Swimsuit (12 page)

If so, had he abducted and possibly murdered Kim McDaniels?

HENRI BENOIT WOKE UP between soft, white layers of bedding in an elegant four-poster bed in his room at the Island Breezes
Hotel on Lanai.

Julia was snoring gently under his arm, her face warm against his chest. Late morning sunlight filtered through the filmy
curtains, the whole wide Pacific only fifty yards away.

This girl. This setting. This inimitable light. It was a cinematographer’s
dream.

He brushed Julia’s hair away from her eyes with his fingers. The sweet girl was under the spell of the kava kava, plus the
generous lacing of Valium he’d put in her cup. She’d slept deeply, but now it was time to wake her for her close-up.

Henri shook Julia’s arm gently, said, “Wakey, wakey, monkey face.”

Julia cracked open her eyes, said, “Charlie? What? Is it time for my flight?”

“Not yet. Want another ten minutes?”

She nodded, then dropped off against his shoulder.

Henri eased out of bed and got busy, turning on lamps, replacing the media card in his video camera with a new one, setting
the camera on the dresser, blocking out the scene. Satisfied, he removed the silk tassel tiebacks from the curtains, letting
the heavy drapery fall closed.

Julia mumbled a complaint as he turned her onto her stomach. He said, “It’s okay. It’s just Charlie,” as he tied her legs
to the posts at the foot of the bed, making a clove hitch knot with the cords, and then he tied her arms to the headboard
using an exotic Japanese chain knot that photographed beautifully.

Julia threw a sigh as she slipped into another dream.

Henri went to his duffel bag, sorted through the contents, put on the clear plastic mask and blue latex gloves, unsheathed
the hunting knife.

Masked and gloved but otherwise naked, Henri placed the knife on the nightstand, then knelt behind Julia and stroked her back
before lifting her hips and entering her from behind. She moaned in her sleep, never waking, as he pumped into her, his pleasure
overtaking reason, and told her that he loved her.

Afterward, he collapsed beside her, his arm across the small of her back until his breathing slowed. Then he straddled the
sleeping girl, twirled her short hair around the fingers of his left hand, and lifted her head a few inches off the pillow.

“Ow,” Julia said, opening her eyes. “You hurt me, Charlie.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”

He waited a moment before drawing the blade lightly across the back of Julia’s neck, leaving a thin red line.

Julia only flinched, but with Henri’s second cut, her eyelids flew open wide. She twisted her head, her eyes growing huge
as she took in the mask, the knife, the blood. She sucked in her breath, shouted,
“Charlie! What are you doing?”

Henri’s mood shattered. He’d been filled with love for this girl, and now she was defying him, wrecking his shot, ruining
everything.

“For God’s sake, Julia. Show a little class.”

Julia screamed, bucked violently against the restraints, her body having more range of motion than Henri expected. Her elbow
collided with his hand, and as the knife danced away from him, Julia filled her lungs and let loose a long, undulating, horror-movie
screech.

She’d left Henri no choice. It wasn’t graceful, but it was ultimately the best means to the end. He closed his hands around
Julia’s throat and shook her. Julia gagged and thrashed against the ropes as he squeezed off her air, controlled every last
second of her life. He released, then squeezed her neck again — and again — and then finally she was still. Because she was
dead.

Henri was panting as he got off the bed and crossed the floor to the camera.

He leaned toward the lens, put his hands on his knees, said with a grin, “Better than I planned. Julia went off script and
ended our time together with a real flourish. I just love her. Is everybody happy?”

HENRI WAS STEPPING OUT of the shower when he heard a knock at the door.
Had someone heard Julia screaming?
A voice called out, “Housekeeping.”

“Go away!” he shouted. “Do not
disturb.
Read the
sign,
huh?”

Henri tightened the sash of his robe, walked to the glass doors at the far end of the room, opened them, and stepped out onto
the balcony.

The beauty of the grounds spread out before him like the Garden of Eden. Birds chirped their little hearts out in the trees,
pineapples grew in the flower beds, children ran along the walks to the pool as hotel staff set up lounge chairs. Beyond the
pool, the ocean was bright blue, the sun beat down on another perfect Hawaiian day.

There were no sirens. No men in black. No trouble on the horizon for him.

