Swimsuit by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    What then?
Had she walked outside, past the pool and the cabanas? Had any of those cabanas been occupied late that night? Had someone
     followed her out to the beach?
    Levon carefully polished his glasses, one lens, then the other, and held them out to see if he’d done a good job. When he
     put them back on, he saw me looking out at the covered walkway beyond the pool area that led to the beach.
    “What do you think, Ben?”
    “All of the beaches in Hawaii are public property, so there won’t be any video surveillance out there.”
    I was wondering if the simplest explanation fit. Had Kim gone for a swim? Had she waded out into the water and gotten sucked
     under by a wave? Had someone found her shoes on the beach and taken them?
    “What can we tell you