At seven o'clock they were parked in the darkness across from Pete Braga Ford, watching Victor as he sat on the curb outside the showroom, eating a bag of chips. Victor's earphones were clamped to his head and a CD player rested in his lap.
The new cars sat in orderly rows, orange windshield letters proclaiming today-only discounts. The evening salespeople loitered at the various doorways, eyes on the lot. The floodlights made an island of brightness in the winter dark. McMichael noticed that the wind had changed to the west. The weather station said a new storm was headed in tomorrow.
"Amazing you can be a full-sized adult and have the mind of a ten-year-old," said Hector. "I have a nephew like that, but he writes kids' TV shows, makes tons of money."
"Maybe Victor's smarter than we think he is," said McMichael.
"Look at the way he studies each chip before he eats it."
Ten minutes later a new black SUV pulled into the service area and Victor's companion from the funeral got out. Thirty, McMichael figured- thick and strong but light on his feet. He nodded at the sales force, then walked over to Victor and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Victor offered him some chips. Mason Axelgaard helped himself, then walked into the wide driveway between the showroom and the service department.
A few minutes later a big red Mack came rumbling onto the drive, Axelgaard perched in the cab. The dealership floodlamps threw light at the truck and the shiny red paint threw it back. Smoke shot up from the gleaming chrome exhaust pipe. Victor collected his chips and player, climbed in.
As the tractor made the slow, lumbering turn onto the street, McMichael read the writing on the door: Pete Braga Ford/Let the Captain Take Care of You. The trailer carried three vans, two pickups and two Mustangs.
"Nice rig," said Hector. "Run you what, a hundred and twenty grand?"
"Pete was doing okay for himself."
McMichael drove, staying four, sometimes five or six cars back. Easy, tracking a red Mack loaded with new Fords. He fell back another few car lengths when they hit Interstate 5 south.
Through National City and Chula Vista, past Imperial Beach, then down into the border town of San Ysidro. By the time they hit Camino de la Plaza the retail signs were in English and Spanish- car insurance and currency exchange and parking. The houses and retail buildings were crowded together and even in the darkness McMichael could see their bright colors. The big Mack turned right on Virginia.
"He's going to the commercial gate," said Hector. "They'll stop everybody. U.S. might play ball with us, but the Mexican side is going to be tough."
McMichael looked out at the flashing yellow lights and the brightly lit U.S. Customs building, the zebra-striped barriers and orange pylons and the wall of concrete K-rails trailing off into Mexico. Two men in uniform stood in the door of the building. Four Customs and two San Ysidro Police cruisers waited along a chain-link fence topped with concertina wire. There were two southbound lanes open. McMichael watched Axelgaard and Victor take the right, so he took the left. Up ahead he saw a United States Customs agent reach up and take a clipboard from Axelgaard.
The big truck was still there when McMichael pulled forward. He shifted his body to the left, resting his right hand on the wheel, trying to look casual and keep his face and profile turned away from Victor, sitting up high, just a few yards away. He handed his badge holder to the inspector, who looked at him, then Hector. The Customs man handed back the holder and took Hector's. His nameplate said J. Alvarez.
"Business or pleasure?" he said.
"Business. We're working a burglary ring. Some Mexican nationals involved, maybe."
"Are you armed?"
"Service weapons, yes."
"You're supposed to have a warrant."
"We're not that far yet. This ought to go real smooth. We're just watching." McMichael patted the binoculars on the seat between him and Hector.
The inspector looked over at the truck again, then leaned in and gave Hector his badge and holder.
"Stay cool," he said. "And use the passenger vehicle lanes next time. I don't want to see you here again without some paper."
"Thanks. Cool it is."
The Mack rolled forward with a guttural snarl and a belch of white smoke and McMichael steered the Crown Victoria toward the Mexican Customs booth.
It was larger and busier than the U.S. version, three lanes leading into a low pavilion with clusters of floodlights bathing the street white. The Mexican flag lifted slightly, then fell in the cool air, Quetzalcoatl and the snake locked in a slow-motion struggle. Federales with machine guns stood in groups of four- they looked like Indians from the provinces, hard-eyed sixteen-year-olds, lean and watchful.
The Customs officials were working in teams- two for the interview and two to circle the vehicle. One of each team had a mirror on wheels with a long handle. Both carried carbines on straps over their shoulders.
"Guns," said Hector. "The only thing they don't want in this country is guns."
