David Morrell - Assumed Identity

The restaurant had an exit near the rest rooms in back. Buchanan stepped out behind the minimall and hurried along a shadowy alley in the direction of where the Jeep Cherokee was parked.

The man behind the steering wheel was too busy talking on the phone and watching the entrance to the restaurant to notice when Buchanan came up behind him on the passenger side. The moment the man-in his late twenties, wearing a Houston Oilers jacket-set down the phone, Buchanan opened the passenger door, got in, and rammed his pistol into the man’s beefy ribs.

The man groaned, his surprise aggravating his pain.

“What’s your name?” Buchanan asked.

The man was too afraid to answer.

Buchanan pressed the gun harder against the man’s ribs. “Your name. ”

“Frank. . Frank Tucker.”

“Well, let’s take a drive, Frank.”

The man seemed paralyzed with shock.

“Drive, Frank, or I’ll kill you.” The threat was starkly matter-of-fact.

The man obeyed.

“That’s right,” Buchanan said. “Nice and easy into traffic. Keep both hands on the steering wheel.”

They passed Buchanan’s car. He’d parked it along with several other cars in front of the Tex-Mex restaurant, where it wouldn’t be conspicuous until the lot was otherwise empty at closing time.

“What do you want?” The man’s voice trembled.

“Well, for starters. .” Buchanan used his free hand to grope beneath Frank’s windbreaker. He found a holster but no weapon. “Where’s the piece, Frank?”

The man’s nervous gaze indicated the glove compartment.

Buchanan opened it and found a Smith amp; Wesson.357 Magnum revolver. “So where are the others?”

“I don’t have any others.”

“Maybe, Frank. I’ll soon find out. But if you’re lying, I’ll blow off your right kneecap. You’ll be a cripple for the rest of your life, which might be a whole lot shorter than you’d hoped. Turn into this convenience store. Swing around. Go back the way we came.”

“Listen, I don’t know what this is about, but I’ll give you all the money I have, and-”

“Spare me the line, Frank. Careful. I told you, both hands on the steering wheel.” Buchanan cocked his pistol and shoved it harder against Frank’s ribs.

“Come on, man! If I hit a bump, that thing might go off.”

“Then don’t hit a bump,” Buchanan said. “What are you? Official or private?”

“I don’t know what you-”

“Who do you work for?”

“I don’t work for anybody.”

“Right, Frank. You just decided to amuse yourself by following me.”

“I wasn’t following you. I’ve never seen you before.”

“Of course, Frank. We’re just two strangers who bumped into each other and happen to be carrying guns. A coincidence. A sign of the times.” Buchanan studied him. “You’re not a cop. If you were, you’d have been covered by a backup team. You could be with the mob, but an Oilers jacket and a Jeep Cherokee aren’t exactly their style. What are you?”

No answer.

“Frank, I’m getting bored talking to myself. If I find a PI license on you, I’ll shoot both your kneecaps.” Buchanan reached for the man’s wallet.

“All right, all right.” Sweat beaded Frank’s trembling upper lip. “I’m a PI.”

“Finally, we’re getting to know each other. Tell me, Frank. Where’d you get your training? Come on. Keep up the conversation. Your training. Where did you-?”

“I learned on the job.”

“That’s what it looks like. On the job and from movies. Here’s a tip. When there isn’t much traffic, follow your target from one block over. Stay parallel to him. If you keep the same speed, you’ll see him at every intersection. But the odds are, he won’t notice you. Only when you don’t see him do you go over to the street he’s on. That’s where you made your first mistake-by staying behind me. Your second mistake was failing to lock your doors. It should have been harder for me to get at you. Third mistake: I don’t care how uncomfortable it feels on a lengthy stakeout, keep your gun in your holster, where you can reach it in a hurry. It’s useless in the glove compartment if somebody’s climbing into your car and pointing a gun at you.”

The phone rang.

“No, Frank. Keep your hands on the steering wheel.”

The phone rang a second time.

“Whoever it is can wait to talk to you,” Buchanan said. “In fact, why don’t we talk to him in person? Let’s go back to Castle Hills.”

On his tilted mattress in the rear of the van, Duncan Bradley kept watch on the television screen that showed the magnified area in front of the Mendez house two blocks away. Simultaneously he listened to his earphones, although the audio transmissions from the target area had stopped thirty minutes ago, shortly after the man who called himself Jeff Walker had been forced from the Mendez house. The wife had argued with the husband about what he had done, about how the stranger might have been able to help find their daughter. The husband had told her to shut up, that the stranger was obviously no different from the other imposters who had asked about Juana. They’d gone to bed in sullen silence.

While he listened, Duncan kept trying to telephone his partner. Twice now, he’d let the phone ring ten times before canceling the attempted call. Tucker’s failure to answer troubled him. Granted, there might be a reasonable, nonthreatening explanation. Tucker might have followed Jeff Walker into a hotel, for example. But Duncan’s unease prompted him to pick up the cellular phone yet again and press the button that would automatically dial Tucker’s number.

He never had a chance to press the number, however, because movement attracted his gaze toward the second television and green-tinted night-vision images of what was going on behind the van. The movement he’d seen was Tucker’s Jeep Cherokee stopping behind him. The Jeep’s headlights went off. Duncan exhaled. Something must have gone wrong with Tucker’s car phone. That was why he’d come back to tell him in person what he’d learned about Jeff Walker.

As the monitor showed Tucker getting out of his Jeep and approaching the rear door of the van, Duncan raised himself off the mattress, crawled on his hands and knees toward the back, heard Tucker’s knock, and opened the door.

“What happened to your phone? I’ve been trying to-” Duncan’s throat clamped shut. His mouth hung open in stunned surprise as he saw a man next to Tucker. The man must have been hiding in the Jeep. The man was Jeff Walker.

The man had a gun.

Oh, shit, Duncan thought.

The persistent ringing of the doorbell made Pedro Mendez angry.

For a lot of reasons. Worry about his daughter, confusion about Jeff Walker, and apprehension about the microphone in the bathroom’s light-switch socket had made him so restless that it seemed he would never get to sleep. What was Jeff Walker going to tell him when they met at the garage tomorrow morning? Tense, Pedro had squirmed beneath the covers until at last, impossibly, mercifully, he’d somehow managed to doze, and now somebody was pushing that damned doorbell.

“Anita, stay in bed,” he ordered as he fumbled to his feet, put on a bathrobe and slippers, grabbed a baseball bat from the closet, and stormed downstairs. Through the front door’s window, he saw the shadow of a man on the murky porch. By God, if this was someone else looking for his daughter, Pedro intended to make very sure that the man explained what was going on.

But when Pedro turned on the porch light, his determination wavered when he saw that the man was Jeff Walker, who gestured impatiently for Pedro to unlock and open the door.