Assumed Identity

unscrewed the wall plate. Now he unlocked the bathroom door and went back to the living room, where it was obvious that Juana’s parents had been whispering about him.

“Pedro, I apologize,” Buchanan said.

“For what?”

“When I was washing my hands in the bathroom, I must have pulled the sink plug’s lever too hard. It looks like I broke it. I can’t get the sink to drain, I’m sorry. I. .”

Pedro stood, scowling, and strode toward the bathroom, his chest stuck out, his short legs moving powerfully.

Buchanan got ahead of him in the hallway and put a finger over his own lips to indicate that he wanted Pedro not to say anything. But when Pedro didn’t get the message and opened his mouth to ask what was going on, Buchanan had to put his hand firmly over Pedro’s mouth and shake his head strongly from side to side, mouthing in Spanish the quiet message, Shut up. Pedro looked startled. The house is bugged, Buchanan continued mouthing.

Pedro didn’t seem to understand. He struggled to remove Buchanan’s hand from his mouth. Buchanan responded by pressing his left hand against the back of Pedro’s head while at the same time he continued to keep his right hand over Pedro’s mouth. He forced Pedro into the bathroom and bent his head down so that Pedro could see behind the light switch that Buchanan had pulled from the wall. Pedro owned a string of car-repair shops. He had to be familiar with wiring. Surely Pedro would know enough about other types of wiring to realize that the small gadget behind the light switch shouldn’t be there, that the gadget was a miniature microphone-transmitter.

Pedro’s eyes widened.

Comprende? Buchanan mouthed.

Pedro nodded forcefully.

Buchanan released his grip on Pedro’s head and mouth.

Pedro wiped his mouth, which showed the strong impression of Buchanan’s hand, glared at Buchanan, and rattled the sink plug’s lever. “There. You see, it was nothing. You merely hadn’t pulled the lever far enough. The water’s gone now.”

“At least I didn’t break it,” Buchanan said.

Pedro had several pens and a notepad in the top pocket of his coveralls. Quickly, Buchanan removed the pad and one of the pens. He wrote: We can’t talk in the house. Where and when can we meet? Soon.

Pedro read the message, frowned, and wrote: 7:00 A.M. My shop at 1217 Loma Avenue.

“I do not trust you,” Pedro said abruptly.

“What?” The effect was so convincing that Buchanan took a moment before he realized that Pedro was acting.

“I want you out of my house.”

“But-”

“Get out.” Pedro grabbed Buchanan’s arm and tugged him along the hallway. “How much plainer can I make it? Out of my house.”

“Pedro!” Anita hurried from the living room into the hallway. “What are you doing? Maybe he can help us.”

“Out!” Pedro shoved Buchanan toward the front door.

Buchanan pretended to resist. “Why? I don’t understand. What did I do? A couple of minutes ago, we were talking about how to help Juana. Now all of a sudden. .”

“There is something not right about you,” Pedro said. “There is something too convenient about you. I think that you are with the other men who came to look for Juana. I think that you are her enemy, not her friend. I think that I should never have spoken to you. Get out. Now. Before I call the police.”

Pedro unlocked the door and yanked it open.

“You’ve made a mistake,” Buchanan said.

“No, you did. And you will make a greater mistake if you ever come near my home again.”

“Damn it, if you don’t want my help. .”

“I want you out!” Pedro shoved Buchanan.

Buchanan lurched outside, feeling exposed by the porch light above him. “Don’t touch me again.”

“Pedro!” Anita said.

“I don’t know where my daughter is, but if I did, I would never tell you!” Pedro told Buchanan.

“Then go to hell.”

6

“You’d better get here pronto,” Duncan Bradley said into his cellular phone while he listened to the transmission from the house. “Something about the guy who showed up definitely rubbed Mendez against the grain. Mendez thinks the guy’s with us. They’re yelling at each other. Mendez is kicking him out.”

“Almost there. Just two blocks away,” Duncan’s partner said through the cellular phone.

“You might as well be two miles away.” Duncan stared at the green magnified night-vision image on his closed-circuit television screen. “I can see the dude coming off the lawn toward his car. He’ll be gone before you get here.”

“I told you I’m close. Can you see my headlights?”

Duncan glanced at another screen that showed the murky area behind his van. “Affirmative.”

“Perfect. When he pulls away, I’ll be just another car on the road,” Tucker said. “He won’t think anything when he sees my lights behind him.”

“He’s getting in his car,” Duncan emphasized.

“No problem. The license number you gave me.”

“What about it?”

“I accessed the Louisiana motor-vehicles computer. The Taurus belongs to a New Orleans car-rental agency.”

“That doesn’t tell us much,” Duncan said.

“There’s more. I phoned the agency. Pretended to be a state trooper. Said there’d been an accident. Wanted to know who’d rented the car.”

“And?”

“Brendan Buchanan. That’s the name on the rental agreement.”

Tucker’s headlights loomed larger on the rear-view television screen.

On the front-view screen, two blocks away, the Taurus’s lights came on. The car pulled away.

With a flash, Tucker’s Jeep Cherokee passed the van. Duncan pivoted his gaze from the night-vision television image and smiled toward the front windshield and the swiftly receding taillights of Tucker’s Jeep.

“See, I told you,” Tucker said through the cellular phone. “No sweat. I’m on him. No headlights pulling away from the curb behind him. Nothing to make him suspicious.”

“Brendan Buchanan?” Duncan wondered. “Who the hell is Brendan Buchanan? And what’s his connection with the woman?”

“The head office is checking on him.” Tucker’s taillights diminished to red specks as he followed the even- more-minute specks of the Taurus. “Meantime, I’ll find out where he’s staying. We’ll pay him a visit. We’ll find out all we need to know about Brendan Buchanan.”

7