Assumed Identity

by David R. Morrell

  Buchanan walked across the room, heading toward a door at the far end.

  “Wait. What do you think you’re doing?” Maltin exclaimed in outrage. “You can’t . . . Stop right there. You stop where you are!”

  “But I told you, I need a bathroom.” Buchanan opened the door, entering a tastefully, expensively decorated hallway.

  Maltin charged after him. “If you don’t stop, I’ll call the police!”

  Buchanan kept on. The cigarette smoke was stronger. It seemed to come from . . .

  He opened a door on his left, revealing an oak-furnished study from which cigarette smoke drifted. A surprised man straightened from where he’d been leaning his hips against a large polished desk. He was in his middle thirties, wore an average suit, had hair in slight need of a trim, needed a touchup on his shoes, held a cigarette, and generally looked like the sort of person whom Frederick Maltin would prefer to avoid.

  “Sorry,” Buchanan said. “I thought this was the bathroom.”

  “No problem,” the man said.

  A handgun, its butt forward, bulged beneath the left side of the man’s suit. To draw the weapon, he would have to use his right hand, but his right hand held the cigarette. The man leaned forward as if to flick ashes into a wastebasket. What he did instead was drop the cigarette into the wastebasket and grab for his weapon.

  Not soon enough. Buchanan didn’t want gunshots to alarm anyone in the building. Clutching the strap of the camera bag, he turned as if to leave. And kept turning. Gaining momentum, he swung the bag hard and fast. The bag collided with the side of the man’s jaw. It hit with a loud, sharp whack. The man arched sideways. His eyes rolled up in his head. Blood flew out of his mouth. With a groan, he landed on an Oriental carpet, skidded, and slammed his skull against the bottom of a shelf of leather-bound books. He breathed but otherwise didn’t move.

  “Jesus Christ.” Frederick Maltin had rushed along the hallway and now gaped in shock at the man on the floor. “Jesus Christ, what have you done?”

  “I think he didn’t want me to use the bathroom.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

  “Yeah, I get the idea. But Jesus isn’t going to help you.”

  Buchanan drew his own gun, which made Maltin gasp and Holly, behind him, flinch. Approaching the man on the floor, Buchanan aimed the weapon at the man’s head while he took the man’s .357 revolver away. Then he checked the man’s pulse, turned the man’s head so that he wouldn’t choke from the blood in his mouth, and straightened, shaking his head. “Sorry about the blood on the carpet, Fred. You ought to be careful about the people you hang around with. Or, rather . . .” Buchanan noticed a satchel on the desk and opened it. “Or, rather, the people you do business with. How much money is in this satchel? It sure is a lot of hundred-dollar bills. Banded in five-thousand-dollar units.” Buchanan took them out and made stacks. “What would you estimate? Let’s see. One hundred thousand. Two hundred thousand. Hard to squeeze all of it in there, and heavy to lug around, but yeah, I’d say that what we’ve got here, all told, is a million dollars.”

  Maltin’s mouth hung open. His face had turned pale.

  Behind him, in the corridor, Holly looked stunned, not only by the money but by what she was witnessing.

  “Fred, get down on your knees.”

  Maltin trembled. “Why?”

  “Just do it. Here.” Buchanan went past Maltin, over to Holly, and gave her the revolver. “If Fred tries to stand up, shoot him.” With a baleful stare toward Maltin, Buchanan went into the corridor.

  “But where are you going?” Holly asked.

  “To make sure we’re alone.”

  3

  Working cautiously, ready with his pistol, Buchanan proceeded from room to room, searching everywhere. Just because he’d found one man, that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be others hiding in other sections of the apartment.

  But he found no one. Relieved, he walked back into the study, again examined the man on the floor, satisfied himself that the man’s life signs were steady, tied his hands with his belt, and turned to Maltin, whose face was beading with sweat that he couldn’t wipe away fast enough. Indeed, Maltin’s burgundy handkerchief was soaked.

  “Sit down, Fred. You look as if you’re going to faint. Is there anything we can get you? A glass of water? Some brandy? Make yourself at home.”

