Assumed Identity

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-mm 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: 8:25. 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 quarter to nine, the phone rang.

Buchanan grabbed it before the noise could wake Cindy.

“There’s a minimall near you on Pine Island Road. A couple of blocks from 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.

That was all the sentiment Buchanan could allow. He took the keys, lifted his suitcase, grabbed a small red picnic cooler off the counter, and nodded as Doyle opened the door for him.

Ninety seconds later, he was driving away.