by Jeff Shelby
“It’s called Krav Maga, moron,” I replied, irritated by his political incorrectness.
A half-eaten apple rested in his right hand. He waved it in my direction. “Whatever. Did you use it?”
I’d learned Krav Maga from a guy in college in exchange for a six pack and help with a lit paper. I asked him to teach me because I thought it was cool. I didn’t know that it would end up being a highlight on my resume.
“Yeah, I used it. The one guy wasn’t there to fight and the other dude wasn’t a problem,” I told him. “That said, there actually is a big problem.”
Carter sat up in his chair, lifted his sunglasses above his eyes, and let loose an earsplitting whistle that brought the pedestrian traffic on the walk to a halt. He pointed at a woman in a red bikini on rollerblades. “You are hot.”
When her look of alarm disappeared, she gave him a shy grin and continued on her way.
Carter turned to me, dropping the glasses back into place. “Big problem?”
I shaded my eyes against the sunlight. “Alejandro Costilla.”
Carter stopped in mid-bite and lowered the piece of fruit. “Come again?”
“The guys that were waiting on me,” I explained. “Costilla sent them.”
He stared at me for a moment, looked at the apple like it contained poison, then back at me. “Tell me you’re screwing with me, Noah.”
“Can’t. Wish I could, but I can’t.”
Carter fell onto his back and dropped the apple onto his bare stomach. “And you dropped one of his dudes?”
“Uh, yep.”
He adjusted the mirrored Oakleys that covered his eyes. “Well. Fuck me.”
“I know.”
I watched two teenagers at the shoreline strap on their leashes, pick up their boards, and run into the water, gliding the noses of their boards into the waves as they made their way out to the lineup.
I wanted to chase after them and forget about the new complications in my life. But I knew it wasn’t gonna happen at that moment.
Carter propped himself up on his elbows. “What the hell do they want with you?”
“Don’t know,” I answered. “They were waiting for me when I left the ME’s. Said that was where Mr. Costilla’s interest was.”
“With Kate?”
I nodded. “I guess.”
He picked up the apple and finished it methodically. He wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand, then looked at me. “What the hell was she into?”
It was the same question that had been dancing in my mind since I’d left them. They clearly knew why I went to see Minton. “They know about Kate’s death. Why does it matter to them?”
“I don’t remember Kate doing drugs,” Carter said.
“I don’t remember anyone we knew doing the kind of drugs it would take to draw Costilla’s attention,” I said.
Carter sat all the way up. He faced straight ahead at the tourists, the beach, and the water, but the sunglasses made it impossible for me to tell where his focus was.
“I don’t like this, Noah,” he said, finally, shaking his head slowly. “Costilla…we don’t want to get near him.”
I agreed with him, but didn’t know how to get out of it. “Unfortunately, that’s gonna be impossible to avoid now.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
“And I think the longer we wait, the worse it might get.”
Carter nodded again.
“Can you set up a meeting?” I asked, knowing that, with his connections, he could.
Carter lifted the sunglasses up and rested them on top of his head, the black of the frames contrasting with his white hair and bronze face. He cocked his head to the side, one eye open, the other closed. “Yeah. If you really want me to, I will.” He paused. “But you better be sure on this.”
Reluctance wasn’t something I was used to hearing in his voice, and that bothered me. Normally, he carried enough confidence for the both of us. And most of the rest of the human population, too.
“I think we have to,” I said.
He kept the one open eye on me. “Noah, if they’re interested in Kate, there’s a reason. Costilla doesn’t fuck around. And most likely, whatever the reason, you’re not gonna like it. Neither are her asshole parents.” He paused. “That gonna be something you can deal with?”
Two seagulls buzzed over the patio and out toward the water, chirping like angry lovers. Sitting on the patio, watching the waves, almost always felt cathartic, relaxing. Now, that feeling had turned to fear.
“We’ll see,” I told him. “We’ll see.”
15
Carter had been gone for about an hour, leaving without a word, presumably to set up our meeting with Costilla. I was contemplating what I might say to one of the most powerful druglords known to man when the phone mercifully interrupted my efforts.
“Braddock.” Minton sounded irritated.
“That’s me.”
“I want the tickets delivered to the office by five tonight.”
“Done.”
“And if they are anything less than exquisite seats, you can feel free to never set foot in my office again.”
I thought of about five great things to say about his use of the word “exquisite,” but I reminded myself that I needed his help and held my tongue. “They’re great seats, I promise.”
“Death was caused by strangulation,” Minton said quickly. “Probably about twelve hours before you found her.”
Not a big surprise. I’d figured that out on my own.
“No other trauma to the body that contributed to the death,” Minton continued.
“No other bumps or bruises?” I asked.
“None,” he answered. “But the tox screen was loaded.”
I took a deep breath. “Loaded?”
“Heroin,” Minton said. “And some alcohol.”
I tried to process that. “Could she have overdosed?”
“Nope,” Minton said confidently. “Her windpipe was crushed. Lots of residual, which says to me she was an addict. She had a decent amount in her system, but my guess would be that was a regular thing. The screen showed long-term use, not a binge that would’ve killed her.”
