Swimsuit (18 page)

“Agreed,” I said, but my pulse was booming so loudly that I could hardly hear what Len said.

“I’m verbalizing what any good businessman would be
thinking
, so don’t take this wrong, Ben. You’ve had a promising but quiet career. So now you think you’ve got a breakout book that’ll
raise your profile here at RW and in the industry. Am I right?”

“You think this is a stunt? You think I’m that desperate? Are you kidding?”

“Let me finish. You know what happened when Fritz Keller brought out Randolph Graham’s so-called true story.”

“It blew up, yeah.”

“First the ‘startling reviews,’ then Matt Lauer and Larry King. Oprah puts Graham in her book club — and then the truth starts
leaking out. Graham wasn’t a killer. He was a petty thug and a pretty good writer who embellished the hell out of his life
story. And when it exploded, it exploded all over Fritz Keller.”

Zagami went on to say that Keller got late-night threats at home, TV producers calling his cell phone. His company’s stock
went down the toilet, and Keller had a heart attack.

My own heart was starting to fibrillate. Leonard thought that either Henri was lying or I was stretching a newspaper article
beyond reality.

Either way, he was turning me down.

Hadn’t Leonard heard what I said?
Henri had threatened to kill me and Amanda.
Len took a breath, so I seized the moment.

“Len, I’m going to say something very important.”

“Go ahead, because unfortunately, I only have five more minutes.”

“I questioned it, too. Wondered if Henri was really a killer, or if he’s a talented con man, seeing in me the grift of a lifetime.”

“Exactly,” Len said.

“Well, Henri is for real. And I can prove it to you.”

I put the media card on the desk.

“What’s that?”

“Everything you need to know and more. I want you to meet Henri for yourself.”

Len inserted the flash drive, and his computer screen went from black to a shot of a dusky yellow room, candles burning, a
bed centered on a wall. The camera zoomed in on a slender young woman lying belly-down on the bed. She had long, pale blond
hair, wore a red bikini and black shoes with red soles. She was hog-tied with intricately knotted ropes. She seemed drugged
or sleeping, but when the man entered the frame she began crying.

The man was naked except for a plastic mask and blue latex gloves.

I didn’t want to see the video again. I walked to the glass wall that looked straight down the well of the atrium, from the
forty-third floor to the tiny people who crossed the plaza on the ground floor below.

I heard the voices coming from the computer, heard Leonard gag. I turned to see him make a run for the door. When he returned
a few minutes later, Leonard was as pale as a sheet of paper, and he was changed.

LEONARD DROPPED BACK into the seat behind his desk, yanked out the flash drive, stared at it like it was the snake in the
Garden of Eden.

“Take this back,” he said. “Let’s agree that I never saw it. I don’t want to be any kind of accessory after the fact or God
knows what. Have you told the police? The FBI?”

“Henri said that if I did, he’d kill me, kill Amanda, too. I can’t take that chance.”

“I understand now. You’re sure that the girl in that video is Kim McDaniels?”

“Yeah. That’s Kim.”

Len picked up the phone, canceled his twelve-thirty meeting, and cleared the rest of his afternoon. He ordered sandwiches
from the kitchen, and we moved to the seating area at the far side of his office.

Len said, “Okay, start at the beginning. Don’t leave out a bloody period or comma.”

So I did. I told Len about the last-minute Hawaiian boondoggle that had turned out to be a murder mystery times five. I told
him about becoming friends with Barbara and Levon McDaniels and about being deceived by Henri’s alter egos, Marco Benevenuto
and Charlie Rollins.

Emotion jammed up my voice box when I talked about the dead bodies, and also when I told Len how Henri had forced me into
my apartment at gunpoint, then showed me the pictures he’d taken of Amanda.

“How much does Henri want for his story? Did he give you a number?”

I told Len that Henri was talking about multimillions, and my editor didn’t flinch. In the past half hour, he had gone from
skeptic to inside bidder. From the light in his eyes, I thought he’d sized up the market for this book and saw his budget
gap being overwhelmed by a mountain of cash.

“What’s the next step?” he asked me.

“Henri said he’d be in touch. I’m certain he will be. That’s all I know so far.”