  Maltin’s face was the color of concrete. Sweating more profusely, he nodded with a trace of desperation. “Over there. In the top desk drawer.”

  Buchanan opened the drawer and made a tsking sound. “Fred, I’m disappointed in you. You mean to tell me you’re a candy sniffer? Naughty, naughty, Fred. Haven’t you ever heard of just saying no?”

  Buchanan took a vial of white powder from the drawer and set it on the desk. “But hey, the privacy of your home, an informed adult, blah, blah. Help yourself.”

  Maltin glared at him, then pulled the top from the vial and inhaled cocaine up one nostril, then the other.

  “You got a little on your lip there, Fred.”

  Maltin wiped it off and licked his finger.

  “That’s it. Don’t be wasteful. Now are you comfy, Fred? Are you ready for some conversation?”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  Buchanan slapped him so hard that Maltin didn’t have time to blink before his head was snapped sideways and specks of white powder flew out of his nose. The slap filled the room like the crack of a whip. It left a raw, welting red handprint on Maltin’s cheek.

  Holly raised a startled hand to her mouth.

  Buchanan slapped Maltin’s other cheek, using even more force, snapping Maltin’s head in the other direction.

  Maltin wept uncontrollably. “Please, don’t kill me.” He wailed, his eyes scrunched pathetically, tears welling out of them. “Please.”

  “You’re not paying attention,” Buchanan said. “I want conversation. This satchel. This money, Fred. No one carries around this much cash for anything that’s legal. What is it? A payoff? Were you already thinking about how to get it to an offshore bank so you wouldn’t have to pay taxes on it? I mean, paying taxes on a payoff, that doesn’t seem reasonable, does it? So what were you being paid off for, Fred? It had to do with your ex-wife, right? You drew attention to her, and somebody didn’t like that. So you were told to shut up, and the inducement was . . . Well, you had a choice. A bullet in the brain or a million bucks in the bank. But you’re no dummy. Hell, for a million bucks, you’d sell out anybody. It doesn’t matter if Maria Tomez is in trouble. She divorced you, so let the bitch take care of herself. Right, Fred? Pay attention, Fred. Tell me I’m right, or I’ll slap you till your head’s turned around.”

  Buchanan raised his hand as if to swing, and Maltin cringed. “Please, no, don’t, no, please.”

  “Don’t mumble, Fred. The money’s a payoff, and we got here while it was happening. The deal was, you were supposed to call off the media, and since we were insisting, you decided to interrupt the proceedings and handle us. Except you hadn’t worked out your routine yet. But by noon, when you called the reporters you spoke to yesterday, your act would have been perfect. Right, Fred? Right?” Buchanan feinted his hand at him.

  Maltin swallowed tears, blubbered, and nodded.

  “Now just so this isn’t a one-way conversation, I’ve got a question for you, Fred. Are you ready?”

  Maltin struggled to breathe.

  “Who paid you off?”

  Maltin didn’t answer.

  “Fred, I’m talking to you.”

  Maltin bit his lip and didn’t answer.

  Buchanan sighed, telling Holly, “I’m afraid you’d better leave us alone. You don’t want to see this.”

  “Drummond,” Maltin whimpered.

  “What, Fred? You’re mumbling again. Speak up.”

  “Alistair Drummond.”

  “My, my,” Buchanan said. “Your ex-wife’s new companion. And why would Alistair Drummond pay you a million dollars to keep you from telling the media you can
’t find her?”

  “I . . .”

  “You can tell me, Fred.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, don’t disappoint me, Fred. You were doing so well. Why would Drummond pay you off? Think about it. Make a wild guess.”

  “I tell you, I don’t know!”

  “Have you ever had any bones broken, Fred?” Buchanan reached for the little finger on Maltin’s right hand.

  “No! I’m telling the truth!” Maltin yanked his hand away. “Don’t touch me, you bastard! Leave me alone! I mean it! I’m telling the truth! I don’t know anything!”

  “For the last time, Fred, I’m asking you to make a wild guess.”

