Assumed Identity (1993) (47 page)

What he looked at was the monitor for a miniature television camera that projected from the van's roof and was hidden by the cowling of a fake air-vent. This camera, a version of the type used in assault helicopters, had considerable magnification ability so that it was able to show the license plate of a car parked two blocks farther along the street, a blue Ford Taurus with Louisiana license plates. This camera also had state-of-the-art, night-vision capability, and thus, although the street was for the most part in shadow, Duncan had no trouble seeing the green-tinted image of a man who got out of the Taurus, combed his hair, glanced at the neighborhood as if admiring it, and then walked toward the house. The man was Caucasian, about five-foot-eleven, in his middle thirties. He was well-built but not dramatically muscular. He was dressed casually, unremarkably. His hair was of moderate length, neither long nor short. His features were ragged but not severe, just as he was good-looking, handsome but not in a way that attracted attention.

'This is November second,' Duncan said into a tape recorder. 'It's nine-thirty at night. I'm still in my surveillance vehicle down the street from the target area. A man just showed up at the house.' Duncan proceeded to describe the car and its driver, including the Louisiana license number. 'He's not too tall, not too short. A little of this, a little of that, not too much of one thing or another. Could be something, could be nothing. I'm monitoring audio surveillance.'

Duncan lowered the tape recorder and turned up the volume on an audio receiver, then adjusted the ear phones he was wearing. The receiver corresponded with several miniature microphone-transmitter units that Duncan had hidden in the phones and light switches of every room in the target house. The units were tapped into the house's electrical system and thus had a permanent source of power. They were programmed to transmit on an FM band that wasn't used in San Antonio, and hence the transmission wouldn't interfere with television or radio reception in the house and possibly make the occupants suspicious.

The day he'd been given this assignment, Duncan had waited until the targets were both out of the house. They'd made things easy for him by doing so after supper when the neighborhood was dark. Followed by Duncan's partner, the targets had driven to a shopping mall, and if they'd decided to return sooner than anticipated, Duncan's partner had a cellular phone with which he could have transmitted a warning beep to the pager that Duncan wore. Of course, Duncan had not depended on the good fortune that the targets had left the house unattended while it was dark. If necessary, he could have entered the unoccupied house during the daylight by posing as an employee of the lawn-care company that the targets hired to maintain their property. No neighbor would have thought it unusual for a man wearing a lawn-care uniform and carrying an insect-spray cannister the size of a fire extinguisher to check the bushes at the side of the house and then to proceed intently around to the back. Duncan had invaded the house through a patio door, picking its lock in fifteen seconds, installing all the microphones within forty minutes.

In the van, dials on the receiver's console allowed him to adjust the sound level from each transmitter. The equipment also permitted Duncan to record the sound from each transmitter onto separate tapes. He hadn't been doing much recording, however. In the two weeks since he'd had this assignment, he'd heard nothing but what seemed to be normal household conversation. If the occupants were using a private code to communicate secret information, Duncan had detected no indication of it. Phone calls had been the usual neighborhood chit-chat. Dinner talk had mostly been about the husband's extremely successful car-repair business. At night, the couple watched a lot of television. They hadn't had sex as long as Duncan had been listening.

For most of this evening, Duncan had been listening to the laughtrack on a string of TV situation comedies. Now, when he heard the doorbell and the husband telling the wife to answer it, he activated a bank of tape recorders and lowered the volume of the transmitter in the living room, at the same time raising the volume of the transmitter in the front hallway.

Duncan understood Spanish. It was one of the reasons that he'd been assigned to this house, and right from the start of the conversation, he felt charged. Because right from the start, the stranger, who said his name was Jeff Walker, asked about Juana Mendez, and baby, we are in business now, Duncan thought. We are finally getting some action. While he eagerly listened and adjusted dials and made sure that the tape machines were recording every word, he simultaneously pushed a button on his cellular telephone. The number he needed to call had been programmed into the phone.

'You know my daughter?' Mrs Mendez was saying in Spanish.

The man who called himself Jeff Walker was explaining that he'd known Juana in the military, at Fort Sam Houston.

With the cellular phone pressed against his left ear, Duncan heard it buzz.

The man who called himself Jeff Walker was talking about a dog that Juana Mendez had owned. Whoever this guy was, he certainly seemed to know her.

The cellular phone buzzed a second time.

Now Jeff Walker was carrying on about how Juana had bragged about her mother's chicken fajitas.

You're laying it on a bit thick, aren't you, buddy? Duncan thought.

Abruptly someone answered the phone, a smooth male voice absorbing the cellular static. 'Tucker here.'

'This is Bradley. I think we've got ignition.'

Chapter 5.

'Why didn't Juana bring me to the house?' Continuing to use Spanish, Buchanan repeated the question that Juana's mother had asked him. 'You know, I wondered that myself. I think it was because she wasn't sure if you and your husband would approve.'

Buchanan was taking a big chance here, but he had to do something to distract her from her suspicion. Something was wrong, and he didn't know what, but he thought if he put her on the defensive about one thing, she might open up about other things.

'Why wouldn't we approve?' Juana's mother asked. Her dark eyes flashed with barely controlled indignation. 'Because you're white? That's crazy. Half my husband's employees are white. Many of Juana's high-school friends were white. Juana knows we're not prejudiced.'

'I'm sorry. That isn't what I meant. I didn't intend to insult you. Juana told me - in fact she emphasized - that you didn't have any objection if she dated someone who wasn't Hispanic.'

'Then why wouldn't we have approved of you?' Juana's mother's dark eyes flashed again.

'Because I'm not Catholic.'

'. Oh.' The woman's voice dropped.

'Juana said you'd told her many times that was one thing you expected of her. that if she got serious about a man, he would have to be a Catholic. because you wanted to be certain that your grandchildren would be raised in the Church.'

