Assumed Identity

13

“My God,” Holly said. She watched the tape and felt sick. ‘Jesus.”

Dismayed, Buchanan had made a copy of the tape and then sealed the copy in a plastic bag that he’d found in the room. Otherwise, he had left everything the way he had found it. Muscles rigid from tension, he had locked the door behind him and crept down to the main deck. His head had continued to ache all the while he’d climbed down the anchor chain, retrieved his mask and fins from where he’d tied them, and swam back to shore, this time on his back, keeping the tape above water.

The tape ended, and Holly continued to stare at the screen in disgust. “God damn him to hell.”

What she had seen on a video player that Buchanan had rented when he returned to the motel was the rape and murder of Maria Tomez. Or possibly the sequence was in the reverse-murder and then rape, if it was possible to rape-as opposed to violate-a corpse. Rape implied overcoming someone’s will, whereas a corpse couldn’t object to anything, and perhaps the latter was what the tall, slender, hawk-nosed man had liked, an absolute lack of resistance.

The man had approached Maria Tomez, asking again if she felt cold. He’d put his arm around her with the pretense of warming her. Maria Tomez had taken his arm away. The man had persisted, and Maria Tomez had begun to struggle. “Now, now,” the man had said drunkenly, “you must not be cold to me. I forbid it.” He had chuckled, pinning her with his arms, kissing her face and neck, trying to kiss the tops of her breasts while she squirmed and twisted her face from side to side and tried to push him away. “Be warm,” he had said in Spanish. “Be warm. I am warm. Can you feel it?” He had chuckled again. When she shoved at him, he had laughed and shaken her. When she slapped his face, he had punched her. She had spat at him. “Puta,” he had said and struck her with an upper-cut that jolted her up, and then back, then down. As she toppled, he grabbed for her, his fingers catching the top of her gown, ripping, exposing her breasts. As the back of her skull hit the deck, he lunged and kept ripping, exposing her stomach, her groin, her thighs, her knees. He tore off her lacy underwear. For a moment, he paused. The camera showed Maria Tomez motionless, naked on her back on the deck, her dress spread out on either side like broken wings. The man’s paralysis lasted another second. Abruptly he opened his belt, dropped his pants, and fell upon her. His breathing was rapid and hoarse. His buttocks kept pumping. Then he moaned and slumped and chuckled. “Now do you feel warm?” She didn’t answer. He nudged her. She didn’t move. He slapped her again. When she still didn’t move, he groped to his knees, grasped her face, squeezed her cheeks, twisted her head from side to side, and breathed more hoarsely. Urgently he stood, buckled his pants, glanced furtively around, lifted Maria Tomez to her feet.

And with an expression that combined fear with disgust, he threw her overboard.

As Holly continued to stare in dismay at the static-filled screen, Buchanan stepped past her to shut off the VCR and the television. Only then did Holly move. She lowered her gaze and shook her head. Buchanan slumped in a chair.

“Was she dead?” Holly asked quietly. “When he dropped her into the water?”

“I don’t know.” Buchanan hesitated. “He might have broken her neck when he hit her. She might have suffered a fatal concussion when her skull struck the deck. He might have smothered her while he was on top of her. But she might also have been in shock, catatonic, still alive when he threw her into the water. The son of a bitch didn’t even take the trouble to make sure. He didn’t care if she was alive. All he cared about was himself. He’d used her. Then he threw her away. Like a sack of garbage.”

The room was dark. They sat in silence for quite a while.

“So what happened next?” Holly asked bitterly. “What do you figure?”

“The man who killed her probably thought he could convince people that she fell off the yacht. He was drunk, of course, and that would have affected his judgment in several ways. Either he would have had the false confidence to report having seen her fall or else a part of his mind would have warned him to go to his cabin, sober up, and seem as confused as everybody else when Maria Tomez was reported missing. Then he could have plausibly suggested that perhaps she’d been drinking, had lost her balance, and fallen over the railing.”

“Except that Alistair Drummond knew the truth,” Holly said.

Buchanan nodded. “He’d watched everything on the monitor in his private video-surveillance room. And a tape of a rape/ homicide is so much more useful than oral sex, sodomy, and drug use when you want to blackmail a member of the Mexican government. Drummond must have been delighted. I imagine him going to her murderer, revealing what’s on the tape, and arranging a cover-up in exchange for certain favors. The initial stage wouldn’t have been difficult. All Drummond needed to do was order his pilot to fly the yacht’s helicopter to the mainland. Then Drummond could have told his guests that Maria Tomez had left the cruise early. They’d have no reason to suspect differently.”

“After that, though,” Holly said.

“Yes, after that,” Buchanan said. “Drummond must have felt inspired when he thought of Juana. Perhaps Maria Tomez had told him about the clever way she had of avoiding tedious social events by using Juana to double for her. Perhaps Drummond found out another way. For certain, though, he did find out. He needn’t have told Juana anything incriminating. All he had to do was explain that Maria Tomez wanted absolute privacy and offer Juana an irresistible amount of money to impersonate Maria Tomez for an extended period of time.”

“So complicated and yet so simple,” Holly said. “If I weren’t so disgusted, I’d call it brilliant.”

“But what does Drummond want from the person he’s blackmailing?” Buchanan said. “Obviously not money. Drummond’s so rich, it’s hard to imagine that money alone would motivate him, especially the comparatively small amount that even a wealthy Mexican politician could give him. You’re a reporter. Do you recognize the man on the tape?”

Holly shook her head. “Mexico isn’t my specialty. I wouldn’t know one of its politicians from another.”

“But we can find out.” Buchanan stood.

“How?”

“We’re going back to Miami.” His voice was like flint against steel. “Then we’re flying to Mexico City.”