Swimsuit (10 page)

“You talked with him?”

“Bjorn had checked out before anyone knew Kim was missing. McDaniels, I know you don’t buy it, but Cahill is our guy. We just
need time enough to break him.”

HENRI, in his Charlie Rollins gear, was having lunch at the Sand Bar, the hotel’s exquisite beachside restaurant. Yellow market
umbrellas glowed overhead, and teenagers ran up the steps from the beach, their tanned bodies glistening with water. Henri
didn’t know who was more beautiful, the boys or the girls.

Henri’s waitress brought him liquid sugar for his iced tea and a basket of cheesy breadsticks and said his salad would be
coming shortly. He nodded pleasantly, said he was enjoying the view and had no place he’d rather be than here.

A waiter pulled out a chair at the next table, and a pretty, young woman sat down. She wore her black hair in a short, boyish
style, was dressed in a white bikini top and yellow shorts.

Henri knew who she was behind her Maui Jim shades.

When she put down her menu, he said, “Julia. Julia Winkler.”

She looked up, said, “Sorry. Do I know you?”

“I know
you,
” he said, held up his camera to say, I’m in the business. “Are you on a job?”

“I was,” she said. “The shoot wrapped yesterday. I’m going back to L.A. tomorrow.”

“Oh. The
Sporting Life
job?”

She nodded, her face getting sad. “I’ve been waiting around, hoping… I was rooming with Kim McDaniels.”

“She’ll be back,” Henri said kindly.

“You think? Why?”

“I have a feeling she’s taking a holiday. It happens.”

“If you’re so psychic, where is she?”

“She’s out of my vibrational reach, but I can read you loud and clear.”

“Sure. So what am I thinking?”

“That you’re feeling sad and a little lonely and you wish you were having lunch with someone who would make you smile.”

Julia laughed, and Henri signaled to the waiter, asked him to set Ms. Winkler up at his table, and the beautiful girl sat
down next to him so that they were both looking out at the view.

“Charlie,” he said, putting out his hand. “Rollins.”

“Hi, Charlie Rollins. What am I having for lunch?”

“Grilled chicken salad and a Diet Coke. And here’s what else. You’re thinking you’d like to stay over another day because
a neighbor is taking care of your cat and it’s so nice here, so what’s the rush to go home?”

Julia laughed again. “Bruno. He’s a Rottweiler.”

“I knew that,” Henri said, sitting back as the waitress brought his salad and asked Julia for her order, grilled chicken and
a mai tai.

“Even if I were to stay over another night, I never date photographers,” she said, eyeing the camera resting on the table
facing her.

“Have I asked you out?”

“You will.”

Their grins turned into laughter, and then Rollins said, “All right, I’ll ask you out. And I’m taking your picture so the
guys in Loxahatchee won’t think I made this up.”

“Okay, but take off your sunglasses, Charlie. I want to see your eyes.”

“Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

“WHOOOOOOO,”
Julia screamed as the chopper yawed into the coral-gold sky. The little island of Lanai grew huge, and then they were dropping
softly to the tiny private heliport at the edge of the vast Island Breezes Hotel’s greener-than-green golf course.

Charlie got out first and helped Julia to the ground as she held the collar of her windbreaker closed, her curly hair parting,
her cheeks flushed. They ducked under the rotor blades and ran to a waiting car.

“You’ve got a great expense account, buddy,” she said breathlessly.

“Our dream date’s on me, Julia.”

“Really?”

“What kind of person would expense a date with you?”

“Awww.”

The driver opened the doors, and then the car rolled slowly over the carriage road to the hotel, Julia gasping as she entered
the lobby, all velvety teal and gold and burgundy, dense Chinese carpets and ancient statuary. The sunset streamed through
the open-air space, almost stealing the show.

Julia and Charlie had their twin massages in a bamboo hut open to the ocean’s rhythmic pounding on the shore. The masseurs
quartered the plumeria-scented sheets that covered them as their strong hands massaged in cocoa butter before proceeding to
the long strokes of the traditional
lomi lomi
massage.

Julia, lying on her stomach, smiled lazily at the man she’d just met, saying, “This is too good. I don’t want it to ever stop.”

“It only gets better from here.”

