David Morrell - Assumed Identity

Buchanan broke the connection.

Doyle stared at him. “How bad?”

Buchanan’s cheek muscles hardened. “I’m not sure. I’ll know in a minute.” He kept his hand on the phone.

But it took only ten seconds before the phone rang again.

Buchanan scowled and let it ring three more times before he picked it up. “Bon Voyage, Inc.”

“Crawford, don’t kid yourself that you can get rid of me that easy,” Bailey said. “I’m stubborn. You can fool the Mexican police, and you can fool the American embassy, but take my word, you can’t fool me. I know your real name ain’t Grant. I know your real name ain’t Potter. And all of a sudden, I’m beginnin’ to wonder if your real name is even Crawford. Who are you, buddy? It ought to be worth a lousy hundred thousand to keep me from finding out.”

“I’ve run out of patience,” Buchanan said. “Stop bothering me.”

“Hey, you don’t know what being bothered is.”

“I mean it. Leave me alone, or I’ll call the police.”

“Yeah, the police might be a good idea,” Bailey said. “Maybe they can figure out what’s goin’ on and who you are. Go ahead. Prove you’re an innocent, upstandin’ citizen. Call the cops. I’d love to talk to them about those three spic drug dealers you shot in Mexico and why you’re usin’ so many different names.”

“What do I have to do to convince-?”

“Buddy, you don’t have to convince me of anything. All you have to do is pay me the hundred thousand bucks. After that, you can call yourself Napoleon for all I care.”

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve-”

“The only words I want to hear are ‘Here’s your money.’ Crawford or whoever the hell you are, if you don’t get with the program soon, I swear to God I’ll phone the cops myself.”

“Where are you?”

“You don’t really expect me to answer that. When you’ve got the hundred thousand-and I want it by tomorrow- then I’ll let you know where I am.”

“We have to meet. I can prove you’re wrong.”

“And just how are you gonna do that, buddy? Cross your heart and hope to die?” Bailey laughed, and this time, it was he who slammed down the phone.

Buchanan’s head throbbed. He turned to Doyle. “Yeah, it’s bad.”

He had to keep reminding himself that Bailey or somebody else might have planted a microphone in the office. So far, he hadn’t said anything incriminating. Whatever explanation he gave Doyle, it had to be consistent with Victor Grant’s innocent viewpoint. “That jerk who caused me so much trouble in Mexico. He thinks I shot three drug dealers down there. Now he’s trying to blackmail me. Otherwise, he says he’ll call the cops.”

Doyle played his part. “Let him try. I don’t think the local cops care what happens in Mexico, and since you didn’t do anything wrong, he’ll look like a fool. Then you can have him charged with extortion.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Why?”

Buchanan’s wound cramped as he suddenly thought of something. The phone had rung just after Buchanan and Doyle entered the office. Was that merely a coincidence? Jesus.

Buchanan hurried to the front door, yanked it open, and glanced tensely both ways along the street. A woman was carrying groceries toward a cabin cruiser. A car passed. A jogger went by. Two boat mechanics unloaded a crate from the back of a truck. A kid on a bicycle squinted at the bandage around Buchanan’s head.

Buchanan pulled it off and continued staring along the street. His head pounded from the fierce sunlight. There! On the left. At the far end. Near the beach. A big man with strong shoulders and a brush cut-Bailey-was standing outside a phone booth, peering in Buchanan’s direction.

Bailey raised his muscular right arm in greeting when he saw Buchanan notice him. Then, as Buchanan started up the street toward him, Bailey grinned-even at a distance, his smile was obvious-got in a dusty car, and drove away.

“Cindy?” Doyle hurried into the house.

The kitchen was deserted.

“Cindy?”

No answer.

Doyle turned to Buchanan. “The door was locked. Her car’s still here. Where would she go on foot? Why would-? Cindy?” Doyle hurried deeper into the house.

Buchanan stayed in the kitchen, frowning out a side window toward the driveway and the street.

“Cindy?” he heard from a room down the hall.

At once Doyle’s voice softened. “Are you. .? I’m sorry I woke you, honey. I didn’t know you were sleeping. When I found the door locked, I worried that something might have. .”

Doyle’s voice softened even more, and Buchanan couldn’t hear it. Uneasy, he waited, continuing to stare outside.

When Doyle came back to the kitchen, he leaned against the refrigerator and rubbed his haggard cheeks.

“Is she all right?” Buchanan asked.

Doyle shook his head. “After we left, she threw up her lunch. She felt so weak she had to lie down. She’s been sleeping all afternoon.”

“Did any strangers phone her or come around and bother her?”

“No.”

“Then why was the house locked?”

Doyle looked confused by the question. “Well, obviously so she’d feel safe while she was napping.”

“Sure,” Buchanan said. “But when you got here, you were surprised to find the door locked. You assumed she’d gone somewhere, which means she’s not in the habit of locking the door while she’s home.” Buchanan walked toward him. “And that means the reason she locked the door is I’m here. She senses I brought trouble. And she’s right. I did bring trouble. I don’t belong here. You can’t worry about me while you’re worried about-”

The ringing of the phone seemed extra loud.

Doyle flinched.

Buchanan gestured for him to pick it up. “This is your house. If I answer, it’ll seem unusual. We have to pretend everything’s normal. Hurry, before Cindy-”

Doyle grabbed the phone. “Hello?. . Who is this? What do you want him for?. . Listen, you son of a bitch. My wife might have answered. If you bother her, if-”

It’s going to pieces quickly, Buchanan thought. We’re almost to the point where anybody listening to a recording of what we said would have to wonder if I’m really the man I claim to be. He motioned sharply for Doyle to be quiet and wrested the phone from him. “I told you to stop.”

“Crawford, your buddy sounds as if he’s losin’ it,” Bailey said. “I guess that’s because his wife is sick, huh? Too bad. A nice-lookin’ gal like that.”

Yeah, you did your homework, Buchanan thought. You’ve been watching. You must have flown to Miami right after I did. You drove to Fort Lauderdale and staked out where I’m supposed to be working. You found out where the man who pretends to employ me lives. You waited for me to get out of the hospital, and if I didn’t show up for work, that would prove I wasn’t who I claimed to be. Then you could really make trouble.

“A hundred thousand dollars. Tomorrow, Crawford. If you don’t think I’m serious, you’re in for a surprise. Because, believe me, I will call the cops.”

At once, Buchanan heard the dial tone.

Pensive, he set down the phone.

Doyle’s face was crimson. “Don’t ever yank a phone out of my hand.”

“Jack, honey?”

They spun.

Cindy wavered at the entrance to the kitchen. She gripped the doorjamb. Her skin was pale. The black-and-red handkerchief had slipped, exposing her hairless scalp. “Who was that? Who were you yelling at?”

Doyle’s throat made a sound as if he was being choked. He crossed the room and held her.