“Bannion, the big man from Homicide, eh?” The voice was low, smooth, amused.
“Okay, what is it?”
“You’re off the Carroway job, I understand,” the voice went on, smooth, liquid, a current of amusement running under it. “Is that the right dope?”
There was no point in asking who was calling. Bannion said, “Keep talking.”
“Sure, sure, big man. Well, since you’re off the case it might be a good idea to keep your big, large mouth shut about it. Understand? It’s a simple word. Shut. Remember it. If you forget—”
Bannion slammed the phone down. In the living room Kate was on her knees gathering Brigid’s blocks.
“What did he say to you?” Bannion said.
“He asked for you, and then he said—” Kate looked up at him and shrugged. “You can fill in the four-letter words, I guess.”
Bannion pounded his big fist into the palm of his hand and walked up and down the room, his anger growing swiftly, dangerously. Finally he stopped and scooped up his hat and coat.
“I’ll try to be back for dinner, baby,” he said.
Kate looked at him and knew better than to ask questions. “Don’t be late, if you can help it, Dave. Don’t spoil our party.”
“It won’t be our party that’s spoiled, baby,” he said, and walked out.
Chapter 6
Bannion drove out to the city limits, to the exclusive section of Germantown, a lovely rolling area of gentle slopes, twisting lanes, and comfortable homes set well back from the streets and surrounded with handsomely kept lawns and trees.
Mike Lagana lived out here, in a sixteen-room house with an English country tone to it. His home was boxed by six acres of land, impeccably cleaned and pruned by a Belgian gardener, and sat sturdily and prettily in the cup of a shallow green valley.
Bannion parked and climbed out of his car. He noticed the uniformed patrolman who stood at the walk leading to the house. The cop noticed him too; he strolled over, a big, middle-aged man with thoughtful ruddy features.
“Who’d you want to see?” he said in a pleasant voice.
Bannion showed his badge, and the cop smiled. “Okay, Sergeant.”
“I can go in now? That’s nice.”
“Sure, go right on in,” the cop said.
Bannion walked toward the house, and then stopped and glanced back at the cop. “How many men on this detail, by the way?”
“Three altogether. Two in the back, and one in the front.”
“Twenty-four hours a day, I suppose.”
“Uh huh. Nights there’s four, though.”
Bannion smiled. “That’s ten cops a day to watch Mike Lagana. Roughly, about a hundred dollars of taxpayers’ money. You like the detail?”
The cop shrugged. “I do what I’m told.”
Bannion stared at him and a touch of color appeared in the cop’s face. “Yes, we all do what we’re told, I guess,” Bannion said.
“That’s right,” the cop said, relaxing.
Bannion walked down the gravelled lane to Lagana’s home. He went up the steps and sounded a brass knocker against an oaken door. He waited there on the wide porch, listening to the humming stillness, watching the cold, pale, late-afternoon light on the oily green leaves of the bushes that were planted beside the steps.
A dark-haired, teen-aged girl opened the door. She was slim and pretty in a flannel skirt and cashmere sweater. There was a jingling junk bracelet on her left wrist. Another girl stood behind her, holding a tray of cokes. They looked at Bannion politely, smiling, and then the girl with the cokes giggled.
“Stop it, Janie,” the dark-haired girl said, trying hard to keep her own face straight. “Hello, I’m Angela Lagana,” she said to Bannion. “You must think we’re crazy, but Janie’s had the giggles all afternoon. Please come in.”
“Thanks, I wanted to see your father.”
“Okay, I’ll tell him,” Angela Lagana said.
The girl called Janie giggled as Bannion entered the large foyer. “Honestly,” Angela said, in an exasperated voice, and gave her a despairing glance.
A door off the hall opened and Mike Lagana appeared, hands on his hips, grinning at his daughter and her friend. “You monkeys,” he said. He was a small, slender man, with gray skin, blue-tinged along the jawline, wavy gray hair, and a neat, black mustache. Mike Lagana looked as if he might be a capable, prosperous druggist. There was nothing remarkable about him physically, except his extremely good clothes, and his eyes, which were deep brown, and totally lacking in warmth, interest or any other expression. They might have been highly polished glass balls inserted in his narrow, commonplace face.
“What’s all the commotion?” he said, smiling at the girls and Bannion.
“My name’s Bannion, I’m with Homicide,” Bannion said.
“A pleasure,” Lagana said, extending his hand. “Okay, kids, beat it now.”
The girls trotted up a flight of wide curving stairs, and Lagana smiled after them, his head cocked slightly, a soft little grin on his face. Their excited, conspiratorial rush of conversation was cut off by the sound of a closed door. Lagana laughed, glancing at Bannion. “They say kids keep you young, but I don’t know.” he said. “Come on in and sit down. What was the name again? I’m sorry, but I missed it.”
“Bannion.”
“Sure, I’ve heard of you,” Lagana said, touching Bannion’s arm and guiding him into a large, comfortably furnished study. There were deep chairs, a fireplace, a desk that looked as if it were used, and a pleasing view through French windows of gardens and trees. The wide mantel was crowded with portraits of Lagana’s wife and children, and there was a picture of Lagana taken much earlier, as a young man, in fact, standing between a rather sullen-looking elderly couple in cheap, heavy clothes. Above the mantel hung an oil painting of a white-haired woman with a dark complexion and mild, worried eyes.
“That’s my mother,” Lagana said, smiling. “A great old woman. They don’t make ’em like that anymore, eh? Our old mothers were the last of their kind.” Lagana smiled into his mother’s mild, slightly worried eyes. “Yes, a great old person,” he said. “She died a year ago May. She lived here with me, had her own suite, bathroom, everything. Well, that isn’t what you came out for, I’m sure,” he said, with a little laugh. “What is it this time? The Benefit ball game? Pension Fund drive?”
“I’m here about a murder,” Bannion said.
Lagana looked surprised. “Yes? Go on.”
“I thought you might help me on it,” Bannion said.
Lagana seemed irritated now, but puzzled. “Who do you work for, by the way? Wilks?”
“Yes, Wilks. I’m here about a girl named Lucy Carroway, who was murdered last week. She was tortured first, then tossed out of a car on the Lancaster Pike. It was an old-fashioned liquidation, and I thought—”
Lagana cut him off with a sharp, angry gesture. “I don’t care what you thought. You’ve got no business coming here, and you know it.” He frowned at Bannion. “I’m glad to help you boys when I can, but I’ve got an office for that sort of thing. This is my home, and I won’t have dirt tracked into it. We’ll forget it this time, but don’t ever make this mistake again. Do you understand?”
“I thought you might help me on this job,” Bannion said.
“Goddamnit, don’t you hear good?” Lagana said, in an angry voice. “Where do you think you are? A station house, or a pool room, maybe? This is where I live, where my family lives, where my mother died. What makes you think I want cops stinking it up?” He paused, breathing hard. “I’m sorry to talk this way. I don’t like to. But you’re out of line, friend, way out of line. I said I’d forget it, and I mean it. This time. Now, I’m kind of busy, so you’ll have to run along.” He put a hand on Bannion’s arm, and his expression changed; he smiled. “No hard feeling, eh? Tell you what: See me downtown tomorrow if you need some help. That’s fair enough?”