She didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t think so,” I said. “So don’t tell me what I’m not. Because right now, I’m more of a cop than you are.”

I turned and left her in the driveway, slamming the front door behind me.

THIRTY FIVE

The doorbell was ringing before I was out of the shower.

I heard it the first time and ignored it, letting the hot water sting my neck and back, trying to roll the tension that had gathered in both places. The ringing stopped and I took longer than normal working the shampoo into my scalp, again trying to rid myself of the anxiety and anger that Blundell’s visit seemed to have brought me. I was rinsing it out when I heard the bell again. I shut off the water, toweled off, pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and stalked to the door as the bell chimed again. I was irritated and ready to take the head off whatever solicitor was wearing out my doorbell.

Except it wasn’t a solicitor.

A tan-skinned man in his twenties stood there, wearing a light blue shirt beneath a dark blue suit, sans a tie. His close-cropped black hair was damp, not a single hair out of place. He was slightly taller than me and stood with that loose confidence that guys who can do anything between dunk a basketball and break a leg seem to possess. He was holding sunglasses in his right hand and he held up his left in greeting.

“Mr. Tyler?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“My name’s Robert Simmons,” he said, a thin smile on his face that came off as neither friendly nor unfriendly. “John Anchor sent me.”

Anchor. Fast as always.

I offered my hand and we shook.

“I know I showed up without a phone call and I apologize,” Simmons said. “But I’ve been told you were advised that setting up this meeting could happen quickly. And it has.”

Anchor. Mind-blowingly fast.

“Okay,” I said.

“My colleague, Jason Benning, is in your driveway in our vehicle and we have instructions to accompany you to this meeting,” Simmons explained. “And to avoid being late, we need to go as soon as possible. Again, I apologize for the lack of warning.”

I wondered if Codaselli made all of his guys go to charm school.

“No, it’s fine,” I said. “Let me grab a couple things and we can go.”

Simmons nodded. “Excellent. And, just so there are no misunderstandings, Jason and I will be accompanying you and we are properly equipped. There’s no need for you to bring anything other than your necessary personal belongings.”

Translation: don’t bring a gun.

“Got it,” I said. “Give me one minute.”

Simmons nodded.

I left the door open and jogged to the bedroom. I pulled on a zip up Adidas jacket, socks and running shoes, found my wallet and phone and headed out with Simmons.

He introduced me to Benning, who was behind the wheel of a gray Land Rover and looked nearly identical to Simmons. He was exceedingly polite, but didn’t say much after the introduction, focusing instead on the driving. Simmons sat up front with him and I was in the backseat. Simmons assured me we weren’t going far.

We took the bridge over the bay back toward downtown and I was surprised that we headed north on five rather than south. We cut through downtown and past the airport on the highway and then got off the freeway again five minutes later at Moore and turned toward Old Town.

Old Town was an area in San Diego that had undergone multiple incarnations and refused to die. When I was a kid, it had been a place full of Mexican restaurants and small vendors selling handcrafted wares, meant to resemble a small downtown village in Mexico. But the city and vendors had butted heads over the years and the city brought in more development, much to the chagrin of those that wanted to keep the traditional vibe that the area had always exuded. Merchants and restaurants vacated, only to be replaced by chain storefronts and a more commercialized feel. Developers had tried to retain some of the original feeling by convincing several of the restaurants to stay, but Old Town felt more like a shiny new tourist attraction that had been constructed in a historic neighborhood.

Benning drove us through Old Town and parked in a paved lot across from a small, family owned Mexican restaurant.

Simmons twisted in his seat to look at me in the back. “You’ll be meeting with a man named Mario Valdez. Are you familiar with him?”

“No.”

“Within his organization, his position is probably most similar to that of a vice president,” Simmons explained. “Perhaps the number two most senior member of his organization, number three at worst. He agreed to this as a favor to Mr. Codaselli. I have no idea what to expect, except that we should treat him with the kind of respect a man of his stature is accustomed to.”

“So don’t go in and start demanding things or grab him by the neck,” I said. “I got it.”

Simmons nodded and pushed open his door.

I followed him and Benning into the restaurant. I was surprised to see that the restaurant was actually busy, a mix of families and businessmen enjoying an early afternoon lunch. Soft mariachi music played through the speaker system and waiters bustled by carrying large plates of steaming burritos and tacos. At the front of the building, adjacent to the hostess stand, a group of elderly Hispanic women gathered in a makeshift kitchen, hand-forming and cooking flour tortillas. Simmons nodded in greeting at one of the women, who offered a mostly toothless smile in return. He approached the hostess podium, leaning in close to speak to the young woman stationed behind it. She smiled at him, picked up the phone attached to the wall, spoke several words into it, hung up and said something I couldn’t hear to Simmons. He nodded and smiled back.

A minute later, a young man in his twenties emerged from a door near the kitchen, wearing a dark suit and a yellow dress shirt. He strode to the podium, introduced himself to Simmons, turned on his heel and Simmons motioned for Benning and I to follow him. We followed him through the door he’d come through, down a narrow hall. He stood to the side of another doorway, gesturing for us to enter.

The room looked like a private banquet room, with a long table covered in a red tablecloth and surrounded by about a dozen chairs. Eleven of them were empty.

Mario Valdez sat at the head of the table. He looked about my age, with thinning black hair combed to the side. A thin goatee encircled his mouth and chin and he wore rimless glasses over his eyes. A purple and black golf shirt hugged wide shoulders and thick arms, a silver watch on his wrist catching the light in the room. A large oval plate filled with enchiladas sat in front of him and he cut through them methodically, slicing and forking bite after bite as we gathered in the doorway.

He looked up as we entered, pulled the cloth napkin from his lap, wiped at his mouth and stood.

He smiled at Simmons and extended his hand. “I’m Mario. You must be Mr. Simmons.”

Simmons nodded and they shook hands. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. Mr. Codaselli appreciates any help you can offer us.”

Valdez nodded. “Of course. Peter is a friend. If we can help, we will.”

Simmons introduced Benning quickly and they shook hands. Then he looked at me. “And this is Mr. Joe Tyler.”

Valdez studied me carefully for a moment, the smile still on his face, but his eyes scrutinizing who he was meeting with. “Mr. Tyler. A pleasure.”

We shook hands and Valdez looked at Simmons. “I trust we are good here?”

Simmons nodded. “We are, yes sir.”

Valdez looked past me to the man who’d brought us to the room. “Alonzo. Please see that Mr. Simmons and Mr. Benning are attended to while Mr. Tyler and I meet. Anything on the menu, as my guests.”

“Yes, sir,” Alonzo said. “Gentlemen?”

Simmons and Benning followed Alonzo out of the room and closed the door behind them.