David Morrell - Assumed Identity

“The look on your face. You’re a hell of a good actor. But nobody’s that good. You really didn’t know anything about Bailey and the Doyles being killed.”

“That’s right.” Buchanan’s throat was so dry that he could hardly speak. “I didn’t know.” His eyes ached as he reached for his Coke can and swallowed.

For an instant, he stubbornly suspected that he’d been tricked, that these newspaper clippings weren’t genuine. But he couldn’t maintain his suspicion. By hindsight, what had happened to Bailey and the Doyles felt so operationally right, so tactically logical that he didn’t doubt the truth of what had happened. He’d been tricked, yes. But not by Holly.

“Or maybe there is a coincidence,” she said. “Maybe Jack Doyle did just happen to kill his wife the same night Bailey died in an explosion.”

“No.”

“You think it was a double murder?”

“It can’t be anything else.”

“How can you be sure?”

Buchanan pointed at the newspaper article.“‘. . shot her with a thirty-eight-caliber snub-nosed revolver.’ No way.”

“I’m missing something. What’s wrong with using a thirty-eight-caliber. .?”

“Snub-nosed revolver? This,” Buchanan said. “Jack Doyle was an ex-SEAL.”

“Yes. A Navy commando. I still don’t. .”

“Weapons were his business. To him, a thirty-eight-caliber snub-nosed revolver was a toy. Oh, he did have one in his house. For his wife. In case Cindy had to protect herself while he was away. But Jack had a lot of other handguns there as well, and for him, the weapon of choice was a nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol. He loved his wife so much that I envied him. Her cancer was serious. It wasn’t responding to treatment. She was probably going to die from it. But it hadn’t yet reached the point where her suffering was greater than her dignity could bear. When that day came, though, if Jack decided-with Cindy’s permission-to free her from her suffering, he sure as hell would not have used a weapon that he didn’t respect.”

“Your world’s a whole lot different than mine,” Holly said. “Ethics about which weapon to use for a murder-suicide.”

“Jack wasn’t any nut. Don’t think for a minute that. .”

“No,” Holly said. “That isn’t what I meant. What I did mean was exactly what I said. Your world’s very different than mine. No value judgment intended. My father was an attorney. He didn’t approve of guns. The first time I saw one, aside from in movies, was when I was reporting on a gang war in Los Angeles.”

Buchanan waited.

“So,” Holly said. “If it was a double murder, who did it? The same people who killed Bob Bailey?”

Temples throbbing, Buchanan sipped his Coke, then stared at the label. “I had nothing to do with any of it.”

“You still haven’t read the third newspaper clipping.”

Buchanan lowered his gaze, apprehensive about what he would see.

ACCIDENT VICTIM STILL NOT FOUND

FT. LAUDERDALE-Divers continue to search for the body of Victor Grant, the presumed occupant of a rental car that last night crashed through a barrier and sank within a section of the Intracoastal Waterway south of Oakland Park Boulevard. Numerous empty beer cans in the vehicle lead authorities to suspect that Grant was intoxicated when he lost control of his car. A suitcase and a windbreaker containing a wallet with Victor Grant’s identification were recovered from the car. Police suspect that the victim’s body floated from an open window and became wedged between one of the numerous docks in the area.

Buchanan felt as if he had plummeted and would never hit bottom.

“The reason I didn’t kick and fight when you wanted your Victor Grant passport back,” Holly said, “is I’ve taken photographs of every page. I’ve got photographs of you in Fort Lauderdale. I can link you to Bailey. I can link you to Doyle. This newspaper article proves that somebody named Victor Grant was in Fort Lauderdale and disappeared the same night Bailey and Doyle were killed. You said my editor would be disappointed because my story didn’t hang together. Well, it seems to me that the story hangs together beautifully.”

Buchanan felt a jolt as if he had struck bottom.

“I’m waiting for a reaction,” Holly said. “What do you think about my story now?”

“The real question is, What do I feel?”

“I don’t understand.”

Buchanan rubbed his aching forehead. “Why does ambition make people so stupid? Holly, the answer to the question What do I feel? is I feel terrified. And so should you. I’m a fortuneteller, did you know that? I really have a gift for predicting the future. And given what you just told me, I can guarantee that if you go any further with this story, you’ll be dead by this time tomorrow.”

Holly blinked.

“And,” Buchanan said, his voice hoarse, “if I don’t give the best performance of my life, so will I. Because the same people who killed Jack Doyle and Bob Bailey will make sure of it. Is that plain enough for you? Is that what you wanted me to say? That would make a good quote. It’s too bad you can’t use it.”

“Of course, I can use it. I don’t care if you deny it or-”

“You’re not listening!”

Buchanan spoke so loudly that several people standing along the railing of the steamboat swung and stared at him.

He leaned close to Holly, his voice a raw whisper. “In your world, people are afraid of getting caught breaking the law. In my world, people make their own laws. If they feel threatened, they’ll shoot you or drop you from a building or hit you with a car and then have a good dinner, feeling justified because they’ve protected themselves. You will absolutely, positively be dead by this time tomorrow if we don’t find a way to convince my people that you are not a threat to them. If I feel terrified, you’re a fool if you don’t.”

Holly studied him. “This is another act. You’re just trying to trick me into backing off.”

“I give up,” Buchanan said. “Look out for yourself. Believe me, I intend to look after my self.”

Buchanan walked into the Crowne Plaza’s lobby. While he waited for the elevator, he glanced around and noticed that the man in the seersucker suit had been replaced by a man in a jogging suit. He, too, was pretending to read a newspaper. After all, there wasn’t much to do that seemed natural while sitting in a lobby and watching for someone. This second man was a clone of the first: late twenties, well-built, short hair, intense eyes.

Military, Buchanan thought. The same as the first man. Civilian intelligence agencies had access to surveillance personnel of various appearances. In contrast, military surveillance operatives tended to resemble one another in terms of sex, age, body type, and hairstyle. More, they had a collected, disciplined, single-minded look about them.

Holly, he thought. They’re still looking for her.

He got into the elevator, went up to the twelfth floor, and took out his key. Holly’s revelations on the steamboat, combined with the pain in his side and the ache in his head, had exhausted him. Fear had exerted its effect. He needed to rest. He needed to think.

When he opened the door. .

Three people were waiting for him. They sat in plain view, obviously not wanting to startle him and provoke a defensive reaction.

Buchanan knew each of them.

Alan, the portly man who a few days before had been Buchanan’s debriefer at the apartment complex in Alexandria, Virginia, sat on the bed. In Alexandria, he’d habitually worn a brown-checkered sport coat. Here, his sport coat was again checkered, but this time the color was blue.