David Morrell - Assumed Identity

He frowned harder when he saw that the story was datelined Fort Lauderdale.

EXPLOSION KILLS THREE

FT. LAUDERDALE-A powerful explosion shortly before midnight last night destroyed a car in the parking lot of Paul’s-on-the-River restaurant, killing its occupant, identified by a remnant of his driver’s license as Robert Bailey, 48, a native of Oklahoma. The explosion also killed two customers leaving the restaurant. Numerous other cars were destroyed or damaged. Charred fragments of a substantial amount of money found at the scene have prompted authorities to theorize that the explosion may have been the consequence of a recent escalating war among drug smugglers.

His heart now pounding faster than the thump-thump-thump of the paddlewheeler’s engine, Buchanan lowered the clipping and turned to Holly. No matter what, he couldn’t let her detect his reaction. His head ached even more fiercely. “All those people killed. A terrible thing. But what does this have to do with me? Why did you show it to-?”

“Are you denying that you knew Robert Bailey?”

“I don’t know anything about this.”

And that was certainly the truth, Buchanan thought.

He strained to look calm as dismay flooded through him.

Holly squinted. “Mostly, he called himself ‘Big Bob’ Bailey. Maybe that refreshes your memory.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Jesus, Buchanan, you are making me impatient. You and I both know he bumped into you in Cancun. I was there. ”

Buchanan felt as if he’d been jolted by electricity.

“I was watching from a corner of the restaurant,” Holly said. “Club Internacional. I saw it happen. That’s when all your trouble started. When Bailey stumbled into one of your lives.”

Buchanan came close to revealing his shock.

“Those two drug dealers became suspicious when Bailey called you Crawford instead of Potter. They took you down to the beach. Bailey went after you. He told me later that he interrupted a fight. You shot the two drug dealers and their bodyguard. Then you ran along the beach into the night, and the police arrested Bailey, thinking he was responsible.”

“You’re not a reporter. You’re a fiction writer. When was this supposed to have happened? I’ve never been to Cancun. I’ve never. .”

“Not as Brendan Buchanan you haven’t, but you sure as hell were there as Ed Potter. I told you I was in the restaurant. I saw it happen!”

How? Buchanan thought. How did she get there? How did she know I’d be there? How did-?

“You saw me taking pictures of you outside the jail in Merida,” Holly said. “Of course, that doesn’t prove you knew Bailey, even though I saw the police bring him in to see you at the jail. But later, near Pier Sixty-six in Fort Lauderdale, you saw me photographing you and Bailey talking to each other in the channel. I already showed you the pictures I took.”

“You showed me photographs, yes, and I admit one of the men did have some resemblance to me. He wasn’t me,” Buchanan said. “But he did resemble me. The thing is, I’ve never been to Fort Lauderdale, either.”

“I believe you.”

“Good.”

“As Brendan Buchanan. But as Victor Grant, you very definitely have been to Fort Lauderdale.”

Buchanan shook his head as if disappointed that she persisted in her delusion. “And one of the men in the photographs you showed me is Bailey?”

Holly looked exasperated.

“I don’t get it,” Buchanan said. “Did you know this Bailey? Were you following him? Why are you so interested in. .?”

“I wasn’t following him. I was following you. And why am I interested in Bailey? Because he worked for me. ”

Buchanan felt his stomach cramp.

Two children ran by, clambering down stairs to a lower deck. Their mother hurried after them, shouting for them to be careful. Buchanan was grateful for the interruption.

“Oh, he wasn’t working for me when he bumped into you in Cancun,” Holly said. “But I made sure he was working for me after that. What’s the word you people use? I recruited him. A thousand dollars, plus expenses. Bailey was really down on his luck. He didn’t think twice before he accepted.”

“That’s still a lot of money for a reporter to be able. .”

“Big story. Big expense account.”

“Your editor won’t be happy when your story doesn’t hang together.”

Holly looked furious. “Are you on another planet? Do they teach you people to deny everything no matter how obviously true it is? Or are you so out of touch with reality that you can honestly convince yourself that none of this happened, because it happened to someone else, even though that someone else is you?”

“I’m sorry about what happened to Bailey,” Buchanan said. “I meant what I told you. It’s a terrible thing. But you have to believe me-I had nothing to do with it.”

Who did, though? Buchanan thought. How did-?

The answer was suddenly obvious.

They had plastic explosive in the walls of the cooler I gave him. When he got in his car, he must have opened the cooler to look at the money and. .

That’s all he had to do to detonate it-open the cooler.

But what if he’d opened the cooler while I was with him?

“What’s the matter?” Holly asked.

“. . Excuse me?”

“You turned pale again.”

“It’s just this headache.”

“I thought perhaps it was because you’d glanced at the second clipping.”

“Second. .?” Buchanan lowered his gaze toward the second of the three clippings in his hand.

MURDER-SUICIDE

FT. LAUDERDALE-Responding to a telephone call from a frightened neighbor, police early this morning investigated gunshots at 233 Glade Street in Plantation and discovered the bodies of Jack Doyle (34) and his wife, Cindy (30), both dead from bullet wounds. It is believed that Mr. Doyle, despondent about his wife’s cancer, shot her with a.38-caliber snub-nosed revolver while she slept in their bedroom, then used the same weapon on himself.

Buchanan reread the story. He read it again. And then again. He stopped being aware of the motion of the steamboat, of its thumping engines, of the splashing paddlewheel. He was oblivious to the crowd at the railings, the trees along the river, and the humid breeze on his face.

He just kept staring at the piece of newspaper.

“I’m sorry,” Holly said.

Buchanan took a while before he realized that she had said something. He didn’t respond. He just kept staring at the clipping.

“Are you going to deny you knew him? If you’re tempted to, don’t,” Holly said. “I took photographs of you and Jack Doyle together, just as I did of you and Bailey.”

“No,” Buchanan said. With tremendous effort, he lowered the clipping and turned, concentrating on Holly. His mind reeled from the implications of what he’d just read. For the first time in his long career as a deep-cover operative, he did the unthinkable.

He broke cover. “No.” His unsteadiness, combined with the motion of the steamboat, made him feel as if he was about to fall from his chair. “I won’t deny it. I knew Jack Doyle. And Cindy. His wife. I knew her, too. I liked her. I liked her a lot.”

Holly’s eyes became more intense. “Earlier, you were talking about coincidence, about how sometimes it has to be more than that, like your friend not showing up at Cafe du Monde but a man showing up to stab you. Well, that’s how I feel about what you just read. You knew Bailey. He’s dead. You also knew Jack Doyle and his wife. They’re dead, too. And it all happened on the same night. What’s. .? I just realized something.”

“What?”