“Yeah. I figured it was Larison’s way of making it look like a robbery instead of an execution. Less interesting that way to the gendarmerie.”
“You say the brothers were named Carlos and Juan?” Paula said.
“That’s right. Carlos and Juan Cole.”
“The deaths occurred in Barrio Dent and Los Yoses?”
“Yeah, like I said.”
“Close to each other?”
“Maybe two kilometers apart.”
“Can you tell us where precisely?”
“He did Carlos across the street from a restaurant called La Trattoria in Barrio Dent. Just north of the Citibank on the central avenue leading from San Jose to the suburbs. You can’t miss it, there’s only a single streetlight, the rest of the street is dark. That’s why Larison chose it.”
Ben knew that’s why Larison chose it. He’d spotted the tail and then led them into an ambush.
“And Juan?” Paula said.
“Around the corner from a restaurant called Spoon in Los Yoses. One block southeast from the restaurant. The corner with the sewer.”
“Any other contact with Larison after that?” she asked.
“Are you kidding me? Let me tell you something. I think you can surmise that I don’t have a whole lot of rules in my life. But I’ve got one: you don’t fuck with the angel of death.”
“Angel of death?” Ben said.
Taibbi looked at him, squinting slightly as though trying to decide something. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about, amigo. I can tell you do.”
He took a swallow of whiskey, then looked into the glass. “I served in Vietnam, and I’ve known some pretty tough customers along the way. But I’ve known only three men who I’d call death personified. One was a guy named Jake, and he’s long dead. Another, went by the name of Jasper, is supposed to be in business for himself now, and believe me, you don’t want to be the subject of that business. The last was a part-Japanese guy named Rain, and no one knows what happened to him. Larison is in that league. He killed Carlos about as casually as I spit tobacco. And Juan, too. Snuffed them out and then evaporated like some evil fucking mist. Like I told Juan before he went and threw his life away, we were lucky. With a guy like Larison, it could have been worse.”
Paula said, “So you never saw him again.”
“No. And I sure as hell haven’t been looking.”
She said, “You don’t know what he was doing here?”
“I don’t know if he was on holiday, or he had a mistress, or if he wanted to go hiking in the fucking rain forest. I don’t know how long he was here or whether he’s ever been back. I don’t know anything more than what I just told you. And I don’t really want to, either.”
They were all quiet for a moment. Ben said, “I want to know something.”
“What?”
“Why’d you tell us all this?”
Taibbi glanced at Paula. “Because your partner asked so nicely, remember?”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Taibbi took a swallow of whiskey. “I told you, I don’t want to cross paths with Larison again. But that doesn’t mean I want him to live happily ever after, either. So whatever you’re planning to do with him, I figure now it’s your risk, and maybe my reward. That’s a division of labor I can live with.”
Paula frowned. “What do you mean, ‘whatever we’re planning to do with him’?”
Taibbi laughed. “What I mean is, if you’re FBI, I’m Doris Day.” He nodded at Paula. “You, maybe.” Then he looked at Ben. “But you? No way.”
“Yeah?” Ben said. “What am I?”
“I don’t know, exactly. But I’ll tell you what you look like. You look like him.”
16. Not a Comforting Thought
In the van on the way to San Jose, Paula was fuming in the passenger seat. “I told you I was going to take the lead. Why can’t you listen?”
“We got what we wanted, didn’t we?”
“Despite you, not because. Every time you open your damned mouth, you antagonize people.”
“Yeah, and then you got to do your sweet southern girl routine. Isn’t that what you guys call ‘good cop, bad cop’?”
“That’s right, ‘you guys.’ That was an FBI ID you showed Taibbi, wasn’t it?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I want to know who the hell you’re with.”
“That doesn’t make any difference, either.”
“Then why won’t you tell me?”
“Because it doesn’t make any difference.”
“It’s all personal for you, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You say it’s the job, but it’s not. You’d already gotten past that bouncer, but no, you had to make fun of him afterward, also. And Drew-you’d already disarmed and disabled him, why’d you have to sass him, too? Does the sass help you get the job done?”
He frowned. It was like Hort again, asking him why he went to that Burgos bar.
“Look, a Zen monk can’t do what I do, okay? Not that you would know.”
“Oh, those are the only two possibilities? Zen monk, and you?”
He didn’t answer. He’d never longed to be working alone as much as he did right then.
They drove for a while in silence. Ben said, “Did you catch what Taibbi said about the wallet?”
“Of course I caught it.”
“I mean, what did you make of it?”
“Just what Taibbi said. Larison was trying to make the second killing look like a robbery.”
“Wrong. Larison didn’t give a shit what the second killing looked like. He’d already vanished like a ghost and no one was going to connect him to the body whether the guy died of blunt trauma or a heart attack or was abducted by aliens.”
“Why, then?”
“Because once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action.”
“Will you please stop talking in riddles?”
“Put yourself in Larison’s shoes. You arrive at the airport. You’re good-you’re the best, in fact-so you remember faces, especially ones that belong to anyone who puts out any kind of operational vibe, no matter how slight. At the airport, you log dozens of faces, knowing most of them, probably all, will turn out to be false positives. The ones you see now are happenstance. Then, a half hour, a bus change, and five miles later, one of those faces pops up again behind you. The guy definitely has the vibe. Okay, that’s twice-coincidence, maybe. Now you get to Barrio Dent-long way from the airport, small part of the city-and you see the guy again. That’s enemy action.”
“Tell me again how you’ve never been in the military.”
“So now Larison knows for sure he’s been followed. But he’s got no reason to think there’s any way he could have been followed from the States. In other words, he’s not being followed because he’s Larison. He’s being followed because he’s something generic.”
“You mean, like a tourist.”
“Exactly. He figures that he drew the attention of a gang whose MO is to follow a tourist from the airport, hit him over the head when he’s alone or somewhere dark, and make off with his bag, his wallet, his passport, his watch. It happens. And the pattern fits what Larison realizes is in his wake. So he decides to disrupt the pattern.”
“All right, that’s Carlos. Then what?”
“Then what, I think, could be our break.”
“How?”
“Larison was in town for a few days, maybe longer. Say he was shacking up with his mistress. They’re going out a lot, enjoying the local nightlife, the restaurants and bars. Carlos’s brother Juan knows Larison had business in Barrio Dent or nearby because that’s where they tracked him to. He knows it’s a long shot, but he’s obsessed and he’s got nothing else to go on anyway. So one night, he cases every watering hole in Barrio Dent, Los Yoses, and San Pedro. They’re all right next to each other and none is particularly big. I read it in the guidebook. Systematically, one by one, starting in Barrio Dent, go back to the beginning, repeat. If he doesn’t get bingo the first night, he does it again the next.”