James Patterson - French Kiss

It has become a funny little routine between the two of us, the sort of thing two friends might do. Who knows? Maybe K. Burke and I are becoming friends. Sometimes a mutually miserable situation can bring people together.

But this morning it’s different. She greets me by saying, “Don’t bother sitting down, Moncrief. We have an assignment from Inspector Elliott.”

All I know is that unless Elliott has had an unexpected stroke of genius (highly unlikely) I am not interested in the assignment. I must also face the fact that my mood is terrible: interviewing the call girls has led to absolutely nothing, and I can share my frustration with no one. If I were to tell Burke or Elliott about my unapproved tactic they would both be furious.

“Whatever it is the inspector wants, we’ll do it later.”

“It’s already later,” Burke says. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon. Let’s go.”

“Go where? It’s lunchtime. I’m thinking that fish restaurant on 49th Street. A bit of sole meunière and a crisp bottle of Chablis…”

“Stop being a Frenchman for just one minute, Moncrief,” she says.

I can tell that K. Burke is uncomfortable with what she’s about to say, but out it comes: “He wants us to visit some high-class strip clubs. He’s even done some of the grunt work for us. He’s compiled a list of clubs. Take a look at your phone.”

I swipe the screen and click on my assignments folder. I see a page entitled “NYC Club Visits. From: N. Elliott.”

Sapphire, 333 East 60th Street

Rick’s Cabaret, 50 West 33rd Street

Hustler Club, 641 West 51st Street

Three more places are listed after these.

As a young man in Paris, full of booze and often with a touch of cocaine in my nose, I would occasionally visit the Théâtre Chochotte, in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, with some pals. It was not without its pleasures, but on one such visit I had a very bad experience: I ran into my father and my uncle in the VIP lounge. That was the night I crossed Chochotte and all Parisian strip clubs off my list. Even a son who has a much better relationship than I have with my father does not ever want to end up in a strip joint with the old man.

As for clubs in New York…I am no longer a schoolboy. I am no longer touching my nose with cocaine. And I now have Dalia waiting at home for me.

The fact is that my assignment would be the envy of most of my colleagues. But I am weary and frustrated and pissed off and…it seems impossible for me to believe, but I am growing tired of so much female flesh in my face.

“I won’t do it,” I say to Burke. “You do it alone. I’ll stay here and do some detail analysis.”

“No way am I going alone, Moncrief. C’mon.”

“I cannot. I will not,” I say.

“Then I suggest you tell that to Inspector Elliott.”

I feel my whole heart spiraling downward. The entrapment with Laura. The death of Paulo. The futile interviews with the call girls. Now I am expected to go to these sad places, where a glass of cheap vodka costs thirty dollars, and try to talk to women with breast implants who are sliding up and down poles.

“I am sick. I am tired,” I tell Burke.

“I know you are,” Burke says. And I can tell she means it. “But you need to do it for Maria. This is-”

I snap at her. “I do not need a pep talk. I know you’re trying to be helpful, but that kind of thing doesn’t work with me.”

Burke just stares at me.

“Tell Inspector Elliott we will make these ‘visits’ tomorrow. Maria will still be dead tomorrow. Right now, I’m going home.”

Burke will tell Elliott that I went home because of illness. And, of course, Elliott won’t believe it.

But I think that K. Burke and I are now simpatico enough for her to cover for me.

“Suddenly he’s sick?” Elliott will say. “That’s pure bullshit.”

The answer Burke might produce could go something like, “Well, he was out sick all day yesterday.”

It makes no difference. For the moment I am engaged in a very important project: I am in a store on Ninth Avenue selecting two perfect fillets of Dover sole. The cost at Seabreeze Fish Market for a pound of this beautiful fish is one hundred and twenty dollars. I have no trouble spending that much (or more) on a bottle of wine. But-Jesus!-this is fish. In the taxi uptown to Dalia’s apartment I hold the package of fish as if it were a newborn infant being brought home from the hospital.

The moment I walk through the door of the apartment I feel lighter, better, stronger. It’s as if the air in Dalia’s place is purer than the air in the dangerous, depressing crime scenes I frequent.

I place the precious fish in the refrigerator.

I unpack the few other items I’ve bought and remove my shirt. I’m feeling better already.

In a moment I’ll start chopping the shallots, chopping the parsley, and heating the wine for the mustard sauce. This preparation is what trained chefs call the mise en place .

I decide to take off my suit pants. I toss them on the chair where my shirt is resting. I am-in my mind-no longer in a professionally equipped kitchen overlooking Central Park. I am in a wonderfully sunny beach house on the Côte d’Azur. I am no longer a gloomy angry detective; I am a young tennis pro away for a week of rest, awaiting the arrival of his luscious girlfriend.

I press a button on the entertainment console. Suddenly the music blares. It is Dalia’s newest favorite: Selena Gomez. “Me and the Rhythm.” I sing along, creating my own lyrics to badly match whatever Selena is singing.

Ooh, all the rhythm takes you over.

I chop the shallot to the beat of the music. I scrape the chopped pieces into my hand and toss them into a sauté pan.

I am moving my feet and hips. I drop a half pound of Irish butter into the pan, and now I feel almost compelled to dance.

I sing. I dance. When I don’t sing I am talking to an imaginary Dalia.

“Yes,” I am saying. “Your favorite. Dover sole.”

“Yes, there is a bottle of Dom Pérignon already in the fridge.”

“Yes, I left early to make this dinner.”

“The hell with them. They can fire me, then.”

The music beats on. I rhythmically slap away at the parsley leaves with my chef’s knife.

In the distance I hear the buzzing of a cell phone. The sound of the phone at first seems to be a part of Selena’s song. Then I recognize the tone. It is my police phone. For a moment I consider ignoring it. Then I think that perhaps there is news on Maria Martinez’s case. Or it might merely be Nick or K. Burke calling to torment me. But nothing can torment me tonight.

I let the music continue. Whoever my caller is can sing along with me.

I yank my suit jacket from the pile of clothing. I find my phone.

Ooh, all the rhythm takes you over.

“What’s up?” I yell loudly above the music.

My prediction is correct. It is Inspector Elliott on the line.

He speaks. I listen. I stop dancing. I drop the phone. I fall to my knees and I scream.

“Noooooooo!”

But the truth is “yes.” There has been another woman stabbed, another woman connected to the New York City police. Only this time the woman is neither an officer nor a detective. This time the woman is also connected to me.

“Who is it, goddamn it?”

Elliott’s exact words: “It’s Dalia, Moncrief.”

A pause and then he adds quietly, “Dalia is dead.”

I kneel on the gray granite floor and pound it. Tears do not come, but I cannot stop saying “no.” If I say the word loudly enough, often enough, it will eradicate the fact of “yes.”