Inside Outt

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.

CHAPTER 18
Jumpy’s Not My Style
    B ack 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 visors 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 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