Swimsuit - James Patterson [86]
There was a long silence, then Van der Heuvel gave me directions to a bridge that crossed the Keizersgracht Canal only a few blocks from the train station.
I found Van der Heuvel standing by a lamppost, looking into the water below. I recognized him from the news clip that had been shot of him in Copenhagen, the journos asking him to comment on Mieke Helsloot’s murder.
Today he was wearing a smart gray gabardine suit, a white dress shirt, and a charcoal-colored tie with a silken sheen. The part in his hair was as crisp as if it had been drawn with a knife, and it highlighted his angular features.
I introduced myself, saying that I was a writer from Los Angeles.
“How do you know Henri?” he asked after a long pause.
“I’m writing his life story. His autobiography. Henri commissioned it.”
“You met with him?”
“I did, yes.”
“All of this surprises me. He told you my name?”
“In publishing, this type of book is called a ‘ tell-all.’ Henri told me everything.”
Van der Heuvel looked extremely uncomfortable out on the street. He appraised my appearance, seemed to weigh whether or not to take this meeting further, then said, “I can spare a few minutes. My office is right over there. Come.”
I walked with him across the bridge to a handsome five-story building in what appeared to be an upscale residential area. He opened the front door, indicated that I should go first, and I took the four well-lit flights of stairs to the top floor. My hopes rose as I climbed.
Van der Heuvel was as twisted as a snake. As part of the Alliance, he was as guilty of multiple murders as if he’d killed people with his own hands. But as despicable as he was, I wanted his cooperation, and so I had to control my anger, keep it hidden from him.
If Van der Heuvel could lead me to Henri Benoit, I would get another chance to bring Henri down.
This time, I wouldn’t blow it.
Van der Heuvel took me through his design studio, a vast uncluttered space, bright with blond wood and glass and streaming sunlight. He offered me an uncomfortable-looking chair across from him at a long drawing table near the tall windows.
“It is hilarious that Henri is telling you his life story,” Van der Heuvel said. “I can only imagine the lies he would say.”
“Tell me how funny you find this,” I said. I booted up my laptop, turned it around, and pushed the Play button so that Van der Heuvel could see the last minutes of Gina Prazzi’s life.
I didn’t think he had seen the video before, but as it ran, his expression never changed. When it was over, Van der Heuvel said, “What is funny is… I think he loved her.”
I stopped the video, and Van der Heuvel looked into my eyes.
I said, “Before I was a writer, I was a cop. I think Henri is doing mop-up. He’s killing the people who know who he is. Help me find him, Mr. Van der Heuvel. I’m your best chance for survival.”
Chapter 117
VAN DER HEUVEL’S back was to the tall windows. His long shadow fell across the blond table, and his face was haloed by the afternoon light.
He took a pack of cigarettes from his drawer, offered me one, then lit one for himself. He said, “If I knew how to find him, there would no longer be a problem. But Henri has a genius for disappearance. I don’t know where he is. I have never known.”
“Let’s work on this together,” I said. “Kick around some ideas. There must be something you know that can lead me to him. I know about his imprisonment in Iraq, but Brewster-North is a private company, closed tight, like a vault. I know about Henri’s forger in Beirut, but without the man’s name —”
“Oh, this is too much,” Van der Heuvel said, laughing, a terrible laugh because there was actual humor in it. He found me amusing. “He is psychopathic. Don’t you understand this man at all? He’s delusional. He’s narcissistic, and most of all he lies. Henri was never in Iraq. He has no forger other than himself. Understand something, Mr. Hawkins. Henri is glorifying himself to you, inventing a better life story. You’re