The timing got iffy. Axelgaard and Victor made the checkpoint faster than McMichael had hoped. He had just pulled into the inspection zone when he heard the Mack engine accelerate. He figured a hundred-yard lead into TJ and they'd loose them.
"Buenos noches," he said, offering his badge. "Policia de Ciudad San Diego."
They were here on business, McMichael explained in his passable Spanish.
The inspector said nothing. Didn't take the badge holder. The inspector behind him glared past McMichael at Hector. Another pushed his mirror under the front end and frowned into the reflection.
The first inspector looked over at the red truck, then took McMichael's badge. "Open the trunk."
McMichael pulled the latch, saw the trunk rise in the rearview. He could hear the wheels of the mirror as they rolled along Hector's side of the Ford. Voices, then the sound of his detective's case being set on the ground.
The inspector asked him if he was carrying weapons. McMichael told him they each had a sidearm, department-issue Smith & Wesson nine millimeters, no backups, no riot shotguns, no sniper rifles.
Ahead, he saw the red Mack pause into another gear, a puff of smoke rise from the light into the dark. The trunk slammed shut.
The inspector handed back McMichael's badge holder. He asked if they were working narcotics and McMichael said no, they were working a murder, a gringo in San Diego, a U.S. citizen, nothing to do with Mexico at all.
"Everything in Mexico has to do with Mexico," said the inspector.
He stepped away from the car and waved it forward.
Tijuana: cramped and loud, busses and trucks and ancient cars belching from red light to red light, cars fitted with rooftop loudspeakers blaring out advertisements, shop windows filled with shoes, windows of dresses, windows of meat and televisions and jewelry and perfume, the smell of smog and burning trash, of septic water and carnitas and diesel; traffic lights timed for congestion and frustration, hell-bent drivers with legal right-of-way, pedestrians sprinting for the curbs and jumping oily pools of rainwater thrown into sudden roostertail fans by the fabled Tijuana taxis.
"This place scares me to death," said Hector.
"That's why I drove."
McMichael, who had negotiated Tijuana as a southbound surfer during his high school and college years, had long ago learned to contribute to the chaos instead of trying to improve on it. He chirped the Crown Vic tires through a watery intersection to make a green, hooking a left turn just ahead of an oncoming city bus.
Eight minutes later he had double-parked on a crowded street off of Avenida Revolucion. He watched Axelgaard wrestle a series of tiny three-point turns to get the Mack and the cars through a chain-link gate manned by three young men. Two Doberman pinschers stood behind the gate in a pool of light, ears pointed skyward. The gate was the only opening in an eight-foot brick wall that ran the entire length of the block, then turned and disappeared into the darkness at the far side. It was topped with broken bottles, a thousand jagged edges in the dull city light. A billboard that stood behind the wall announced in English:
Diaz Leather Artists
Factory & Wholesale
Upholstery Welcome
When the back end of the trailer moved through, the men pushed the gate closed and locked three large chains. The dogs followed them from the light into the darkness.
An hour later the men opened the gates again and McMichael could see the big red tractor moving toward him in the darkness. Again, Axelgaard made three-point turns to get the long trailer past the walls. Once the rig was on Revolucion, McMichael kept well behind, following his way back to the commercial crossing.
This time he chose the same Customs lane as Axelgaard, but stayed three vehicles back. He wanted to see how it went for two gringos and a trailer load of new Fords. There were only six cars on the return trip, he noted: two minivans, three SUVs and a Mustang.
The Mack grumbled up to the check station. The inspector talked to Axelgaard, then waved them through.
"Wow," said Hector. "Smooth as silk. I'll bet the Americans won't be."
McMichael rolled down the window and held out his badge again. It was a different inspector, with the same placidly suspicious expression on his face. No mirrors this time through.
Hector chatted him up in Spanish while McMichael watched Axelgaard pull up to the U.S. Customs booth.
"Gracias," said Hector, pointing McMichael forward.
He had just pulled into the American zone when a U.S. Customs dog handler worked his dogs up one side of the trailer and down the other. Then the lift lowered and both dogs and handler rode up. The dogs put their noses to the new cars. They showed no interest that McMichael could see.
The dogs and handler rode the lift back down and the red Mack was waved through.
"Unbelievable," said Hector. "It took thirty seconds."
It took the detectives- badges, guns and an SDPD law enforcement vehicle- close to twenty minutes.
