Read Online The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) by John R. Maxim - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John R. Maxim
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chance related to ... ?” Not that she minded. Susan enjoyed her fa ther's fame and she especially enjoyed telling strangers that Raymond the Terrible Lesko was a big teddy bear, down deep. But then, at the beginning of last year, the newspaper stories turned ugly. TOUGHEST COP’S PARTNER MURDERED. . . . LESKO PARTNER A CROOK? . . . LESKO QUESTIONED IN DRUG SLAYINGS. And finally, ‘ TOUGHEST COP’ QUITS.
If the name meant anything to Paul Bannerman, however, he didn't let it show. “I'll be needing a couple of new sweaters soon,” he raised his elbow to show the ragged hole. “I'd hate to come in here alone and pick out the wrong color.”
They browsed around Sundance for a while. The owner, a man named Glenn, offered cups of hot spiced wine to Susan and Allie, and then chatted privately with Paul. Then Glenn came over and invited Susan and Allie to take their pick of ski hats as their reward for helping Paul make up his mind before the styles changed again.
Paul was invited for steaks that evening at the Gregorys'. The following morning, Monday, he met Su san for an early breakfast and drove her to her train. He called her at the Post that same afternoon. He'd be in the city the day after, and wondered if she'd care to join him for dinner. She said she'd like that. Had she ever been to The Four Seasons? She said she'd love that. On Tuesday evening, as Susan happily picked her way through a menu large enough to roof a small house, a listening device was being installed on the telephone in her 79th Street apartment.
They saw each other often during the weeks that followed. Susan would come to Westport on weekends or whenever her days off fell. Or Paul would drive into the city, sometimes twice a week. He knew the city well. In fact, he seemed to know the Upper West Side better than she did. He took her to West Side restau rants ranging from the extravagantly romantic, such as the Cafe des Artistes on West 67th Street, to the messy- but-fun, such as Sidewalker's on 72nd Street, where an order of spicy Maryland crab is dumped right onto the paper tablecloth. Susan learned along the way that Paul could order quite comfortably in French and Italian and could make himself understood in German. She was impressed and said so. It seemed like a lot of fluency, even for a travel agent, but Paul brushed it aside, saying that his linguistic abilities were limited to menus and airport signs. Their evening at The Four Seasons not withstanding, it became clear that Paul preferred to avoid the more famous midtown restaurants. She half- wondered whether The Four Seasons had simply been first-date bait, but she wasn't complaining. The West Side restaurants were fine and, as Paul pointed out, she might as well get to know her own neighborhood.
In conversation, he could discuss the music of Brahms, Count Basie and Bruce Springsteen with equal ease. His range of interests included the French Impres sionists, but not so much the Romantics such as Dela croix, whose work Susan adored. He was a student of European and American history, but seemed to have no interest at all in American politics or current world affairs. Revelation piled upon revelation. She might have found so much sophistication intimidating had he not been so offhand about his own acquired knowledge, and had he not shown so much genuine interest in the things that interested her. His passions included an tique automobiles—it was his dream to own and restore one—and the New York Giants football team, and, of course, Alpine skiing. They did not as yet seem to in clude Susan Lesko's body.
Not that she had any intention of leaping into bed with him. She hadn't even intended to see quite so much of him or any other man. But each time he called, even when she had determined to spend some quiet time alone, she found herself wanting to see him.
Her own intentions aside, she had presumed without undue conceit that Paul would try to take her to bed as
If the name meant anything to Paul Bannerman, however, he didn't let it show. “I'll be needing a couple of new sweaters soon,” he raised his elbow to show the ragged hole. “I'd hate to come in here alone and pick out the wrong color.”
They browsed around Sundance for a while. The owner, a man named Glenn, offered cups of hot spiced wine to Susan and Allie, and then chatted privately with Paul. Then Glenn came over and invited Susan and Allie to take their pick of ski hats as their reward for helping Paul make up his mind before the styles changed again.
Paul was invited for steaks that evening at the Gregorys'. The following morning, Monday, he met Su san for an early breakfast and drove her to her train. He called her at the Post that same afternoon. He'd be in the city the day after, and wondered if she'd care to join him for dinner. She said she'd like that. Had she ever been to The Four Seasons? She said she'd love that. On Tuesday evening, as Susan happily picked her way through a menu large enough to roof a small house, a listening device was being installed on the telephone in her 79th Street apartment.
They saw each other often during the weeks that followed. Susan would come to Westport on weekends or whenever her days off fell. Or Paul would drive into the city, sometimes twice a week. He knew the city well. In fact, he seemed to know the Upper West Side better than she did. He took her to West Side restau rants ranging from the extravagantly romantic, such as the Cafe des Artistes on West 67th Street, to the messy- but-fun, such as Sidewalker's on 72nd Street, where an order of spicy Maryland crab is dumped right onto the paper tablecloth. Susan learned along the way that Paul could order quite comfortably in French and Italian and could make himself understood in German. She was impressed and said so. It seemed like a lot of fluency, even for a travel agent, but Paul brushed it aside, saying that his linguistic abilities were limited to menus and airport signs. Their evening at The Four Seasons not withstanding, it became clear that Paul preferred to avoid the more famous midtown restaurants. She half- wondered whether The Four Seasons had simply been first-date bait, but she wasn't complaining. The West Side restaurants were fine and, as Paul pointed out, she might as well get to know her own neighborhood.
In conversation, he could discuss the music of Brahms, Count Basie and Bruce Springsteen with equal ease. His range of interests included the French Impres sionists, but not so much the Romantics such as Dela croix, whose work Susan adored. He was a student of European and American history, but seemed to have no interest at all in American politics or current world affairs. Revelation piled upon revelation. She might have found so much sophistication intimidating had he not been so offhand about his own acquired knowledge, and had he not shown so much genuine interest in the things that interested her. His passions included an tique automobiles—it was his dream to own and restore one—and the New York Giants football team, and, of course, Alpine skiing. They did not as yet seem to in clude Susan Lesko's body.
Not that she had any intention of leaping into bed with him. She hadn't even intended to see quite so much of him or any other man. But each time he called, even when she had determined to spend some quiet time alone, she found herself wanting to see him.
Her own intentions aside, she had presumed without undue conceit that Paul would try to take her to bed as
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