'Then you're in for a long, hard ride.'
'It doesn't need to be. All you have to do is leave Buchanan alone.'
'I can't! Not as long as he's with that reporter.'
'But Buchanan says that his business with the reporter has nothing to do with you.'
'And you believe that?'
'He's not a fool. I was talking about gains and losses. He has nothing to gain if he turns against you, and everything to lose. But if you hunt him, he'll turn against you out of spite, and frankly, Colonel, he's the last person I'd want to be my enemy.'
ELEVEN
1
Buchanan woke to a throbbing headache aggravated by banging metal and a roaring engine. He roused himself and blinked through the windshield at where a sanitation crew was emptying cans and throwing bags of refuse into the back of a garbage truck. He glanced at his watch - 8 a.m. Holly was driving north on Madison Avenue in New York City.
'You should have wakened me.' Buchanan shielded his eyes from the hazy sunshine.
'So you could keep me company? No. You obviously needed the rest. Besides, I didn't mind the quiet. It gave me a chance to think.'
'About what?'
'I realized I can't go back. Not until we find a way to convince them this has nothing to do with them. I have to keep moving forward.'
'But there's only so far you can keep going until you drop. I'm not the only one who needed rest.'
'I took your advice,' Holly said.
'I don't remember giving.'
'Last night, I asked you how you'd managed to drive all the way from New Orleans to San Antonio, as tired as you must have been after having been wounded. You said you'd napped at rest stops along the way. So whenever I had to stop to go to the bathroom, I locked the car doors and closed my eyes. You're right. People make so much noise, slamming their car doors, it's hard to sleep more than a few minutes.'
'You certainly don't look like you've been up most of the night.'
'The miracle of cosmetics. Thanks to sinks and mirrors at rest stops. If we're going to pull this off, by the way, you need a shave.'
Buchanan rubbed his jaw, reached into his travel bag, pulled a safety razor from a pouch, and began to scrape it along his beard-stubbled cheeks.
'Ouch,' Holly said. 'Doesn't that hurt?'
'You get used to it. A lot of times on assignments, this was the only way to try to keep clean.'
He waited uneasily, hoping that she wouldn't take advantage of the reference and ask him questions about those assignments.
Instead she passed the test and merely concentrated on her driving.
'Have we got any coffee left?' he asked.
'We drank it all. But now that you mention it.'
She pulled over to a curb, parked with the motor running, ran into a coffee shop, and returned in a minute with two styrofoam cups of coffee and four Danish.
'You're a good provider.'
'And you'd better keep being a good teacher,' Holly said. 'The Sherry-Netherland's one block over on Fifth. It was mentioned in yesterday's article in the Post. How do you want to do this?'
'First, we find a parking garage that has space.'
'Easier said than done.'
'Then we look for somebody watching Frederick Maltin's apartment.'
'Why would someone be watching-?'
'To tie up an unfortunate loose end. I don't think he was expected to be as big a problem as he's become, going to reporters, drawing attention to Maria Tomez's disappearance. My guess is, whoever's responsible will want to take care of that.'
2
The Sherry-Netherland was diagonally across from the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue. Immediately across from it were the Grand Army Plaza and an entrance to Central Park. Despite the upscale address, so many people came and went, lounged and loitered in the area that it wasn't difficult for Buchanan and Holly to portray a convincing version of two tourists when they arrived an hour later. It was cool but pleasant for early November. They strolled around the block, admired buildings, checked out the entrance to the park, and effectively scouted the busy area.
'Somebody could be watching from neighboring buildings, of course,' Buchanan said as he took a photograph of a skyscraper, using Holly's camera. 'But it doesn't look like anybody in the crowd is doing that.'
They sat on a bench near the gold-gilded statue of William Tecumseh Sherman.
'What now?' Holly asked.
'Time for you to do some role-playing. But I'm afraid it's a tough one.'
'Oh?'
'You're going to have to impersonate a reporter.'
She jammed her elbow into his ribs.
'Hey, Jesus, watch it,' Buchanan said. 'That came close to where I was stabbed.'
'I might stab you myself if you keep acting that way.'
Buchanan laughed. 'You brought your reporter's ID, I hope.'
'Always. It's in my camera bag.'
'Well, I just became your assistant. Call me. who was that guy who tagged along with you in New Orleans?'
'Ted.'
'Right. Call me Ted. We're about to pay a professional visit to Mr Maltin. You'd better let your assistant carry the camera bag.'
'You know, you don't do that often enough.'
'Carry your bag?'
'No. A moment ago, you were smiling.'
They waited for the light, crossed at 59th Street, and headed north along crowded Fifth Avenue toward the canopied entrance to the Sherry-Netherland. Nodding to the uniformed doorman who was getting a taxi for a well-dressed, elderly woman, Buchanan pushed the revolving door and entered ahead of Holly to check out the lobby.
