Read Online Swimsuit by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson, Maxine Paetro
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mini–strip mall, and he jumped out before the car had fully stopped.
He walked straight up to the shoebox-sized substation, a storefront wedged between a tattoo parlor and a pizzeria.
The glass door was locked, and so Levon jabbed the intercom button and spoke his name, saying to the female voice that he
had an appointment at eight with Lieutenant Jackson. There was a buzz and the door opened and they were in.
The station looked to Levon like a small-town DMV. The walls were bureaucrat green; the floor, a buffed linoleum; the long
hallway-width room lined with facing rows of plastic chairs.
At the end of the narrow room was a reception window, its metal shutter rolled down, and beside it was a closed door. Levon
sat down next to Barbara, and Hawkins sat across from them with his notebook sticking out of his breast pocket, and they waited.
At a few minutes past eight, the shuttered window opened and people trickled in to pay parking tickets, register their cars,
God knows what else. Guys with Rasta hair; girls with complicated tattoos; young moms with small, bawling kids.
Levon felt a stabbing pain behind his eyes, and he thought about Kim, wanting to know where she could be right now and if
she was in any pain and why this had happened.
After a while, he stood up and paced along the gallery of Wanted posters, looked into the staring eyes of murderers and armed
robbers, and then there were the missing-children posters, some of them digitally altered to age the kids to how they might
look now, having disappeared so many years ago.
Behind him, Barbara said to Hawkins, “Can you believe it? We’ve been here two hours. Don’t you just want to scream?”
And Levon did want to scream.
Where was his daughter?
He leaned down and spoke to the female officer behind the window. “Does Lieutenant Jackson know we’re here?”
“Yes, sir, he sure does.”
Levon sat down next to Barb, pinched the place between his eyes, wondered why Jackson was taking so long. And he thought about
Hawkins, how he’d gotten in very tight with Barb. Levon trusted Barb’s judgment, but, like a lot of women, she made friends
fast. Sometimes too fast.
Levon watched Hawkins writing in his notebook and then some teenage girls joined the line at the front desk, talking in high-pitched
chatter that just about took off the top of his head.
By ten fifteen, Levon’s agitation was like the rumbling of the volcanoes that had raised this island out of the prehistoric
sea. He felt ready to explode.
Chapter 29
I WAS SITTING in a hard plastic chair next to Barbara McDaniels when I heard the door open at the end of the long, narrow
room. Levon leapt up from his seat and was practically in the cop’s face before the door swung closed.
The cop was big, midthirties, with thick black hair and mocha-toned skin. He looked part Jimmy Smits, part Ben Affleck, and
part island surfer god. Wore a jacket and tie, had a shield hooked into the waistband of his chinos, a gold one, which meant
he was a detective.
Barbara and I joined Levon, who introduced us to Lieutenant Jackson. Jackson asked me, “What’s your relationship to the McDanielses?”
“Friend of the family,” Barbara said at the same time that I said, “I’m with the
L.A. Times.
”
Jackson snorted a laugh, scrutinized me, then asked, “Do you know Kim?”
No.
“Have any information as to her whereabouts?”
No.
“Do you know these people? Or did you meet them, say, yesterday?”
“We just met.”
“Interesting,” Jackson said, smirking now. He said to the McDanielses. “You understand this man’s job is to sell newspapers?”
“We know that,” Levon said.
“Good. Just so you’re clear, anything you say to Mr. Hawkins is going directly from your mouths to the front page of the
L.A. Times.
Speaking for myself,” Jackson went on, “I don’t want him here. Mr. Hawkins, have a seat, and if I need you, I’ll call you.”
Barbara spoke up.
He walked straight up to the shoebox-sized substation, a storefront wedged between a tattoo parlor and a pizzeria.
The glass door was locked, and so Levon jabbed the intercom button and spoke his name, saying to the female voice that he
had an appointment at eight with Lieutenant Jackson. There was a buzz and the door opened and they were in.
The station looked to Levon like a small-town DMV. The walls were bureaucrat green; the floor, a buffed linoleum; the long
hallway-width room lined with facing rows of plastic chairs.
At the end of the narrow room was a reception window, its metal shutter rolled down, and beside it was a closed door. Levon
sat down next to Barbara, and Hawkins sat across from them with his notebook sticking out of his breast pocket, and they waited.
At a few minutes past eight, the shuttered window opened and people trickled in to pay parking tickets, register their cars,
God knows what else. Guys with Rasta hair; girls with complicated tattoos; young moms with small, bawling kids.
Levon felt a stabbing pain behind his eyes, and he thought about Kim, wanting to know where she could be right now and if
she was in any pain and why this had happened.
After a while, he stood up and paced along the gallery of Wanted posters, looked into the staring eyes of murderers and armed
robbers, and then there were the missing-children posters, some of them digitally altered to age the kids to how they might
look now, having disappeared so many years ago.
Behind him, Barbara said to Hawkins, “Can you believe it? We’ve been here two hours. Don’t you just want to scream?”
And Levon did want to scream.
Where was his daughter?
He leaned down and spoke to the female officer behind the window. “Does Lieutenant Jackson know we’re here?”
“Yes, sir, he sure does.”
Levon sat down next to Barb, pinched the place between his eyes, wondered why Jackson was taking so long. And he thought about
Hawkins, how he’d gotten in very tight with Barb. Levon trusted Barb’s judgment, but, like a lot of women, she made friends
fast. Sometimes too fast.
Levon watched Hawkins writing in his notebook and then some teenage girls joined the line at the front desk, talking in high-pitched
chatter that just about took off the top of his head.
By ten fifteen, Levon’s agitation was like the rumbling of the volcanoes that had raised this island out of the prehistoric
sea. He felt ready to explode.
Chapter 29
I WAS SITTING in a hard plastic chair next to Barbara McDaniels when I heard the door open at the end of the long, narrow
room. Levon leapt up from his seat and was practically in the cop’s face before the door swung closed.
The cop was big, midthirties, with thick black hair and mocha-toned skin. He looked part Jimmy Smits, part Ben Affleck, and
part island surfer god. Wore a jacket and tie, had a shield hooked into the waistband of his chinos, a gold one, which meant
he was a detective.
Barbara and I joined Levon, who introduced us to Lieutenant Jackson. Jackson asked me, “What’s your relationship to the McDanielses?”
“Friend of the family,” Barbara said at the same time that I said, “I’m with the
L.A. Times.
”
Jackson snorted a laugh, scrutinized me, then asked, “Do you know Kim?”
No.
“Have any information as to her whereabouts?”
No.
“Do you know these people? Or did you meet them, say, yesterday?”
“We just met.”
“Interesting,” Jackson said, smirking now. He said to the McDanielses. “You understand this man’s job is to sell newspapers?”
“We know that,” Levon said.
“Good. Just so you’re clear, anything you say to Mr. Hawkins is going directly from your mouths to the front page of the
L.A. Times.
Speaking for myself,” Jackson went on, “I don’t want him here. Mr. Hawkins, have a seat, and if I need you, I’ll call you.”
Barbara spoke up.
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