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for you, Señora. Especially since I believe you said you don’t know your husband’s whereabouts. When did you say you had seen him last?”
     
    She cast him a look of withering scorn, and he unhappily remembered that she was the wife, the sister, and probably the daughter of lawyers. She would be adept at avoiding questions. “I didn’t say. However, since you ask, I will tell you that I have not seen him for over a week, and that I have no idea where he is at the moment.”
     
    “A week!” Tejada repeated, startled. “But why didn’t you alert anyone earlier?”
     
    “I am not in the habit of reporting my family’s business to the authorities.”
     
    There was something wrong with the supercilious statement, and had Tejada been fully awake, he would have realized what it was. Since he was not really alert, he only said, “What family business would that be, Señora?”
     
    She did not reply immediately, and he was distracted by the return of the corporal, bearing a cup of coffee, and Guardia Molina, who expressionlessly reported that His Honor, Judge Otero Martínez y Arias, was very sorry to hear of his sister’s ordeal, and was sending someone to pick her up immediately. Because he was a compassionate man, Molina did not add that Judge Otero had been quite upset by the phone call, and had threatened to call the minister of defense, whom he had referred to as Fidel.
     
    An automobile arrived within minutes for Señora Otero de Arroyo. Tejada saw her out, apologized as gracefully as possible for disturbing her, and then returned to Jiménez and his men. The lieutenant dismissed the guardias, and then herded Jiménez into his office. “Sit down, Corporal,” he ordered, taking a seat behind the desk, and rubbing his eyes wearily.
     
    “Errr . . . I’m very sorry, sir,” Jiménez ventured. “But you did say that . . .”
     
    Tejada wished again that he had managed to get ahold of a cup of coffee. His head hurt, and all he wanted to do was go back to bed. He glanced automatically at his bare wrist again, wondering how many hours he had before he officially went back on duty. Then he reached for a pad and pen. “I’d like your report on your visit to the Arroyo house now, Corporal.”
     
    “I told you—”
     
    “Your official report,” Tejada interrupted. “Including the names of your men, your exact time of arrival, who you met at the house, etcetera. As if you were writing it up.”
     
    “Well, all right.” Jiménez was puzzled. He had planned to write all of it down immediately anyway. It was odd that Tejada wanted it in oral form instead. He made his report, as Tejada scribbled notes, and wondered a little resentfully why the lieutenant was unwilling to let him write his own report. Tejada interrupted him a few times to ask questions, and then scribbled some more.
     
    “All right,” the lieutenant said finally. “Thank you. Dismissed, Corporal.”
     
    “Yes, sir.” Jiménez saluted. To his surprise, the lieutenant opened one drawer of the desk, and drew out a sheet of carbon paper. Then he stood, crossed the room to the table where the typewriter sat, and began taking off the machine’s lid. Curiosity got the better of formality. “What are you doing, sir?”
     
    “Typing this up.” The lieutenant glanced at his wrist again, and made a face. “What time is it?”
     
    “A little after four A.M. sir.”
     
    “Shit.” The lieutenant inserted the sheet carefully into the typewriter, and dragged a chair over. “Well, at least I should get it done before dawn.”
     
    “I could do it, sir,” Jiménez offered. “I mean, you’re not really on duty.”
     
    “No, that’s all right, thank you.” It took all of Tejada’s self-control to refrain from making an acid comment about the tone the corporal’s report was likely to take. If, as seemed likely, the report was going to be scrutinized by Captain Rodríguez, and possibly by higher officials, Tejada felt more