Killer Swell (14 page)

I left Chula Vista in a bad mood. And hungry.

I stopped at Roberto's in Ocean Beach, above Sunset Cliffs, and grabbed a burrito and some rolled tacos. As I sat at the streetside table and watched the tourists and locals mingle along Antique Row, the hunger went away, but the bad mood didn't.

I didn't feel good about putting Ernie in the position I'd left him in, but I knew it was the most direct route to Costilla. I tried to tell myself that if Ernie really hadn't wanted to help me, he wouldn't have. I knew that was a lie, though. Friends, at least my friends, helped each other out. Loyalty was high on the list for me and the people I let into my life. It was loyalty to Kate that was driving me. Not her parents' money, not anger, not even Carter getting hurt. Just loyalty. Ernie knew that if he ever came to me with something, I'd help him. A few questions asked, maybe, but I'd do it.

I just hoped I'd be around for the next time he needed me.

I drove up to UCSD and found Carter back in his hospital bed, more color in his face than when I'd left him yesterday. The frown he sported, though, was new. It seemed to be directed at what looked like fresh medical tape covering the upper part of his chest near his right arm.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, still scowling. “Feels like someone ate a piece of my shoulder.”

“They give you any pain meds?”

He shook his head. “Tried to but I didn't want them.”

I grabbed the chair by the window and slid it closer to the bed. “Well, that's dumb.”

“My body is a temple.”

I spun the chair around and straddled it backward. “Your body is more like an all-night rave.”

“Whatever. I don't want to be doped up.” He shifted slightly on the bed. “So, where you been?”

“Went to see Ernie.”

He fiddled with the IV tube that tucked into the back of his left hand. “I hope you mean the
Sesame Street
guy.”

“No, that Bert fella can be a real pain in the ass.”

The frown returned. “If you went to see Ernie, that means you are going to do something pretty stupid.”

I shrugged.

“Do I want to know?” he asked.

“No.”

He shifted again in the bed, and all of the tubes running out of his body shivered. “If you're doing what I think you're doing, at least let me know when. That way I'll know what to tell the cops when you disappear.”

I didn't want to talk about Costilla, even with Carter. Too much was going on in my head, and I didn't want to share it until I had organized it.

“Saw Emily last night,” I said, switching to a subject I knew he'd be interested in.

“Saw Emily last night or saw Emily last night and this morning?” he asked, a tired smile forcing its way onto his mouth.

“The first one.”

He tugged at the tubes entering his nose, adjusting them. “Glad to know my hospitalization hasn't hindered your love life.”

“It's not a love life.”

“Sex life?”

“Nothing happened, and I don't know what it is.”

“Does she?”

“Does she what?” I asked.

“Does she have an idea of what it is?” Carter said. “Or what she wants it to be?”

I shook my head. “We haven't talked about it.”

“Are you going to?”

I shrugged because I didn't know the answer. Half of me felt like Emily and I were gravitating toward one another out of grief. That would be understandable. But the other half of me wondered if maybe there was more to it. Maybe in a twisted sense, I was getting a second chance. And I wasn't sure if I wanted it.

“You'll figure it out,” Carter said.

“Probably,” I said.

The door to the room opened and a nurse hurried in with a green tray. The food was covered. She set it across his lap and disappeared out the door.

“It's covered because that way I can't tell her it sucks when she drops it off,” he said.

I laughed. “I'll see if I can't get you some decent dinner in here tonight.”

He lifted the various covers, unveiling some sort of chicken and jello combination. “Yeah, be a pal.” He poked at the food with the fork. “I was thinking about what you told me. About Kate and Randall.”

“Oh yeah?”

“His alleged affairs. You think whoever he was messing with was into the drugs, too?”

I hadn't connected those two avenues. “I don't know.”

“Might be interesting to find out where that heroin Kate had in the car with her came from,” he said.

Randall had said it was his, but hadn't told me where it had come from. In my anger, I had neglected to ask some important questions.

“Yeah, it might,” I said.

Carter forked some of the dark red jello. “I'm just thinking that if he was sleeping with somebody else who shared their habit, Kate might've known her, too.”

“And if there was some friction there, we may have somebody else who had a reason to kill Kate,” I said.

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.

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. “Revolución?”

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.
“Sí.”

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.