Assumed Identity (1993) (25 page)

He steered toward Bailey, pulled the throttle back all the way, felt the bow sink, floated next to Bailey, and grabbed the side of his boat.

'How ya doin', Crawford?'

'How many times do I have to tell you? My name isn't Crawford.'

Bailey pulled the pop tab on a can of Blue Ribbon. 'Yeah, I'm beginnin' to think you're right about that. It's probably somethin' else besides Crawford. Sure as hell, though, it ain't Victor Grant.'

'Look, I've done everything I can to prove it to you. That's my limit. I've run out of patience. I want you to quit following me. I want you to quit-'

'Almost forgot. Pardon me for bein' rude. I got another beer if you'd like-'

'Shove it up your ass.'

'Now is that any way to talk to an ol' buddy? Not to mention a business associate?'

'Give it a rest! I never saw you before you showed up in that jail in Mexico.'

'Well, that's where you're wrong.' Bailey lowered his shoes from the powerboat's console and straightened behind the wheel. 'I've got a product to sell, and you're gonna buy it. When you joined those folks on that yacht, I figured you meant to get the hundred thousand from them, but you didn't carry anythin' off. Time's flyin'. You better find that money some place. 'Cause after midnight tonight I. By the way, that gal on the yacht is some looker, ain't she? Through this big lens on my camera, I could see her so close. What's that phone commercial? "Reach out and touch someone"? I got some real good pictures of her, those two guys and you on the deck. Nice and clear. Photography's a hobby of mine. Matter of fact, I got some pictures here in this envelope-'

'I'm not interested.'

'Oh, but I guarantee you'll find these pictures real interestin'. I have to confess I didn't take 'em, though. Had 'em lifted off a tape and then cleaned up. But if you didn't know the difference, you'd swear-'

'What are you talking about?'

'Just look at the damned pictures, Crawford.''

Hesitant, Buchanan accepted the manila envelope. Chest tight, he was preoccupied by the threat of the pictures that Bailey had taken of him with the colonel, the major, and the captain. The officers weren't public figures. Bailey wouldn't know who they were. But if Bailey gave the pictures to the police and someone got curious about who was on that yacht, if the colonel wer e identified, the consequence would be disastrous. Somehow Buchanan had to get his hands on the film.

But as he withdrew the photographs - eight-by-ten, black-and-white glossies - as he sorted through them, he suddenly realized that he had much more to worry about than the pictures Bailey had taken of him with the colonel on the yacht. Much more. Because the photographs he now examined depicted a scene from December of 1990 in Frankfurt, Germany. They'd been lifted from a television news tape. They showed American hostages, newly released from Iraq, arriving at the Frankfurt airport. And there, in long shots and close-ups, was Big Bob Bailey getting off the plane with.

'A mighty good likeness of you, Crawford,' Bailey said. 'I've got copies of the original tape, so nobody can say the pictures have been fooled with. If you piss me off by not payin' up, I swear to God I'm gonna send 'em to the cops along with the Mexican police sketch for Ed Potter and those bottom photographs of Victor Grant.'

Photos of Victor Grant? Buchanan asked himself with puzzled alarm. He shuffled to the bottom of the pile and felt his chest turn cold as he stared at three photographs of him outside the Mexican prison, where he talked to Garson Woodfield from the American embassy.

'Another good likeness,' Bailey said. 'In case you miss the point, that guy from the embassy had to be in the picture so there'd be an absolutely straight-arrow witness to identify you as Victor Grant. I've got you as three different people, Crawford. Got you good.'

Stalling for time while he thought, Buchanan kept staring at the pictures. The ones in Mexico. How had-? At once Buchanan remembered. While he'd been talking to Woodfield across from the Mexican prison, he'd noticed a woman in the background, among the crowd on the sidewalk beyond Woodfield. She'd been American. Late twenties. A redhead. Attractive. Tall. Nice figure. Wearing beige slacks and a yellow blouse. But the reason he'd noticed her hadn't been her appearance.

She'd been aiming a camera at him.

