Inside Out (18 page)

They passed the time talking about pistols, loads, and their favored carries. For someone who took a dim view of violence, Ben had to admit, Paula knew her hardware. Paula used the iPhone to
find a hotel in San Jose—the InterContinental, in Escazú—and to confirm there were vacancies. Ben told her not to make a reservation. The hotel wasn’t going to sell out its remaining rooms this late, and he saw no advantage to possibly alerting someone to where he would be spending the night. Not that anyone was looking, but … he just had this weird feeling, like there were forces moving around and beneath him, forces he could sense but not understand, and the feeling was keeping his usual low-grade combat paranoia at a healthy simmer.

They arrived in Barrio Dent at close to eleven. The iPhone’s GPS function took them straight to La Trattoria, where Taibbi said Carlos had been killed.

Ben parked the van and they stepped out into the sultry night air. There was an audible whoosh of traffic from the central avenue a block away, but other than that the neighborhood was quiet, its colonial houses decaying in stoic dignity beneath the swaying palm trees.

A streetlight across from the restaurant cast a sickly yellow cone of light on the crumbling sidewalk beneath it. Outside the illuminated pall, the street was cloaked in shadow. Ben stood at the edge of the light and glanced around.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “He got off the bus on the central avenue, took a couple turns, walked past this light … yeah, he could have come at Carlos from anywhere in the dark, and disappeared as easily. Okay.”

They walked back to the van. “What does that tell us?” Paula said.

“Maybe not much. I just need to get in his head.”

“Is it working?”

Ben nodded, imagining what Carlos would have looked like spotlighted under that streetlight. “Plug in the coordinates for that restaurant Spoon, will you? Let’s see if we can figure out what happened there.”

Paula did. It wasn’t much more than a kilometer. They drove the short distance, parked just down the street from the restaurant,
and walked over. Spoon was on the corner of two reasonably busy streets, cars parked on both sides, an auto body repair place across from it, the neighborhood a weird mixture of small restaurants and light industry, overgrown lots behind rusting chain-link fences, high-tension wires clinging to low buildings, plaster façades giving over to creeping mold feasting nonstop in the incessant tropical moisture.

Ben looked inside the restaurant. A neighborhood joint, brightly lit, cacti in the windows, plastic chairs and vinyl booths, locals talking and laughing over what looked like desserts and coffee. He could hear eighties American pop playing incongruously from inside. Windows ran the length of the place on both streets it was facing, and Ben was on the verge of deciding this wasn’t where Juan Cole had seen Larison—he wouldn’t have needed to go inside—when he saw there was a back room that wasn’t visible from the windows. So he would have gone inside to check. Okay, Spoon was a possible.

He turned and watched the street for a moment, imagining Larison inside with his girlfriend. Juan Cole pops his head in, you spot him, but he doesn’t spot you spotting him. What do you do? You make the decision. You come up with an excuse and get up. You go outside, and …

He looked around. Not the street facing the entrance. Too busy. You’d make a right, instead, toward what looked like a more residential part of the neighborhood. Yeah, that felt right. And according to Taibbi, it was where they’d found Juan Cole.

He walked down the cracked sidewalk, Paula just behind him. As soon as he was beyond the light cast through the restaurant window, he was enveloped in darkness. It felt right. So right he was nearly convinced this was exactly how it had gone down.

The block was short. He passed a rust-colored, two-story apartment building on the right, its windows, like all the others he’d seen in San Jose, barred. Then a windowless wall. The sidewalk curved right onto the cross street, and on instinct, Ben followed
it rather than crossing the street, and bam, there it was, he saw exactly what Larison had done. There was a staircase and an entranceway immediately to his right. Larison had ducked into it the second he’d turned the corner. If he had any street sense at all, Juan Cole would have realized what had happened just an instant after turning the corner and seeing that Larison was gone, but in that instant Larison had already stepped out from the shadows and broken open the back of Cole’s head. An instant could be a hell of a long time against a guy like Larison.