'Yes.' Juana's mother swallowed. 'That is true. I told her that often. Apparently you do know her well.'

In the background, a man's gruff voice interrupted. 'Anita, who are you talking to? What's taking you so long?'

Juana's mother glanced down the hallway toward the entrance to the living room. 'Wait here,' she told Buchanan and closed the door.

Feeling exposed, Buchanan heard muffled words.

Juana's mother returned. 'Please, come in.'

She didn't sound happy about the invitation, though, and she didn't look happy as she locked the door behind them and escorted Buchanan into the living room.

It was connected via an archway to the kitchen, and immediately Buchanan smelled the lingering fragrance of oil, spices, onions, and peppers from dinner. The room had too much furniture, mostly padded chairs and various wooden tables. A crucifix hung on the wall. A short, heavy-chested, fiftyish man with pitch-black hair and darker eyes than his wife sat in an Easy-Boy recliner. His face was round but craggy. He wore work shoes and a blue coverall that had a patch -MENDEZ MECHANICS. Buchanan remembered that Juana had told him about the six garages her father owned throughout the city. The man was smoking a cigar and holding a bottle of Corona beer.

'Who are you?' It was difficult to hear him because of the laughter from the television.

'As I told your wife, my name is.'

'Yes. Jeff Walker. Who are you?'

Buchanan frowned. 'I'm sorry. I don't understand.'

Juana's mother fidgeted.

'I'm a friend of your.daughter,' Buchanan said.

'So you claim.' The man looked nervous. 'When is her birthday?'

'Why on earth would.?'

'Just answer the question. If you're as good a friend as you say, you'll know when she has her birthday.'

'Well?'

'As I recall, it's in May. The tenth.' Buchanan remembered it because six years previously he and Juana had started working together in May. Under the pretense of being husband and wife in New Orleans, they'd made a big deal about her birthday on the tenth.

'Anybody could look that up in a file. Does she have any allergies?'

'Se\$?or Mendez, what's this about? I haven't seen her in several years. It's very hard to remember if.'

'That's what I thought.'

'But I recall she had a problem with cilantro. That always surprised me, her being allergic to a herb that's used so often in Hispanic cooking.'

'Birth marks?'

'This is.'

'Answer the question.'

'There's a scar on the back of her right leg, up high, near her hip. She said she got it when she was a kid, climbing over a barbed-wire fence. What's next? Are you going to ask me how I saw the scar? I think I made a mistake. I think I shouldn't have come here. I think I should have gone to some of Juana's friends to see if they knew where I could find her.'

As Buchanan turned toward the door, Juana's mother said sharply, 'Pedro.'

'Wait,' the father said. 'Please. If you're truly a friend of my daughter, stay.'

Buchanan studied him, then nodded.

'I asked you those question because.' Pedro seemed in turmoil. 'You're the fourth friend of Juana to ask where she is in the past two weeks.'

Buchanan didn't show his surprise. 'The fourth.?'

'Is she in trouble?' Anita's voice was taut with anxiety.

'Like you, each of them was white,' Pedro said. 'Each was male. Each hadn't seen her in several years. But unlike you, they didn't have any personal knowledge about her. One of them claimed that he'd served with her at Fort Bragg. But Juana was never assigned to Fort Bragg.'

That was wrong, Buchanan knew. Although Juana's cover military assignment had been at Fort Sam Houston, her actual assignment had been through Fort Bragg. But her parents would never have known that because Juana would never have broken cover to tell them. So they naturally thought that the man who claimed to be Juana's friend was lying when he claimed that he'd known Juana at Bragg. Quite the contrary: the man was telling a version of the truth. Whoever he was, he knew Juana's background in detail. But he had made a mistake in assuming that her parents would also know it.

Juana's father continued, 'Another supposed friend claimed that he had known Juana at college here in San Antonio. When I asked which one, he looked confused. He didn't seem to know that she had transferred from Our Lady of the Lake University to St Mary's University. Anyone who knew her well would have known that information.'

Buchanan mentally agreed. Somebody had fucked up and skimmed through her file instead of reading it in detail.

'The third supposed friend,' Pedro said, 'claimed that, like you, he had dated her when they worked together here at Fort Sam Houston, but when we asked why we had never met him since Juana brought most of her boyfriends to see us, he didn't have an explanation. At least, you did, just as you actually seem to know personal things about her. So I will ask you again. Jeff Walker. is our daughter in trouble?'

Juana's mother waited, clutching the sides of her dress.

Buchanan had a difficult, quick decision to make. Pedro was inviting him into their confidence. Or maybe Pedro was offering bait. If Buchanan admitted his true intentions, Pedro might very well suspect that Buchanan was yet another impersonator sent by Juana's enemies to find her.

He decided to take the gamble. 'I think so.'

Pedro exhaled as if he were finally hearing what he wanted, even though the knowledge dismayed him.

'I knew it,' Juana's mother said. 'What kind of trouble? Tell us. We've been worried to death about.'

'Anita, please, no talk about death.' Pedro squinted toward Buchanan and repeated the question that his wife had asked. 'What kind of trouble?'

'If I knew, I wouldn't be here,' Buchanan said. 'Last week, I received a message that she needed to see me. The message was vague, as if she didn't want anyone else to read it and figure out what she was telling me. But I could figure it out. She desperately needed help. There's a place in New Orleans that was special to us. Without mentioning it, she asked me. begged me, really. to meet her there at the same time and date we'd last been there. That would have been at eleven p.m. on Halloween. But she didn't show up that night or the night after. Obviously something's wrong. That's why I came here. Because you were the only people I could think of to try to establish contact with her. I figured that you of all people would have some idea what was going on.'

Neither Pedro nor Anita said anything.