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  The sign tacked over the sink read, “Please clean up after yourselfs. There’s no maid service here.”

  Barbara looked helplessly at her husband.

  “We’ll go downstairs for dinner in a while and talk to people. We don’t have to stay here. We could go back.”

  “After we find this Fisher person.”

  “Of course,” Levon said. But what he was thinking was, If Fisher hadn’t checked out of this hellhole. If the whole thing wasn’t a hoax like Lieutenant Jackson warned him from the day they met.

  Chapter 48

  HENRI DIDN’T RELY on the costume, the cowboy boots or the cameras or the wraparound shades. The trappings were important, but the art of disguise was in the gestures and the voice, and then there was the X Factor. The element that truly distinguished Henri Benoit as a first-class chameleon was his talent for becoming the man he was pretending to be.

  At half past six that evening, Henri strolled into the rustic dining room of the Kamehameha Hostel. He was wearing jeans, a summer-weight blue cashmere sweater, sleeves pushed up, Italian loafers, no socks, gold watch, wedding band. His hair, streaked gray, was combed straight back, and his rimless glasses framed the look of a man of sophistication and means.

  He gazed around the rough-hewn room, at the rows of tables and folding chairs and at the steam table. He joined the line and took the slop that was offered before heading toward the corner where Barbara and Levon sat behind their untouched food.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  “We’re about to leave,” Levon said, “but if you’re brave enough to eat that, you’re welcome to sit down.”

  “What the heck do you think this is?” Henri asked, pulling out a chair next to Levon. “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

  Levon laughed, “I was told it’s beef stew, but don’t take my word for it.”

  Henri put out his hand, said, “Andrew Hogan. From San Francisco.”

  Levon shook his hand, introduced Barb and himself, said, “We’re the only ones here in the over-forty crowd. Did you know what this pit was like when you booked your room?”

  “Actually, I’m not staying here. I’m looking for my daughter. Laurie just graduated from Berkeley,” he said modestly. “I told my wife that Laur’s having the time of her life camping out with a bunch of other kids, but she hasn’t called home in a few days. A week, actually. So Mom is having fits because of that poor model who went missing, you know, on Maui.”

  Henri turned his stew over with his fork, looked up when Barbara said, “That’s our daughter. Kim. The model who is missing.”

  “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. How’re you holding up?”

  “It’s been awful,” said Barb, shaking her head, eyes down. “You pray. You try to sleep. Try to keep your wits together.”

  Levon said, “You’re willing to chase any scrap of hope. What we’re doing here, we got a call from some guy named Peter Fisher. He said he had Kim’s watch and if we met him here he’d give it to us and tell us about Kim. He knew that Kim wore a Rolex. You said your name is Andrew?”

  Henri nodded his head.

  “Cops told us the call was probably bull, that there are nut jobs who love to screw with people’s heads. Anyway, we’ve talked to everyone here. No one’s heard of Peter Fisher. He’s not registered at the fabulous Kamehameha Hilton.”

  “You shouldn’t stay here, either,” said the man in blue. “Listen, I rented a place about ten minutes from here, three bedrooms, two baths, and it’s clean. Why don’t you two stay with me tonight? Keep me company.”

  Barbara said, “Nice of you to offer, Mr. Hogan, but we don’t want to impose.”

  “It’s Andrew. And you’d be doing me a favor. You like Thai food? I found a place not far from here. What do you say? Get out of this hole, and we’ll go looking for our girls in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Andrew,” said Barbara. “That’s a nice offer. If you let us take you out to dinner, we’ll talk about it.”

  Chapter 49

  BARBARA WOKE UP in the dark, feeling sheer, naked terror.

  Her arms were tied behind her back and they ached. Her legs were roped together at her knees and ankles. She was crammed into a fetal position against the corner of a shallow compartment that was moving!

  Was she blind? Or was it just too dark to see? Dear God, what was happening? She screamed, “Levon!”

  Behind her back, something stirred.

  “Barb? Baby? Are you okay?”

  “Oh, honey, thank God, thank God you’re here. Are you all right?”

