James Patterson: French Kiss

“But most important, I could not have put Ramus in prison if Ballard had not given me information on him. I knew that someday Ramus would punish Ballard. This was timing parfait. Ballard falsely pinned the crimes on Ramus and Ballard had previously betrayed him. So, le poison dans le café. ”

“So the case is solved,” she says. But she speaks softly, cautiously.

“I guess so,” I say. I know, however, that there is sorrow in my voice.

I walk back to the table where the opened laptop rests. Then I push the button marked DELETE.

I leave the precinct and head toward Fifth Avenue and 52nd Street. I am standing outside a fabulous shop, Versace. I pause and then walk through the great arched center door.

This was one of Dalia’s favorite stores. I can remember almost every single item Dalia ever bought here.

The black skirt. If I looked hard I could see through the tightly woven material and catch a glimpse of Dalia’s exquisite legs.

The shoes with thick cork platforms that made Dalia a half inch or so taller than I am. We always laughed at that.

The belts with golden buckles. The black leather shopping totes. The crazy shirts with variously colored geometric shapes that shout at you.

“Signor Moncrief. It has been a thousand years since we have seen you,” says the store manager, Giuliana. “Welcome. You have been away, perhaps?” she adds.

“Yes. I’ve been away. Far away.”

Giuliana tilts her head to one side. “I heard of the tragedy of Miss Boaz, of course. We were all so sad.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I read your condolence note. I read it more than once.”

“We liked her so very much,” says Giuliana. Then she says, “I will leave you alone. Call on me if I can help you.”

“I will,” I say. “Grazie.”

She walks away, and I remain still, moving only my head. I take in the lights from the golden fixtures. The multitude of wallets laid out in their cases in neat overlapping rows.

It is late summer. So they are showing fall coats, fall dresses, fall scarves. Reds and browns and dark yellows. Black jeans and white jeans. And lots and lots of sunglasses. Even the mannequins are wearing sunglasses.

“Sunglasses are always in season,” Dalia used to say.

I am about to move deeper into the store. I am calm. Not completely calm, but I am calm.

Then my phone rings. The caller is identified as “K. Burke.”

I answer.

“Good afternoon, K. Burke. Don’t tell me. There’s been a murder.”

“How did you know?” she says.

“I just knew. Somehow I just knew.”

JAMES PATTERSON has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.

RICHARD DiLALLO is a former advertising creative director. He has had numerous articles published in major magazines. He lives in Manhattan with his wife.