He looked around. Taibbi had said southeast corner, right? That meant across the street. Ben waited for a car to pass, its headlights momentarily cutting through the darkness, then crossed over.

Yeah, there it was. A corner sewer, the cement lip eaten away by time and humidity and lack of repair. It would have taken Larison all of five seconds to drag Cole across the street and shove him inside. If Cole hadn’t been a big man, he would have fit easily enough. If he had been big … Ben knelt, took hold of the metal grate, and lifted it. It came free easily.

Yeah, brain him, take his wallet, wait for any cars to pass, drag him, dump him … he wouldn’t have been gone longer than three minutes. People left for longer than that when they got up to take a leak.

“I think it was in Spoon,” Ben said, standing up.

“Where Cole saw Larison?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know?”

Ben shook his head. “Just a feeling. Let’s go see if anyone in that restaurant recognizes Larison.”

They walked back to Spoon and went inside. It was lively with laughter and conversation and the sounds of Billy Idol playing through speakers in the ceiling. Yeah, a neighborhood place. The crowd—about twenty men and women, ages ranging from mid-twenties up to maybe fifty—felt like they belonged there, like they
were regulars. Just a neighborhood dessert place, good when you’re tired after a night out, but not quite ready for the night to be over.

The host, a smiling man with a belly and a handlebar mustache, walked over with a couple of menus.

“¿Cuantas personas?”
he asked. How many?

Paula smiled and responded in Spanish while she showed her credentials. Ben was able to make out most of it: We’re looking for a regular customer of yours, we’d be grateful if you could help us find him. He’s not in trouble, we just need to ask him a few questions.

“Your Spanish is very good,” the host said in English, returning her smile and wiping his hands on his apron. “But if you like, maybe English is better?”

Paula laughed. “Oh, my goodness, thank you for saving me from embarrassing myself. Yes, please, English, if that’s okay.”

The host’s smile broadened. “All right. How can I help?”

Ben had to admit this was the right time for Paula to take the lead. When she wasn’t busting balls, there was something so … soft about her. It was disarming. Maybe that’s what she’d meant about people not seeing her coming.

Paula took out her phone and showed the host a photo of Larison.

“Sure, I know him,” the man said.

Ben’s heart kicked up a notch. He wanted to jump in, but reminded himself that Paula was doing fine, better than fine. He kept his mouth shut.

“You know him how, sir?”

“He’s a regular. Well, not a regular, exactly. He comes in a few times a week, or two weeks, and then he’s gone for a while. But he always comes back. He’s a good customer.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe … a month ago? Two months?”

Ben felt a little clench in his stomach, that twist of combat excitement. That was it. The first solid evidence they had that Larison
was alive. And if he was alive, he had to be the one behind this thing.

“Is he … alone, when he comes here?” Paula asked.

“No, he comes with his … friend. Nico.”

From the slight delay between the “his” and the “friend,” and slight stress on the latter word, Ben realized instantly. He thought,
Holy shit
. He thought of Larison’s wife, Marcy. No wonder she couldn’t let Larison’s Costa Rica excursions go. Did she know? Did she suspect?

And was Larison the father of their son? And if not, did he—

“This Nico,” Paula said, “do you have any way you could put us in touch with him?”

“No, not really. He comes in a few times a month.”

“Do you know his last name, sir?”

“I … no, I don’t.”

Ben sensed the questions were now making the man nervous, and that his memory would start to deteriorate as a result.

“When was the last time Nico dined here?” Paula asked.

“Maybe … sometime in the last month? We have a lot of customers.”

“I’m sure you do, sir. Does he pay with a credit card?”

“I think so, yes. Sometimes.”

Bingo. Unless the guy was mistaken and Nico paid only with cash, Ben was sure he now had enough for Hort to take to the NSA, whose supercomputers would triangulate on the name Nico and regular appearances at Spoon in Los Yoses. Ben doubted they’d get even one false positive.

And whatever Larison’s relationship with this guy, it was long-standing, and ongoing. If Nico didn’t lead them to Larison, it was hard to imagine what would.

Back in the van, on the way to the InterContinental, Paula said, “It’s him. He’s not dead.”

