James Patterson: French Kiss

Wren says that he will be back in a moment. “With Ballard,” he says.

As soon as Wren exits, Burke speaks.

“I remember this case from the other day, Moncrief. On the computer. Ballard is the horse trainer who killed some guy and wounded another at the Longchamp racecourse.”

“Yes, indeed, Detective.”

“But I don’t totally get what’s going on here now.”

“You will,” I say.

“If you say so,” she answers.

I nod, and as I do I feel myself becoming…quiet…no, the proper word is…frightened. A kind of soft anxiety begins falling over me. No man can ever feel happy being in a prison, even for a visit. It is a citadel of punishment and futility. But this is something way beyond simple unhappiness. Burke senses that something is wrong.

“Are you okay, Moncrief?” she says.

“No, I am not. I am twice a widower of sorts. And now I feel I am in the house where those plans were made. No, Detective. I am not okay. But you know what? I don’t ever expect to be okay. Excuse me if that sounds like self-pity.”

“No need to apologize. I understand.”

A creaking sound, like one you would hear in an old horror movie, comes from the door. It opens, and a burst of light surges into the bleak room.

Wren has returned, and with him is a young prison guard. The guard escorts the prisoner-Marcel Ballard.

Ballard is ugly. His fat face is scarred on both cheeks. Another scar is embedded on the right side of his neck. The three scars show the marks of crude surgical stitching. Prison fights, perhaps?

His head is completely bald. He is unreasonably heavy for a man who dines only on prison rations; he must be trading something of value for extra food.

The guard removes the handcuffs from Ballard.

Ballard comes rushing toward me. He is shouting.

The guard moves to pull Ballard away from me, but Ballard is too fast for him.

“Moncrief, mon ami, mon pote!” he yells. Then he embraces me in a tight bear hug. In accented English, the guard translates, “My friend! My best friend!”

Then Ballard kisses me on both cheeks.

It is Ballard who enlightens K. Burke.

“You wonder why we embrace, mademoiselle?”

“Not really,” says K. Burke. “I know about you and the detective. I know that you received a lesser sentence because of him, and I know that he received some valuable information because of you. ”

Ballard smiles. I look away from the two of them.

“Detective Moncrief, you have not told your colleague the entire story of our relationship?” Ballard asks, his eyes almost comically wide.

For a reason I can’t explain, I am becoming angry. With a snappish tone I respond, “No. I didn’t think it was necessary. I thought it was between the two of us.”

“But many others know,” Ballard responds. “May I tell her?”

“Do whatever you like,” I say. The bleakness of the prison, the memory of the Longchamp arrests, and the indelible pain of Maria and Dalia’s deaths all close in on me. I am sinking into a depression. There is no reason why I should be angry that Burke will be hearing the story of Ballard and me. Still, he hesitates.

I try to restore a lighter tone to the conversation. “No, really. If you want to tell her, go right ahead.”

After a pause, Ballard tells her, “When I was arrested I was the father of an infant, and I was also the father of three other children, all of them under the age of five years.”

He pauses, and with a smile says, “Yes, we are a very Catholic family. Four children in five years.” Burke does not smile back.

Then he continues. “Life would have been desperate for my wife, Marlene, without me. The children would have starved. When I was sentenced to the two decades in the prison, I worried and prayed, and my prayers were answered.

“In my second month inside this hell, Marlene writes to me with news. She is receiving a monthly stipend, a generous stipend, from Monsieur Moncrief.”

He pauses, then adds, “I was overwhelmed with gratitude for his extreme generosity.”

Burke nods at Ballard. Then she turns to me and says, “Good man, Detective.”

I do not care to slosh around in sentimentality. I gruffly announce, “Look, Ballard. I am here for a reason. An important reason. You may be able to pay me back for that ‘extreme generosity.’”

The gossip network in a prison is long and strong.

Ballard confirms this. “I was overcome with sadness and anger when I heard about your police friend and your girlfriend, Detective. I could not write to you. I could not telephone. I did not know what to say. And, I am ashamed to admit, I was afraid. If the other prisoners found out that I was speaking to a member of the Paris police, I might be in danger.”

“I understand,” I say. “Besides, Marlene wrote me and expressed her outrage and sympathy.”

“Très bien,” he says. “Marlene is a good woman.”

I am silent. I want to speak, but I cannot. Suddenly everything is rushing back-the sight of Maria in the lavish Park Avenue apartment, the sight of Dalia on the gurney, the crazed run that I made through Hermès and the wine shop.

I think Burke senses that I have wandered off to a deeper, darker place. She keeps a steady gaze on me.

Ballard looks confused. He is waiting for me to say something. My tongue freezes as if it’s too big for my mouth. My brain is too big for my head, and my heart is too broken to function.

Ballard reaches across the little table and places his rough hand on mine.

“The heart breaks, Detective.”

I remain silent. Ballard speaks.

“What can I do, my friend?”

My head is filling with pain. Then I speak.

“Listen to me, Marcel. I believe that someone being held in this prison arranged for the executions of my partner, Maria, and my lover, Dalia. I think whoever it was also planned to kill my current partner, the person sitting here.”

I cannot help but notice that Ballard does not react in any way to what I’m saying. He finally removes his hand from mine. He continues to listen silently. If he is anything, he is afraid, stunned.

“It is pure revenge, Ballard. There are men here in Clairvaux who detest me. They don’t blame their crimes for their imprisonment. They blame me . They think that by killing the people I am close to…they are killing me…and you know something, Ballard? They are right.”

Again silence. A long silence. The minute that feels like an hour.

Ballard interrupts the quiet. He is calm. “ C’est vrai, monsieur le lieutenant. Someone who hates you is killing the women you love.”

“Tell me, Marcel. Tell me if you truly have gratitude for what I’ve done to help your wife and children: do you have any idea who ordered these murders?”

Ballard looks at Burke. Then he looks at me. Then he looks down at the table. When he looks back up again a few moments later his eyes are wet with tears. He speaks.

“Everyone inside this asylum is cruel. You have to learn to be cruel to survive here.”

I am awestruck at Ballard’s intensity. He continues.

“But there is only one man who has the power to buy such a horror in the outside world. And I think you know who that is. I think you know without my even saying his name.”

And I know the person we should bring in.

Burke and I wait for Adrien Ramus.

We wait in a smaller, bleaker room than the one in which we met with Ballard. This room is located within the high-security area, where the most treacherous prisoners are kept. It is not solitary confinement, but it is the next worst thing. Isolation, only relieved for food and fifteen minutes of recreation a day in the yard.