Swimsuit - James Patterson [44]
Still he’d given them hope.
“I’m leaving the light on so you can record your goodbyes,” he heard himself saying on the small screen. “And someone on the road could see you. You could be rescued. Don’t count it out. But if I were you, I’d pray for that.”
He had wished them luck, then waded back up to the beach. He’d stood under the trees and watched the car sink completely in only about three minutes. Faster than he would have guessed. Merciful. So maybe there was a God after all.
When the dome light winked out, he’d changed his clothes, then walked up the highway until he caught a ride.
Now he closed his laptop, finished the champagne as the hostess handed him the lunch menu. He decided on the duck à l’orange, put on his Bose speakers, and listened to some Brahms. Soothing. Beautiful. Perfect.
The last few days had been exceptional, a fantastic drama every minute, a highlight of his life.
He was quite sure everybody would be happy.
Chapter 56
HOURS LATER, Henri Benoit was in the washroom of the first-class flight lounge at Honolulu International. The first leg of his flight had been a pleasure, and he was looking forward to the same for his flight to Bangkok.
He washed his hands, checked out his new persona in the mirror. He was a Swiss businessman based in Geneva. His white-blond hair was short, his eyeglass frames were large and horn-rimmed, giving him an erudite look, and he wore a five-thousand-dollar suit with some fine handmade English shoes.
He had just sent a few frames of the McDanielses’ last moments to the Peepers, knowing that by this time tomorrow, there would be a good many more euros in his bank account in Zurich.
Henri left the washroom, went to the main waiting area in the lounge, set his briefcase beside him, and relaxed in a soft gray chair. Breaking news was coming over the television, a cable news special. The anchorwoman Gloria Roja was reporting on a crime that she said “evoked horror and outrage.”
She went on, “A young woman’s decapitated body has been founded in a rental cabin on a beach in Maui. Sources close to the police department say the victim has been dead for several days.”
Roja turned to the large screen behind her and introduced a local reporter, Kai McBride, on the ground in Maui.
McBride said into the camera, “This morning, Ms. Maura Aluna, the owner of this beach camp, found the decapitated head and body of a young woman inside. Ms. Aluna told police that she had rented her house to a man over the telephone and that his credit card cleared. Any minute now, we expect Lieutenant Jackson of the Kihei PD to make a statement.”
McBride turned away briefly from the camera, then said, “Gloria, Lieutenant James Jackson is coming out of the house now.”
McBride ran, and her cameraman ran right alongside her, the picture jiggling. McBride shouted, “Lieutenant, Lieutenant Jackson, can you give us a minute?”
The camera closed in on the lieutenant.
“I have nothing to say to the press at this time.”
“I have just one question, sir.”
Henri leaned forward in his seat in the flight lounge, transfixed by the dramatic scene that was unfolding on the large screen.
He was witnessing the endgame in real time. This was just too good to be true. What he’d do later is lift the broadcast from the network’s Web site, cut it into his video. He’d have the whole Hawaiian saga, the beginning, middle, phenomenal ending, and now — this epilogue.
Henri quashed a giddy desire to say to the guy sitting two seats away, “Look at that cop, would you? That Lieutenant Jackson. His skin is green. I think he’s going to throw up.”
On screen, the reporter persisted.
“Lieutenant Jackson, is it Kim? Is the body you found that of the supermodel Kim McDaniels?”
Jackson spoke, tripping over his words. “No comment at this, on this. We’re right in the middle of something,” he said. “We’ve got a lot of moves we have to make. Will you turn that