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 field 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.”