Swimsuit - James Patterson [41]
De Martine went on to say that Charles Rollins was not in his room, that he was sought for questioning, that any information about Rollins should be phoned in to the number at the bottom of the screen.
I tried to absorb this horrendous story. Julia Winkler was dead. There was a suspect — but he was missing. Or how the police like to describe it — he was in the wind.
Chapter 52
THE PHONE RANG next to my ear, jarring the hell out of me. I grabbed the receiver. “Levon?”
“It’s Dan Aronstein. Your paycheck. Hawkins, are you on this Winkler story?”
“Yep. I’m on the case, chief. If you hang up and let me work, okay?”
I glanced back at the TV. The local anchors, Tracy Baker and Candy Ko‘alani, were on screen, and a new face had been patched in from Washington. Baker asked the former FBI profiler John Manzi, “Could the killings of Rosa Castro and Julia Winkler be connected? Is this the work of a serial killer?”
Those two potent and terrifying words. “Serial killer.” Kim’s story was now going global. The whole wide world was going to be focused on Hawaii and the mystery of two beautiful girls’ deaths.
Former agent Manzi tugged at his earlobe, said serial killers generally had a signature, a preferred method for killing.
“Rosa Castro was strangled, but with ropes,” he said. “Her actual manner of death was drowning. Without speaking to the medical examiner, I can only go by the witness reports that Julia Winkler was manually strangled. That is, she was killed by someone choking her with his hands.
“It’s too soon to say if these killings were done by the same person,” Manzi continued, “but what I can say about manual strangulation is that it’s personal. The killer gets more of a thrill because unlike a shooting, it takes a long time for the victim to die.”
Kim. Rosa. Julia. Was this coincidence or a wildfire? I wanted desperately to talk to Levon and Barbara, to get to them before they saw Julia’s story on the news, prepare them somehow — but I didn’t know where they were.
Barbara had called me yesterday morning to say that she and Levon were going to Oahu to check out what was probably a bum lead, and I hadn’t heard from them since.
I turned down the TV volume, called Barb’s cell phone number, and, when she didn’t answer, I hung up and called Levon. He didn’t answer, either. After leaving a message, I called their driver, and when I got forwarded to Marco’s voice mail, I left my number and told him that my call was urgent.
I showered and dressed quickly, collecting my thoughts, feeling an elusive and important something I should pay attention to, but I couldn’t nail it down.
It was like a horsefly you can’t swat. Or the faint smell of gas, and you don’t know where it’s coming from. What was it?
I tried Levon again, and when I got his voice mail I called Eddie Keola. He had to know how to reach Barbara and Levon.
That was his job.
Chapter 53
KEOLA BARKED his name into the phone.
“Eddie, it’s Ben Hawkins. Have you seen the news?”
“Worse than that. I’ve seen the real thing.”
Keola told me he’d been to the Island Breezes since the news of Julia Winkler’s death had gone over the police band. He’d been there when the body was taken out and he had spoken with the cops on the scene.
He said, “Kim’s roommate was murdered. Do you believe it?”
I told him I’d had no luck reaching the McDanielses or their driver and asked if he knew where Barb and Levon were staying.
“Some dive on the eastern shore of Oahu. Barb told me she didn’t know the name.”
“Maybe I’m paranoid,” I told Keola, “but I’m worried. It isn’t like them to be incommunicado.”
“I’ll meet you at their hotel in an hour,” Keola said.
I arrived at the Wailea Princess just before eight a.m. I was heading to the front desk when I heard Eddie Keola calling my name. He came across the marble floor at a trot. His bleached hair was damp and wind-combed, and fatigue dragged at his face.
The hotel’s day manager was a young guy wearing a smart hundred-dollar tie and a blue gabardine jacket with a name-tag reading “Joseph Casey.