Buchanan peered up from the photographs, and there wasn't any question now that Bailey had an accomplice. Possibly more than one. Dealing with him would be extremely complicated. I have to warn the colonel.

'Keep those pictures. I've got plenty like them in a real safe place, along with the negatives,' Bailey said. 'Plus, I've also got copies of the TV news tape from Germany. Hey, it isn't often I'm on television. A buddy taped me and made me a present of it. I never thought it would be worth anythin'. Bailey leaned forward. 'Admit it, Crawford, you're screwed. Stop actin' innocent. Accept the penalty for gettin' caught. Pay the hundred-thousand dollars. I won't even ask you why all the names. That's your business. My business is gettin' paid.'

Buchanan suddenly noticed: throughout their conversation, Bailey had kept his face angled to the left, as if he had a stiff neck, forcing Buchanan to shift his boat and angle his own face a similar way in order to confront Bailey eye-to-eye.

Stiff neck?

Buchanan spun toward the concrete dock across from him, and there - between two moored sailboats - was the redhead, a camera in front of her face, taking pictures of Bailey and him. Her clothes weren't the same. This time, they were sneakers, jeans, and a denim shirt, but even though her face was obscured by th e camera, there was no mistaking that athletic figure and that long, dramatic, flame-red hair.

'So you noticed my friend.' Bailey exhaled from his cigarette. 'I guess it's obvious that gettin' rid of me won't solve your problem. She's got plenty of pictures of you and me, and if anythin' happens to me - which you better hope doesn't happen, not even an accident, like me gettin' drunk and fallin' down a flight of stairs and breakin' my neck - those pictures'll be sent to the cops. Plus, she helped me make copies of the pictures you're holdin', and she also took pictures of you with them folks on that yacht. It might be interestin' to find out who they are.'

The red-haired woman lowered the camera and stared across the water toward them. Definitely the same person, Buchanan thought. Strong forehead. Excellent cheekbones. Sensuous lips and chin. She reminded him of a cover model for a fashion magazine. But from the stern way she watched him, Buchanan guessed that a fashion photographer would have a hell of a hard time to get her to smile.

'Crawford, you had plenty to say until now. What's the matter?' Bailey asked. 'Cat got your tongue? Or maybe you can't think of any more bullshit. Pay attention. I want my money.'

Buchanan hesitated, then made a choice. 'When and where?'

'Stay close to your buddy's phone. I'll call his place at eight-thirty tonight and give you directions.'

Chapter 13.

It was dark outside. Buchanan kept the guest room's light off as he packed, relying on the slight illumination from the hallway. After he finished and made sure that he hadn't left anything behind, he considered taking the 9-millimeter pistol from the holster attached to the side of the bed but decided against it. If there were trouble, the police might trace the gun to Doyle, and Buchanan didn't want to involve him any worse than he already was.

Leaving the guest room, Buchanan almost turned left toward the lights in the kitchen but changed his mind and instead turned right toward a door farther along the dimly lit hallway. He knocked, received no answer, noticed that the door was slightly ajar, and decided to take a chance. Pushing the door farther open, he knocked again. 'Cindy?'

'. What is it?' her weary voice asked from the darkness.

Buchanan entered, crossed the murky room, and knelt beside the bed, able to see her shadowy contour under the sheets but not her face. 'I missed you at supper.'

'Tired,' she whispered. 'The casserole.?'

'Was excellent. You didn't need to use up your energy making it. Jack and I could have eaten take-out.'

'Not in my home.' Cindy managed to emphasize the word despite her fatigue.

'Well,' Buchanan said, 'I just wanted to let you know I appreciate it and to thank you for everything.'

She moved slowly, evidently turning toward him. 'You sound as if. Are you leaving?'

'I have to.'

She tried to sit up but couldn't. 'I hope not because of me.'

'What would make you think that?'

'Because people feel self-conscious about me being sick. It's hard to be around.'

'I don't feel that way,' Buchanan said. 'It's just that I have things to do. It's time for me to move on and do them.'

She didn't reply.

'Cindy?'

