Assumed Identity

9

The man following Buchanan became less conspicuous as they drove toward downtown San Antonio. When they reached better-lit streets, Buchanan was able to see that the man used a Jeep Cherokee, gray, a good unobtrusive color for a surveillance vehicle, especially at night. The man took care to stay back among other cars when he had the chance. It was only the first two minutes that had given him away.

It had been enough.

Buchanan pulled into a gas station, filled the tank, and went into the office to pay. When he came out, he noticed that the Jeep Cherokee was parked down the street from the gas station.

A little farther along the road, Buchanan stopped at a minimall and went into a Tex-Mex quick-service restaurant, where he ate a beef-and-bean burrito and drank a Coke while he carefully glanced out the window toward where the Jeep Cherokee was parked in the shadows at the edge of the mall. Behind the steering wheel, the driver was talking to a car phone.

The spices in the burrito made Buchanan’s face warm. Or maybe he was feverish from fatigue. He didn’t know. His injured side ached. I’ve got to get some rest, he thought, and swallowed three more Tylenol caplets.

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.”