Starbucks.
Starbucks.Customers lined up at the counter, eight thirty, the morning after Tad had spoken with Ralphie Johnson. The space was crowded with a mixture of patrons: the headed-to-work set, retirees without a lot scheduled into their day, and a younger group mostly fixated on smart phones. They lined up for “half-cappuccino-this” and “skinny-latte-that.” The lines inched forward—human moths drawn to caffeine, sugar, and trendiness.
Larry Smith detested Starbucks, but Ralphie had been specific. Starbucks at 8:20—which probably meant someone in the shop had spent the last ten minutes surveilling him. If that was true, whoever Ralphie had sent was good; Larry hadn’t been able to spot him—or her. He sipped his cup of Pike’s blend and thought about the information in the unmarked mani