This time, a curly-haired U.S. Customs officer- not the cooperative one from before- took one look at McMichael's badge and made them pull into the inspection area. They looked under the hood, in the trunk, removed the inside door panels and spent several minutes manipulating the headrests. They checked the glove box, the map compartments, the toolbox, McMichael's detective kit- a cheapish mock-leather briefcase he'd bought at Kmart- as well as the spare tire space and the wheelwells. One dog got the interior, one the exterior. Two officers used two mirrors, overlapping and repeating each other's work.
"Okay," said Goldilocks. "Next time, get warrants or stay home. It's all different since nine eleven. Everybody waits."
"Some people get through pretty quick," said Hector.
"I see some guys two, three times a day," said the officer. "You're new. I don't like new. What are you working?"
McMichael noted the name on his badge: M. Axelgaard. He shot Hector his shut-the-fuck-up look, then turned back to the Customs man.
"Armed robbery out in El Cajon," said McMichael. "Witness was an illegal, got scared and came back home. We got an address from his sister."
"Any luck?"
"All bad."
"That's TJ. Later, boys."
They outran the Mack to the dealership and slipped into a dark parking lot across the street. Eleven o'clock now, Pete Braga Ford closed for the day. McMichael carried the night-vision glasses as they crossed the street. They stayed clear of the outdoor service department lights, which were left on for the much-advertised Braga Ford 24-hour Service Drop-off. McMichael tried the chain-link gate but it was locked.
"You first," said Hector.
McMichael slid the binoculars under, then they climbed the gate one at a time, the other spread-eagled against the mesh, trying to hold it quiet.
They found an open pickup back in the repair lot, across from Axelgaard's shiny SUV, with a good line of sight to the gate and the service bays. McMichael got in and ran his hands along the column until he found the tilt steering lever.
"I'm on the roof," said Hector. "If something goes froggy, meet me at the car."
"Here, Heck." McMichael gave him the binoculars, then watched Hector's bullish, small-footed body trot across the driveway and vanish behind the service bay. In that moment McMichael thought of Hector as his best friend, and he loved him, especially for the ways they were different.
When the Mack's headlights crept across the asphalt in front of him, McMichael slid down and watched between the dash and the upper arc of the steering wheel, like a short person driving.
The service area was big enough for Axelgaard to turn around with only four three-points. Victor climbed out and offered somewhat vague hand signals. Then Axelgaard backed the rig against the far wall, gunned the engine once, killed it and got out.
Axelgaard walked into the light and clapped a hand on Victor's shoulder and handed him what looked like money. Victor nodded obediently, dug into his pocket for something, and walked to the waiting room door.
The lights came on inside and McMichael saw him standing in front of the vending machines.
Axelgaard looked at Victor, too, then hustled back to the trailer, climbed up and keyed open the trunk of the Mustang. He pulled out a large duffel, closed the trunk quietly with an elbow, then hopped down and carefully set the bag into the back of his SUV.
Victor was still deciding what to buy.
Axelgaard trotted back to the trailer, jumped up and removed another duffel from the back of one of the minivans. Stashed that in his vehicle, too. Got another from one of the SUVs. The duffels didn't seem particularly heavy and McMichael noted the way that Axelgaard held them at both ends, as if something inside could shift or break.
By the time Victor came out with candy bars, Axelgaard had pulled his vehicle around to pick him up.
It was an easy tail downtown to the Horton Grand, where Axelgaard dropped off Victor out front. Victor waved to the valet and walked inside.
After that McMichael couldn't keep the SUV in sight without making a spectacle of himself, so he fell back and let Axelgaard lead the way down Silver Strand. By the time they reached Imperial Beach the traffic was thin and McMichael fell back more.
"This is touchy," he said.
"I'm still on him," said Hector.
Axelgaard took Palm to Calla, and parked along the oceanfront. McMichael turned into a driveway and cut the lights and engine, hoping the homeowner wouldn't come out and make a scene. He thought of Sally Rainwater in her drafty little house on the sand, just a mile or so south. He looked down the block at the rough Pacific moving in moonlight.
Axelgaard's SUV went dark and the driver's door opened. The muscled cop swung out, shut the door quietly and went to the back of the vehicle. He checked his watch, and so did McMichael: 11:55. Then Axelgaard swung out the back doors and carried the duffels, one at a time, out to the sand. He set them down carefully.
"Like there's something fragile in them," whispered Hector.
"The dogs didn't even wag their tails."
"Maybe it isn't dope."
"What, then?"