Dinner came hours later at the restaurant on the main floor. Pillars and soft lighting were the backdrop for their feast of
shrimp and Kurubuta pork chops with mango chutney and an excellent French wine. And Julia was happy to let Charlie lead her
in conversation about herself. She opened up to him, talking about her upbringing on an army base in Beirut, her move to Los
Angeles, her lucky break.

Charlie ordered a dessert wine and the entire dessert menu: zuccotto, pralines and milk, chocolate mousse, Lanai bananas caramelized
by the waiter at the table. The delicious fragrance of burnt sugar made him hungry all over again. He looked at the girl,
and she was a girl now, sweet and vulnerable and available to him.

Four thousand dollars had been well spent, even if he stopped right now.

But he didn’t.

They changed into their swimsuits in a cabana by the pool and took a long walk on the beach. Moonlight bathed the sand, turning
the ocean into a magical meeting of rushing sound and frothing foam.

And then Julia laughed, and said, “Last one in the water is an old poop, and that will be you, Charlie.”

She ran, screamed as the water lapped her thighs, and Charlie snapped off some quick shots before putting his camera back
inside his duffel bag and setting it down.

“Let’s see who’s an old poop.”

He sprinted toward her, dove into the waves, and surfaced with his arms around her.

AFTER A QUICK DINNER out with Keola, I returned to my hotel room, checked for messages, had no new calls from the woman with
the accent, or anyone else. I cranked up my computer, and after a while I sent a pretty fine seven-hundred-word story to Aronstein’s
in-box at the
L.A. Times.

Work done for today, I turned on the TV and saw that Kim’s story was headlining the ten o’clock news.

There was a banner, “Breaking News,” and then the talking heads announced that Doug Cahill was a presumed suspect in the presumed
abduction of Kim McDaniels. Cahill’s picture came on the screen, fully uniformed for a Chicago Bears game, smiling at the
camera like a movie star, all 6 feet, 3 inches, and 250 pounds of him.

Anyone would have been able to do the math. Cahill could’ve easily picked up 110-pound Kim McDaniels and carried her under
his arm like a football.

And then my eyes nearly jumped out of my head.

Cahill was shown in a video clip that had been shot two hours earlier. While I was having pizza with Eddie Keola, the action
had taken place right outside the police station in Kihei.

Cahill was flanked by two lawyers, one of whom I recognized. Amos Brock was dapper in his pearl gray suit, a New York criminal
defense attorney with a history of representing celebrities and sports stars who’d gone too far over to the dark side. Brock
had turned into a star himself, and now he was defending Doug Cahill.

Station KITV had cameras trained on Cahill and Brock. Brock stepped to the microphone, said, “My client, Doug Cahill, hasn’t
been charged with anything. The accusations against him are preposterous. There’s not a speck of evidence to support any of
the allegations that have been going around, which is why my client hasn’t been charged. Doug wants to speak publicly, this
one and only time.”

I grabbed the phone, woke Levon out of what sounded like a deep sleep. “Levon. It’s Ben. Turn on the TV. Channel four. Hurry.”

I stayed on with Levon as Cahill stood front and center. He was unshaven, wearing a blue cotton button-down shirt under a
well-cut sports jacket. Without the pads and the uniform, he looked relatively tame, like a kid in a Wall Street management
training program.

“I came to Maui to see Kim,” Doug said, his voice shaking, thick with the tears that were also wetting his cheeks. “I saw
her for about ten minutes three days ago and never saw her after that. I
didn’t
hurt her. I love Kim, and I’m staying here until we find her.”

Cahill handed the mic back to Brock: “To repeat, Doug had nothing to do with Kim’s disappearance, and I will absolutely, unequivocally
bring action against anyone who defames him. That’s all we have to say for the moment. Thank you.”

Levon said to me, “What do you make of that? The lawyer? Doug?”

“Doug was pretty convincing,” I said. “Either he loves her. Or he’s a very good liar.”

I had another thought, one I didn’t share with Levon. Those seven hundred words I’d just sent to Aronstein at the
Times
?

They were old news.

I E-MAILED MY EDITOR, told him that Doug Cahill was going to be chum for the media feeding frenzy and why: that a mystery
witness had seen him coming on strong with Kim, and that Cahill was being represented by Amos Brock, the current champion
bully of defense attorneys.

