I was hungry, too, I realized. “Sure.” Then, as an afterthought, I checked my watch. It was nearly seven, though the sun was still well above the horizon, thanks to the combined wonders of daylight saving time and the approach of the summer solstice. “On second thought, you guys go ahead. It’s close to bedtime in Knoxville, and I’d like to talk to my wife before she goes to sleep.”
“We can wait, if you’re just touching base.”
“She’s pretty chatty,” I said, though the truth was, I tended to be the long-winded one.
He nodded. “You want us to bring you something on the way back? Burger? Chicken sandwich? They make a mighty mean onion ring.”
“A good chocolate shake, too,” added Boatman.
“Sounds good,” I said, “but none of that stuff travels well. Thanks anyhow.” I waved a hand in cheery dismissal. “Y’all don’t worry about me. I’ll get checked in, call Kathleen, and scrub off some of this grime. Plenty of time to grab a bite after that.”
Prescott inclined his head toward one side of the building. “There’s a pool, if you want to take a dip.”
“Didn’t bring a suit,” I said. “Didn’t realize we’d be staying at a luxury resort.”
He laughed. “Yeah. First class all the way.” The freeway’s exit ramp bordered one side of the pool, and the overpass loomed above the far end. I imagined a steady rain of dust, exhaust particulates, and rusted car parts raining down onto the pool court like volcanic ash onto Pompeii.
Opening the door, I stepped onto the parking lot’s blasted asphalt. “Pop the back? So I can grab my bag?” He did, and I extricated my yellow L.L. Bean duffel and closed the hatch. McCready took my place riding shotgun. As I passed Prescott’s window, it slid down a few inches. “See you in the morning. Wheels up at seven? Or is that too early for an ivory-tower guy like you?” It could have been a dig, but it didn’t sound like it.
“Seven? Early? That’s ten, Knoxville time. That’s sleeping in, man.”
“Hey, feel free to head on up at four. I’ve got a flashlight and a map I can loan you.”
“Nah,” I said. “You guys would be sad if you showed up and I’d already finished working the scene without you.”
“Sad,” he agreed. “Heartbroken, even.” The tinted window slid up, hiding him from view. The black Suburban did a U-turn, and the four invisible FBI agents glided away.
RECOUNTING MY DAY TO KATHLEEN HELPED ME PROCESS it; it also helped me feel grounded, connected with her—we’d been together so long, I tended to feel unsettled and unmoored when I was away. If not for the three-hour time difference, I’d have talked her to sleep as I settled into bed myself. Instead, I’d roamed the neighborhood around the motel as we talked.
Neighborhood wasn’t actually the right term for it; industrial park was more like it. Otay Mesa, or at least this part of it, consisted of grim blocks of warehouses, alternating with unpaved parking lots—some of them empty, others filled with semitrailers, and virtually all of them surrounded by chain-link fences topped with razor wire. Otay Mesa was a stone’s throw from a border crossing, and the town appeared to revolve around it the way water revolves around the drain in a toilet bowl. Years before, attending a conference in San Diego, I’d taken a brief side trip to Tijuana; the border crossing there, a few miles to the west, had reminded me of a drive-through version of an airport terminal: a bustling crossroads traversed by throngs of tourists and business travelers. The crossing here at Otay Mesa, on the other hand, put me in mind of a freight depot or railroad switchyard: a gritty frontier outpost where produce and car parts and probably contraband came pouring in, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
The nearness of Mexico was underscored everywhere I looked: Brown faces, which outnumbered white faces by two or three to one. Beer trucks hauling Tecate and Negro Modelo, rather than Budweiser and Coors. Import-export brokers and warehouses with names like COMERCIALIZADORA IMPORTADORA and MARQUEZ VEJAR and INTEGRACION ADUANAL. Dual-language placards on signposts and walls and fences: STOP and also PARE; DANGER as well as PELIGRO; BEWARE OF DOG plus ?CUIDADO CON EL PERRO!, a warning illustrated by a snarling German shepherd—a visual that made the sign trilingual, in a hieroglyphic sort of way.