Assumed Identity

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.”