Swimsuit - James Patterson [37]
The beauty of the grounds spread out before him like the Garden of Eden. Birds chirped their little hearts out in the trees, pineapples grew in the flower beds, children ran along the walks to the pool as hotel staff set up lounge chairs. Beyond the pool, the ocean was bright blue, the sun beat down on another perfect Hawaiian day.
There were no sirens. No men in black. No trouble on the horizon for him.
All was well.
Henri palmed his cell phone, called for the helicopter, then went to the bed and pulled the comforter over Julia’s body. He wiped down the room, every knob and surface, and turned on the TV as he dressed in his Charlie Rollins gear. Rosa Castro’s face grinned at him from the TV screen, a sweet little girl, and then there was the continuing story of Kim McDaniels. No news, but the search went on.
Where was Kim? Where, oh, where could she be?
Henri packed his gear, checked the room for anything he might have overlooked, and when he was satisfied he put on Charlie’s wraparound sunglasses and ball cap, swung his large duffel onto his shoulder, and left the room.
He passed the housekeeper’s cart on his way to the elevator, said to the stout brown woman vacuuming, “I’m in Four-twelve.”
“I can clean now?” she asked.
“No, no. A few more hours, please.”
He apologized for the inconvenience, said, “I’ve left something for you in the room.”
“Thank you,” she said. Henri winked at her, took the stairs down to the marvelous velvet jewel box of a lobby with birds flying through one side and out the other.
He settled his bill at the desk, then asked a groundskeeper for a lift out to the helipad. He was already thinking ahead as the hotel’s oversize golf cart ran smoothly alongside the green, the wind picking up now, blowing clouds out to the sea.
He tipped the driver and, holding down his cap, ran toward the chopper.
After buckling in, he raised his hand to say hello to the pilot. He pulled on headphones and, as the chopper lifted, he snapped off shots of the island with his Sony, what any tourist would do. But it was all for show. Henri was well beyond the magnificence of Lanai.
When the helicopter touched down in Maui, he made an important call.
“Mr. McDaniels? You don’t know me. My name is Peter Fisher,” he said, brushing his speech with a bit of Aussie. “I have something to tell you about Kim. I also have her watch — a Rolex.”
Chapter 47
THE KAMEHAMEHA HOSTEL on Oahu had been built in the early 1900s, and it looked to Levon like it had been a boardinghouse, with small bungalows surrounding the main building. The beach was right across the highway. Out on the horizon, surfers crouched above their boards, skimming the waves, waiting for the Big One.
Levon and Barbara stepped over backpackers in the dark lobby, which smelled musty, like mildew with a touch of marijuana.
The man behind the desk looked like he’d washed up on the beach a hundred years ago. He had bloodshot eyes, hair in a white braid even longer than Barb’s, and a stained “Bullish on America” T-shirt with a name patch: “Gus.”
Levon told Gus that he and Barb had a reservation for one night, and Gus told Levon that he’d need to be paid in full before he handed over the keys, those were the rules.
Levon gave the man ninety bucks in cash.
“No refunds, checkout at noon, no exceptions.”
“We’re looking for a guest named Peter Fisher,” Levon said. “He has an accent. Australian or South African maybe. ‘ Pee-ta Fish-a.’ You have his room number?”
The clerk flipped pages of the guest book, saying, “Not everyone signs in. If they come in a gang, I only need the one signature of whoever’s paying. I don’t see any Peter Fleisher.”
“Fisher.”
“Either way, I don’t see him. Most people eat in our dining room at dinner. Six dollars, three courses. Ask around later, and you might find your man.”
Gus looked hard at Levon, said, “I know you. You’re the parents of that model got killed over on Maui.”
Levon felt his blood pressure rocket, wondered if today was the day he would be cut down by a fatal