"It’s broad daylight, too," Starlitz grumbled. He plucked sunglasses from a velcro pocket of his cameraman’s vest, and jammed the shades onto his face. He scanned the harbor’s parking lot with paranoiac care. Not much there: a couple of yellow taxis, three big-wheeled yuppie pickups with Oregon plates, a family station wagon. "What the hell kind of connection is this guy?"