His words felt like a hammer hitting me in the spine. The thought of Kate using drugs felt as foreign to me as her being dead.
“Needle marks?” I asked.
“Nothing fresh, but there was some scarring on the left arm and in between the toes.” Minton paused. “She wasn’t a recreational user. It was a way of life for this girl.”
My brain spun like a tornado. “You’re sure?”
“Positive,” he said. “And, Braddock? We didn’t have this conversation. I haven’t even filled out the report yet.”
“Got it.”
“Tickets by five,” he said and hung up.
I set the phone down and tried to picture Kate as a drug addict. We’d smoked a little pot in high school, but mainly for experimentation and fun. Neither of us had much of a taste for it. We drank our share, but stayed away from anything that got snorted or injected. I couldn’t imagine Kate being involved in anything worse than that.
But Minton clearly disagreed with my imagination.
Randall Tower hadn’t mentioned any drug use to me. It wouldn’t be surprising if he didn’t know, though. Most people try to hide their bad habits from the ones they love, but rich people turned it into an art.
I pondered that as I called my buddy with the baseball tickets and arranged to have them delivered to Minton. He’d confused the hell out of me, but he’d earned them.
The front door opened, and Carter filled the space.
“We’re on,” he said, his face expressionless.
“When?”
Carter stepped aside, and Ramon, the nattily dressed thug from earlier in the day, stood beside him.
Ramon smiled and pointed a nasty-looking pistol at my gut. “Now.”
16
A ride to the South Bay wasn’t what I had in mind for t
he afternoon, but when an internationally wanted drug kingpin agrees to meet with you and sends his people to escort you, a sandwich and a nap place a distant second.
Carter and I rode in the back of a dark blue Cadillac, Ramon in the front passenger seat with another man driving. The other man hadn’t gotten out of the car, and all that I could see was a black handlebar mustache sticking off the side his face, his head the size of a watermelon.
We drove south on the five, past Lindbergh Field, the ancient El Cortez Hotel, and Balboa Park, home to most of San Diego’s cultural activities. We moved by the on-ramp to the Coronado Bridge and then through the industrial grounds of National City and Imperial Beach to the last U.S. exit in San Ysidro.
There are three reasons to take the San Ysidro exit. You can park and walk across the border into Tijuana, like the thousands of tourists that do just that every day. You can get off the freeway and head back to where you came from, avoiding the dangerous streets of one of Baja California’s poorest cities. Or you can go shopping at the only outlet mall located at a United States international border.
The Cadillac turned into the parking lot of the outlets and drove to the western end of the strip mall.
“Guys, if we could hit the Mikasa store, that would be great,” I said. “I need some new goblets.”
“Just a word of warning,” Ramon said, not bothering to turn around. “Mr. Costilla does not find many things funny.”
I closed my big trap.
The car came to a stop at the end of the lot, idling next to the curb.
Ramon turned around. “I’m going to assume that you know that just because you don’t see any guns doesn’t mean there aren’t any guns.” He smiled. “Follow me, please.”
Carter and I slid out of the backseat. The driver stayed in the car and U-turned the Cadillac into a handicapped space.
We walked with Ramon past the Nike store, moving with the crowd of shoppers, a mix of local Mexicans and tourists looking for bargains. At the end of the row of shops, Ramon stopped in front of an empty suite. He produced a key and unlocked the door, holding it open for us. “After you.”
The front of the store was vacant, apparently in the process of being renovated. Paint cans and their lids were strewn across the concrete floor, with several ladders pushed up against the walls.
Ramon shut the door behind us. “The back room,” he said, pointing toward the door at the rear of the space.
I looked at Carter, who shrugged and nodded in that direction. We walked to the back and stopped in front of a partially closed door. If the shop were open for business, it would’ve been to the back office or the storeroom. For us, I wasn’t quite sure where it would lead.
Ramon yelled out something in Spanish.
“Come in,” a voice said from behind the door.
We went in. The storage room was double the size of the storefront, all gray concrete and cinder blocks. Empty metal shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
One man stood near the back door on the far side of the room, an Uzi resting in his large hands and pointed in our direction.
Alejandro Costilla paced back and forth between us in the middle of the room, an angry cat in a human body.
He was taller than I expected, probably six foot two, his athletic frame moving effortlessly in gray slacks, a white silk shirt, and black leather sandals. His head was shaved clean, a tan, gleaming scalp in place of hair. A thick black goatee made its way around his mouth. His eyes were narrow slits, outlined by thin black brows.
He froze when he saw us, as if we’d interrupted his concentration. His eyes narrowed a little more. He pointed at me. “You’re Braddock?”
His voice was high pitched for a man and it stopped me for a moment. He sounded like Charlie Brown.
“Yeah,” I said, regaining my composure.
He glared at Carter. “And you’re the one that set this up with Ramon?”
Carter nodded slightly. I realized his eyes were focused on the guy with the gun.
“He said you can be trusted,” Costilla said.
“That’s half right,” Carter told him.
Costilla raised an eyebrow. “What’s the other half?”
