, maybe?”

“I thought of that. I guess it's possible. The police
tried to track her movements but they haven't had
much luck.”

“Paul,” Caroline touched his arm. “Would it be all
right if I went in and sat with her a bit?”

“Give me just a
s
econd. I'll go in with you.” Leaving
them on the benc
h,
he walked fifty feet to the message
office. The girl looked
up as he entered, then reached
into her drawer for a note pad.

“There were several calls,” she said. “One man said
he was her father. One gave the name of Reid. One said
he was a friend but left no name. These were Ameri
cans. There were three other calls and they were all
Swiss.”

She showed him the log. There were scrawled nota
tions after each listing. Lesko's call had come at 18:22
the previous evening. Reid's, at 19:44. The other Ameri
can, at 20:02. Two of the Swiss calls said
polizei
after
them. The other was from a Frau Brugg, who'd
called at
20:55.

“What does this say?” He pointed to the notation
after the American who had left no name.

“Cowboy,” she said.

“Cowboy? What do you mean?”

“Like in American westerns.”

“I'll be right back.”

He walked quickly to the front door, where he
looked for Gary Russo. He heard the short tap of a horn
and turned his head toward its source. Gary was in the hospital parking lot, where he'd found an unlocked car and was seated inside it. Bannerman hurried over to it.

“Have you seen that Saab?”

“It didn't come by here,” Russo answered.

”A middle-aged couple went in a few minutes ago.
Did you see them park?”

“They were on foot. They came down that hill,” he
pointed.

“Thanks, Gary. Keep your eyes open.”

Bannerman walked briskly back to the door, slowing
to a stroll when he came within view of the Basses. He
asked them by hand signal to bear with him. He re
turned to the message office and asked if he might make
a call.

“Yes?” The voice was sleepy. It was one in the morn
ing in Westport.

“Anton, it's Paul.”

“Susan?” Alarm leapt into his voice.

“Susan is holding her own. Anton, those people from
the train. The Basses. One of them's a hitter. Probably
both. They did this.”

“Intuition or evidence?”

“Mostly intuition. I know it, Anton.”

“From this end it seems extremely unlikely. Their identities have been confirmed. The Basses are defi
nitely legitimate and definitely on holiday.”

“The pecan farm couldn't be a cover?”

“Definitely genuine.”

“Then these people aren't the Basses.”

The sound of a sigh. “Paul, you are too personally
involved. Please do nothing until Molly arrives with
Billy. It should be
…
two hours.”

“Anton, I have to go.” He broke the connection.

Cowboys. Southerners. All the same to a Swiss. And
if that cowboy was Ray Bass, he'd called the hospital
more than a full hour before he was even supposed to
know that Susan was in it.

The phone rang as he left the room.

At Zurich Airport, in the long corridor leading to
Passport Control, Lesko stopped at the first phone he
saw and got an operator, who put him through to Davos
Hospital. Susan's condition was unchanged. He commu
nicated that information to Molly Farrel
l
through a
shrug and pressed on toward the line of passengers
waiting for a passport check. Lesko walked on numbly,
his mind filled with thoughts of Susan.

Billy nudged him. “Watch yourself. We got com
pany.”

Lesko followed his glance to two men standing wide
apart, grim-faced, hands in their overcoat pockets,
watching them. Billy drifted past, toward one of them.
Molly Farrell, Lesko saw, was already in position to
move on the other. `

“Mr. Lesko?”

He followed the sound. And then he saw her. She
had moved into the center of the corridor. His stomach
took a hitch. She looked very much as she did when he
last saw her, wearing a fur, gloved hands folded, chin
high but more than a little frightened, but minus the
dusting of cocaine that his shotgun had sprayed
throughout the barbershop's back room.

“They cops?” He gestured toward the two men.

“They are my cousins.” She held his gaze. “Hello,
Mr. Lesko.”

“Hello, Elena.”

“That phone call. It was to the hospital?”

“She's still alive. It was your old pals, wasn't it?”

“They were never my pals.”

“Whatever. Do you know who did it?”

”A Bolivian army officer has called to claim credit.
He says you will be next. Then I will follow.”

“You going to give me his name?”

“If we live long enough I will give you more of him
than that. But our concern now is Susan. He did not
know that his people missed. They will try again.”

“Then I better get going.”

“I am going with you.”

She turned away before he could object. He saw that
she was leading him past the lines. He followed, pausing
briefly at a glass booth where an immigration official
nodded respectfully to her and then gave only the brief
est glance at Lesko's passport.

