by Jeff Shelby
He sucked the jello off the fork and aimed the empty utensil at me. “Bingo.”
I stood up. “Watching you eat that is making me sick.”
“I’m already sick so how do you think I feel?”
“Not good,” I said, walking to the door. “I’ll try and get back tonight.”
“Noah?”
I turned. “Yeah?”
“I’m serious,” Carter said, his eyes confirming that statement. “If you’re going to see Costilla, I want to know when.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Call me mommy, daddy, or granny,” he said. “I don’t care. But let me know.”
Somewhere in the back of my head, it occurred to me that he might try to drag himself out of the hospital to accompany me, tubes and all. I couldn’t let him do that.
“I will,” I lied and left.
34
I thought about calling Emily, Liz, and Randall, all for different reasons, but couldn’t get motivated about any of those options. I avoided doing all three, ordered Chinese, and listened to the Padres get pounded by the Dodgers on the radio out on the patio.
Sleep came in spurts, in between thinking about Kate and the guilt of avoiding Emily and lying to Carter. I got out of bed at six, found a few good waves near the jetty, and rode those for about an hour, then came back and showered and dialed Ernie at eight on the nose.
“Couldn’t wait, huh?” he said when he answered the phone.
“Yeah. Just too excited.”
“Jesus,” he said. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“Well, that’s something at least.” I heard papers moving on his desk. “You got a pen?”
I fished one off the coffee table. “Yeah.”
“You know the Cultural Plaza in TJ?”
“Sure.”
“Be there at noon,” he said. “Then call this number.” He read me an unfamiliar number. “Let it ring twice, then hang up. Someone will come and get you.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“I got no idea, Noah,” he said, his voice indicating that he didn’t want to know either. “I’d tell you to take some help, but I doubt you’d get to him if you did.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“I could probably go,” Ernie offered. “They might let me go with you.”
“No,” I said quickly, before I could change my mind. “I don’t want you to do that.”
We both knew what I was implying. If something was going to happen, I wanted it to happen to me, not Ernie.
“I owe you,” I told him.
“Damn straight,” he replied. “Make sure you get back to pay up.” He hung up.
I stared at the number Ernie had given me, unsure of where it was going to lead me. I was indebted to him because he’d gone out on a limb to get me the information I needed. His board of directors would probably frown on the ease with which he was able to arrange a meeting with Alejandro Costilla.
I spent the next two hours picking up my place, trying to burn the nervous energy that was slowly building in my body. The house was spic-and-span when I left a little after ten.
I drove to the outlets where Carter and I had met Costilla for the first time. The dirt lots that sit across from the stores serve as free parking for those walking across the border. After five minutes of deliberation, I slid my gun under the seat and locked up the rented SUV.
Walking the hundred or so yards across the border feels no different than walking a hundred or so yards in any other place. Small children offer to sell you gum, old women sit stonelike on the sidewalk presiding over handmade jewelry, and Americans walk south in droves. You simply walk through a fence and under an overpass and you’re in another country.
The taxi drivers swarm as soon as you cross, though. A thin, younger man waved at me, raised his eyebrows. I nodded. He spun and opened the door of a beat-up, dusty white Ford Escort. He shut it behind me and hustled to the driver’s seat.
“Where you go, sir?” he said, smiling in the rearview mirror. “Revolucion?”
I shook my head at his mention of the area of nightclubs that most Americans sought out. “No. The Cultural Center in the Plaza.”
He gave a quick nod. “Si.”
He followed the other taxis as they pulled away from the sidewalk in a cloud of dust. The entry roads at the border crossing are dirty and bumpy, but after about a five-minute ride, you are on streets and highways that are indistinguishable from those on the American side, save for much less traffic.
The Plaza is fifteen minutes from the border but we made it there in about ten. The taxi pulled into the traffic circle and slowed to a halt.
The driver turned around. “This good?”
“Yeah,” I said, pulling a twenty from my wallet and handing it to him. “Thanks.”
He took the bill, nodded with a big smile, and gave a small wave.
I hoped that Liz or the DEA would not be interviewing him in the next few days as potentially the last person to have seen Noah Braddock alive. At least they’d know I tipped well, though.
The Cultural Center is in the newer, more modern section of TJ, and for the most part looks very similar to what you might see in the downtown area of a midsized American city. The main building is a museum, showcasing the history of the Baja California peninsula. A fountain is the centerpiece of the outdoor plaza, with families carrying shopping bags, vendors selling ice cream and drinks, and picnics on the grass.
I walked around the fountain for a moment, looking for a phone, the mist from the water cooling me off in the afternoon heat. I had just spotted one when I felt a gun barrel dig into my ribs.
“Mr. Braddock,” a voice said in my ear. “Good to see you.”
I turned sideways awkwardly and recognized Ramon. “Can’t say the same.”
“Do I need the gun?” he asked.
“No.”
The gun eased out of my back, and I turned a little more to see him.
