Austin suppressed a smile. “We're on our own. We were driving by and saw the sign.”

She smiled again and asked them to join a group of senior citizens, mostly Americans and mostly from the Midwest from the sounds of their accents. The receptionist, who also acted as guide, ushered them into the bakery.

“Corn was life in Mexico, and tortillas have been the staple food in Mexico for centuries with both the Indians and the Spanish settlers.” She led the way past where sacks of corn were being emptied into grinding machines. “For many years people made their tortillas at home. The corn was ground into meal, mixed with water to produce masa, then rolled, cut, pressed, and baked by hand. With the growth of demand in Mexico and especially in the United States, the tortilla industry has become more centralized. This has allowed us to modernize our production facilities providing for more efficient and sanitary operation.”

Speaking in low tones as they trailed behind the others; Austin said, “If the market for Mexican flapjacks is in the U.S., why isn't this place closer to the border? Why make them down here and ship them up the highway?”

“Good question,” Zavala said. “The tortilla business in Mexico is a tightly held monopoly run by guys with close government connections. It's a billion-dollar industry. Even if you did have a good reason to locate this far south, why build overlooking the ocean? Nice place for a luxury hotel, but an operation like this?”

The tour went past the dough mixers which fed into machines that produced hundreds of tortillas a minute, the thin flat pies coming out on conveyor belts, all tended by workers in laundry-white coats and plastic caps. The guide was ushering the group to the packaging and shipping department when Austin spied a door with words written in Spanish on it. “Employees only?” he asked Zavala. Joe nodded.

“I've learned all I want to know about burritos and enchiladas.” Austin stepped aside and tried the door. It was unlocked. “I'm going to look around.”

Eyeing Austin's imposing physique and blazing white hair, Zavala said, “With due respect for your talents as a snoop, you don't exactly blend in with the people working around here. I might be less conspicuous than a giant gringo stalking the hall ways.”

Zavala had a good point. “Okay, snoop away. Be careful. I'll meet you at the end of the tour. If the guide asks, I'll say you had to go to the restroom.”

Zavala winked and slipped through the door. He was confident he could charm his way out of practically any situation and had already prepared a story saying he'd become lost looking for the bano. He found himself in a long hallway with no windows or other openings except for a steel door at the far end. He walked the length of the hallway and put his ear against the door. Not hearing anything, he tried the knob. The door was locked.