A ride to the South Bay wasn’t what I had in mind for the 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.