“Second. .?” Buchanan lowered his gaze toward the second of the three clippings in his hand.
MURDER-SUICIDE
FT. LAUDERDALE-Responding to a telephone call from a frightened neighbor, police early this morning investigated gunshots at 233 Glade Street in Plantation and discovered the bodies of Jack Doyle (34) and his wife, Cindy (30), both dead from bullet wounds. It is believed that Mr. Doyle, despondent about his wife’s cancer, shot her with a.38-caliber snub-nosed revolver while she slept in their bedroom, then used the same weapon on himself.
Buchanan reread the story. He read it again. And then again. He stopped being aware of the motion of the steamboat, of its thumping engines, of the splashing paddlewheel. He was oblivious to the crowd at the railings, the trees along the river, and the humid breeze on his face.
He just kept staring at the piece of newspaper.
“I’m sorry,” Holly said.
Buchanan took a while before he realized that she had said something. He didn’t respond. He just kept staring at the clipping.
“Are you going to deny you knew him? If you’re tempted to, don’t,” Holly said. “I took photographs of you and Jack Doyle together, just as I did of you and Bailey.”
“No,” Buchanan said. With tremendous effort, he lowered the clipping and turned, concentrating on Holly. His mind reeled from the implications of what he’d just read. For the first time in his long career as a deep-cover operative, he did the unthinkable.
He broke cover. “No.” His unsteadiness, combined with the motion of the steamboat, made him feel as if he was about to fall from his chair. “I won’t deny it. I knew Jack Doyle. And Cindy. His wife. I knew her, too. I liked her. I liked her a lot.”
Holly’s eyes became more intense. “Earlier, you were talking about coincidence, about how sometimes it has to be more than that, like your friend not showing up at Cafe du Monde but a man showing up to stab you. Well, that’s how I feel about what you just read. You knew Bailey. He’s dead. You also knew Jack Doyle and his wife. They’re dead, too. And it all happened on the same night. What’s. .? I just realized something.”
“What?”
“The look on your face. You’re a hell of a good actor. But nobody’s that good. You really didn’t know anything about Bailey and the Doyles being killed.”
“That’s right.” Buchanan’s throat was so dry that he could hardly speak. “I didn’t know.” His eyes ached as he reached for his Coke can and swallowed.
For an instant, he stubbornly suspected that he’d been tricked, that these newspaper clippings weren’t genuine. But he couldn’t maintain his suspicion. By hindsight, what had happened to Bailey and the Doyles felt so operationally right, so tactically logical that he didn’t doubt the truth of what had happened. He’d been tricked, yes. But not by Holly.
“Or maybe there is a coincidence,” she said. “Maybe Jack Doyle did just happen to kill his wife the same night Bailey died in an explosion.”
“No.”
“You think it was a double murder?”
“It can’t be anything else.”
“How can you be sure?”
Buchanan pointed at the newspaper article.“‘. . shot her with a thirty-eight-caliber snub-nosed revolver.’ No way.”
“I’m missing something. What’s wrong with using a thirty-eight-caliber. .?”
“Snub-nosed revolver? This,” Buchanan said. “Jack Doyle was an ex-SEAL.”
“Yes. A Navy commando. I still don’t. .”
“Weapons were his business. To him, a thirty-eight-caliber snub-nosed revolver was a toy. Oh, he did have one in his house. For his wife. In case Cindy had to protect herself while he was away. But Jack had a lot of other handguns there as well, and for him, the weapon of choice was a nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol. He loved his wife so much that I envied him. Her cancer was serious. It wasn’t responding to treatment. She was probably going to die from it. But it hadn’t yet reached the point where her suffering was greater than her dignity could bear. When that day came, though, if Jack decided-with Cindy’s permission-to free her from her suffering, he sure as hell would not have used a weapon that he didn’t respect.”
“Your world’s a whole lot different than mine,” Holly said. “Ethics about which weapon to use for a murder-suicide.”
“Jack wasn’t any nut. Don’t think for a minute that. .”
“No,” Holly said. “That isn’t what I meant. What I did mean was exactly what I said. Your world’s very different than mine. No value judgment intended. My father was an attorney. He didn’t approve of guns. The first time I saw one, aside from in movies, was when I was reporting on a gang war in Los Angeles.”
Buchanan waited.
“So,” Holly said. “If it was a double murder, who did it? The same people who killed Bob Bailey?”
Temples throbbing, Buchanan sipped his Coke, then stared at the label. “I had nothing to do with any of it.”
“You still haven’t read the third newspaper clipping.”
Buchanan lowered his gaze, apprehensive about what he would see.
ACCIDENT VICTIM STILL NOT FOUND
FT. LAUDERDALE-Divers continue to search for the body of Victor Grant, the presumed occupant of a rental car that last night crashed through a barrier and sank within a section of the Intracoastal Waterway south of Oakland Park Boulevard. Numerous empty beer cans in the vehicle lead authorities to suspect that Grant was intoxicated when he lost control of his car. A suitcase and a windbreaker containing a wallet with Victor Grant’s identification were recovered from the car. Police suspect that the victim’s body floated from an open window and became wedged between one of the numerous docks in the area.
Buchanan felt as if he had plummeted and would never hit bottom.
“The reason I didn’t kick and fight when you wanted your Victor Grant passport back,” Holly said, “is I’ve taken photographs of every page. I’ve got photographs of you in Fort Lauderdale. I can link you to Bailey. I can link you to Doyle. This newspaper article proves that somebody named Victor Grant was in Fort Lauderdale and disappeared the same night Bailey and Doyle were killed. You said my editor would be disappointed because my story didn’t hang together. Well, it seems to me that the story hangs together beautifully.”
Buchanan felt a jolt as if he had struck bottom.
“I’m waiting for a reaction,” Holly said. “What do you think about my story now?”
“The real question is, What do I feel?”
“I don’t understand.”
Buchanan rubbed his aching forehead. “Why does ambition make people so stupid? Holly, the answer to the question What do I feel? is I feel terrified. And so should you. I’m a fortuneteller, did you know that? I really have a gift for predicting the future. And given what you just told me, I can guarantee that if you go any further with this story, you’ll be dead by this time tomorrow.”
Holly blinked.
“And,” Buchanan said, his voice hoarse, “if I don’t give the best performance of my life, so will I. Because the same people who killed Jack Doyle and Bob Bailey will make sure of it. Is that plain enough for you? Is that what you wanted me to say? That would make a good quote. It’s too bad you can’t use it.”
“Of course, I can use it. I don’t care if you deny it or-”
“You’re not listening!”
Buchanan spoke so loudly that several people standing along the railing of the steamboat swung and stared at him.
He leaned close to Holly, his voice a raw whisper. “In your world, people are afraid of getting caught breaking the law. In my world, people make their own laws. If they feel threatened, they’ll shoot you or drop you from a building or hit you with a car and then have a good dinner, feeling justified because they’ve protected themselves. You will absolutely, positively be dead by this time tomorrow if we don’t find a way to convince my people that you are not a threat to them. If I feel terrified, you’re a fool if you don’t.”