He sprinted toward her, dove into the waves, and surfaced with his arms around her.
Chapter 38
After a quick dinner out with Keola, I returned to my hotel room, checked for messages, had no new calls from the woman with the accent, or anyone else. I cranked up my computer, and after a while I sent a pretty fine seven-hundred-word story to Aronstein's in-box at the L.A. Times.
Work done for today, I turned on the TV and saw that Kim's story was headlining the ten o'clock news.
There was a banner, “Breaking News,” and then the talking heads announced that Doug Cahill was a presumed suspect in the presumed abduction of Kim McDaniels. Cahill's picture came on the screen, fully uniformed for a Chicago Bears game, smiling at the camera like a movie star, all 6 feet, 3 inches, and 250 pounds of him.
Anyone would have been able to do the math. Cahill could've easily picked up 110-pound Kim McDaniels and carried her under his arm like a football.
And then my eyes nearly jumped out of my head.
Cahill was shown in a video clip that had been shot two hours earlier. While I was having pizza with Eddie Keola, the action had taken place right outside the police station in Kihei.
Cahill was flanked by two lawyers, one of whom I recognized. Amos Brock was dapper in his pearl gray suit, a New York criminal defense attorney with a history of representing celebrities and sports stars who'd gone too far over to the dark side. Brock had turned into a star himself, and now he was defending Doug Cahill.
Station KITV had cameras trained on Cahill and Brock. Brock stepped to the microphone, said, “My client, Doug Cahill, hasn't been charged with anything. The accusations against him are preposterous. There's not a speck of evidence to support any of the allegations that have been going around, which is why my client hasn't been charged. Doug wants to speak publicly, this one and only time.”
I grabbed the phone, woke Levon out of what sounded like a deep sleep. “Levon. It's Ben. Turn on the TV. Channel four. Hurry.”
I stayed on with Levon as Cahill stood front and center. He was unshaven, wearing a blue cotton button-down shirt under a well-cut sports jacket. Without the pads and the uniform, he looked relatively tame, like a kid in a Wall Street management training program.
“I came to Maui to see Kim,” Doug said, his voice shaking, thick with the tears that were also wetting his cheeks. “I saw her for about ten minutes three days ago and never saw her after that. I didn't hurt her. I love Kim, and I'm staying here until we find her.”
Cahill handed the mic back to Brock: “To repeat, Doug had nothing to do with Kim's disappearance, and I will absolutely, unequivocally bring action against anyone who defames him. That's all we have to say for the moment. Thank you.”
Levon said to me, “What do you make of that? The lawyer? Doug?”
“Doug was pretty convincing,” I said. “Either he loves her. Or he's a very good liar.”
I had another thought, one I didn't share with Levon. Those seven hundred words I'd just sent to Aronstein at the Times?
They were old news.
Chapter 39
I e-mailed my editor, told him that Doug Cahill was going to be chum for the media feeding frenzy and why: that a mystery witness had seen him coming on strong with Kim, and that Cahill was being represented by Amos Brock, the current champion bully of defense attorneys.
“Here's an updated version of my article,” I wrote Aronstein. “If nothing else, I'm fast.”
And then I called our sports chief, Sam Paulson. He keeps odd hours, and I knew he'd be up.
Paulson likes me, but he doesn't trust anyone. I said, “Look, Sam, I need to know what kind of person Doug Cahill is. My story isn't going to mess with yours.”
It was a wrestling match that went on for fifteen minutes, Sam Paulson protecting his position as the sports world's premiere “in” guy, while I tried to get something out of Paulson that would tell me if Cahill was dangerous off the playing field.
At last Sam gave me a tantalizing lead.
“There's a PR girl. I got her a job working for the Bears. Hawkins, I'm not kidding. This is off the record. This girl's a friend of mine.”
“I understand.”
“Cahill got this girl pregnant a couple months back. She's told her mother about the baby. She also told Cahill and me. She's giving Cahill a chance to do the right thing. Whatever the hell that might be.”
“He was dating Kim when this happened with the other woman? You're certain?”
“Yep.”
“Does he have any history of violence?”
“They all do. Sure. Bar fights. One zesty one when he played at Notre Dame. Crap like that.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
“Don't mention it,” he said back. “I mean really. Don't mention it.”
I sat on this bombshell for a few minutes, thinking through what this meant. If Kim knew Cahill had cheated on her, that was reason enough for her to dump him. If he wanted her back, if he was desperate, a confrontation could have led to something physical that might have gotten out of hand.
I called Levon. And I was startled by his reaction.
“Doug is a testosterone machine,” he told me. “Kim said he was strong-willed, and we all know he was a killer on the field. How do we know what he's capable of doing? Barb still believes in him, but as for me, I'm starting to think maybe Jackson is right. Maybe they've got the right guy after all.”
Chapter 40
Julia felt weightless in Charlie's arms, like an angel. Her long legs locked around his waist, and all he had to do was raise his knees, and she was sitting on his lap.
He did just that as they bobbed in the waves. She lifted her face to him, saying, “Charlie, this has been the most. The best.”
“It gets better from here,” he said again, his theme song for their date, and she grinned at him, kissed him softly, then deeply, a long salty kiss followed by another, electricity arcing like heat lightning around them.
He undid the string tie at her neck, jerked loose the tie behind her back, said, “You do a lot for a simple white bikini.”
“What bikini?”
“Never mind,” he said, and the swimsuit top drifted away, a ribbon of white on the black waves, until it was gone, and she didn't seem to care.
Julia was too busy licking his ear, her nipples as hard as diamonds against his chest. She groaned as he shifted her so she was pressed even tighter to him, rubbing like an eager beaver against his dick.
He reached around and ran his fingers under the elastic of her bikini bottoms, touched the tender places, making her squeal and squirm like a kid.
She pushed down at the waistband of his swim shorts with the backs of her feet.
“Wait,” he said. “Be good.”
“I plan to be great,” she said breathily, kissing him, pulling at his shorts again. “I'm dying for you.” She sighed.
He unhooked her legs and pulled off the bottom half of her swimsuit. Carrying the naked girl in his arms, he walked out of the waves as water streamed off their bodies, silver in the moonlight.
Charlie said, “Hang on to me, monkey.”
He brought her over to where he'd left his duffel bag next to a mound of black lava rock. He stooped and unzipped the bag, pulled out two enormous beach towels.
Still balancing the girl in his arms, he spread out one towel and laid Julia softly down, covered her with the second towel.
He turned away briefly, set the Panasonic camera on top of the duffel, and switched it on, angling it just so.
Then he faced Julia again, shucked his swim trunks, smiled when she said, “Oh my God, oh my God, Charlie.”
He knelt between her legs, tonguing her until she cried out, “Please, I can't stand it, Charlie. I'm begging you, please,” and he entered her.