  “Nothing about Maria has made any sense since she left me and went on that cruise with Drummond nine months ago.”

  “Cruise, Fred? Exactly what cruise are we talking about?”

  “Off Acapulco. Drummond has a two-hundred-foot yacht. He told her she could relax on board while the divorce was being settled. She may have hated me as a husband, but she relied on me as a manager. After that cruise, though, she wouldn’t speak to me about anything. She canceled business meetings with me. She wouldn’t take my telephone calls. The few times I saw her in public, at the Met or at charity events, Drummond’s bodyguards wouldn’t let me near her. Damn it, by not dealing with me, she’s costing me money! A lot of money!”

  “Relax, Fred. The million dollars you were paid to stop bothering her will keep you in cocaine for a while. But do you want some advice? If I were you, I’d use the money to travel. Light and fast and far away. Because I have a very strong feeling that when this is over, whatever it’s about, Alistair Drummond intends to guarantee that you keep quiet, to make sure you don’t come back for more money, to give you a jolt of cocaine that’ll take you right out of this world, if you get my meaning. In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t done it already. My guess is he didn’t want it to happen so soon after you were making speeches in front of those reporters. Too coincidental. Too suspicious. But it will happen, Fred. So I suggest you liquidate, haul ass, change your name, and dig a deep hole. Bury yourself. Because they’ll be coming.”

  Maltin’s face contorted.

  “Be seeing you, Fred.”

  “But . . .?” Maltin gestured toward the unconscious man on the floor. “What about . . .?”

  “The way I see it, you have two options. Think up a good story or be gone by the time he wakes up. Got to run, Fred.”

  4

  “Lord, I’ve never seen anything like that,” Holly said.

  They had emerged from the Sherry-Netherland, turned right off Fifth Avenue, and were walking along Central Park South. Traffic blared while tourists waited to get on horse-drawn carriages.

  “Keep a slower pace,” Buchanan said. The sunlight aggravated his headache. “We don’t want to look as if we’re running away from anything.”

  “And we’re not?” Holly whispered nervously. “You broke a man’s jaw. You assaulted Maltin. He’ll have called the police the second we left his apartment.”

  “No,” Buchanan said. “He’ll be packing.”

  “How can you be sure? Every time I hear a police siren—”

  “Because if you’ve never seen anything like what just happened, Maltin hadn’t, either. If he called the police, he would also have called hotel security, but no one tried to stop us when we left.” Buchanan guided Holly into the Seventh Avenue entrance to Central Park. A cool November breeze tugged at his hair.

  “Why are we going into—?”

  “Backtracking. We’ll turn right at this path up ahead and head back the way we came. To find out if we’re being followed by anyone connected with the guy in Maltin’s apartment. Besides, there aren’t many people in the park. We can talk without being overheard. Maltin was terrified.”

  “No kidding. I felt terrified myself. I got the feeling you were out of control. Jesus, you were going to break his fingers.”

  “No. I knew I wouldn’t have to. But you and Maltin believed I would. The performance was successful.”

  “Don’t you do anything without calculation?”

  “Would you have preferred that I did break his fingers? Come on, Holly. What I did back there was the equivalent of doing an interview.”

  “Not like any interview I ever conducted.”

  Buchanan glanced behind him, then scanned the trees and bushes on either side of them.

  “I don’t mean just the threats,” Holly said. “Why didn’t you keep questioning him? How do you know he was telling the truth?”

  “His eyes,” Buchanan said.

  “Your eyes looked as if you were a maniac.”

  “I’m good with them. I practice with them a lot. They’re the key to being an operative. If somebody believes my eyes, they’ll believe everything else.”

  “Then how can you be so sure about Maltin’s eyes? Maybe he was pretending.”

  “No. It takes one to know one. Maltin’s a single-role person. A shit who crumbles as soon as his power is taken away. It’s no wonder Maria Tomez divorced him. He told me everything I needed to hear. I could have cross-examined him, but that would have wasted time. I already know what we have to do next.”

  “What?”

  They left the park and entered the din of traffic at the Avenue of the Americas exit.

