Assumed Identity

breathed-“hey, this officer thinks I killed three men. From his point of view, what he did to me, trying to get me to confess, that was understandable. What I’m angry about is that he wouldn’t let me prove I was innocent. He wouldn’t call my client.”

“All of that’s been taken care of,” Woodfield said. “I have a statement”-he pulled it from his briefcase-“indicating that Mr. Grant here was with Mr. Maxwell on his yacht when the murders occurred. Obviously,” he told the interrogator, “you have the wrong man.”

“It is not obvious to me.” The interrogator’s numerous chins shook with indignation. “I have a witness who puts this man at the scene of the murders.”

“But surely you don’t take Mr. Bailey’s word over a statement by someone as distinguished as Mr. Maxwell,” Woodfield said.

The interrogator’s eyes gleamed fiercely. “This is Mexico. Everyone is equal.”

“Yes,” Woodfield said. “The same as in the United States.” He turned to Buchanan. “Mr. Maxwell asked me to deliver this note.” He pulled it from his briefcase and handed it to Buchanan. “Meanwhile,” he told the interrogator, “I need to use your facilities.”

The interrogator looked confused.

“A bathroom,” Woodfield said. “A rest room.”

“Ah,” the interrogator said. “A toilet. Si.” He hefted his enormous body from the chair, opened the office door, and directed a guard to escort Mr. Woodfield to el sanitario.

As Woodfield left, Buchanan read the note.

Vic,

Sorry I couldn’t be there in person. I’ll show up if I have to, but let’s exhaust other options first. Check the contents of the camera bag Woodfield brought with him. If you think what’s inside will be effective, give it a try. I hope to see you stateside soon.

Chuck

Buchanan glanced down toward the briefcase beside Woodfield’s chair, noticing the gray nylon camera bag.

Meanwhile, the interrogator shut the office door and frowned at Buchanan, his voice rumbling, his ample stomach quivering. He was obviously interested in the contents of the note. “You lied about being beaten. Por que?” He came closer. “Why?”

Buchanan shrugged. “Simple. I want you and me to be friends.”

“Why?” The interrogator stepped even closer.

“Because I won’t get out of here without your cooperation. Oh, Woodfield can cause you a lot of trouble from your superiors and from politicians. But I still might not be released until a judge makes a ruling, and in the meantime, I’m at your mercy.” Buchanan paused, trying to look defeated. “Sometimes terrible accidents happen in a jail. Sometimes a prisoner can die before a judge has time to see him.”

The interrogator studied Buchanan intensely.

Buchanan pointed toward the camera bag. “May I?”

The interrogator nodded.

Buchanan set the bag on his lap. “I’m innocent,” he said. “Obviously, Bailey is confused about what he saw. My passport proves I’m not the man he thinks I am. My client says I wasn’t at the scene of the crime. But you’ve invested a great deal of time and effort in this investigation. In your place, I’d hate to think that I’d wasted my energy. The government doesn’t pay you enough for all the trouble you have to go through.” Buchanan opened the camera bag and set it on the desk.

He and the interrogator stared at the contents. The bag was filled with neat piles of used hundred-dollar American bills. As Buchanan removed one of the stacks and leafed through it, the interrogator’s mouth hung open.

“I’m only guessing,” Buchanan said, “but this seems to be fifty thousand dollars.” He returned the stack to the others in the bag. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not rich. I work hard, the same as you, and I certainly don’t have this kind of money. It belongs to my client. He’s loaning it to me to help me pay my legal expenses.” Buchanan grimaced. “But I don’t see why a lawyer should get it when I’m innocent and he won’t have to earn his fee to get me released. He definitely won’t have to work as long and hard as I will to pay the money back or as long as you would to receive this much.” Buchanan sighed from pain and frowned toward the door. “Woodfield will be coming back any second. Why don’t you do both of us a favor, take the money, and let me out of here?”

The interrogator tapped his fingers on the battered table.

“I swear to you. I didn’t kill anybody,” Buchanan said.

The door swung slowly open. The interrogator shielded the camera bag with his massive body, shut the bag, and with a remarkably fluid motion for so huge a man, he set the bag out of sight behind the desk as he scrunched his wide hips into his creaking chair.

Woodfield entered.

“To pursue this matter any further would be a mockery of justice,” the interrogator said. “Senor Grant, your passport and belongings will be returned. You are free.”

8

“You look like you need a doctor,” Woodfield said.

They walked from the jail, across a dusty street, and toward a black sedan parked beneath a palm tree.

“I know an excellent physician in Merida,” Woodfield said. “I’ll drive you there as quickly as possible.”

“No,” Buchanan said.

“But. .”

“No,” Buchanan repeated. He waited for a fenderless pickup truck to go by, then continued toward the car. After having been in the jail for so long, his eyes hurt from the glare of the sun, adding to his headache. “What I want is to get out of Mexico.”

“The longer you wait to see a doctor. .”

Buchanan reached the car and pivoted toward Woodfield. He didn’t know how much the diplomat had been told. Probably nothing. One of Buchanan’s rules was never to volunteer information. Another rule was don’t break character. “I’ll see a doctor when I feel safe. I still can’t believe I’m out of jail. I won’t believe it until I’m on a plane to Miami. That jerk might change his mind and rearrest me.”

Woodfield put Buchanan’s suitcase into the back of the car. “I doubt there’s any danger of that.”

“No danger to you,” Buchanan said. “The best thing you can do is drive me to the airport, get me on a plane, then phone Charles Maxwell. Tell him I asked him to arrange for someone to meet me and to take me to a hospital.”

“You’re certain you’ll be all right until then?”

“I’ll have to be,” Buchanan said. He was worried that the police in Cancun would still be investigating his previous identity. Eventually, they’d find Ed Potter’s office and apartment. They’d find people who’d seen Ed Potter and who’d agree that the police sketch looked like Ed Potter. A policeman might decide to corroborate Big Bob Bailey’s story by having those people take a look at Victor Grant.

He had to get out of Mexico.

“I’ll telephone the airport and see if I can get you a seat on the next flight,” Woodfield said.

“Good.” Buchanan automatically scanned the street, the pedestrians, the noisy traffic. He tensed, noticing a woman in the background, among the crowd on the sidewalk beyond Woodfield. She was American. Late twenties. A redhead. Attractive. Tall. Nice figure. She wore beige slacks and a yellow blouse. But Buchanan didn’t notice her because of her nationality or her hair color or her features. Indeed he couldn’t get a look at her face. Because she had a camera raised to it. She stood at the curb, motionless among the passing Mexicans, taking photographs of him.

“Just a minute,” Buchanan told Woodfield. He started toward her, but the moment she saw him approaching,