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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.