  “I’m tied up. Shit. What is this?”

  “I think we’re in the trunk of a car.”

  “Christ! A trunk! It’s Hogan. Hogan did this.”

  Muffled music came through the backseat to where the couple lay trussed like hens in a crate.

  Barbara said, “I’m going crazy. I don’t understand any of this. What does he want?”

  Levon kicked at the trunk’s lid. “Hey! Let us out. Hey!” His kick didn’t budge the lid, didn’t make a dent. But now Barbara’s eyes were growing accustomed to the dark.

  “Levon, look! See that? The trunk release.”

  The two turned painfully by inches, scraping cheeks and elbows against the carpeting, Barb working off her shoes, pulling at the release lever with her toes. The lever moved, but there was no resistance, no release of the lock.

  “Oh, God, please,” Barbara wailed, her asthma kicking in, her voice trailing into a wheeze, then a burst of coughs.

  “The cables are cut,” said Levon. “The backseat. We can kick through the backseat.”

  “And then what? We’re tied up!” Barb gasped.

  Still they tried, the two of them kicking without full use of their legs, getting nowhere.

  “It’s latched, goddammit,” said Levon.

  Barb was fighting to take one breath and then another, trying to stop herself from going into a full-blown gag attack. Why had Hogan taken them? Why? What was he going to do with them? What was to be gained from kidnapping them?

  Levon said, “I read somewhere, you kick out the taillights and you can stick a hand out, wave until someone notices. Even if we just bust the lights, maybe a cop will pull the car over. Do it, Barb. Try.”

  Barb kicked, and plastic shattered. “Now you!” she shouted.

  As Levon broke through the taillight on his side of the trunk, Barbara turned so that her face was near the shards and wires.

  She actually could see blacktop streaming below the tires. If the car stopped, she’d scream. They weren’t helpless, not anymore. They were still alive and dammit, they would fight!

  “What’s that sound? A cell phone?” Levon asked. “In the trunk with us?”

  Barb saw the glowing faceplate of a phone by her feet. “We’re getting out of here, honey. Hogan made a big mistake.”

  She struggled to position her hands as the first ring became the second, thumbing the buttons blindly behind her back, hitting the Send key, turning on the phone.

  Levon yelled, “Hello! Hello! Who’s there?”

  “Mr. McDaniels, it’s me. Marco. From the Wailea Princess.”

  “Marco! Thank God. You’ve got to find us. We’ve been kidnapped.”

  “I’m sorry. I know you’re uncomfortable back there. I’ll explain everything momentarily.”

  The phone went dead.

  The car slowed to a stop.

  Chapter 50

  HENRI FELT BLOOD charging through his veins. He was tense in the best possible way, adrenalized, mentally rehearsed, ready for the next scene to play itself out.

  He checked the area again, glancing up to the road, then taking in the 180 degrees of shoreline. Satisfied that the area was deserted, he hauled his duffel bag out of the backseat, tossed it under a tangle of brush before returning to the car.

  Walking around the all-wheel-drive sedan, he stooped beside each tire, reducing the air pressure from eighty to twenty poun
ds, slapping the trunk when he passed it, then opening the front door on the passenger side. He reached into the glove box, tossed the rental agreement to the floor, and removed his ten-inch buck knife. It felt like it was part of his hand.

  He grabbed the keys and opened the trunk. Pale moonlight shone on Barbara and Levon. Henri, as Andrew, said, “Is everyone all right back here in coach?”

  Barbara launched a full-throated, wordless scream until Henri leaned in and held the knife up to her throat. “Barb, Barb. Stop yelling. No one can hear you but me and Levon, so call off the histrionics, okay? I don’t like it.”

  Barb’s scream became a wheeze and a cry.

  “What the hell are you doing, Hogan?” Levon demanded, wrenching his body so he could see his captor’s face. “I’m a reasonable man. Explain yourself.”

  Henri put two fingers under his nose to resemble a mustache. He lowered his voice and thickened it, said, “Sure, I will, Mr. McDaniels. You’re my number one priority.”

