Assumed Identity

9

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.