James Patterson - Swimsuit

“I was told the location, and I worked out the rest: which island, her time of arrival, and the hotel. While I was waiting for Kim to arrive, I killed little Rosa. She was a tidbit, an amuse-bouche -”

“ Amuse what?”

“It means an appetizer, and in her case, the Alliance hadn't commissioned the work. I put the film up for auction. Yes, there's a market for such things. I made some extra money, and I made sure the film got back to the Dutchman. Jan especially likes young girls, and I wanted the Peepers to be hungry for my work.

“When Kim arrived in Maui for the shoot, I kept watch on her.”

“Were you going under the name of Nils Bjorn?” I asked.

Henri started. Then he frowned.

“How did you know that?”

I'd made a mistake. My mental leap had connected Gina Prazzi to the woman who'd phoned me in Hawaii telling me to check out a guest named Nils Bjorn. This connection had apparently struck home – and Henri didn't like it.

Why would Gina betray Henri, though? What didn't I know about the two of them?

It felt like an important hook into Henri's story, but I gave myself a warning. For my own safety, I had to be careful not to tick Henri off. Very careful.

“The police got a tip,” I said. “An arms dealer by that name checked out of the Wailea Princess around the time Kim went missing. He was never questioned.”

“I'll tell you something, Ben,” Henri said. “I was Nils Bjorn, but I've destroyed his identity. I'll never use it again. It's worthless to you now.”

Henri got up from his seat abruptly. He adjusted the awning to block the lower angle of the sun's rays. I used the time to steady my nerves.

I was swapping out the old audiotape for a new one when Henri said, “Someone is coming.”

My heart started tap-dancing in my chest again.

I shielded my eyes with my hands and looked in the direction of the trail stretching through the desert to the west, saw a dark-colored sedan coming over a hill.

Henri said, “Right now! Take your things, your glass and your chair, and go inside.”

I did what I was told, hustled back into the trailer with Henri behind me. He unhooked the chain from the floor, put it under the sink. He handed me my jacket and told me to go into the bathroom.

“If our visitor gets too nosy,” Henri said, hiding the wineglasses, “I may have to dispose of him. That means you'll have witnessed a murder, Ben. Not good for you.”

I squeezed into the tiny washroom, looked at my face in the mirror before flicking off the light. I had a three-day beard, rumpled shirt. I looked disreputable. I looked like a bum.

The bathroom wall was thin, and I could hear everything through it. There was a knock on the trailer door, which Henri opened. I heard heavy footsteps.

“Please come in, Officer. I'm Brother Michael,” Henri said.

A woman's authoritative voice said, “I'm Lieutenant Brooks. Park Service. This campsite is closed, sir. Didn't you see the roadblock and the words 'Do Not Enter' in giant letters?”

“I'm sorry,” Henri said. “I wanted to pray without being disturbed. I'm with the Camaldolese monastery. In Big Sur. I'm on retreat.”

“I don't care if you're an acrobat with the Cirque du Soleil. You have no business being here.”

“ God led me here,” said Henri. “I'm on His business. But I didn't mean any harm. I'm sorry.”

I could feel the tension outside the door. If the ranger used her radio to call for help, she was a dead woman. Years ago, back in Portland, I'd backed my squad car into a wheelchair, knocked over an old man. Another time, I put a little kid in my gun sights when he'd jumped out from between two cars, pointing a squirt gun at me.

Both times I thought my heart couldn't beat any harder, but honest to God, this was the worst.

If my belt buckle clanked against the metal sink, the ranger would hear it. If she saw me, if she questioned me, Henri might feel he had to kill her, and her death would be on me.

Then he'd kill me.

I prayed not to sneeze. I prayed.

The ranger told Henri that she understood about desert retreats, but that the campsite wasn't safe.

“If the chopper pilot hadn't seen your trailer, there would be no patrols out this way. What if you ran out of fuel? What if you ran out of water? No one would find you, and you would die,” Lieutenant Brooks said. “I'll wait while you pack up your gear.”

A radio crackled, and I heard the ranger say, “I got him, Yusef.”

I waited for the inevitable gunshot, thought of kicking open the door, trying to knock the gun out of Henri's hand, save the poor woman somehow.

The lieutenant said to her partner, “He's a monk. A hermit. Yeah. He's by himself. No, it's under control.”

Henri's voice cut in, “Lieutenant, it's getting late. I can leave in the morning without difficulty. I'd really appreciate one more night here for my meditation.”

There was silence as the park ranger seemed to consider Henri's request. I slowly exhaled, took in another breath. Lady, do what he says. Get the hell out of here.

“I can't help you,” she said.

“Sure you can. Just one night is all I ask.”

“Your gas tank is full?”

“Yes. I filled up before I drove into the park.”

“And you have enough water?”

The refrigerator door squealed open.

The ranger said, “Tomorrow morning, you're outta here. We have a deal?”

“Yes, we do,” Henri said. “I'm sorry for the trouble.”

“Okay. Have a good night, Brother.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. And bless you.”

I heard the ranger's car engine start up. A minute later, Henri opened my door.

“Change of plans,” he said, as I edged out of the washroom. “I'll cook. We're pulling an all-nighter.”

“No problem,” I said.

I looked out the window and saw the lights of the patrol car heading back to civilization. Behind me, Henri dropped hamburger patties into the frying pan.

“We've got to cover a lot of ground tonight,” he said.

I was thinking that by noon of the next day, I could be in Venice Beach watching the bodybuilders and the thong girls, the skaters and bikers on the winding concrete paths through the beach and along the shore. I thought of the dogs with kerchiefs and sunglasses, the toddlers on their trikes, and that I'd have huevos rancheros with extra salsa at Scotty's with Mandy.

I'd tell her everything.

Henri put a burger and a bottle of ketchup in front of me, said, “Here ya go, Mr. Meat and Potatoes.” He started making coffee.

The little voice in my head said, You're not home yet.

The kind of listening you do when interviewing is very different from the casual kind. I had to focus on what Henri was saying, how it fit into the story, decide if I needed elaboration on that subject or if we had to move along.

Fatigue was coming over me like fog, and I fought it off with coffee, keeping my goal in sight. Get it down and get out of here alive.

Henri backtracked over the story of his service with the military contractor, Brewster-North. He told me how he'd brought several languages to the table and that he'd learned several more while working for them.

He told me how he'd formed a relationship with his forger in Beirut. And then his shoulders sagged as he detailed his imprisonment, the executions of his friends.

I asked questions, placed Gina Prazzi in the time line. I asked Henri if Gina knew his real identity, and he told me no. He'd used the name that matched the papers his forger had given him: Henri Benoit from Montreal.

“Have you stayed in contact with Gina?”