Free Swimsuit by James Patterson Page B

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.
    Gotcha, Mom and Dad.
    His heart was still pounding as Levon scowled and leaned forward, blocking his camera’s-eye view of Barbara.
    Ecstatic, the killer took the stairs to his room, thinking now about Ben Hawkins, a man who interested him even more than
     the McDanielses did. Hawkins was a great crime writer, every one of his books as good as
The Silence of the Lambs.
But Hawkins hadn’t quite made it to the big time. Why not?
    Rollins slipped the card key into the slot and got the green light. His door opened onto a scene of casual magnificence that
     he barely noticed. He was busy turning ideas over in his mind, thinking about how to make Ben Hawkins an integral part of
     his project.
    It was just a question of how best to use him.

Chapter 33
    LEVON PUT DOWN HIS COFFEE CUP, the porcelain chattering against the saucer, knowing