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.