  “My dear Christ. You’re Marco? You’re him! I don’t believe it. How could you scare us like this? What do you want?”

  “I want you to behave, Levon. You, too, Barb. Act up, and I’ll have to take strong measures. Be good and I’ll move you up to first class. Deal?”

  Henri sawed through the nylon ropes around Barbara’s legs and helped her out of the car and into the backseat. Then he went back for Levon, cutting the restraints, walking the man to the back of the car, strapping them both in with the seat belts.

  Then Henri got into the driver’s seat. He locked the doors, turned on the dome light, reached up to the camera behind the rearview mirror, and switched it on.

  “If you like, you can call me Henri,” he said to the McDanielses, who were staring at him with unblinking eyes. He reached into the pocket of his windbreaker, pulled out a dainty, bracelet-style wristwatch, and held it up in front of them.

  “See? As I promised. Kim’s watch. The Rolex. Recognize it?”

  He stuffed it into Levon’s jacket pocket.

  “Now,” Henri said, “I’d like to tell you what’s going on and why I have to kill you. Unless you have questions so far.”

  Chapter 51

  WHEN I WOKE UP that morning and snapped on the local news, Julia Winkler was all over it. There, filling the TV screen, was her achingly beautiful face and a headline in bold italics running under her picture: Supermodel Found Murdered.

  How could Julia Winkler be dead?

  I bolted upright in bed, goosed up the sound, stared at the next shot, this one of Kim and Julia posing together for the Sporting Life photo-story, their lovely faces pressed together, laughing, both absolutely radiant with life.

  The TV anchors were going back over the breaking news “for those who’ve just tuned in.”

  I stared at the tube, gathering in the stunning details: Julia Winkler’s body had been found in a room at the Island Breezes Hotel, a five-star resort on Lanai. A housekeeper had run through the hotel shouting that a woman had been strangled, that there were bruises around her neck, blood all over the linens.

  Next up, a waitress was interviewed. Emma Laurent. She’d waited on tables in the Club Room last night and recognized Julia Winkler. She’d been having dinner with a good-looking man in his thirties, Laurent said. He was white, brown-haired with a good build. “He definitely works out.”

  Winkler’s date signed the check with a room number, 412, registered to Charles Rollins. Rollins left a good tip, and Julia had given the waitress her autograph. Personalized it. To Emma from Julia. Emma held up the signed napkin for the camera.

  I got a POG out of the fridge, guzzled it, watched the camera cut now to live shots outside the Island Breezes Hotel. Cruisers were everywhere, the loud garble of police radios squawked in the background. The camera held on a reporter with the local NBC affiliate.

  The reporter, Kevin de Martine, was well respected, had been embedded with a military unit in Iraq in ’04. He was now standing with his back to a sawhorse barrier, rain falling softly on his bearded face, palm fronds waving dramatically behind him.

  De Martine said, “This is what we know. Nineteen-year-old supermodel Julia Winkler, former roommate of the still-missing top model Kimberly McDaniels, was found dead this morning in a room registered to a Charles Rollins of Loxahatchee, Florida.”

  De Martine went on to say that Charles Rollins was not in his room, that he was sought for questioning, that any information about Rollins should be phoned in to the number at the bottom of the screen.

  I tried to absorb this horrendous story. Julia Winkler was dead. There was a suspect — but he was missing. Or how the police like to describe it — he was in the wind.

  Chapter 52

  THE PHONE RANG next to my ear, jarring the hell out of me. I grabbed the receiver. “Levon?”

  “It’s Dan Aronstein. Your paycheck. Hawkins, are you on this Winkler story?”

  “Yep. I’m on the case, chief. If you hang up and let me work, okay?”

  I glanced back at the TV. The local anchors, Tracy Baker and Candy Ko‘alani, were on screen, and a new face had been patched in from Washington. Baker asked the former FBI profiler John Manzi, “Could the killings of Rosa Castro and Julia Winkler be connected? Is this the work of a serial killer?”