  “Be practical. Check into a hotel,” Buchanan said. “Get some food and rest. Do some research.”

  “And after that?”

  “Find Alistair Drummond’s yacht.”

  5

  After using a subway and three taxis to make sure that they weren’t being followed, they ended in the general area where they had started, managing to find a vacancy at the Dorset, a softly carpeted, darkly paneled hotel on Fifty-fourth Street between the Avenue of the Americas and Fifth Avenue. There, they brought Holly’s car from the parking garage and left it with the hotel’s attendant, then registered as Mr. and Mrs. Charles Duffy and went to their room on the twenty-first floor. Buchanan felt reassured that the room was near the elevators and the fire stairs. They were in so public an area that it was unlikely anything threatening would happen. More, the location gave Buchanan and Holly access to several close escape routes.

  They ordered room service: coffee, tea, salads, steaks, baked potatoes, French bread, plenty of vegetables, ice cream. While waiting for the food, Holly showered. Then Buchanan did. When he came out of the bathroom, wearing a white robe supplied by the hotel, Holly—also wearing a robe—was using a hotel hair dryer.

  She turned it off. “Sit down. Pull your robe down to your waist.”

  “What?”

  “I want to check your stitches.”

  His back tingled as her fingers touched his skin.

  She circled the almost-healed bullet wound in his right shoulder, then moved her fingers lower, inspecting the knife wound. “You did pull a few stitches. Here.” She took antibiotic cream and bandages from his travel bag. “There doesn’t seem to be any infection. Hold still while I—”

  “Ouch.”

  “Some tough guy you are.” She laughed.

  “How do you know I’m not acting? How do you know I’m not trying to get your sympathy?”

  “You test people by checking their eyes. I have other ways.”

  “Oh?”

  She ran her fingers up to his shoulders, turned him, and kissed him.

  The kiss was long. Gentle. A slight parting of the lips. A tentative probing of the tongue. Subtle. Sensual.

  Buchanan hesitated.

  Despite his protective instincts, he put his hands behind her, holding her, feeling her well-toned back beneath her robe.

  Her breath was sweet as she exhaled with pleasure and pulled slowly away. “Yep. You definitely want sympathy.”

  Now it was Buchanan’s turn to laugh.

  He reached to kiss her again.

  And was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Room service,” a man said front outside in the co
rridor.

  “You’re corrupting me,” Holly said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m beginning to think your habits are normal. Here.” She reached beneath the pillow. “Doesn’t everybody need this when room service arrives? Tuck this into the pocket of your robe.” She handed him his pistol.

  6

  It was sunset when Buchanan wakened, dusk thickening behind the closed draperies. He stretched and enjoyed the feeling of having had a good meal, of having slept naked beneath smooth sheets, of having Holly’s body next to him. She wore her robe. He’d discarded his own after making love. Exhaustion had been like a narcotic that made them stretch out and doze. She attracted him: her humor, her sensuous features, her tall, slender, athletic grace. But he had always made a point of never allowing his personal life to interfere with his work, of never becoming physically and emotionally involved with anyone on an assignment. It clouded your judgment. It . . .

  Hell, you never had any personal life. There wasn’t any you to have it. All you had were the identities you assumed.

  And that’s why you’re here right now. That’s what brought you this far. Because you kept that rule of being uninvolved when you worked with Juana, no matter how much you wanted her, and now you’re searching for her, trying to make amends.

  Are you going to make the same mistake again, this time with Holly?

  What’s wrong with me? he thought. Searching for one woman while I’m becoming attracted to another?

  Get your mind straight.

  He got out of bed, put on his robe, and walked over to a chair, next to which he stacked the books and files that Holly had given him. Setting a lamp on the floor where it wouldn’t cast much light and wake Holly, he leaned back in the chair and began to read.

  Two hours later, Holly raised her head, rubbed her eyes, and looked over at him.

  “Hi.” She smiled, lovely even after having just wakened.

  “Hi.”

  “How are you?”

  “Feeling as if I’ve just seen a ghost.”

  “I don’t understand.”