“You have baggage?” she asked.

“Only what I'm carrying.” He hefted a small bor
rowed bag.

“Come. I have a car.”

“Hold it. I got people with me.”

“Those two?” She gestured with her chin toward
Molly and Billy, who were standing within a kick of
Elena's friends. “They are reliable?”

“They're Bannerman's people. I guess I trust them.”

Elena waved them forward. The officer put out a
hand to stop them but dropped it when he followed
their eyes to Elena. He didn't look at their passports at
all.

Molly and Billy stopped short of Elena. Molly beck
oned Lesko to a private conference.

“I assume that's Elena Brugg,” Molly said.

He nodded. “The other two are bodyguards. She
wants to drive me to Davos.

“We've arranged a car of our own. There will be weapons in it. How reliable is she?”

“She asked the same about you. Anyway, you saw
she has clout around here. Unless you have more, we
can probably use her.”

“I agree,” Molly said crisply. “Stick with us until we
get our car. We'll follow her to Davos. You will want to
see Susan immediately, but you must give us time to evaluate whatever situation we find there. You will be
given a weapon when I see evidence of cooperation.
Not before.”

Lesko was impressed. A new Molly. The friendly,
sweet-faced bartender was gone. But he wasn't so im
pressed he was going to follow her around like a puppy.

They passed through the customs gate marked
Nothing To Declare.
Again, no one stopped them. A knot of people were waiting beyond the gate to wel
come passengers. Some held up signs. In the front row
was a hard-eyed young man wearing a leather jacket. His sign, crudely hand-lettered, said
Mario's.
Lesko
might have dismissed it as coincidence. But standing
next to him was a woman, as small as Elena, who was a
Westport librarian the last time Lesko had seen her.

“Fucking Old Home Week, isn't it,” he said to Billy
McHugh.

“I did not expect a motorcade.” Elena peered into
her rearview mirror at the two BMW sedans that were
following close behind. Bannerman*s three friends were
in the
first. The leather jacket disappeared after he showed them to their car and handed them a satchel
that no doubt contained small arms. Elena's two cousins
brought up the rear.

“I didn't expect you,” Lesko said. “Thanks for greas
ing us through. You don't have a spare gun, by chance.”

She hesitated, then shook her head.

Neither spoke for the next several miles. Their lips
would move occasionally as if searching for words.
Many times during the past two years, Lesko had
thought of Elena, imagined conversations with her, but
he had never imagined how they might begin. He could
think of no opening that would not sound hollow. Fi
nally, he retreated into being a cop.

“Listen,” he cleared his throat. “You got so much pull with immigration, can you get a list of Bolivians
who entered the country the last few days?”

“It won't help,” she said. “They would not have sent
Latin
o
s to a European ski resort. Your assassin is far more
likely to be American or British.
”

Lesko grunted. “Which did you used to use?”

Her eyes closed briefly and her hands tightened on
the steering wheel. Lesko noticed.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Cheap shot.”

“Do you think we could have a long talk some day,
Mr. Lesko? I don't require your affection but
I
do not
feel I deserve your contempt.”

“I said I'm sorry.” He stared at the road. “You want
to know the truth, actually I
…”
  Oh, Christ.

“Actually, you what?”

“Like I said on the phone
…
you made an impres
sion.” He could feel heat rising on his cheeks. His mind
recalled the dreams he'd had, the ones with Elena be
side him in his bed. They were dreams, not fantasies, so
he had no need to be embarrassed by them. Still, if she
ever knew
…

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don't make a big deal.”

Now he felt a pounding at his temples. He covered the one nearest her lest she notice. This was humiliat
ing. The closest he could remember feeling like this was
way back when he worked Vice and a couple of times he
met hookers he couldn't help liking, and they liked him
too because he was straight and he never hit on them
for sex or money. Up to him, he'd have left them alone
to make a living. On the other hand, none of those hookers ever killed his partner.

“Do you ever think about Katz?” he asked. Shit!
Stupid question. The words just came out.

She frowned. “No.”

“You don't
…
um
…
you don't by any chance
ever dream about him?” How he wished he hadn't
asked that, either. “Never mind,” he said. “Just won
dered.”

“Mr. Lesko,” she said softly, “if you're asking
whether I feel any remorse, we had this discussion two years ago. As for bad dreams, I assure you that I have
enough devils of my own without Detective Katz.”