Ramon wore gray linen slacks and a tight black T-shirt. The same hard eyes reminded me of why I’d been wary of him before.
“Where we headed?” I asked.
He pointed to a silver Mercedes slowing in the traffic circle. “Right there.”
“And then?”
He laughed as we walked toward the car. He opened the rear passenger door for me, and I got in.
Two men I didn’t recognize were staring at me from the front seat. The driver had a fat head, shaved bald, and eyes that were almost swallowed up by his chubby cheeks. His partner sported a tight crew cut of black hair, bright green eyes, and a sweaty upper lip. Neither smiled.
Ramon slid in next to me. “Go.”
The two men turned around, and the car started to move.
Ramon produced a blindfold that looked like one of those sleep masks people wear in hotels.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d put this on,” he said.
“If I don’t?”
He smiled. “I’d appreciate it if you’d put this on. Yourself.”
I took the mask from him and slipped it on over my eyes. Tiny slivers of light slithered under the mask at the bottom of my eyes, but everything else was black.
I adjusted to riding in the dark and tried to listen for sounds that might give me an idea of where we were headed. The only thing I could make out was the hum of the air conditioning and the constant whir of the wheels on the road.
We rode in silence for what I thought I calculated to be about an hour, but I knew that my sense of time was tenuous because of the silence and lack of vision.
The car slowed to a stop, the tires crunching over gravel.
“Please remove the mask,” Ramon said.
I did, and the light felt violent and unfriendly.
35
I stepped out of the Mercedes, Ramon behind me. We were at the bottom of a small grassy hill. A dirt trail bisected the slope to the top. I looked around and saw nothing else. A small mountain in the middle of a f
ield that looked as if it extended for miles in every direction. I couldn’t even tell which way we’d driven in from.
“I need to check you,” Ramon said.
I stood still and extended my arms. He patted me down quickly and efficiently, finishing at my ankles. He was better than most cops.
He stood up. “Follow the trail to the top.”
I turned and headed up the trail. It looked to be about three hundred yards, a gradual ascent that wasn’t too taxing. I turned around once to see Ramon standing at the bottom of the trailhead, watching me.
About midway, I could see the ocean out in the distance to the west. The field and hill were actually on top of a bluff, maybe half a mile from the coast. In Southern California, it would’ve been prime real estate, developed to the hilt. Here, it was simply a pretty piece of land.
I reached the top and found Alejandro Costilla waiting for me, sitting on a wooden bench, facing me. He wore white cotton pants and a long-sleeve burgundy dress shirt. I could see a small gold cross at the base of his neck. He was surrounded by three men, all dressed in shorts and T-shirts, all aiming machine guns at me.
Costilla gestured in my direction. “Check him.”
The one to his left stepped forward, slung the gun to his back, and patted me down, just as Ramon had done.
“Ramon cleared me already,” I said.
Costilla said nothing. The man finished patting me down, then nodded quickly in Costilla’s direction. He backed away from me, returning to his original spot, his gun again pointed at me.
“I’m surprised you came,” Costilla said.
“Needed to see you.”
He rose from the bench. “You don’t think I’m going to kill you?” he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.
I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I was honest. “I have no idea. I hope not.”
He smiled. “Good to have hope. How is your friend?”
“Alive,” I said. “How is your man?”
“Alive,” he said. “You know, it was supposed to be you that ended up in the hospital. Or the grave.”
“Figured that,” I said.
He laughed, shaking his head. “You’ve got balls, Mr. Braddock. Bigger than your brain, probably.”
I shrugged.
He extended his arms out to the sides, palms up. “So here I am. What is it you want to talk to me about?”
I felt isolated on the hill, probably as they intended. If they were going to kill me, there was nothing I could do about it. I figured I should at least try to get what I came for.
“Are you responsible for Kate Crier’s death?” I asked.
“You are still working on this? Even after I told you to stop?” Costilla looked incredulous.
“Yeah.”
“And now you think I killed this girl?”
“I think it’s a possibility.”
He smiled, squinting into the sun. “And if I tell you I did, what are you going to do?” He waved his arm around. “What are you going to do to me?”
There was nothing I could do at that moment and he knew it, too. I didn’t say anything.
He shook his head and ran a hand over his bald scalp. “You think I killed your friend because she was working for your government?”
“So you did know what she was doing,” I said, his statement confirming my guess.
“Of course,” he said, as if only a moron wouldn’t have known. “I knew immediately.”
“How?”
He frowned. “You think I’ve gotten to this point without being smart? Without being careful? No one gets close to me without my knowing who they are.” He shook his head again. “You disappoint me, Mr. Braddock.”
A knot formed in my stomach, and I couldn’t untangle it. I waited for him to continue.
Costilla walked back to the bench and sat, leaning back on his hands and crossing his outstretched legs at the ankles. “I didn’t kill her.”
