I set down the plate and noticed writing on the napkin beneath it. I slid the pastry aside just a bit and read, “Inga will meet you at two.”
“Yes, please. Let’s do it, guys. I like the idea of a private tour.” I tapped the napkin gently, as if for emphasis, and then slid my plate back over the words.
“All right, let’s do it,” Aaran said. “If you don’t mind giving me his number . . .”
The waitress took a pen out of her apron and wrote the number on the back of our receipt. “His name is Alex. Tell him Ingrid sent you.” She smiled, then walked away.
As I watched her go, I wondered if this entire café was staffed with operatives or if it was some innate talent of baristas to be really good at passing notes. They probably never got caught by their teachers in school.
Aaran made the call, a