At midnight a white helicopter lowered from the black sky. It circled lazily and touched down in a blizzard of sand. A Bell Executive, noted McMichael. He got out his notebook to write down the numbers, but there weren't any.
"Heavy shit," said Hector. "These are cartel guys."
The pilot trotted from under the blades, joining Axelgaard at the duffels. They didn't say a word. They each took a duffel and the cop followed the pilot back to the chopper. Then Axelgaard came back for the third package while the pilot disappeared back into the cockpit. By the time Axelgaard had cleared the prop, the engine gunned louder and the sand lifted again and the helo pulled up into the dark sky.
"Two minutes," said Hector.
"Slick," said McMichael.
They watched Axelgaard guide the SUV into a three-point turn and head back the way he had come.
"Bye for now," said Hector. "Put this together with Pete."
Silence then as McMichael headed up Palm, bound for Silver Strand. He felt a brain thorn forming, way back in his mind, too far back to get to right now.
"All right," he said finally. "Thigpen and Pete met when Thigpen kept running across Victor and Angel. Thigpen felt sorry for Victor, this brain-damaged man-boy chasing after his dad's hooker. Thigpen tried to go light on him. The old man offered Jimmy an easy job and overpaid him, as thanks for helping out his son."
"Okay."
"The Axelgaard boys already had their border thing in place, but they didn't have a safe way of moving that much product. Maybe they didn't have the guts to try moving that much product. But all of a sudden, Thigpen's got legit business on both sides of the border, and a tractor trailer loaded with new Fords. He goes to work for Pete, and for the Axelgaards, too. Pete finds out. But he doesn't go to the cops because he's still a captain at heart, he's used to taking care of his own problems. And because he's let his own son get mixed up in it. And who knows, maybe Pete thought he'd be suspected. It sure wouldn't look good for Pete Braga Ford."
"All right."
"So he calls Jimmy on it. A big argument at Pete's home, early December- I've got a witness to it. Thigpen and Axelgaard realize that Pete's not only trying to take away the biggest fortune they'll ever make, he could always change his mind and just turn them in. So they think proactive and take him out. With Pete gone, it's business as usual. Thigpen was in jail by then, but the Axelgaards weren't."
Hector said nothing as they sped along Silver Strand, the black ocean stretching all the way to the stars.
"Why did they start taking Victor along? Why risk letting him see what he sees?"
"He's a hostage, but he doesn't know it," said McMichael. "With Victor along, the TJ people saw security, because Pete Braga's son is in on it. And stateside, Pete's less likely to make trouble if his own helpless boy is part of it."
Hector went quiet again until they were almost to the Coronado Bridge. "Why didn't Pete come to us when he found out what Thigpen was doing?"
"Because he's a do-it-yourselfer."
"No," said Hector. "I don't think so. Pete was smart. Pete could find fish and sell cars and play politics. He was smart enough not to crash a drug operation on his own. They're messing with his son, and he's playing boat captain? Naw. He'd come to us."
"Maybe he did," said McMichael. "Maybe Narco is working these guys."
"They'd have told us after the murder," said Hector.
McMichael thought it through. The brain thorn brought him back to the way that Axelgaard had handled the duffels.
"Pete had phone numbers for three assistant chiefs," said McMichael. "Almanza, Dodge and Bland Jerry."
"I'll see what I can find out," said Hector. "If someone's protecting the department by snuffing the truth about Jimmy, that makes him a goddamned narco runner with a badge."
"And maybe a shot caller."
"No shit," said Hector. "One of the team could have staked the place out and waited until the nurse took off to get something. Could have been one of the brothers. Could have been one of us. But either way, his prints would have been in the law enforcement register. Unless they used some clean cheap labor from TJ."
"But you'd have to figure a hired guy would help himself to Pete's wallet or watch because they were right out in the open," said McMichael. "And a hired guy, how's he going to know about the big diamond earrings and that hummingbird with all the jewels?"
"True," said Hector. "And why would a pro hit Pete so many times?"
They were back on the mainland by the time Hector spoke again. "Maybe the argument between Jimmy and Pete was about something else. Maybe Pete never knew what Jimmy was up to. Maybe nobody we saw tonight had anything to do with Pete."
"I thought of that, too," said McMichael.
"A Fed and a cop, running drugs from Mexico. We gotta tell Rawlings."
"First I want to talk to Jimmy one more time."
"Do it quick or we look bad."
They made headquarters at one-thirteen in the morning. Hector yawned and got out, banged his knuckles on the Crown Vic's hood as he headed for his car.