'I sort of hoped you'd stay so you could be company for Jack.' She inhaled in a way that made Buchanan suspect she was crying. 'Seems like most of the time I'm either in the hospital or here in bed. I'm not afraid for me, but I feel so sorry for Jack.'

'He loves you very much.'

'Sure.'

'He told me that several times. He told me how proud he was of you, the way you put up with being married to him when he was in the service and how you stonewalled those reporters.'

She chuckled slightly, then sniffled. 'Yeah, I was tough. The good times. Except Jack was gone so much then, and now that we're together.'

'Right. You just said it. You're together. And you don't need me around to make a crowd. In a few minutes, I'll be on my way.'

'Take my car.'

Buchanan cocked his head in surprise.

'I get the feeling you'll be needing it.' She touched his hand, 'I sure won't. I haven't driven it since before I was in the hospital this last time. Take it. Please.'

'I'll get it back to you when I'm settled.'

'There isn't any rush, believe me.'

'Cindy?'

'Yes?'

'I'm sorry.'

'Yeah. Me, too.'

Buchanan leaned down and kissed her gently on the cheek, his lips salty from her tears. 'Take care.'

'I always tried to. Didn't do me any good, though. You take care.'

'I'll have to.' He stood from beside the bed. 'Maybe some time I'll be back this way.'

She didn't respond.

'I'd better let you get some sleep.' Buchanan touched her cheek, then backed from the room and closed the door.

Chapter 14.

Doyle sat, playing solitaire at the kitchen table. He didn't look up when Buchanan entered the room. 'I overheard.'

'And?'

'Thanks. Friends mean a lot. These days, she doesn't have too many. Most of them ran when they found out how sick she was. They didn't know enough to say what you just did to Cindy.'

'What was that?'

'"I'm sorry."' Doyle looked up from the cards. 'Cindy's right. I think it's a good idea to take her car instead of my van. Less conspicuous. When you're done with it, just let me know where to pick it up. And this is another good idea.' Doyle reached under the table, where there must have been a bracket - because when his hand reappeared, it held a Beretta 9-millimeter pistol.

Buchanan glanced toward the windows. The blinds were pulled so no one outside could see the weapon. But he was still wary of possible hidden microphones. Instead of talking, he shook his head in refusal.

Doyle mouthed, Why not?

Buchanan picked up a notepad on the counter and wrote, What if I had to dump it?

Doyle took the pen and wrote on the notepad, I took it from a dead soldier in Panama. It can't be linked to me.

Buchanan studied Doyle, then nodded. He removed the magazine to make sure it was loaded, reinserted the magazine, worked the slide back and forth to chamber a round, lowered the hammer, then stuck the weapon beneath his belt at his spine, and covered it by putting on a dark, brown, nylon windbreaker that he'd borrowed from Doyle.

Doyle assessed the effect. 'Fits you perfect.'

Buchanan glanced toward the clock on the stove. Eight twenty-five. Bailey was due to call in five minutes. Doyle shrugged as if to say, Be patient. Self-conscious because the kitchen might be bugged, neither man spoke. Doyle ripped up the sheet of paper, burned the pieces in a saucer, and washed the ashes down the sink, more for something to do, it seemed, than for the sake of destroying an incriminating object. Then he returned to his game of solitaire, appearing to understand that Buchanan needed to focus his mind and not clutter it with small talk.

Eight-thirty. Buchanan kept staring toward the phone. Five minutes passed. Then ten. His head began to throb. At last, at a quarter to nine, the phone rang.

Buchanan grabbed it before the noise could wake Cindy.

'There's a mini-mall near you on Pine Island Road. The intersection of Sunrise Boulevard,' Bailey's crusty voice said.

'I know the place. I've driven past it.'

'Go over to the pizza joint. Stand to the right of the entrance. Be there at nine. Come alone.'

Before Buchanan could acknowledge the message, Bailey hung up.

Buchanan frowned and turned to Doyle. 'Got to run an errand.'

'The keys to the car are in that drawer.'

'Thanks.' Buchanan shook his hand.