Gentle lights gave it a golden hue. Colorful flowers stood in a vase on a side table. Ahead, on the right, a short corridor led to elevators. On the left, across from the corridor, the reception counter was next to a newspaper-magazine shop. A uniformed clerk stood in the lobby, another behind the counter. A middle-aged, spectacled woman straightened things next to the cash register at the magazine shop.
No sign of a threat, Buchanan decided as he waited for Holly to come out of the revolving door and join him.
'Yes, sir?' The clerk in the lobby stepped forward.
Typically the clerk singled out the male of a couple. But because Buchanan was supposed to be Holly's assistant, he straightened the camera bag around his shoulder and turned to her, his eyebrows raised, waiting for her to answer.
Holly immediately assumed her role. 'I'm a reporter.' She held out her press ID.
The clerk glanced at the card, his inspection cursory, probably paying attention to the newspaper's name and little else, Buchanan hoped. Holly hadn't volunteered her own name, and with luck, the clerk wouldn't have noticed it on the card.
'I'm here to see Mr Maltin.' Holly put the press card away.
'Did you have an appointment?'
'No. But if he's free, I'd appreciate ten minutes of his time.'
'One moment.' The clerk walked over to the counter and picked up a phone, pressing numbers. 'Mr Maltin, there's a reporter from The Washington Post to see you. A lady with a photographer. Yes, sir, I'll tell them.' The clerk set down the phone. 'Mr Maltin doesn't wish to be disturbed.'
'But yesterday, he couldn't get enough of reporters.'
'All I know is he doesn't wish to be disturbed.'
'Please, call him back.'
'I'm afraid I-'
'Really, it's important. I have information about his missing wife.'
The clerk hesitated.
'He'll be very unhappy if he finds out you didn't give him the message.'
The clerk's gaze darkened. 'One moment.' He walked back to the desk, picked up the phone, pressed numbers, and this time spoke with his back turned so that Holly and Buchanan couldn't hear what he said. When the clerk pivoted in their direction and set down the phone, he looked irritated. 'Mr Maltin will see you. Come with me.'
They followed the clerk toward a row of elevators, and after they got in, the clerk stared straight ahead, pre
ssing the button for the thirtieth floor. Sure, Buchanan thought. This way he guarantees that we get off where we're supposed to be going.
At the thirtieth floor, the clerk waited until Holly rang the bell for Frederick Maltin's apartment. Only when Maltin opened the door, glowered at Holly and Buchanan, and gestured grudgingly for them to enter, did the clerk step back into the elevator.
Buchanan and Holly walked past Maltin, who shut the apartment door impatiently and strode toward the middle of a spacious room.
Spacious was an understatement. The high, rectangular room was large enough to hold at least four standard rooms. The wall to the left and the long one directly ahead were a panorama of windows that began at thigh-level and went all the way to the ceiling, continuing around the room, giving a spectacular view of Fifth Avenue to the south and Central Park directly across. The furniture, tastefully arranged, was antique. Buchanan had the impression of polished wood and crystal, of expensive fabrics and Oriental rugs, of authentic-looking Cubist paintings. A gleaming grand piano stood in a corner, next to a display of what appeared to be museum-quality ceramics. It wasn't any wonder that Frederick Maltin had complained about the financial terms of his divorce from Maria Tomez. He was obviously used to luxury.
'I don't know what information you think you have about my ex-wife, but it isn't pertinent any longer because I just heard from her.'
Buchanan needed all his discipline not to start asking questions. The scenario made this Holly's show. She had to carry it.
She did. 'Then you must be relieved.'
'Of course. Very much.' Frederick Maltin was a man of medium height and weight, in his middle forties, with a moderate amount of hair with a moderate amount of gray in it. As for the rest of his characteristics, there was nothing medium or moderate about him. His dainty, thin-soled, polished, black shoes and meticulously pressed, blended-wool, double-breasted, blue suit were obviously foreign, custom-designed, and hand-sewn. His brilliant, white shirt and subtle, striped tie had contrasting textures of premium silk. It was impossible for Buchanan not to pay attention to Maltin's diamond cufflinks as the man made a show of impatience by checking the time on his diamond-studded Cartier watch. He had a sapphire ring on the small finger of his left hand. All told, it probably cost him twenty thousand dollars to get dressed in the morning.
'The hotel clerk said you needed ten minutes with me, but I can't spare even that much time,' Maltin continued. His voice was reedy, imperious.
'But surely you're eager to tell the press the good news,' Holly said. 'Yesterday, there was so much commotion about your insistence that something had happened to her. You'll want everyone to know it was a false alarm.'
'Well, yes,' Maltin said, 'of course. I hadn't. You're right. It's important for you and other reporters to inform her fans that she hasn't been harmed.'
Holly sounded puzzled. 'The way you say that. It's as if you haven't called the media yet.'
'I. The news just reached me. I'm still adjusting. I'm so relieved, you see.' Maltin removed a burgundy, silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and wiped his brow.
Yeah, you look relieved all to hell, Buchanan thought.
'I haven't had time to compose myself. To make plans.'
