Read Online Swimsuit by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro - Free Book Online
Authors: James Patterson, Maxine Paetro
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example?”
“Henri has been making short films for us like the one we just saw. I suggest we have him make… a documentary.”
Jan jumped in, excited. “Very good, Rafi. Wall-to-wall with Henri. A year in the life,
ja?
Salary and bonuses commensurate with the quality of the action.”
“Exactly. And he’s exclusive to us,” said Raphael. “He starts now, on location with the parents of the swimsuit girl.”
The Alliance discussed terms, and they put some teeth into the contract, penalties for failure to perform. That phrase provided
a light moment, and then, after they had voted, Horst made the call to Hawaii.
Chapter 26
THE McDANIELSES AND I were still in the Typhoon Bar as dusk dropped over the island. For the past hour, Barbara had sweated
me like a pro. When she was satisfied that I was an okay guy, she brought me into her family’s lives with her passion and
a natural gift for storytelling that I wouldn’t have expected from a high school math and science teacher.
Levon could barely string two sentences together. He wasn’t inarticulate. He just wasn’t with us. I read him as choked up
with fear and too anxious about his daughter to concentrate. But he expressed himself vividly with his body language, tightening
his fists, turning away when tears welled up, frequently taking off his glasses and pressing his palms over his eyes.
I’d asked Barbara, “How did you learn that Kim was missing?”
At that, Levon’s cell phone rang. He looked at the faceplate and walked away toward the elevator.
I heard him say, “Lieutenant Jackson?
Not tonight?
Why not?” After a pause, he said, “Okay. Eight a.m.”
“Sounds like we have a date with the police in the morning. Come with us,” Barbara said. She took my phone number, patted
my hand. And then, she kissed my cheek.
I said good night to Barbara, then ordered another club soda, no lime, no ice. I sat in a comfortable chair overlooking the
hundred-million-dollar view, and in the next fifteen minutes the atmosphere at the Typhoon Bar picked up considerably.
Handsome people in fresh suntans and translucent clothing in snow-cone colors dropped into chairs at the railing while singles
took the high-backed stools at the long bar. Laughter rose and fell like the warm breeze that gusted through the wide-open
space, riffling hairlines and skirt hems as it passed.
The piano player uncovered the Steinway, then turned sideways on the piano seat and broke into an old Peter Allen standard,
delighting the crowd as he sang “I Go to Rio.”
I noted the security cameras over the bar, dropped several bills on the table, and walked down the stairs and past the pool,
lit now so that it looked like aqua-colored glass.
I continued past the cabanas, taking a walk that Kim might have taken two nights ago.
The beach was nearly empty of people, the sky still light enough to see the shoreline that ringed the whole of Maui like a
halo around an eclipse of the moon.
I pictured walking behind Kim on Friday night. Her head might have been down, hair whipping around her face, the strong surf
obliterating all other sound.
A man could have come up behind her with a rock, or a gun, or a simple choke hold.
I walked on the hard-packed sand, passing hotels on my right, empty chaises and cockeyed umbrellas as far as I could see.
After a quarter mile, I turned off the beach, walked up a path that skirted the Four Seasons, another five-star hotel where
eight hundred bucks a night might buy a room with a view of the parking lot.
I continued on through the hotel’s dazzling marble lobby and out to the street. Fifteen minutes later I was back sitting in
my rented Chevy, parked in the leafy shadows surrounding the Wailea Princess, listening to the rush of waterfalls.
If I’d been a killer, I could’ve dumped my victim into the surf or slung her over my shoulder and carried her out to my car.
I could’ve left the scene without anyone noticing.
Easy
“Henri has been making short films for us like the one we just saw. I suggest we have him make… a documentary.”
Jan jumped in, excited. “Very good, Rafi. Wall-to-wall with Henri. A year in the life,
ja?
Salary and bonuses commensurate with the quality of the action.”
“Exactly. And he’s exclusive to us,” said Raphael. “He starts now, on location with the parents of the swimsuit girl.”
The Alliance discussed terms, and they put some teeth into the contract, penalties for failure to perform. That phrase provided
a light moment, and then, after they had voted, Horst made the call to Hawaii.
Chapter 26
THE McDANIELSES AND I were still in the Typhoon Bar as dusk dropped over the island. For the past hour, Barbara had sweated
me like a pro. When she was satisfied that I was an okay guy, she brought me into her family’s lives with her passion and
a natural gift for storytelling that I wouldn’t have expected from a high school math and science teacher.
Levon could barely string two sentences together. He wasn’t inarticulate. He just wasn’t with us. I read him as choked up
with fear and too anxious about his daughter to concentrate. But he expressed himself vividly with his body language, tightening
his fists, turning away when tears welled up, frequently taking off his glasses and pressing his palms over his eyes.
I’d asked Barbara, “How did you learn that Kim was missing?”
At that, Levon’s cell phone rang. He looked at the faceplate and walked away toward the elevator.
I heard him say, “Lieutenant Jackson?
Not tonight?
Why not?” After a pause, he said, “Okay. Eight a.m.”
“Sounds like we have a date with the police in the morning. Come with us,” Barbara said. She took my phone number, patted
my hand. And then, she kissed my cheek.
I said good night to Barbara, then ordered another club soda, no lime, no ice. I sat in a comfortable chair overlooking the
hundred-million-dollar view, and in the next fifteen minutes the atmosphere at the Typhoon Bar picked up considerably.
Handsome people in fresh suntans and translucent clothing in snow-cone colors dropped into chairs at the railing while singles
took the high-backed stools at the long bar. Laughter rose and fell like the warm breeze that gusted through the wide-open
space, riffling hairlines and skirt hems as it passed.
The piano player uncovered the Steinway, then turned sideways on the piano seat and broke into an old Peter Allen standard,
delighting the crowd as he sang “I Go to Rio.”
I noted the security cameras over the bar, dropped several bills on the table, and walked down the stairs and past the pool,
lit now so that it looked like aqua-colored glass.
I continued past the cabanas, taking a walk that Kim might have taken two nights ago.
The beach was nearly empty of people, the sky still light enough to see the shoreline that ringed the whole of Maui like a
halo around an eclipse of the moon.
I pictured walking behind Kim on Friday night. Her head might have been down, hair whipping around her face, the strong surf
obliterating all other sound.
A man could have come up behind her with a rock, or a gun, or a simple choke hold.
I walked on the hard-packed sand, passing hotels on my right, empty chaises and cockeyed umbrellas as far as I could see.
After a quarter mile, I turned off the beach, walked up a path that skirted the Four Seasons, another five-star hotel where
eight hundred bucks a night might buy a room with a view of the parking lot.
I continued on through the hotel’s dazzling marble lobby and out to the street. Fifteen minutes later I was back sitting in
my rented Chevy, parked in the leafy shadows surrounding the Wailea Princess, listening to the rush of waterfalls.
If I’d been a killer, I could’ve dumped my victim into the surf or slung her over my shoulder and carried her out to my car.
I could’ve left the scene without anyone noticing.
Easy
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