The night before, I’d done some research. Costa Rica is a small country, just a hair over fifty thousand square kilometers. A country known for its biodiversity. For its rain forests, cloud forests, woodlands, and wetlands. A country with a quarter of its territory protected as national parks and refuges.
Somewhere in it was Andrew Ryan. I hoped.
The IP address had placed Ryan in Samara four weeks earlier. The town was small, less popular with tourists than the upmarket sands of Tamarindo and Flamingo. That would work in my favor.
I pulled out the map I’d downloaded and studied the small tangle of streets. Noted a church, a laundromat, a number of shops, hotels, bars, and restaurants. A couple of Internet cafés.
Ryan is many things. Witty, generous, a crack detective. When it comes to communication, he is a Luddite. Sure, he has a smartphone. And he knows how to use the tools available to cops. CODIS, AFIS, CPIC, the lot. But that’s it. When off duty, Ryan prefers to call. He never texts, rarely emails.
And he doesn’t own a laptop. Says he wants to keep his personal life personal.
I got to my feet, undressed, and went into the shower. After toweling off, I put on sandals, jeans, and a T-shirt. Then I popped two Sudafed, shouldered my purse, and headed out.
The acne-faced woman was sweeping dead blossoms from the stone decking surrounding the pool. On a whim, I crossed to her and spoke in Spanish. Flashed a picture of Ryan.
The woman’s name was Estella. She knew of no Canadian living in Samara. She remembered a foursome who visited briefly from Edmonton. Both men were short and bald. When I asked, she cheerfully provided directions.
The walk along the beach took only minutes. I passed a restaurant, a surf school, a police station the size of a soap dish.
Samara’s main drag was a jog in the highway cutting through town. I reached it by heading straight up from the water.
Two horses grazed a patch of grass at the first corner I reached. A few cars and motorcycles were parked on either side. Power lines crisscrossed the air above.
The nearest Internet café was jammed between a souvenir shop and a small grocery. Its front was stucco, done in the same lemon and tangerine theme as my room. Lettering on the window offered international calls, Internet service, computer and iPhone repair.
The interior, considerably more drab than the exterior, held a counter, a soda vending machine, and six computer stations. At one station a confused-looking young woman studied a Lonely Planet guidebook, backpack at her feet. I assumed the other services were offered through the door at the far end of the shop.
A kid manned the register, back against the wall, front legs of his stool raised off the floor. He was maybe sixteen, with pasty skin and ratty blond dreads gathered high on his head. The dreads bobbed as he talked into a cellphone.
I approached.
The kid continued his conversation.
I cleared my throat.
The kid pointed to the computers but didn’t disconnect.
I placed a photo on the counter and slid it toward him.
The kid righted the stool and glanced at the image. Up at me. Something flickered in his eyes, was gone. “I’ll call you back.” East Coast accent, maybe New York. To me, “So?”
“Have you seen him?”
“What makes you think that?”
“He may have come here to use the Internet.”
“Yeah, lady. That’s what people do.”
“You’d notice him. He has sandy hair and stands over six feet tall.”
“In his moccasins?”
I hadn’t a clue what he meant by that.
“I’ll be damned, Natty Bumppo right here in Samara.”
Okay. The kid read James Fenimore Cooper. Maybe he wasn’t a total loss.
“It’s important that I find him.”
“What’s he done?”
“He’s a cop. His input is needed on an investigation.”
The kid glanced toward the door, the Lonely Planet girl. Then he leaned forward on his elbows and whispered, “Could be I’ve seen him.”
“Here?”
“I’m having a little trouble remembering.” His brows flicked up, dropped. “You catch my meaning?”
I did. I dug my wallet from my purse and teased free a twenty.