All was well.

Henri palmed his cell phone, called for the helicopter, then went to the bed and pulled the comforter over Julia’s body. He
wiped down the room, every knob and surface, and turned on the TV as he dressed in his Charlie Rollins gear. Rosa Castro’s
face grinned at him from the TV screen, a sweet little girl, and then there was the continuing story of Kim McDaniels. No
news, but the search went on.

Where was Kim? Where, oh, where could she be?

Henri packed his gear, checked the room for anything he might have overlooked, and when he was satisfied he put on Charlie’s
wraparound sunglasses and ball cap, swung his large duffel onto his shoulder, and left the room.

He passed the housekeeper’s cart on his way to the elevator, said to the stout brown woman vacuuming, “I’m in Four-twelve.”

“I can clean now?” she asked.

“No, no. A few more hours, please.”

He apologized for the inconvenience, said, “I’ve left something for you in the room.”

“Thank you,” she said. Henri winked at her, took the stairs down to the marvelous velvet jewel box of a lobby with birds flying
through one side and out the other.

He settled his bill at the desk, then asked a groundskeeper for a lift out to the helipad. He was already thinking ahead as
the hotel’s oversize golf cart ran smoothly alongside the green, the wind picking up now, blowing clouds out to the sea.

He tipped the driver and, holding down his cap, ran toward the chopper.

After buckling in, he raised his hand to say hello to the pilot. He pulled on headphones and, as the chopper lifted, he snapped
off shots of the island with his Sony, what any tourist would do. But it was all for show. Henri was well beyond the magnificence
of Lanai.

When the helicopter touched down in Maui, he made an important call.

“Mr. McDaniels? You don’t know me. My name is Peter Fisher,” he said, brushing his speech with a bit of Aussie. “I have something
to tell you about Kim. I also have her watch — a Rolex.”

THE KAMEHAMEHA HOSTEL on Oahu had been built in the early 1900s, and it looked to Levon like it had been a boardinghouse,
with small bungalows surrounding the main building. The beach was right across the highway. Out on the horizon, surfers crouched
above their boards, skimming the waves, waiting for the Big One.

Levon and Barbara stepped over backpackers in the dark lobby, which smelled musty, like mildew with a touch of marijuana.

The man behind the desk looked like he’d washed up on the beach a hundred years ago. He had bloodshot eyes, hair in a white
braid even longer than Barb’s, and a stained “Bullish on America” T-shirt with a name patch: “Gus.”

Levon told Gus that he and Barb had a reservation for one night, and Gus told Levon that he’d need to be paid in full before
he handed over the keys, those were the rules.

Levon gave the man ninety bucks in cash.

“No refunds, checkout at noon, no exceptions.”

“We’re looking for a guest named Peter Fisher,” Levon said. “He has an accent. Australian or South African maybe. ‘ Pee-ta
Fish-a.’ You have his room number?”

The clerk flipped pages of the guest book, saying, “Not everyone signs in. If they come in a gang, I only need the one signature
of whoever’s paying. I don’t see any Peter Fleisher.”

“Fisher.”

“Either way, I don’t see him. Most people eat in our dining room at dinner. Six dollars, three courses. Ask around later,
and you might find your man.”

Gus looked hard at Levon, said, “I know you. You’re the parents of that model got killed over on Maui.”

Levon felt his blood pressure rocket, wondered if today was the day he would be cut down by a fatal myocardial infarction.
“Where’d you hear that?” he snapped.

“Whad’ya mean? It’s on TV. In the newspapers.”

“She’s not dead,” Levon said.

He took the keys. With Barb behind him, they climbed to the third floor, opened the door to an appalling room: two small beds,
mattress springs poking at grimy sheets. The shower stall was black with mold, there were years of crud in the blinds, and
the scatter rug looked damp to the touch.

The sign tacked over the sink read,
“Please clean up after yourselfs. There’s no maid service here.”

Barbara looked helplessly at her husband.

“We’ll go downstairs for dinner in a while and talk to people. We don’t have to stay here. We could go back.”

“After we find this Fisher person.”

“Of course,” Levon said. But what he was thinking was,
If Fisher hadn’t checked out of this hellhole. If the whole thing wasn’t a hoax like Lieutenant Jackson warned him from the
day they met
.