Len called Eric Zohn, Raven-Wofford’s chief legal counsel, and soon a tall, thin, nervous man in his forties joined our meeting.

Len and I briefed Eric on “the assassin’s legacy,” and Zohn threw up objections.

Zohn cited the “Son of Sam” law that held that a killer can’t profit from his crimes. He and Len discussed Jeffrey MacDonald,
who had sued his ghostwriter, and then the O.J. book, since the Goldman family had claimed the book’s earnings to satisfy
their civil suit against the author.

Zohn said, “I worry that we’ll be financially responsible to each and every one of the victims’ families.”

I was the forgotten person in the room, as loopholes and angles were discussed, but I saw that Len was fighting for the book.

He said to Zohn, “Eric, I don’t say this lightly. This is a guaranteed monster bestseller in the making. Everyone wants to
know what’s actually in the mind of a killer, and this killer will talk about crimes that are current and
unsolved.
What Ben’s got isn’t
If I Did It.
It’s
I Damn Well Did It.
”

Zohn wanted more time to explore the ramifications, but Leonard used his executive prerogative.

“Ben, for now, you’re Henri’s anonymous ghostwriter. If anyone says they saw you in my office, say you came to pitch a new
novel. That I turned it down.

“When Henri contacts you, tell him that we’re fine-tuning an offer I think he’ll like.”

“That’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes. You have a deal. This is the scariest book I’ve ever taken on, and I can’t wait to publish it.”

THE NEXT EVENING, in L.A., the unreality was still settling in. Amanda was cooking a four-star dinner in her minuscule kitchen
while I sat at her desk working the Internet. I had indelible pictures in my mind of the execution of Kim McDaniels, and that
led me to multiple Web sites that discussed personality disorders. I quickly homed in on the description of serial killers.

A half-dozen experts agreed that serial killers almost always learn from their mistakes. They evolve. They compartmentalize
and don’t feel their victims’ pain. They keep upping the danger and increasing the thrill.

I could see why Henri was so happy and self-satisfied. He was being paid for doing what he loved to do, and now a book about
his passion would be a kind of victory lap.

I called out to Mandy, who came into the living room with a wooden spoon in her hand.

“The sauce is going to burn.”

“I want to read you something. This is from a psychiatrist, a former Viet Nam vet who’s written extensively on serial killers.
Here. Listen, please.

“ ‘All of us have some of the killer in us, but when you get to the proverbial edge of the abyss, you have to be able to take
a step back. These guys who kill and kill again have jumped right into the abyss and have lived in it for years.’ ”

Mandy said, “But Ben, what’s it going to be like to work with this…
creature
?”

“If I could walk away from it, Mandy, I’d run. I’d run.”

Mandy kissed the top of my head and went back to her sauce. A moment later, the phone rang. I heard Mandy say, “Hang on. I’ll
get him.”

She held out the phone to me with a look on her face that I can describe only as one of pure horror.

“It’s for
you.
”

I took the phone, said, “Hello.”

“So how did our big meeting in New York go?” Henri asked me. “Do we have a book deal?”

My heart almost jumped out of my chest. I did my best to keep calm as I told him, “It’s in the works. A lot of people have
to be consulted for the kind of money you’re asking.”

Henri said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

I had a green light from Zagami, and I could have told Henri that, but I was looking at the twilight coming through the windows,
wondering where Henri was, how he’d known that Amanda and I were here.

“We’re going to do the book, Ben,” Henri was saying. “If Zagami isn’t interested, we’ll have to take it somewhere else. But
either way, remember your choices. Do or die.”

“Henri, I didn’t make myself clear. We have a deal. The contract is in the works. Paperwork. Lawyers. A number has to be worked
up and an offer made. This is a big corporation, Henri.”

“Okay, then. Break out the champagne. When will we have a solid offer?”

I told him I expected to hear from Zagami in a couple of days and that a contract would follow. It was the truth, but still
my mind was reeling.

I was going into partnership with a great white shark, a killing machine that never slept.

Henri was watching us right now, wasn’t he?

He was watching us all the time.

