Levon was still blowing hard, but Jackson gestured to the chairs, and Levon and Barbara sat down.
Jackson touched the back of his head, rubbed his elbow, then said, “Half the time, a kid goes missing, one of the parents knows what happened. Sometimes both of them. I had to see where you were coming from.”
Levon and Barbara stared. And we all got it. Jackson had provoked them to see how they’d react.
It had been a test. They’d passed. In a manner of speaking.
“We’ve been investigating this case since yesterday morning. Like I told you when I called,” Jackson said, glaring at Levon. “We’ve met with the Sporting Life people, also the desk and bar staff at the Princess. So far, we got nothing from that.”
Jackson opened his desk drawer, took out a cell phone, one of those thin, half-human devices that takes pictures, sends mail, and tells you when you’re low on oil.
“This is Kim’s phone,” Jackson said. “We found it on the beach behind the Princess. We’ve dumped the data and found a number of phone calls to Kim from a man named Doug Cahill.”
“Cahill?” Levon said. “Doug Cahill used to date Kim. He lives in Chicago.”
Jackson shook his head. “He was calling Kim from Maui. Called her every hour until her mailbox filled up and stopped taking incoming calls.”
“You’re saying Doug is here?” Barbara asked. “He’s in Maui now?”
“We located Cahill in Makena, worked on him for two hours last night before he lawyered up. He said he hadn’t seen Kim. That she wouldn’t talk to him. And we couldn’t hold him, because we have nothing on him,” Jackson said, putting Kim’s cell phone back in the drawer.
“McDaniels, here’s what we’ve got. You got a phone call saying Kim was in bad hands. And we have Kim’s cell phone. We don’t even know if a crime has been committed. If Cahill gets on a plane, there’s nothing we can do to stop him from leaving.”
I saw Barbara start, shock coming over her face again.
“Doug’s not your guy,” Levon said.
Jackson’s eyebrows shot up. “Why do you say that?”
“I know Doug’s voice. The man who called us wasn’t Doug.”
Chapter 31
WE WERE BACK in the black sedan. This time I was in front, beside the driver. Marco adjusted his rearview mirror, and we exchanged nods, but there was nothing to say. It was all going on in the backseat between Barbara and Levon.
Levon was explaining to his wife, “Barb. I didn’t tell you what that bastard said verbatim because there was nothing to be gained from it. I’m sorry.”
“I’m your wife. You had no right to hold back what he said.”
“ ‘She’s fallen into bad hands,’ okay? That’s the only thing I didn’t tell you, and I still wouldn’t tell you, but I had to tell Jackson. I tried to spare you, sweetheart, I wanted to spare you.”
Barb cried, “Spare me? You lied to me, Levon. You lied.” And then Levon was crying too, and I realized that this was what had been binding Levon up, why he’d been so glassy-eyed and removed. A man had said that he was going to hurt his daughter and Levon hadn’t told his wife. And now he couldn’t pretend anymore that it wasn’t true.
I wanted to give them some privacy, so I lowered the window, stared out at the beachfront whizzing by, at the families picnicking by the ocean, as Kim’s parents suffered terribly. The contrast between the campers and the weeping couple behind me was excruciating.
I made a note, then swiveled in my seat and, trying for something comforting, I said to Levon, “Jackson isn’t subtle, but he’s on the case. He might be a pretty good cop.”
Kim’s father leveled hard eyes on me.
“I think you’re right about Jackson. He nailed you in five seconds. Look at you. You parasite. Writing your story. Selling newspapers on our pain.”
I felt the accusation like a gut punch — but there was some truth in it, I guess. I swallowed the hurt and found my compassion for Levon.
I said, “You’ve got a point, Levon. But even if I’m exactly what you say, Kim’s story could get out of control and eat you alive.
“Think of JonBenet Ramsey. Natalee Holloway. Chandra Levy. I hope Kim is safe and that she’s found fast. But whatever happens, you’re going to want me with you. Because I’m not going to fan the flames and I’m not going to make anything up. I’m going to tell the story right.”
Chapter 32
MARCO WATCHED UNTIL Hawkins and the McDanielses passed between the koi ponds and entered the hotel before he put the car in gear, eased out onto Wailea Alanui Drive, and headed south.
As he drove, he felt under the seat, pulled out a nylon duffel bag, and put it beside him. Then he reached behind the rearview mirror where he’d parked the cutting-edge, wireless, high-resolution, micro–video camera. He ejected the media card and dropped it into his shirt pocket.
He had a thought that maybe the camera had slipped during the drive back from the police station and the angle might have been off, but even if he just got the crying, he had his sound track for another scene. Levon talking about bad hands? Priceless.
Sneaky Marco.
Imagine their surprise when they figure it all out. If they ever do.
He felt a rush as he added up the cash potential of his new contract, the thick stack of euros with the possibility of doubling his take, depending on the vote of the Alliance on the project as a whole.
He would thrill them to the roots of their short hairs, that’s how good this film would be, and all he had to do was what he did best. How could a job possibly be better than this?
Marco saw his turn coming up, signaled, got into the right lane, then entered the parking lot of the Shops at Wailea. He parked the Caddy in the southernmost section of the lot, far from the mall’s surveillance cameras and next to his nondescript rented Taurus.
