Swimsuit - James Patterson [26]
I wanted to give them some privacy, so I lowered the window, stared out at the beachfront whizzing by, at the families picnicking by the ocean, as Kim’s parents suffered terribly. The contrast between the campers and the weeping couple behind me was excruciating.
I made a note, then swiveled in my seat and, trying for something comforting, I said to Levon, “Jackson isn’t subtle, but he’s on the case. He might be a pretty good cop.”
Kim’s father leveled hard eyes on me.
“I think you’re right about Jackson. He nailed you in five seconds. Look at you. You parasite. Writing your story. Selling newspapers on our pain.”
I felt the accusation like a gut punch — but there was some truth in it, I guess. I swallowed the hurt and found my compassion for Levon.
I said, “You’ve got a point, Levon. But even if I’m exactly what you say, Kim’s story could get out of control and eat you alive.
“Think of JonBenet Ramsey. Natalee Holloway. Chandra Levy. I hope Kim is safe and that she’s found fast. But whatever happens, you’re going to want me with you. Because I’m not going to fan the flames and I’m not going to make anything up. I’m going to tell the story right.”
Chapter 32
MARCO WATCHED UNTIL Hawkins and the McDanielses passed between the koi ponds and entered the hotel before he put the car in gear, eased out onto Wailea Alanui Drive, and headed south.
As he drove, he felt under the seat, pulled out a nylon duffel bag, and put it beside him. Then he reached behind the rearview mirror where he’d parked the cutting-edge, wireless, high-resolution, micro–video camera. He ejected the media card and dropped it into his shirt pocket.
He had a thought that maybe the camera had slipped during the drive back from the police station and the angle might have been off, but even if he just got the crying, he had his sound track for another scene. Levon talking about bad hands? Priceless.
Sneaky Marco.
Imagine their surprise when they figure it all out. If they ever do.
He felt a rush as he added up the cash potential of his new contract, the thick stack of euros with the possibility of doubling his take, depending on the vote of the Alliance on the project as a whole.
He would thrill them to the roots of their short hairs, that’s how good this film would be, and all he had to do was what he did best. How could a job possibly be better than this?
Marco saw his turn coming up, signaled, got into the right lane, then entered the parking lot of the Shops at Wailea. He parked the Caddy in the southernmost section of the lot, far from the mall’s surveillance cameras and next to his nondescript rented Taurus.
Hidden behind the Caddy’s tinted glass, the killer stripped himself of all things Marco: the chauffeur’s cap and wig, fake mustache, livery jacket, cowboy boots. Then he took “Charlie Rollins” out of the bag. The baseball cap, beat-up Adidas, wraparound shades, press pass, and both cameras.
He changed quickly, bagged the Marco artifacts, then made the return trip to the Wailea Princess in the Taurus. He tipped the bellman three bucks, then checked in at the front desk, lucking out, getting a king-size bed, ocean view.
Leaving the desk, heading for the stairway at the far end of the marble acreage of the lobby, Henri as “Charlie Rollins” saw the McDanielses and Ben Hawkins sitting together around a low glass table, coffee cups in front of them.
Rollins felt his heart kick into overdrive as Hawkins turned, looked at him, pausing for a nanosecond — maybe his reptilian brain was making a match? — before his “rational” brain, fooled by the Rollins getup, steered his gaze past him.
The game could have been over in that one look, but Hawkins hadn’t recognized him — and he’d been sitting right beside him in the car for hours. This was the real thrill, skating along the razor’s edge and getting away with it.
So Charlie Rollins, photographer from the nonexistent Talk Weekly, jacked it up a notch. He raised his Sony — say cheese, mousies — and snapped off three shots of the McDanielses.
Gotcha, Mom and Dad.
His heart