Assumed Identity

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.