  Those two potent and terrifying words. “Serial killer.” Kim’s story was now going global. The whole wide world was going to be focused on Hawaii and the mystery of two beautiful girls’ deaths.

  Former agent Manzi tugged at his earlobe, said serial killers generally had a signature, a preferred method for killing.

  “Rosa Castro was strangled, but with ropes,” he said. “Her actual manner of death was drowning. Without speaking to the medical examiner, I can only go by the witness reports that Julia Winkler was manually strangled. That is, she was killed by someone choking her with his hands.

  “It’s too soon to say if these killings were done by the same person,” Manzi continued, “but what I can say about manual strangulation is that it’s personal. The killer gets more of a thrill because unlike a shooting, it takes a long time for the victim to die.”

  Kim. Rosa. Julia. Was this coincidence or a wildfire? I wanted desperately to talk to Levon and Barbara, to get to them before they saw Julia’s story on the news, prepare them somehow — but I didn’t know where they were.

  Barbara had called me yesterday morning to say that she and Levon were going to Oahu to check out what was probably a bum lead, and I hadn’t heard from them since.

  I turned down the TV volume, called Barb’s cell phone number, and, when she didn’t answer, I hung up and called Levon. He didn’t answer, either. After leaving a message, I called their driver, and when I got forwarded to Marco’s voice mail, I left my number and told him that my call was urgent.

  I showered and dressed quickly, collecting my thoughts, feeling an elusive and important something I should pay attention to, but I couldn’t nail it down.

  It was like a horsefly you can’t swat. Or the faint smell of gas, and you don’t know where it’s coming from. What was it?

  I tried Levon again, and when I got his voice mail I called Eddie Keola. He had to know how to reach Barbara and Levon.

  That was his job.

  Chapter 53

  KEOLA BARKED his name into the phone.

  “Eddie, it’s Ben Hawkins. Have you seen the news?”

  “Worse than that. I’ve seen the real thing.”

  Keola told me he’d been to the Island Breezes since the news of Julia Winkler’s death had gone over the police band. He’d been there when the body was taken out and he had spoken with the cops on the scene.

  He said, “Kim’s roommate was murdered. Do you believe it?”

  I told him I’d had no luck reaching the McDanielses or their driver and asked if he knew where Barb and Levon were staying.

  “Some dive on the eastern shore of Oahu. Barb told me she didn’t know the name.”

  “Maybe I’m paranoid,�
� I told Keola, “but I’m worried. It isn’t like them to be incommunicado.”

  “I’ll meet you at their hotel in an hour,” Keola said.

  I arrived at the Wailea Princess just before eight a.m. I was heading to the front desk when I heard Eddie Keola calling my name. He came across the marble floor at a trot. His bleached hair was damp and wind-combed, and fatigue dragged at his face.

  The hotel’s day manager was a young guy wearing a smart hundred-dollar tie and a blue gabardine jacket with a name-tag reading “Joseph Casey.”

  When he got off the phone, Keola and I told Casey our problem — that we couldn’t locate two of the hotel guests and we couldn’t locate their hotel-comped driver, either. I said that we were concerned for the McDanielses’ safety.

  The manager shook his head, and said, “We don’t have any drivers on staff and we never hired anyone to drive Mr. and Mrs. McDaniels. Not somebody named Marco Benevenuto. Not anyone. We don’t do that and never have.”

  I was stunned into an openmouthed silence. Keola asked, “Why would this driver tell the McDanielses he’d been hired and paid for by your hotel?”

  “I don’t know the man,” said the manager. “I have no idea. You’ll have to ask him.”

  Keola flashed his ID, saying he was employed by the McDanielses, and asked to be let into their room.

  After clearing Keola with the head of security, Casey agreed. I took a phone book to a plush chair in the lobby.

  There were five limousine services on Maui, and I’d worked my way through all of them by the time Eddie Keola sat down heavily in the chair beside me.

  “No one’s ever heard of Marco Benevenuto,” I told him. “I can’t find a listing for him in all of Hawaii.”

  “The McDanielses’ room is empty, too,” Keola said. “Like they were never there.”