Moving closer, enveloped by the shadows of palm trees, he expected Bailey’s voice to drift from the darkness, to give him instructions to leave the money on a barely visible poolside table and continue to stroll as if he hadn’t been contacted.
The only lights were ahead, from occasional arc lamps along the canal, as well as from a cabin cruiser and a houseboat moored there. He heard an engine rumbling. Then he heard a man call, “Mr. Grant? Is that you over there, Mr. Grant?”
Buchanan continued forward, away from the swimming pool, toward the canal. He immediately realized that the rumbling engine belonged to a water taxi that was temporarily docked, bow-first, between the cabin cruiser and the houseboat. The water taxi was yellow, twenty feet long, with poles along the gunwales supporting a yellow-and-green-striped canvas roof. In daylight, the roof would shade passengers from the glare and heat of the sun. But at night, it shut out the little illumination that the arc lamps along the canal provided and prevented Buchanan from seeing who was in there.
Certainly there were passengers. At least fifteen. Their shadowy outlines were evident. But Buchanan had no way to identify them. The canvas roof muffled what they said to one another, although their slurred rhythms made him suspect they were on a Friday-night round of parties and bars.
“That’s right. My name is Grant,” Buchanan said to the driver, who sat at controls in front of the passengers.
“Well, your friend’s already aboard. I wondered if you were going to show up. I was just about to leave.”
Buchanan strained to see through the darkness beneath the water taxi’s roof, then stepped onto the gangplank that extended from the canal to the bow. With his right hand, he gripped a rope railing for balance while he held the picnic cooler in his left and climbed down a few steps into the taxi. Passengers in their early twenties, dressed casually but expensively for an evening out, sat on benches along each side.
The stern remained shrouded by darkness.
“How much do I owe you?” Buchanan asked the driver.
“Your friend already paid for you.”
“How generous.”
“Back here, Vic,” a crusty voice called from the gloomy stern.
As the driver retracted the gangplank, Buchanan made his way past a group of young men on his left and stopped at the stern, his eyes now sufficiently adjusted to the darkness to see Bailey slouched on a bench.
Bailey waved a beefy hand. “How ya doin’, buddy?”
Buchanan sat and placed the picnic cooler between them.
“You didn’t need to bring your lunch,” Bailey said.
Buchanan just stared at him as the driver backed the water taxi from between the cabin cruiser and the houseboat, then increased speed along the canal. Slick, Buchanan thought. I’m separated from my backup team. They couldn’t have gotten to the water taxi in time, and certainly they couldn’t have hurried on board without making Bailey suspicious.
Now that Buchanan’s eyes had become even more accustomed to the darkness, the glow from condominiums, restaurants, and boats along the canal seemed to increase in brightness. But Buchanan was interested in the spectacle only because the illumination allowed him to see the cellular telephone that Bailey folded and placed in a pouch attached to his belt.
“Handy things,” Bailey said. “You can call anybody from anywhere.”
“Like from a car to a pizza parlor. Or from a water taxi to a hotel lobby.”
“You got it,” Bailey said. “Makes it easy to keep in touch while I’m on the go or hangin’ around to see if extra company’s comin’.” Bailey lowered his voice and gestured toward the cooler. “No joke. That better not be your lunch, and it better all be here.”
The other passengers on the boat were talking loudly, obscuring what Bailey and Buchanan said.
“There’s no more where that came from,” Buchanan murmured.
Bailey raised his bulky shoulders. “Hey, I’m not greedy. All I need is a little help with my expenses, a little reward for my trouble.”
“I went through a lot of effort to get what’s in this cooler,” Buchanan said. “I won’t go through it again.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
“That definitely eases my mind.”
The water taxi arrived at a restaurant/tavern, where a sign on the dock read, PAUL’S-ON-THE-RIVER. The stylish building was long and low, its rear section almost completely glass, separated by segments of white stucco. Inside, a band played. Beyond the large windows, customers danced. Others strolled outside, carrying drinks, or sat at tables amid flowering bushes near palm trees.
The taxi’s driver set down the gangplank. Four passengers got up unsteadily to go ashore.
At once Bailey stood and clutched the picnic cooler. “This is where we part company, Crawford. Almost forgot, I mean, Grant. Why don’t you stay aboard, see the sights, enjoy the ride?”
“Why not?” Buchanan said.
Bailey looked very pleased with himself. “Be seein’ you.”
“No. You won’t.”
“Right,” Bailey said and carried the picnic cooler off the water taxi onto the dock. He strolled across the colorfully illuminated lawn toward the music, “Moon River,” and disappeared among the crowd.
17
Thirty minutes later, the water taxi brought Buchanan back to the Riverside Hotel. He wouldn’t have returned there except that he needed to retrieve his suitcase from the trunk of Cindy’s car. The car was parked on a quiet street next to the hotel, and after Buchanan placed the keys beneath the driver’s floor mat, he carried his suitcase into the hotel, where he phoned for a taxi. When it arrived, he instructed the driver to take him to an all-night car-rental agency. As it happened, the only one that was open was at the Fort Lauderdale airport, and after Buchanan rented a car, he drove to a pay phone to contact Doyle and tell him where to find Cindy’s car. Next, he bought a twelve-pack of beer at a convenience store, drove to a shadowy, deserted street, poured every can of beer over the front seat and floor of the car, then tossed the empty cans onto the floor and drove away, keeping all the windows open lest he get sick from the odor of the beer.
By then, it was quarter after one in the morning. He headed toward the ocean, found a deserted park next to the Intracoastal Waterway, and smashed the car through a protective barrier, making sure he left skid marks, as if the car had been out of control. He stopped the car, got out, put the automatic gearshift into drive, and pushed the car over the seawall into the water. Even as he heard it splash, he was hurrying away to disappear into the darkness. He’d left his suitcase in the car, along with his wallet in the nylon jacket he’d borrowed from Doyle. He’d kept his passport, though. He didn’t want anyone to do a background check on that. When the police investigated the “accident” and hoisted the car from the water, they’d find the beer cans. The logical conclusion would be that the driver-Victor Grant, according to the ID in the wallet and the car-rental agreement in the glove compartment-had been driving while under the influence, had crashed through the barricade, and helpless because of alcohol, had drowned. When the police didn’t find the body, divers and trollers would search, give up, and decide that the corpse would surface in a couple of days. When it didn’t, they’d conclude that the remains had been wedged beneath a dock or had been carried by the tide out to sea. More important, Buchanan hoped that Bailey would believe the same thing. Under stress from being blackmailed, fearful that Bailey would keep coming back for more and more money, Crawford-Potter-Grant had rented a car to flee the area, had gotten drunk in the process, had lost control of the vehicle, and. .
Maybe, Buchanan thought. It just might work. Those had been the colonel’s instructions at any rate-to make Victor Grant disappear. Buchanan hadn’t told Doyle and Cindy what he intended to do because he wanted them to be genuinely surprised if the police questioned them. The disappearance would break the link between Buchanan and Bailey. It would also break the link between Buchanan and what had happened in Mexico. If the Mexican authorities decided to reinvestigate Victor Grant and asked for the cooperation of the American authorities, there’d be no one to investigate.