Ben nodded. “Sure looks that way.”

“What’s our next step?”

Ben almost pointed out that after tonight, “our” was likely not going to be applicable. Instead, he said, “We report in and try to get some sleep. And we’re going to be staying in the same room, okay?”

“Say what?”

“Look, why would a man and woman with next to no luggage be checking into a hotel together without a reservation at near midnight? A spontaneous business convention? You want to appear to be what people expect you are, that’s how you avoid getting noticed. So I want you to get back in that sarong and halter.
Put your jacket over it. It’ll look like you’re a prostitute I met at a bar who’s wearing a cover-up to be presentable in the lobby of a nice hotel.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “And just how far do you expect we’ll have to go in performing our roles?”

“Don’t get your hopes up. This is just for public consumption.”

“My hopes. You really are something. Anyway, why don’t we just check in separately and solve the problem that way?”

“Because I don’t trust you. I don’t want you off in your own room, talking to I don’t know who and doing I don’t know what.”

“You don’t trust me. My God, you have nerve.”

“Also, it would be natural for a married man arriving at a hotel with a prostitute to wear a baseball cap with the visor pulled low to obscure his features. Never know when you might run into a business acquaintance coming out of the bar. And to keep his head down a bit so his face doesn’t get picked up by security cameras. To be reticent about meeting the eyes of any staff he encountered. And you should do the same. Keep the jacket open, show some cleavage. No one’s going to look at your face.”

“Why are we worried about all this?”

“It’s just better not to be remembered or recorded now. You never know what’s going to happen later.”

Escazú was on the west side of the city. They drove through San Jose’s crumbling but vital center, and after a few minutes found themselves passing every conceivable western chain restaurant and retailer. Escazú was obviously an upscale enclave of Americana, right down to the ritzy-looking shopping center across the street from the hotel.

They parked in the lot rather than taking advantage of the valet. Anyone who noticed them walking in without bags would assume they were already checked in. If they thought otherwise … well, a man and a woman shacking up for the night away from their spouses could be expected to be discreet. Along with the baseball cap and averted eyes, the parking lot rather than the valet fit the pattern, which was what Ben wanted.

They walked into a bright, air-conditioned lobby—stone floors, a ceiling open all the way to the fifth floor, piano music playing from hidden speakers. The bar was off to the left, and it sounded lively. On the right, three receptionists stood behind a dark wood-and-marble counter.

They strolled over to the nearest of the three, a young Tico in a navy suit. “We need a room for the night,” Ben said, his voice quiet, slightly conspiratorial.

“Certainly,” the man said. “We have king-bedded rooms, twin-bedded rooms …”

“Twin beds would be fine,” Paula said.

Ben’s face betrayed nothing. But inside, he wanted to smack her for being so stupid.

The receptionist worked the keyboard. “I’m sorry, the only rooms we have available now feature a single king-sized bed.”

“A king-sized bed would be fine,” Ben said calmly. If Paula uttered one single word of protest, he was going to find something and gag her with it.

“Very good, sir,” the receptionist said. “And how many keys will you require?”

Simultaneously, Ben said, “One,” and Paula said, “Two.”

Ben stared at Paula and said, “One,” the single syllable sounding like a growl.

Paula stared back but didn’t respond.

“And what credit card will you be using?”

“I’ll just use cash.”

“All right. And we’ll require some form of ID. A passport, or …”

Ben pulled out his wallet and put three hundred U.S. on the counter.

“I’d just be more comfortable if there were no record of the transaction,” he said. “And please, keep the change.”

The receptionist looked down at the money for a moment. He produced a magnetic key in a paper sleeve and handed it to Ben with a gracious smile.

“Your room number is here,” he said, gesturing to the sleeve. “The elevator is just past the bar. Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you,” Ben said, glancing at the card. Room 535. “I’m sure we will.”

They walked over to the elevator. As soon as the doors had closed and Ben had inserted the room card and pressed the button for five, he said, “What were you thinking?”

She looked at him. “What’s your problem this time?”