Hidden behind the Caddy’s tinted glass, the killer stripped himself of all things Marco: the chauffeur’s cap and wig, fake mustache, livery jacket, cowboy boots. Then he took “Charlie Rollins” out of the bag. The baseball cap, beat-up Adidas, wraparound shades, press pass, and both cameras.
He changed quickly, bagged the Marco artifacts, then made the return trip to the Wailea Princess in the Taurus. He tipped the bellman three bucks, then checked in at the front desk, lucking out, getting a king-size bed, ocean view.
Leaving the desk, heading for the stairway at the far end of the marble acreage of the lobby, Henri as “Charlie Rollins” saw the McDanielses and Ben Hawkins sitting together around a low glass table, coffee cups in front of them.
Rollins felt his heart kick into overdrive as Hawkins turned, looked at him, pausing for a nanosecond — maybe his reptilian brain was making a match? — before his “rational” brain, fooled by the Rollins getup, steered his gaze past him.
The game could have been over in that one look, but Hawkins hadn’t recognized him — and he’d been sitting right beside him in the car for hours. This was the real thrill, skating along the razor’s edge and getting away with it.
So Charlie Rollins, photographer from the nonexistent Talk Weekly, jacked it up a notch. He raised his Sony — say cheese, mousies — and snapped off three shots of the McDanielses.
Gotcha, Mom and Dad.
His heart was still pounding as Levon scowled and leaned forward, blocking his camera’s-eye view of Barbara.
Ecstatic, the killer took the stairs to his room, thinking now about Ben Hawkins, a man who interested him even more than the McDanielses did. Hawkins was a great crime writer, every one of his books as good as The Silence of the Lambs. But Hawkins hadn’t quite made it to the big time. Why not?
Rollins slipped the card key into the slot and got the green light. His door opened onto a scene of casual magnificence that he barely noticed. He was busy turning ideas over in his mind, thinking about how to make Ben Hawkins an integral part of his project.
It was just a question of how best to use him.
Chapter 33
LEVON PUT DOWN HIS COFF
EE CUP, the porcelain chattering against the saucer, knowing that Barb and Hawkins and probably the entire gang of Japanese tourists trooping by could see that his hands were shaking. But he couldn’t do a thing about it.
That damned bloodsucking paparazzo pointing the camera at him and Barb! Plus he was reeling from the aftershocks of his out-of-control fight with Lieutenant Jackson. He still felt the shove in the balls of his hands, still felt a flush of mortification at the idea that he could be in a jail cell right now, but hell, he’d done it, and that was that.
The bright side: maybe he’d motivated Jackson to bust his ass on Kim’s behalf. If not, too bad. They weren’t going to be relying entirely on Jackson anymore.
Levon felt someone coming up behind him, and Hawkins was getting out of his chair, saying, “There he is now.”
Levon looked up, saw a thirtyish man coming across the lobby in slacks and a blue sports jacket over a bold Hawaiian-print shirt, his bleached-blond hair parted in the middle. Hawkins was saying, “Levon, Barbara, meet Eddie Keola, the best private detective in Maui.”
“The only private detective in Maui,” Keola said, his smile showing braces on his teeth. God, Levon thought, he’s not much older than Kim. This was the detective who found the Reese girl?
Keola shook hands with the McDanielses, sat down in one of the richly upholstered rattan-backed chairs, and said, “Good to meet you. And forgive me for jumping right in, but I’ve already got some feelers out.”
“Already?” Barb asked.
“As soon as Ben called me, I reached out. I was born about fifteen minutes from here and I was on the force for a few years when I got out of school, University of Hawaii. I’ve got a good working relationship with the police,” he said. He wasn’t show-offy in Levon’s opinion, was just stating his credentials.
“They’ve got a suspect,” Keola added.
“We know him,” Levon said, and he told Keola about Doug Cahill being Kim’s ex-boyfriend, then went over the phone call back home in Michigan that had cracked open his universe like it was a raw egg.
Barb asked Keola to tell them about Carol Reese, the twenty-year-old track star from Ohio State who’d gone missing a couple of years before.
“I found her in San Francisco,” Keola said. “She had a bad-news, violent boyfriend and so she kidnapped herself, changed her name and everything. She was powerfully mad at me for finding her,” he said, nodding his head as he remembered.
Levon said, “Tell me how this would work.”
Keola said he’d want to talk to the Sporting Life photographer, see if he might have filmed some bystanders at the shoot, and that he’d talk to hotel security, see the security tapes from the Typhoon Bar the night Kim disappeared.
“Let’s hope Kim shows up on her own,” Keola went on, “but if not, this is going to be basic, shoe-leather detective work. You’ll be my only client. I’ll pull in additional help as needed, and we’ll work around the clock. It’s over when you say it’s over and not before. That’s the right way to go.”
Levon discussed rates with Keola, but it really didn’t matter. He thought about the hours posted on the door at the police station in Kihei. Monday through Friday, eight to five. Saturday, ten to four. Kim, in a dungeon or a ditch, helpless.
