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.
18. Jumpy’s Not My Style
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?”
“My problem is, what do you think we look like? We’re supposed to be a horny couple shacking up here to have sex. And you’re asking for a room with separate beds. You can have the goddamned bed, I’m happy to sleep on the floor.”
“I don’t see that my request was incommensurate with-”
“With two people who came here to fuck?”
“Maybe you snore. Maybe you thrash in your sleep. There are a lot of reasons two people might want to sleep in separate beds after they make love.”
“Yeah? Not in my experience.”
“Well, if you can find girlfriends so patient they can tolerate your personality generally, I expect they might be able to tolerate you in other ways, too.”