He pointed the lens at the grand front entrance of the Wailea Princess, where the McDanielses were taking up their positions behind a lectern.
As Levon adjusted the mic, Rollins whistled a few notes through his teeth. He was enjoying himself now, thinking that even Kim wouldn't recognize him if she were alive. He lifted his vid cam over his head and recorded Levon greeting the press, thinking he'd like the McDanielses if he got to know them. Well, fuck it anyway, he already liked them. What was not to like about the McDanielses?
Look at them.
Sweet, feisty Barbara. Levon, with the heart of a five-star general. Both of them, salt of the fucking earth.
They were grief-wracked and terrified, but still comporting themselves with dignity, answering insensitive questions, even the de rigueur “What would you say to Kim if she's listening to you now?”
“I'd say, 'We love you, darling. Please be strong,' ” Barbara said with a quavering voice. “And to everyone hearing us, please, we're offering twenty-five thousand dollars for information leading to the return of our daughter. If we had a million, we'd offer that?”
And then Barbara's air seemed to run out. She turned, and Rollins saw her take a hit off an inhaler. And still, questions were fired at the supermodel's parents: Levon, Levon! Have you gotten a ransom demand? What was the last thing Kim said to you?
Levon leaned toward the microphones, answered the questions very patiently, finally saying, “The hotel management has set up a hotline number,” and he read it to the crowd.
Rollins watched the journalists jumping up like flying fish, calling out more questions even as the McDanielses were stepping down, moving toward the embrace of the hotel lobby.
Rollins looked through his lens, zoomed in on the back of the McDanielses' heads, saw someone coming through the crowd, a semicelebrity he'd seen on C-Span hawking his books.
The subject of Rollins's interest was a good-looking guy of about forty, a journalist and best-selling detective novelist, dressed in Dockers and a pink button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up. Kind of reminded him of Brian Williams reporting from Baghdad. Maybe a little more rough-and-ready.
As Rollins watched, the writer reached out and touched Barbara McDaniels's arm, and Barbara stopped to speak with him.
Charlie Rollins saw an interview with the legitimate press in the making. He thought, No kidding. The Peepers will love this. Kim McDaniels is going big-time. This is turning into a very big event, indeed.
Chapter 20
The journalist in the Dockers and pink shirt?
That was me.
I saw an opening as Levon and Barbara McDaniels stepped away from the lectern, the crowd closing in, circling them like a twister.
I lunged forward, touched Barbara McDaniels's arm, catching her attention before she disappeared into the lobby.
I wanted the interview, but no matter how many times you see parents of lost or abducted children begging for their son or daughter's safe return, you cannot fail to be moved.
Barbara and Levon McDaniels had gotten to me as soon as I saw their faces. It killed me to see them in such pain.
Now I had my hand gently on Barbara McDaniels's arm. She turned, and I introduced myself, handed her my card, and lucky for me, she knew my name. “Are you the Ben Hawkins who wrote Red?
“Put It All on Red, yes, that's mine.”
She said she liked the book, her mouth smiling, although her face was rigid with anguish. Right then, hotel security made a cordon with their arms, a path through the crowd, and I walked into the lobby with Barbara, who introduced me to Levon.
“Ben's a best-selling author, Levon. You remember, we read him for our book club last fall.”
“I'm covering Kim's story for the L.A. Times,” I told Mr. McDaniels.
Levon said, “If you want an interview, I'm sorry. We're out of steam, and it's probably best that we don't talk further until we meet with the police.”
“You haven't spoken with them yet?”
Levon sighed, shook his head. “Ever talk to an answering machine?”
“I might be able to help,” I said. “The L.A. Times has clout, even here. And I used to be a cop.”
“Is that right?” Levon McDaniels's eyelids were sagging, his voice ragged and raw. He walked like a man who'd just run his feet off in a marathon, but he was suddenly interested in me. He stopped walking and asked me to tell him more.
“I was with the Portland PD. I was a detective, an investigator. Right now I cover the crime desk for the Times.”
McDaniels winced at the word “crime,” said, “Okay, Ben. You think you can give us a hand with the police? We're going out of our minds.”
I walked with the McDanielses through the cool marble lobby with its high ceilings and ocean views until we found a semisecluded spot overlooking the pool. Palm trees rustled in the island breeze. Wet kids in bathing suits ran past us, laughing, not a care in the world.
Levon said, “I called the police several times and got a menu. 'Parking tickets, press one. Night court, press two.' I had to leave a message. Can you believe that?
“Barb and I went over to the station for this district. Hours were posted on the door. Monday to Friday, eight to five, Saturday, ten to four. I didn't know police stations had closing hours. Did you?”
The look in Levon's eyes was heartbreaking. His daughter was missing. The police station was closed for business. How could this place look the way it did – vacation heaven – when they were slogging through seven kinds of hell?
“The police here mostly do traffic work, DWIs, stuff like that,” I said. “Domestic violence, burglary.”
I thought, but didn't say, that a few years ago a twenty-five-year-old female tourist was attacked on the Big Island by three local hoods who beat her and raped her and killed her.
She'd been tall, blond, sweet-looking, not unlike Kim.
There was another case, more famous, a cheerleader for the University of Illinois who'd fallen off the balcony of her hotel room and died instantly. She'd been partying with a couple of boys who were found not guilty of anything. And there was another girl, a local teenager, who called her friends after a concert on the island, and was never seen again.
“Your press conference was a good thing. The police will have to take Kim seriously,” I said.
“If I don't get a call back, I'm going over there again in the morning,” Levon McDaniels said. “Right now we want to go to the bar, see where Kim was hanging out before she vanished. You're welcome to join us.”
Chapter 21
The Typhoon Bar was on the mezzanine floor, open to the trade winds, wonderfully scented by plumeria. Café tables and chairs were lined up at the balustrade, overlooking the pool and beyond, a queue of palm trees down to the sands. To my left was a grand piano, still covered, and there was a long bar behind us. A bartender was setting up, slicing lemon peel, putting out dishes of nuts.
Barbara spoke. “The night manager told us that Kim was sitting at this table, the one nearest the piano,” Barbara said, tenderly patting the table's marble surface.
Then she pointed to an alcove fifteen yards away. “That would be the famous men's room over there. Where the art director went, to ah, just turn his back for a minute?”
I imagined the bar as it must have been that night. People drinking. A lot of men. I had plenty of questions. Hundreds of them.
I was starting to look at this story as if I were still a cop. If this were my case, I'd start with the security tapes. I'd want to see who was in the bar when Kim was there. I'd want to know if anybody had been watching her when she'd gotten up from this table, and who might have paid the check after she left.
Had Kim departed with someone? Maybe gone to his room?
Or had she walked to the lobby, eyes following her as she made her way down the stairs, her blond hair swinging.