You realize what you just did, you stupid fuck? You want to be locked up? Do you? You think you're a tough guy? You want to find out just how tough I am? I could arrest your ass and have you put away for this, don't you know that?”
“Yeah, throw me in jail, damn you. Do that, because I want to tell the world how you treated us. What a yahoo you are.”
“Levon, Levon,” Barbara was up, begging her husband, pulling at his arm. “Stop, Levon. Control yourself. Apologize to the lieutenant, please.”
Jackson sat down, rolled his chair up to his desk, said, “McDaniels, don't ever put a hand on me again. Due to the fact that you're out of your fucking mind, I'll minimize what just happened in my report. Now sit down before I change my mind and arrest you.”
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.