HENRI DIDN’T RELY on the costume, the cowboy boots or the cameras or the wraparound shades. The trappings were important,
but the
art
of disguise was in the gestures and the voice, and then there was the X Factor. The element that truly distinguished Henri
Benoit as a first-class chameleon was his talent for becoming the man he was pretending to be.

At half past six that evening, Henri strolled into the rustic dining room of the Kamehameha Hostel. He was wearing jeans,
a summer-weight blue cashmere sweater, sleeves pushed up, Italian loafers, no socks, gold watch, wedding band. His hair, streaked
gray, was combed straight back, and his rimless glasses framed the look of a man of sophistication and means.

He gazed around the rough-hewn room, at the rows of tables and folding chairs and at the steam table. He joined the line and
took the slop that was offered before heading toward the corner where Barbara and Levon sat behind their untouched food.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“We’re about to leave,” Levon said, “but if you’re brave enough to eat that, you’re welcome to sit down.”

“What the heck do you think this is?” Henri asked, pulling out a chair next to Levon. “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

Levon laughed, “I was told it’s beef stew, but don’t take my word for it.”

Henri put out his hand, said, “Andrew Hogan. From San Francisco.”

Levon shook his hand, introduced Barb and himself, said, “We’re the only ones here in the over-forty crowd. Did you know what
this pit was like when you booked your room?”

“Actually, I’m not staying here. I’m looking for my daughter. Laurie just graduated from Berkeley,” he said modestly. “I told
my wife that Laur’s having the time of her life camping out with a bunch of other kids, but she hasn’t called home in a few
days. A week, actually. So Mom is having fits because of that poor model who went missing, you know, on Maui.”

Henri turned his stew over with his fork, looked up when Barbara said, “That’s
our
daughter. Kim. The model who is missing.”

“Oh,
Jesus,
I’m sorry. I’m so
sorry.
I don’t know what to say. How’re you holding up?”

“It’s been awful,” said Barb, shaking her head, eyes down. “You pray. You try to sleep. Try to keep your wits together.”

Levon said, “You’re willing to chase any scrap of hope. What we’re doing here, we got a call from some guy named Peter Fisher.
He said he had Kim’s watch and if we met him here he’d give it to us and tell us about Kim. He knew that Kim wore a Rolex.
You said your name is Andrew?”

Henri nodded his head.

“Cops told us the call was probably bull, that there are nut jobs who love to screw with people’s heads. Anyway, we’ve talked
to everyone here. No one’s heard of Peter Fisher. He’s not registered at the fabulous Kamehameha Hilton.”

“You shouldn’t stay here, either,” said the man in blue. “Listen, I rented a place about ten minutes from here, three bedrooms,
two baths, and it’s
clean.
Why don’t you two stay with me tonight? Keep me company.”

Barbara said, “Nice of you to offer, Mr. Hogan, but we don’t want to impose.”

“It’s Andrew. And you’d be doing me a
favor.
You like Thai food? I found a place not far from here. What do you say? Get out of this hole, and we’ll go looking for our
girls in the morning.”

“Thanks, Andrew,” said Barbara. “That’s a nice offer. If you let us take you out to dinner, we’ll talk about it.”

BARBARA WOKE UP in the dark, feeling sheer, naked terror.

Her arms were tied behind her back and they ached. Her legs were roped together at her knees and ankles. She was crammed into
a fetal position against the corner of a shallow compartment that was moving!

Was she blind? Or was it just too dark to see? Dear God, what was happening? She screamed,
“Levon!”

Behind her back, something stirred.

“Barb?
Baby?
Are you
okay?
”

“Oh, honey, thank God, thank
God
you’re here. Are you all right?”

“I’m tied up. Shit. What is this?”

“I think we’re in the trunk of a car.”

“Christ! A trunk! It’s Hogan. Hogan did this.”

Muffled music came through the backseat to where the couple lay trussed like hens in a crate.

Barbara said, “I’m going crazy. I don’t understand any of this. What does he want?”

Levon kicked at the trunk’s lid.
“Hey! Let us out. Hey!”
His kick didn’t budge the lid, didn’t make a dent. But now Barbara’s eyes were growing accustomed to the dark.