That surprised me. He had no reason to lie to me. I was at his mercy. I thought he would enjoy telling me about her death, how he’d done it and how he was happy she was gone. And how I was next.
“But you knew what she was doing,” I said. “That she was an informant.”
He nodded. “Yes, I did. I made a mistake the last time your government tried to get inside my people. I killed that person.”
It wasn’t making sense. “Why was that a mistake?”
His head gleamed in the sun. “Let me ask you a question. Let’s say you are trying to hide from someone. That someone tries to get information about where you are going to hide.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Tell me, is it easier to just try and hide or to give that someone information that might make them look elsewhere?” He raised his eyebrows. “Send them looking in places where you aren’t.”
Now I was getting it. “So you fed Kate bad information?”
“Ask your police friends,” he said, laughing. “Ask them how they like looking for ghosts.”
“They wired her,” I said, still not entirely believing him.
He rolled his eyes. “Naturally. Ask them about what they heard, if anything they heard helped them catch me.” He looked at himself, mocking. “Oh, wait. Here I am.”
I don’t know how one comes to trusting someone that can’t be trusted, but there was no doubt in my mind that Alejandro Costilla was telling the truth.
36
“Do you know who killed her then?” I asked.
Costilla pointed a finger at me. “Therein lies the problem, Mr. Braddock.”
“I don’t get it,” I said, shaking my head.
He stood and motioned for me to walk to the edge of the plateau with him. I looked at the men and their guns, hoped they weren’t going to shoot me, then joined Costilla where he stood.
“I don’t know who killed her,” he said, gazing out in the distance toward the ocean. “If I did, I would’ve already taken care of it.”
“Mr. Costilla, I don’t understand a word of what you’re telling me,” I said.
He dropped his hands back into his pockets. “Ms. Crier had something that belonged to me.”
“Drugs?”
“Money,” he said, turning to me. “Half a million dollars.”
The knot in my stomach tightened.
“Now, of course, it’s not the amount that mattered to me,” he continued. “Rather a small amount when you look at the big picture. But it was mine and she took it.”
“You’re certain it was her?”
He nodded. “Yes. And even though I am not the one that killed her, I would have if I’d found her first. I can’t tolerate people stealing from me.”
The knot felt cold in my stomach. Kate had managed to operate in Costilla’s world without getting herself killed, even though the man she was informing on knew who she was. Now he was telling me that she stole from him and he’d planned to do what someone else had already done.
“Why’d she steal the money?” I asked. “There’s no way she’d think she could get that past you and her handlers.”
He rubbed his chin. “I’ve wondered that, too. But I don’t know why she did it. Maybe she was going to try and outrun me and her government.” He smiled. “Brave girl.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Brave.”
“When I told you I wanted you to stop looking into this,” he said, “it was because I wanted to find my money. I figured, you or your police find it, I lose it. And also because I will kill whoever took my money and killed our friend.”
“I don’t think she was your friend,” I said.
Costilla shrugged. “No, but she was useful to me. Her death inconvenienced me and disrupted my plans. That doesn’t please me.” He paused, then turned to look at me. “I think I misjudged you, however.”
“How’s that?”
“I figured, if you were trying to solve all this, you would turn in the person that killed your friend,” he said. “But now I see something different.”
; His observation irritated me. “You don’t know me.”
“True, but I know it when I see it,” he said.
“See what?”
“Someone looking for revenge,” he said and smiled.
We stood there for a moment, looking at one another, remaining silent. I didn’t like his trying to get in my head. Or the fact that he might have been right.
“You beat up one of my men, you shoot another,” he said. “You come here to meet with me after your friend is hurt. These are things someone does only if he is dumb or determined. And you, Mr. Braddock, are not dumb. I am confident of that.”
I looked away from him. I knew that what he was saying, what he saw in me, was the truth.
“So where does that leave us?” I asked.
He rocked on his heels, jingling some change in his pockets. “I’m going to let you keep looking.” He grinned at me. “I know, you didn’t need my permission. Whatever. I think you are the person who will figure it out. The way I see it, the person that killed your friend has my money.”
“You think I’m going to get you your money back?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s clear to me that you would not do such a thing. I thought at first, maybe. But I’m not going to waste either of our time by suggesting that.” He looked at me. “But I’ll be watching you.”
“So I can take you to your money?” I said.
Costilla shrugged. “Perhaps. But to be honest, I just want to see if I’m right.”
“Right about what?”
He looked at me, his eyes cold and hard like the first day I’d met him in San Ysidro. “To see if you are going to kill this person. Because I think, from what I see, you are.”
“You a psychology major?” I asked, again irritated with his analysis of me.
“No, but you are working in my area now,” he said, smiling again. He rubbed his scalp. “Now, we have one more thing to attend to.”
“We do?”
He nodded. “Yes. When I said that I was going to find your friend after she stole my money, you understand why?”
“I think so,” I said. “Doesn’t look good to have someone show you up.”