“Here’s an updated version of my article,” I wrote Aronstein. “If nothing else, I’m fast.”

And then I called our sports chief, Sam Paulson. He keeps odd hours, and I knew he’d be up.

Paulson likes me, but he doesn’t trust anyone. I said, “Look, Sam, I need to know what kind of person Doug Cahill is. My story
isn’t going to mess with yours.”

It was a wrestling match that went on for fifteen minutes, Sam Paulson protecting his position as the sports world’s premiere
“in” guy, while I tried to get something out of Paulson that would tell me if Cahill was dangerous
off
the playing field.

At last Sam gave me a tantalizing lead.

“There’s a PR girl. I got her a job working for the Bears. Hawkins, I’m not kidding. This is off the record. This girl’s a
friend of mine.”

“I understand.”

“Cahill got this girl pregnant a couple months back. She’s told her mother about the baby. She also told Cahill and me. She’s
giving Cahill a chance to do the right thing.
Whatever
the hell that might be.”

“He was dating Kim when this happened with the other woman? You’re certain?”

“Yep.”

“Does he have any history of violence?”

“They all do. Sure. Bar fights. One zesty one when he played at Notre Dame. Crap like that.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said back. “I mean
really.
Don’t mention it.”

I sat on this bombshell for a few minutes, thinking through what this meant. If Kim knew Cahill had cheated on her, that was
reason enough for her to dump him. If he wanted her back, if he was desperate, a confrontation could have led to something
physical that might have gotten out of hand.

I called Levon. And I was startled by his reaction.

“Doug is a testosterone machine,” he told me. “Kim said he was strong-willed, and we all know he was a killer on the field.
How do we know what he’s capable of doing? Barb still believes in him, but as for me, I’m starting to think maybe Jackson
is right. Maybe they’ve got the right guy after all.”

JULIA FELT WEIGHTLESS in Charlie’s arms, like an angel. Her long legs locked around his waist, and all he had to do was raise
his knees, and she was sitting on his lap.

He did just that as they bobbed in the waves. She lifted her face to him, saying, “Charlie, this has been the most. The best.”

“It gets better from here,” he said again, his theme song for their date, and she grinned at him, kissed him softly, then
deeply, a long salty kiss followed by another, electricity arcing like heat lightning around them.

He undid the string tie at her neck, jerked loose the tie behind her back, said, “You do a lot for a simple white bikini.”

“What bikini?”

“Never mind,” he said, and the swimsuit top drifted away, a ribbon of white on the black waves, until it was gone, and she
didn’t seem to care.

Julia was too busy licking his ear, her nipples as hard as diamonds against his chest. She groaned as he shifted her so she
was pressed even tighter to him, rubbing like an eager beaver against his dick.

He reached around and ran his fingers under the elastic of her bikini bottoms, touched the tender places, making her squeal
and squirm like a kid.

She pushed down at the waistband of his swim shorts with the backs of her feet.

“Wait,” he said. “Be good.”

“I plan to be
great,
” she said breathily, kissing him, pulling at his shorts again. “I’m dying for you.” She sighed.

He unhooked her legs and pulled off the bottom half of her swimsuit. Carrying the naked girl in his arms, he walked out of
the waves as water streamed off their bodies, silver in the moonlight.

Charlie said, “Hang on to me, monkey.”

He brought her over to where he’d left his duffel bag next to a mound of black lava rock. He stooped and unzipped the bag,
pulled out two enormous beach towels.

Still balancing the girl in his arms, he spread out one towel and laid Julia softly down, covered her with the second towel.

He turned away briefly, set the Panasonic camera on top of the duffel, and switched it on, angling it just so.

Then he faced Julia again, shucked his swim trunks, smiled when she said, “Oh my God, oh my
God
, Charlie.”

He knelt between her legs, tonguing her until she cried out, “Please, I can’t stand it, Charlie. I’m begging you, please,”
and he entered her.

Her screams were washed away by the ocean’s roar, just as he had imagined they would be, and when they were done, he reached
into the duffel bag and took out a knife with a serrated blade. Put the knife down on the towel beside them.