He settled his bill at the desk, then asked a groundskeeper for a lift out to the helipad. He was already thinking ahead as the hotel's oversize golf cart ran smoothly alongside the green, the wind picking up now, blowing clouds out to the sea.

He tipped the driver and, holding down his cap, ran toward the chopper.

After buckling in, he raised his hand to say hello to the pilot. He pulled on headphones and, as the chopper lifted, he snapped off shots of the island with his Sony, what any tourist would do. But it was all for show. Henri was well beyond the magnificence of Lanai.

When the helicopter touched down in Maui, he made an important call.

“Mr. McDaniels? You don't know me. My name is Peter Fisher,” he said, brushing his speech with a bit of Aussie. “I have something to tell you about Kim. I also have her watch – a Rolex.”

The Kamehameha Hostel on Oahu had been built in the early 1900s, and it looked to Levon like it had been a boardinghouse, with small bungalows surrounding the main building. The beach was right across the highway. Out on the horizon, surfers crouched above their boards, skimming the waves, waiting for the Big One.

Levon and Barbara stepped over backpackers in the dark lobby, which smelled musty, like mildew with a touch of marijuana.

The man behind the desk looked like he'd washed up on the beach a hundred years ago. He had bloodshot eyes, hair in a white braid even longer than Barb's, and a stained “Bullish on America ” T-shirt with a name patch: “Gus.”

Levon told Gus that he and Barb had a reservation for one night, and Gus told Levon that he'd need to be paid in full before he handed over the keys, those were the rules.

Levon gave the man ninety bucks in cash.

“No refunds, checkout at noon, no exceptions.”

“We're looking for a guest named Peter Fisher,” Levon said. “He has an accent. Australian or South African maybe. ' Pee-ta Fish-a.' You have his room number?”

The clerk flipped pages of the guest book, saying, “Not everyone signs in. If they come in a gang, I only need the one signature of whoever's paying. I don't see any Peter Fleisher.”

“Fisher.”

“Either way, I don't see him. Most people eat in our dining room at dinner. Six dollars, three courses. Ask around later, and you might find your man.”

Gus looked hard at Levon, said, “I know you. You're the parents of that model got killed over on Maui.”

Levon felt his blood pressure rocket, wondered if today was the day he would be cut down by a fatal myocardial infarction. “Where'd you hear that?” he snapped.

“Whad'ya mean? It's on TV. In the newspapers.”

“She's not dead,” Levon said.

He took the keys. With Barb behind him, they climbed to the third floor, opened the door to an appalling room: two small beds, mattress springs poking at grimy sheets. The shower stall was black with mold, there were years of crud in the blinds, and the scatter rug looked damp to the touch.

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.

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.”