“Feared, too,” Carter replied, expressionless.
Costilla stared at him for a moment before letting his mouth slide into a thin smile.
“Perhaps Ramon said that, too.”
Carter shrugged.
Costilla started pacing again, but kept an eye on me. “You are investigating the murder?”
“I am,” I said, trying to relax. “You knew her?”
“We’d met,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
“In San Francisco?”
He waved a hand in the air, the silver rings on his fingers flashing like lightning. “I don’t remember and it doesn’t matter.” He stopped moving for a moment and turned his full gaze on me. “What do you know so far?”
I thought about that for a moment. I knew several things, but I wasn’t sure how wise it would be to share those things with Costilla. I needed to know what he wanted.
“I know she’s dead,” I said.
He stared at me for a moment, his eyes like black holes. He put his hands in his pockets.
“What do you know?” he asked quietly.
“Why?”
He shook his head slightly and looked at the floor, as if I were a child that kept making the same mistake. “Because I want to know.”
It was a statement made by a man who was not used to being questioned. And it chilled the room.
“I know I found her in the trunk of the car,” I said, deciding to play it semi-straight. “I know I think she was strangled. I know the medical examiner is still working on it. And I know her parents asked me to look into her death.”
Costilla looked up and clapped his hands together softly, mockingly. “That’s better.”
I glanced at Carter out of the corner of my eye. He was still locked in a staredown with Costilla’s bodyguard.
“That last part,” Costilla said to me. “You are done looking into her death.”
“I am?”
Costilla nodded, quick and hard. “You are.”
“Normally the people that hire me tell me when I’m done,” I said. “You didn’t hire me.”
Costilla placed his hands in his pockets. “No, I didn’t. But I am telling you that you are done.”
“And if I say I’m not?” I asked, watching him. My spine felt like an aluminum bat, the tension locking me up completely.
He started pacing again, this time not looking at me. “You will be well compensated for your time, Mr. Braddock.”
I watched him walk, confident and assured.
“Why do you want me off?” I asked.
He stopped and turned to me, an amused look on his face. “You ask a lot of questions, man. Stay with me for a second, but you do know who I am, right?”
I nodded.
He smiled, exposing bright, white teeth. “Of course you do. I ask that question to demonstrate something. Do you understand?”
“Not sure.”
“My point is you shouldn’t be asking questions of me,” he said, his smile growing wider. “Instead, you should be thinking about how to make sure I don’t fucking kill you today.”
I knew that, but I also knew that if I bowed down to this guy, I was done forever.
“I don’t always do the right thing,” I told him.
He nodded, evidently agreeing. “I heard that. But doing the wrong thing and doing something completely loco are two different things.” He nailed me with his eyes. “And right now you are on the loco side.”
I watched the lines around his eyes intensify.
“Don’t know what to tell you,” I said.
“There are two responses for you to choose from,” he said, holding up two fingers. “Yes, I’m going to back off. Or no, I’m staying on it.” He waggled the two fingers. “Simple choice. I will let you make the decision. But you
only get one chance.”
I paused, considering where my answer might take me. I knew what the right thing to say was, the safe thing. I knew which answer would get us out of the empty room and away from Costilla. But I couldn’t get it out of my mouth.
“No,” I said. “I’m staying on it.”
I heard Carter clear his throat.
Costilla folded his arms across his chest. “An unfortunate decision,” he said, his eyes burning holes into me. “Ricardo will see you out. The back door.”
“I don’t think so,” Carter said.
Costilla glared at him. “Too bad.” He snapped his fingers. “Ricardo.”
Ricardo waved the gun, motioning for us to move.
Carter finally moved his eyes from Ricardo to Costilla. “An unfortunate decision.”
Costilla returned the stare but said nothing.
I felt a knot form in my stomach and followed Carter toward the door. I knew Carter wouldn’t be moving unless he had a plan. Now I just needed to get inside his head and figure out what it was before we both took bullets to the back of the head.
Ricardo got to the door and opened it with his right hand, holding the gun in his left.
Then Ricardo’s head exploded.
Bullets poured into the room, ricocheting off the walls like marbles in an ice cooler. I dove to the floor, Carter landing next to me. I heard some yelling in Spanish from the storefront. I rolled next to the wall and looked at Carter.
He grinned back at me.
I heard some more yelling in Spanish, the voices retreating from the room. The bullets finally settled down, the silence nearly louder than the violence. The stench of hot metal and smoke filled my nose and stung my eyes.
“Carter?” a voice asked above us.
“It’s clear,” another voice said.
We both sat up.
Timmy and Jimmy Tate stood in the doorway, each holding something that looked like an AK-47.
Jimmy nodded at me. “What’s up, Noah?”
The Tates were identical twins. They were buddies of Carter’s. Working buddies. Psychotic buddies. Painfully thin, with pale, white skin, they both stood about five foot eight. Sad eyes and monobrows made them look like forlorn raccoons. Each sported a tight Marine crew cut of jet-black hair. Timmy wore a white bandana around his forehead. Jimmy sported a green one. Camouflage pants and a couple of black T-shirts completed their renegade ensemble.
