James Patterson - French Kiss

Laura Delarico is sobbing. K. Burke is on her cell, calling for reinforcements, forensics, the coroner, police attorneys, the DA’s office. Nick Elliott closes his eyes and shakes his head back and forth.

When she finishes her phone calls, K. Burke takes a gray jumpsuit from one of the police kits. She walks to Laura and helps her slip into it. For just a moment Burke’s eyes meet Moncrief’s.

The two of them are thinking the same thing. They are no closer to solving the case of Maria Martinez. And the one person who might have helped them is now dead.

Photographers. And more photographers. Detectives and more detectives. Statements are made and then repeated. Hotel guests wander into the hallway.

We go to the precinct. More detectives. Two police attorneys. Everyone agrees: my bullet was justified. The surveillance video verifies what happened. My colleagues can easily rationalize that the world is a better place without Paulo Montes. I want to rationalize it also, but I cannot ignore the fact that I’m the cop who made it happen.

I go home.

“I’m awake,” I hear Dalia shout. “Be right out.”

I move toward the bedroom.

We meet in the hallway, and we stand directly in front of a black-and-white Léger poster, a drawing of four people artfully intertwined. Dalia and I do not kiss, but we hug each other with all our strength, as if we are afraid that the other person might slip away.

A few minutes later we are seated on a sofa. We watch the city sky slowly brighten. We both sip a snifter of Rémy. I devour a bowl of cashews. I tell her about my evening. Her face fills with horror, her eyes widen when I tell her about the horrific ending.

“Oh, my God, Luc. You must feel…I don’t know…I don’t know how you must feel.”

“I don’t think I know, either,” I say. “I’ve never killed anyone.”

I find myself remembering the shooting range near Porte de la Chapelle, where I spent so many hours learning how to load and shoot, load and shoot. The paper dummies, the foolishly big ear protectors. One-handed aim, two-handed aim, shoot from a prone position, shoot from a standing position. But shoot, always shoot. You got him. You got him. You missed him. You got him.

My plan for Montes would have worked. I am sure it would have worked.

I take the last gulp of my Cognac. I swipe the inside of the cashew bowl with my index finger. I touch my salty finger to the tip of Dalia’s tongue. She smiles. I hold her tightly.

I tell Dalia that all I want to do now is sleep. She understands. We begin walking toward the bedroom. I stop for a moment. So Dalia stops also.

I have an idea. A very good idea. So good I want to share it with someone. But I’d be a fool to share it with Burke and Elliott. What about Dalia? I usually tell her everything, but not this time, not this idea. She’d kill me if she knew.

Dalia looks up at me.

“You’re smiling,” she says. “What are you thinking about?”

“Just you,” I say. And as we fall on the bed, I consider crossing my fingers behind my back.

I call Gary Kuehn at Vice. He’s one of the few guys in that department who’s smart enough to appreciate what he calls my shenanigans.

Shenanigans. English is a wonderful language.

Gary e-mails me a list of names of “superior sex workers” (translation: high-class hookers) and their managers (translation: drug-dealing abusive johns). I specifically request names of girls who regularly service the toniest areas of the Upper East Side.

I tell my new plan to no one-not K. Burke, not Nick Elliott, not even Gary. At midafternoon, I take an Uber car across town and check into a room at the Pierre, on Fifth Avenue at 61st Street. A mere seventeen hundred dollars a night. I silently thank my father for the large allowance that makes this expensive escapade possible.

I arrange for a series of these high-priced call girls to visit my room-one girl every thirty minutes. I do all the scheduling-the phoning and texting and e-mailing-myself.

At three o’clock a girl with incandescent mahogany skin appears. Her skin is so shiny it looks polished. Her hair is short and dark. She smiles. I am sitting in a comfortable blue club chair. She approaches me and touches my face.

“Please have a seat over there,” I say, pointing to the identical blue club chair opposite my own. No doubt she thinks we’re about to begin a freaky fantasy.

“Here is the first piece of news: I’m not going to touch you, but I will, of course, pay you for this visit.” I hand her three hundred-dollar bills. (The agreed-upon price was two fifty.)

“Here is the second piece of news, and perhaps it is not quite so welcome. I am going to ask you some questions.”

She smiles. I quickly add, “Nothing uncomfortable-just some simple talking and chatting. I am a detective with the NYPD.”

Her face becomes a mask of fear.

“But I promise. You have nothing to worry about.”

The questions begin:

Have you ever serviced a client at 655 Park Avenue?

Have you ever serviced a client at the Auberge du Parc Hotel?

Have you ever serviced a client who acted with extreme violence?

A client who hurt you, threatened you, brandished a weapon, a gun, a cane, a stick, a whip? A client who tried to slip a tablet or a powder or a suspicious liquid into a beverage?

Have you ever met with a client who was famous in his field-an actor, a diplomat, a senator, a governor, a foreign leader, a clergyman?

The answers are all no. And the pattern remains the same for every woman who follows.

A few of them tell me about men with some odd habits, but as the woman in the tight yellow jeans says, “A lot of guys have odd habits. That’s why they go to prostitutes. Maybe their fancy wives don’t want to suck toes or fuck in a tennis skirt or take it up the ass.”

Other statements are made.

A tall woman, the only woman I’ve ever seen who looked beautiful in a Mohawk haircut, says, “Okay, there is this congressman from New Jersey that I see once or twice a month.”

A very tan woman in a saronglike outfit says, “Yeah, one guy was sort of into whips, but all he wanted was for me to unpin my hair and swing it against his dick.”

A woman who shows up in blue shorts cut off at mid-thigh, her shirt tied just above the navel, gives me some hope, but she, too, is a waste of time. “I think I was at 655 Park once. But it was for a woman. I hate working chicks. The few I’ve done were all, like, just into kissing and touching and petting. They’re more work than the guys.”

No information of any value. Yes, two of the girls have been slapped-both of them by men who were drunk. Yes, the girl-on-girl prostitute at 655 Park works for the Russian gang, but she knows nothing about the death of Maria Martinez, and she has never even heard of Paulo Montes.

What I am learning from these few hours of wasted interviews is the knowledge that the world is filled with men who are happy to pay to get laid. That’s it. That’s the deal. Over and out. It is a gross and humiliating way for a girl to make money, but, in most cases, each has made her separate peace with it.

The interviews end. Thousands of dollars later I have nothing to show for my work.

It is definitely time for me to leave the Pierre.

It is definitely time for me to return home to Dalia.

Every morning at the precinct, K. Burke and I have the following dialogue.

Instead of saying the words “Good morning,” she looks at me and says sternly, “You’re late.”

I always respond with a cheery “And good morning to you, ma belle. ”