The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) by John R. Maxim Page B

the screws that held it had been torn loose and were probably in Billy's pocket. Carla Benedict tried the window. It opened easily. The clasp fell into Russo's waiting hand.
     
    Russo opened his bag and extracted two pairs of surgical gloves. He waited as Carla removed her rings and put her pair on, then helped her through the garage window. Russo followed. The penlight's beam scanned the garage interior. Russo allowed the beam to pause meaningfully on the Mercedes—that would have been where the intruder waited, in it or behind it—then it traced a path to Gelman's kitchen door. He opened his bag once more and withdrew its leather tray of imple ments and drugs. Under the tray and clamped to the bottom was a Belgian automatic pistol, plus a silencer that was fully eight inches long and as wide around as a half-dollar. He screwed the silencer to the barrel as Carla refilled the bag.
     
“Go,” he whispered.
     
Gelman's heart jumped. A voice. A woman's voice. And he hadn't imagined it because the arm at his throat went tense and it twisted slightly as if the man had turned his head to look. Then he felt the arm relax and he heard what sounded like a sigh.
     
“What good is this?” asked the voice at his ear.
     
“At this point. . . .” Another voice. A man's voice. “ I guess not much.” He heard footsteps on the tile. The man. He could see him now, coming around the Jacuzzi. A gun. A long black gun hanging at his side.
     
“Doctor?” Oh, God. Oh, thank God. “Doctor R usso?”              
     
Gary Russo ignored him. He gestured toward the vodka bottle and looked into the face of the man hold ing Stanley Gelman. “How much?”
     
“About ten ounces in ten minutes.”
     
Russo glanced at his watch and nodded , He raised his gun sideways, looking at it as if it were so much useless metal, then stepped to a marble   counter top and set it down.              
     
“Wait,” Gelman gasped. “What are you doing? Get this guy off me, Goddamn it.” Gelman could hear that his speech was slurring. The one holding him was get ting him drunk. He understood that. It was some kind of a set-up. But this part he didn't understand at all. That's Gary Russo. He's a fucking doctor, for Christ's sake.
     
“Billy, what did you have in mind, exactly?” Russo asked the question calmly, clinically. No hint of disap proval.
     
The man—who the hell is Billy?—seemed to be an swering but not with words. Gelman could feel him gesturing. Then he saw Russo nod his understanding and shake his head as if he disagreed. Russo moved closer and knelt at the side of the tub.
     
“Dr. Gelman, just relax now,” he said. “What seda tives do you keep here in the house?”
     
    ”Wha . . . sedatives?” Gelman blinked disbeliev ingly . “What the hell are ... will you just get this guy the fuck off me?”
     
    “He's not going to hurt you. What about Valium? You must have Valium.”
     
    Gelman stared stupidly. This is crazy, he thought. It's like one of those nightmares where you're in terri ble trouble but everyone around you is just calmly pass ing the time of day. You're strapped into the electric chair and the warden and the executioner are making small talk. How's the wife? Kids okay? They sure grow up fast, don't they? Got any pictures? But this wasn't any execution. They're just playing some goddamned game. Okay. You want to play, we'll play. But tomorrow I'm going to have your ass.
     
“Valium. I have some Valium.”
     
“How much?”
     
“I don't know. Maybe fifty milligrams, I.V.”
     
“How much was in the vial originally?”
     
”A hundred milligrams. Hey, so what?”
     
    “Thank you, Doctor. That's fine.” Russo looked up at Carla, who was already poking through Russo's medical bag. He held up three fingers and then formed a zero. Thirty milligrams.
     
    Gelman heard the sounds she was making. He'd for gotten about her. That was a woman's voice he'd heard first. She'd said