Swimsuit - James Patterson [53]
Henri slapped his knees, stood, asked me to walk him to the door and then to put my face against the wall.
I did it — and when I woke up sometime later, I was lying on the cold cement floor. I had a painful lump at the back of my head and a blinding headache.
Son of a bitch pistol-whipped me before he took off.
Chapter 68
I PULLED MYSELF to my feet, bumped against walls all the way to the bedroom, yanked open the drawer to my night-stand. My heart was clanging in my chest like a fire alarm until my fingers curled around the butt of my gun. I stuck the Beretta into my waistband and went for the phone.
Mandy answered on the third ring.
“Don’t open your door for anyone,” I said, still panting, perspiring heavily. Had this really happened? Had Henri just threatened to kill me and Mandy if I didn’t write his book?
“Ben?”
“Don’t answer the door for a neighbor or a Girl Scout or the cable guy, or anyone, okay, Mandy? Don’t open it for the police.”
“Ben, you’re scaring me to death! Seriously, honey. What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you. I’m leaving now.”
I staggered back to the living room, pocketed the items Henri had left behind, and headed out the door, still seeing Henri’s face and hearing his threat.
That’s just a way of… getting Amanda killed… I’ll have to exercise the termination clause… Understand?
I think I did.
Traction Avenue was dark now, but alive with honking horns, tourists buying goods from racks, gathering around a one-man band on the sidewalk.
I got into my ancient Beemer, headed for the 10 Freeway, worried about Amanda as I drove. Where was Henri now?
Henri was good-looking enough to pass as a solid citizen, his features bland enough to take on any kind of disguise. I imagined him as Charlie Rollins, saw a camera in his hand, taking pictures of me and Amanda.
His camera could just as easily have been a gun.
I thought about the people who’d been murdered in Hawaii. Kim, Rosa, Julia, my friends Levon and Barbara, all tortured and so skillfully dispatched. Not a fingerprint or a trace had been left behind for the cops.
This wasn’t the work of a beginner.
How many other people had Henri killed?
The freeway tailed off onto 4th and Main. I turned onto Pico, passed the diners and car repair shops, the two-level crappy apartments, the big clown on Main and Rose — and I was in a different world, Venice Beach, both a playground for the young and carefree and a refuge for the homeless.
It took me another few minutes to circle around Speedway until I found a spot a block from Amanda’s place, a former one-family home now split into three apartments.
I walked up the street listening for the approach of a car or the sound of Italian loafers slapping the pavement.
Maybe Henri was watching me now, disguised as a vagrant, or maybe he was that bearded guy parking his car. I walked past Amanda’s house, looked up to the third floor, saw the light on in her kitchen.
I walked another block before doubling back. I rang the doorbell, muttered, “Please, Mandy, please,” until I heard her voice behind the door.
“What’s the password?”
“ ‘Cheese sandwich.’ Let me in.”
Chapter 69
AMANDA OPENED the door, and I grabbed her, kicked the door closed behind me, and held her tight.
“What is it, Ben? What happened? Please tell me what’s going on.”
She freed herself from my arms, grabbed my shoulders, and inventoried my face.
“Your collar is bloody. You’re bleeding. Ben, were you mugged?”
I threw the bolts on Amanda’s front door, put my hand at her back, and walked her to the small living room. I sat her down in the easy chair, took the rocker a few feet away.
“Start talking, okay?”
I didn’t know how to soften it, so I just told it plain and simple. “A guy came to my door with a gun. Said he’s a contract killer.”
“What?”
“He led me to believe that he killed all those people in Hawaii. Remember when I asked you to help me find Charlie Rollins from Talk Weekly magazine?”
“The