Swimsuit - James Patterson [71]
I imagined the FBI agent eyeing me skeptically, then the networks broadcasting “Henri’s” description: a white male, six feet, 160 pounds, midthirties. That would piss Henri off. And then, if he could, he’d kill us.
Did Henri really think I’d let that happen?
I stared at headlights flickering across the ceiling of the bedroom.
I remembered names of restaurants and resorts Henri had visited with Gina Prazzi. There were a number of other aliases and details Henri hadn’t thought important but that might, if I could figure them out, unwind his whole ball of string.
Mandy turned over in her sleep, put her arm across my chest, and snuggled close to me. I wondered what she was dreaming. I tightened my arms around her, lightly kissed the crown of her head.
“Try not to torment yourself,” she said against my chest.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“That’s a joke, right? You almost blew me out of bed with all your heaving and sighing.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s early. Too early, or late, for us to be up. Benjy, I don’t think obsessing is helping.”
“Oh. You think I’m obsessing?”
“Get your mind on something else. Take a break.” “Zagami wants —”
“Screw Zagami. I’ve been thinking, too, and I have an idea of my own. You won’t like it.”
Chapter 94
I WAS PACING in front of my building with an overnight bag when Mandy roared up on her gently used Harley Sportster, a snappy-looking bike with a red leather saddle.
I climbed on, put my hands around Mandy’s small waist, and with her long hair whipping across my face we motored to the 10 and from there to the Pacific Coast Highway, a dazzling stretch of coastal road that seems to go on forever.
To our left and below the road, breakers reared up and curled toward the beach, bringing in the surfers who dotted the waves. It struck me that I had never surfed — because it was too dangerous.
I hung on as Mandy switched lanes and gunned the engine. She shouted to me, “Take your shoulders down from your ears.”
Huh?
“Relax.”
It was hard to do, but I willed myself to unclench my legs and shoulders, and Mandy shouted again, “Now, make like a dog.”
She turned her head and stuck out her tongue, pointed her finger at me until I did it, too. The fifty-mile-an-hour wind beat on my tongue, cracking me up, making both of us laugh so hard that our eyes watered.
I was still grinning as we blew through Malibu and crossed the Ventura County line. Minutes later, Mandy pulled the bike over at Neptune’s Net, a seafood shack with a parking lot full of motorcycles.
A couple of guys called out, “Hey, Mandy,” as I followed her inside. We picked out two crabs from the well, and ten minutes later we picked them up at the take-out window, steamed and cracked on paper plates with small cups of melted butter. We chased the crabs down with Mountain Dew, then climbed aboard the Harley again.
I felt more at home on the bike this time, and finally I got it. Mandy was giving me the gift of glee. The speed and wind were blowing the snarls out of my mind, forcing me to turn myself over to the excitement and freedom of the road.
As we traveled north, the PCH wound down to sea level, taking us through the dazzling towns of Sea Cliff, La Conchita, Rincon, Carpinteria, Summerland, and Montecito. And then Mandy was telling me to hang on as she took the turn off the freeway onto the Olive Mill Road exit to Santa Barbara.
I saw the signs, and then I knew where we were going — a place we had talked of spending a weekend at, but we had never found the time.
My whole body was shaking when I dismounted the bike in front of the legendary Biltmore Hotel, with its red tiled roofs and palm trees and high view of the sea. I took off my helmet, put my arms around my girl, and said, “Honey, when you say you have an idea, you sure don’t mess around.”
She told me, “I was saving my Christmas bonus for our anniversary, but you know what I thought at four this morning?”
“Tell me.”
“No better time than now. No better place than this.”
Chapter 95
THE HOTEL LOBBY GLOWED. I’m not one of those guys who