James Patterson - French Kiss

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Bonjour, Detective. Now watch your back.
Very handsome and charming French detective Luc Moncrief joined the NYPD for a fresh start – but someone wants to make his first big case his last. Welcome to New York.
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“I’m Maria’s brother-in-law,” says the man at the door.

“I’m Maria’s partner from work,” I say.

His face shows no expression. He nods, then says, “Joey and me are about to go downtown. They wouldn’t let him-the husband, the actual husband-go to the crime scene. Now they’ll let us go see her. In the morgue.”

A handsome young Latino man walks quickly toward me. It has to be Joey Martinez. He is nervous, animated, red-eyed. He grabs me firmly by the shoulders. The room turns silent, like somebody turned an Off switch.

“You’re Moncrief. I know you from your pictures. Maria has a million pictures of you on her phone,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “She loves clicking away on that cell phone.”

I can’t help but notice that he calls me by my last name. I don’t know why. Maybe that’s how Maria referred to me at home.

I try to move closer to give Joey a hug. But he moves back, blocking any sort of embrace. So I speak.

“I don’t know what to say, Joey. This is an incredible tragedy. Your heart must be breaking. I’m so sorry.”

“Your heart must be breaking also,” Joey says.

“It is,” I say. “Maria was the best partner a detective could hope for. Smart. Patient. Tough…” Joey may not be weeping, but I feel myself choking up.

Joey gestures to his brother. It’s a “Let’s go” toss of his head.

“Look, my brother and I are going down to see Maria. But Moncrief…”

There’s that last-name-only thing again. “I need to ask you something.”

Now I’m nervous, but I’m not at all sure why. Something is off. The room remains silent. Brother is now standing next to brother.

“Sure,” I say. “Ask me. Ask me anything.”

Joey Martinez’s sad and empty eyes widen. He looks directly at me and speaks slowly. “How do you have the nerve to come to my house?”

I feel confusion, and I’m sure that my face is communicating it. “Because I feel so terrible, so awful, so sad. Maria was my partner. We spent hours and hours together.”

Joey continues speaking at the same slow pace. “Yes. I know. Maria loved you.”

“And I loved her,” I say.

“You don’t understand. Or you’re a liar. Maria loved you. She really loved you.”

His words are so crazy and so untrue that I have no idea how to respond. “Joey. Please. You’re experiencing a tragedy. You’re totally…well…you’re totally wrong about Maria, about me.”

“She told me,” he says. “It’s not a misunderstanding. She didn’t mean you were just good friends. We talked about it a thousand times. She loved you.”

Now he pushes his face close to mine. “You think because you’re rich and good-looking you can get whatever you want. You think-”

“Joey. Wait. This is insane!” I shout.

He shouts even louder. “Stop it! Just shut up. Just leave!” He shakes his head. The tears are coming fast. “My brother and I gotta go.”

Chapter 9

When I get home, Dalia is waiting for me in the apartment foyer. Her hug is strong. Her kiss is soft-not sexual per se-just the perfect gentle touch of warmth. The tenderness of Dalia’s kiss immediately signals to me that she’s already heard about Maria Martinez’s death. I’m not surprised. The DA’s office has access to all NYPD information, and Dalia knows her way around her job.

Dalia is an ADA for Manhattan district attorney Fletcher Sinclair. She heads up the investigation division. The two qualities that the job requires-brains and persistence-are the two qualities Dalia seems to have in endless supply. Nothing and no one stands in her way when she’s hot on an investigation.

Every day at work she tones down her tall and skinny fashion-model look with a ponytail, sensible skirts, and almost no makeup. When Dalia’s at her job, she’s all about the job. Laser-focused. Don’t mess with the ADA.

Some evenings, when Dalia’s dressed for some ultrachic charity dinner, even I have a hard time believing that this breathtakingly belle woman in her Georgina Chapman gown is one of the toughest lawyers in New York City.

“We got word about Maria at the DA’s office late this morning,” she says. “I was going to call or text or something, but I didn’t want to butt in. I didn’t want to nudge you if you didn’t need me…”

“You can always nudge me, because I always need you,” I say.

“I opened a nice Chilean Chardonnay. You want a glass and we can talk?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Mix a glass of wine with a quart of tequila and we’ll have a drink that might make me forget what a miserable day this has been.”

“Maria, Maria, Maria,” Dalia says. She shakes her head as she pours the wine into two wineglasses. Then she says, “I hate to ask, but…any ideas yet?”

“I sure don’t have any guesses. I don’t even have all the details yet. Plus Maria’s husband is a crazy mess right now.” I decide to skip the details.

“Understandably,” Dalia says.

I cannot shake the mental picture of Joey Martinez’s hurt and anger as he spat out the words “She loved you.”

Then Dalia says, “But what about you? How are you feeling?”

“How can I feel? Maria was my partner, and she was as good a partner as anyone ever had. She was damn near perfect. As my rugby coach used to say, ‘The best combination for any job is the brains of an owl and the skin of an elephant.’”

“What was the name of the genius who came up with that little saying?” Dalia asks.

“Monsieur Pierre LeBec. You must remember him-the fat little man who was always smoking a pipe. He coached boys’ rugby and taught geometry,” I say. A reminiscence is about to open up.

Dalia and I speak often about the school in Paris we had both attended. We became girlfriend and boyfriend during our second year at Lycée Henri-IV. And we fell in love exactly the way teenagers do-with unstoppable passion. There wasn’t enough time in the day for all the laughter and talking and sex that we needed to have. Even when we broke up, just before we both left for university, we did it with excessive passion. Lots of door slamming and yelling and crying and kissing.

Ten years later, when Act II of The Story of Dalia and Luc began, it was as if we were teenagers all over again. First of all, we “met cute.” Dalia and I reconnected completely accidentally three months ago at one of the rare NYPD social functions-a spring boat ride on the Hudson River. I was standing alone at the starboard railing and must have been turning green. About to heave, I was one seasick sailor.

“You look like a man who needs some Dramamine,” came Dalia’s voice from behind me. I’d know it anywhere. I turned around.

“Holy shit! It’s you,” I said. We hugged and immediately agreed that only God himself could have planned this meeting. It may not have been an actual miracle, but it was certainly une coïncidence grande. Two former Parisian lovers who end up on a boat and then…

Dalia reminded me that she was not Parisian. She was Israeli, a sabra.

“Okay, then it’s a fairy tale,” I said. “And in fairy tales you don’t pay attention to details.”

By the time the boat docked at Chelsea Piers, we were in love again. And-holy shit indeed-had she ever turned from a spectacular-looking teenager into an incredibly spectacular-looking young woman.

She invited me back to her ridiculously large penthouse at 15 Central Park West, the apartment that her father, the film director and producer Menashe Boaz, had paid for. That night was beyond unforgettable. I couldn’t imagine my life if that night had never happened.

After the first week, I had most of my clothes sent over.

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