Levon said, “You’re hired. You’ve got the job.”
Chapter 34
MY PHONE RANG as soon as I opened the door to my room.
I said hello to a woman who said, “ Ben-ah Haw-keens?” Strong accent.
I said, “Yes, this is Hawkins,” and I waited for her to tell me who she was, but she didn’t identify herself. “There’s a man, staying in the Princess hotel.”
“Go on.”
“His name is Nils Bjorn, and you should talk to him.”
“And why’s that?”
My caller said that Bjorn was a European businessman who should be investigated. “He was in the hotel when Kim McDaniels went missing. He could be… you should talk to him.”
I pulled at the desk drawer, looking for stationery and a pen.
“What makes this Nils Bjorn suspicious?” I asked, finding the paper and pen, writing down the name.
“You talk to him. I have to hang up now,” the woman said — and did.
I took a bottle of Perrier from the fridge and went out to my balcony. I was staying at the Marriott, a quarter mile up the beach from the much pricier Wailea Princess but with the same dazzling ocean view. I sipped my Perrier and thought about my tipster. For starters, how had she found me? Only the McDanielses and Amanda knew where I was staying.
I went back through the sliding doors, booted up my laptop, and when I got an Internet connection I Googled “Nils Bjorn.”
The first hit was an article that had run in the London Times a year before, about a Nils Bjorn who had been arrested in London, held on suspicion of selling arms to Iran, released for lack of evidence.
I kept clicking and opening articles, all of which were similar if not identical to the first.
I opened another Perrier and kept poking, found another story on Bjorn going back to 2005, a charge of “aggravated assault on a woman,” the legal term for rape. The woman’s name wasn’t mentioned, only that she was a model, age nineteen, and again, Bjorn wasn’t indicted.
My last stop on Bjorn’s Internet trail was Skoal, a glossy European society magazine. There was a photo that had been taken at a reception dinner for a Swedish industrialist who’d opened a munitions factory outside of Gothenburg.
I enlarged the photo, studied the man identified as Bjorn, stared at his flashbulb-lit eyes. He had regular features, light brown hair, straight nose, looked to be in his thirties, and had not one remarkable or memorable feature.
I saved the photo to my hard drive and then I called the Wailea Princess and asked for Nils Bjorn. I was told he’d checked out the day before.
I asked to be put through to the McDanielses.
I told Levon about my phone call from the woman and what I knew about Nils Bjorn: He’d been charged with selling arms to a terrorist nation, and he’d been charged with raping a model. Neither charge had stuck. Two days ago he’d been staying at the Wailea Princess hotel.
I was trying to keep my excitement in check, but I could hear it in my voice.
“This could be a break,” I said.
Chapter 35
LEVON WAS HOLDING for Jackson. After five minutes of Muzak, he was told the police lieutenant would call him back. He hung up the phone, turned on the television, a big plasma thing, took up half the wall, as the news was coming on.
First came the flashy graphic intro to All-Island News at Noon with Tracy Baker and Candy Ko‘alani, and then Baker was talking about the “still-missing model, Kim McDaniels” and cutting to a picture of her in a bikini. Then Jackson’s face was on the screen above the word “Live.”
He was talking to the press in front of the police station.
Levon shouted, “Barb, come in here, quick,” as he cranked up the volume. Barb sat next to him on the sofa just as Jackson was saying, “We’re talking to a person of interest, and this investigation is ongoing. Anyone with information about Kim McDaniels is asked to call us. Confidentiality will be respected. And that’s all I can say at this time.”
“They arrested someone or not?” Barb said, clutching his hand.
“A ‘person of interest’ is a suspect. But they don’t have enough on him, or they’d be saying he was in custody.” Levon cranked up the volume a little more.
A reporter asked, “Lieutenant, we understand you’re talking to Doug Cahill.”
“No comment. That’s all I have for you. Thank you.”
Jackson turned away and the reporters went nuts, and then Tracy Baker was back on the screen, saying “Doug Cahill, linebacker for the Chicago Bears, has been seen on Maui, and informed sources say he was Kim McDaniels’s lover.” A picture came on the screen of Doug in his uniform, helmet under his arm, huge grin, cropped blond hair, mid-western good looks.
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“I could see him pestering her,” Barb said, chewing on her lower lip, snatching the remote out of Levon’s hand, dialing the volume down. “But hurt her? I do not believe that.”
And then the phone rang. Levon grabbed it off the hook.
“Mr. McDaniels, this is Lieutenant Jackson.”
“Are you arresting Doug Cahill? If you are, it’s a mistake.”
“A witness came forward an hour ago, a local who said he’d seen Cahill harassing Kim after the photo shoot.”
“Didn’t Doug tell you he hadn’t seen Kim?” Levon asked. “Right. So maybe he lied to us and so we’re talking to him now. He’s still denying any involvement.”
“There’s someone else you should know about,” Levon said, and he told Jackson about Hawkins’s recent phone call concerning a tip about an international businessman named Nils Bjorn.
“We know who Bjorn is,” Jackson said. “There’s no link between Bjorn and Kim. No witnesses. Nothing on the surveillance tapes.”
“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.”
Chapter 36
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.