HENRI HADN’T GIVEN me my final destination when he mapped out my drive, just said, “Get on the Ten and go east. I’ll tell
you what to do after that.”

I had the papers in my briefcase, the contract from Raven-Wofford, the releases, signature lines with flags marked “sign here.”
I also had a tape recorder, notepads, and laptop, and in the zipped pocket at the back of the briefcase, right next to my
computer’s power pack, was my gun. I hoped to God I would get the chance to use it.

I got into my car and headed out to the freeway. It wasn’t funny, but the situation was so weird that I wanted to laugh.

I had a contract for a “guaranteed monster bestseller,” what I’d been looking for and dreaming about for years, only this
contract had a very literal termination clause.

Write it or die.

Had any author in modern history had a book deal attached to a death penalty? I was pretty sure this was unique, and it was
all mine.

It was sunny, a Saturday in mid-July. I set off on the freeway, checking my rearview mirror every minute or so, looking for
a tail, but I never saw one. I stopped for gas, bought coffee, a doughnut, got back on the road.

Fifty miles and an hour later, my cell phone rang.

“Take the One-eleven to Palm Springs,” he said.

I’d put another twenty miles on the odometer when I saw the turnoff for the 111. I took the exit ramp and continued on the
highway until it became Palm Canyon Drive.

My phone rang again, and again I got directions from my “partner.”

“When you get to the center of town, turn right on Tahquitz Canyon, then a left on Belardo. Don’t hang up the phone.”

I made the turns, sensing that we were near our meeting spot, when Henri said, “You should be seeing it now. The Bristol Hotel.”

We were going to be meeting in a public place.

This was good. It was a relief. I felt a burst of elation.

I pulled up to the hotel, handed my keys to the valet at the entrance of this famous old luxury resort and spa, known for
its high-end amenities.

Henri spoke into my ear. “Go to the restaurant out by the pool. The reservation is in my name. Henri Benoit. I hope you’re
hungry, Ben.”

This was news.

He’d given me a last name. Real or fictitious, I didn’t know, but it struck me as an offering of trust.

I headed through the lobby to the restaurant, thinking, Yes. This was going to be very civilized.

Break out the champagne.

THE DESERT ROSE RESTAURANT was situated under a long blue canopy near the swimming pool. Light bounced off the white stone
patio, and I had to shield my eyes from the glare. I told the maitre d’ that I was having lunch with Henri Benoit, and he
said, “You’re the first to arrive.”

I was shown to a table with a perfect view of the pool, the restaurant, and a path that wound around the hotel and led to
the parking lot. I had my back to the wall, my briefcase open by my right side.

A waiter came to the table, told me about the various drinks, including the specialty of the house, a cocktail with grenadine
and fruit juice. I asked for a bottle of San Pellegrino, and when it came I slugged down a whole glass, refilled it, and waited
for Henri to appear.

I looked at my watch, saw that I’d been waiting for only ten minutes. It seemed at least twice that long. With an eye on my
surroundings, I called Amanda, told her where I was. Then I used my phone to do an Internet search, looking for any mention
of Henri Benoit.

I came up with nothing.

I called Zagami in New York, told him I was waiting for Henri, got a crackly connection. I killed another minute as I filled
Len in on the drive into the desert, the beautiful hotel, the state of my mood.

“I’m starting to get excited about this,” I said. “I’m just hoping he signs the contract.”

“Be careful,” said Zagami. “Listen to your instincts. I’m surprised he’s late.”

“I’m not. I don’t like it, but I’m not surprised.”

I took a bathroom break and then went back to the table with trepidation. I was expecting that while I was gone, Henri would
have arrived and would be sitting across from my empty chair.

I wondered whether Henri was donning a new disguise, whether he was undergoing another metamorphosis — but the seat was still
empty.

The waiter came toward me again, said that Mr. Benoit had phoned to say he was delayed and that I was to start without him.

So I ordered lunch. The Tuscan bean soup with black kale was fine. I took a few bites of the penne, ate without tasting what
I imagined was excellent cuisine. I’d just asked for an espresso when my cell phone rang.

I stared at it for a moment, then, as if my nerves weren’t frayed down to the stumps, said, “Hawkins” into the mouthpiece.