'What did your ex-wife tell you?' Holly asked. 'Where has she been for the past two weeks?'
Maltin looked blank. 'Away. She told me where, but she doesn't want me to reveal the precise location. She wants to stay away a while longer. To rest. After this misunderstanding, reporters will swarm all over her if they get the opportunity.'
'Well, can't you give us a general idea of where she is?'
'France. But that's all I intend to reveal.'
'Did she explain why she dropped out of sight?'
'She wanted to take a trip. In my impatience about these unfortunate legal matters, I made the mistake of assuming that because I couldn't contact her, something disastrous must have happened to her.'
As Buchanan surveyed the room again, he smelled the faint odor of cigarette smoke, but there weren't any ashtrays in this fastidiously maintained room. Nor was there any odor of cigarette smoke on Maltin's clothes. Buchanan was always amazed that smokers didn't realize how pervasive the odor of their habit was. In this case, cigarette smoke from a distant area of the spacious apartment drifted in this direction. And Buchanan had the strong conviction that Frederick Maltin not only didn't smoke but also didn't approve of anyone smoking in his presence, certainly not in his apartment.
'I'll make a confession,' Maltin said. 'I overreacted because Maria wouldn't respond to my telephone calls. When she sold her apartment a few weeks ago and seemed to vanish, I was outraged that she'd ignored me, that she hadn't consulted with me. She used to consult with me about everything. I couldn't imagine she'd be that independent, even though we were divorced. So my pride insisted she must have been the victim of foul play. Ridiculous of me.'
'Yes,' Buchanan said, the first time he'd spoken. 'Do you mind if I use your bathroom?'
'Indeed I do. Very much.'
'But this is an emergency. I have to go.'
Buchanan walked across the room, heading toward a door at the far end.
'Wait. What do you think you're doing?' Maltin exclaimed in outrage. 'You can't. Stop right there. You stop where you are!'
'But I told you I need a bathroom.' Buchanan opened the door, entering a tastefully, expensively decorated hallway.
Maltin charged after him. 'If you don't stop, I'll call the police!'
Buchanan kept on. The cigarette smoke was stronger. It seemed to come from.
He opened a door on his left, revealing an oak-furnished study from which cigarette smoke drifted. A surprised man straightened from where he'd been leaning his hips against a large, polished desk. He was in his middle thirties, wore an average suit, had hair in slight need of a trim, needed a touch-up on his shoes, held a cigarette, and generally looked like the sort of person whom Frederick Maltin would prefer to avoid.
'Sorry,' Buchanan said. 'I thought this was the bathroom.'
'No problem,' the man said.
A handgun, butt forward, bulged beneath the left side of the man's suit. To draw the weapon, he would have to use his right hand, but his right hand held the cigarette. The man leaned forward as if to flick ashes into a waste can. What he did instead was drop the cigarette into the waste can and grab for his weapon.
Not soon enough. Buchanan didn't want gunshots to alarm anyone in the building. Clutching the strap of the camera bag, he turned as if to leave. And kept turning. Gaining momentum, he swung the bag hard and fast. The bag collided with the side of the man's jaw. It hit with a loud, sharp whack. The man arched sideways. His eyes rolled up in his head. Blood flew out of his mouth. With a groan, he landed on an Oriental carpet, skidded, and slammed his skull against the bottom of a shelf of leatherbound books. He breathed but otherwise didn't move.
'Jesus Christ.' Frederick Maltin had rushed along the hallway and now gaped in shocK at the man on the floor. 'Jesus Christ, what have you done?'
'I think he didn't want me to use the bathroom.'
'Oh, Jesus Christ.'
'Yeah, I get the idea. But Jesus isn't going to help you.'
Buchanan drew his own gun, which made Maltin gasp and Holly, behind him, flinch. Approaching the man on the floor, Buchanan aimed the weapon at the man's head while he took the man's.357 revolver away. Then he checked the man's pulse, turned the man's head so that he wouldn't choke from the blood in his mouth, and straightened, shaking his head. 'Sorry about the blood on the carpet, Fred. You ought to be careful about the people you hang around with or rather.' Buchanan noticed a satchel on the desk and opened it. 'Or rather the people you do business with. How much money is in this satchel? It sure is a lot of hundred-dollar bills. Banded in five-thousand-dollar units.' Buchanan took them out and made stacks. 'What would you estimate? Let's see. One hundred thousand. Two hundred thousand. Hard to squeeze all of it in there, and heavy to lug around,
but yeah, I'd say that what we've got here, all told, is a million dollars.'
Maltin's mouth hung open. His face had turned pale.
Behind him, in the corridor, Holly looked stunned, not only by the money but by what she was witnessing.
'Fred, get down on your knees.'
Maltin trembled. 'Why?'
'Just do it. Here.' Buchanan went past Maltin, over to Holly, and gave her the revolver. 'If Fred tries to stand up, shoot him.' With a baleful stare toward Maltin, Buchanan went into the corridor.