Swimsuit - James Patterson [17]
She’d been tall, blond, sweet-looking, not unlike Kim.
There was another case, more famous, a cheerleader for the University of Illinois who’d fallen off the balcony of her hotel room and died instantly. She’d been partying with a couple of boys who were found not guilty of anything. And there was another girl, a local teenager, who called her friends after a concert on the island, and was never seen again.
“Your press conference was a good thing. The police will have to take Kim seriously,” I said.
“If I don’t get a call back, I’m going over there again in the morning,” Levon McDaniels said. “Right now we want to go to the bar, see where Kim was hanging out before she vanished. You’re welcome to join us.”
Chapter 21
THE TYPHOON BAR was on the mezzanine floor, open to the trade winds, wonderfully scented by plumeria. Café tables and chairs were lined up at the balustrade, overlooking the pool and beyond, a queue of palm trees down to the sands. To my left was a grand piano, still covered, and there was a long bar behind us. A bartender was setting up, slicing lemon peel, putting out dishes of nuts.
Barbara spoke. “The night manager told us that Kim was sitting at this table, the one nearest the piano,” Barbara said, tenderly patting the table’s marble surface.
Then she pointed to an alcove fifteen yards away. “That would be the famous men’s room over there. Where the art director went, to ah, just turn his back for a minute…”
I imagined the bar as it must have been that night. People drinking. A lot of men. I had plenty of questions. Hundreds of them.
I was starting to look at this story as if I were still a cop. If this were my case, I’d start with the security tapes. I’d want to see who was in the bar when Kim was there. I’d want to know if anybody had been watching her when she’d gotten up from this table, and who might have paid the check after she left.
Had Kim departed with someone? Maybe gone to his room?
Or had she walked to the lobby, eyes following her as she made her way down the stairs, her blond hair swinging.
What then? Had she walked outside, past the pool and the cabanas? Had any of those cabanas been occupied late that night? Had someone followed her out to the beach?
Levon carefully polished his glasses, one lens, then the other, and held them out to see if he’d done a good job. When he put them back on, he saw me looking out at the covered walkway beyond the pool area that led to the beach.
“What do you think, Ben?”
“All of the beaches in Hawaii are public property, so there won’t be any video surveillance out there.”
I was wondering if the simplest explanation fit. Had Kim gone for a swim? Had she waded out into the water and gotten sucked under by a wave? Had someone found her shoes on the beach and taken them?
“What can we tell you about Kim?” Barbara asked me.
“I want to know everything,” I said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to tape our conversation.”
Barbara nodded, and Levon ordered G and Ts for them both. I was working, so I declined alcohol, asked for club soda instead.
I had already started shaping the Kim McDaniels story in my mind, thinking about this beautiful girl from the heartland, with brains and beauty, on the verge of national fame, and about how she had come to one of the most beautiful spots on earth and disappeared without trace or reason. An exclusive with the McDanielses was more than I’d hoped for, and while I still couldn’t know if Kim’s story was a book, it was definitely a journalistic whopper.
And more than that, I’d been won over by the McDanielses. They were nice people.
I wanted to help them, and I would.
Right now, they were exhausted, but they weren’t leaving the table. The interview was on.
My tape recorder was new, the tape just unwrapped and the batteries fresh. I pushed Record, but, as the machine whirred softly on the table, Barbara McDaniels surprised me.
It was she who started asking questions.