Harlan Coben - Long Lost

That was why I had been so forthcoming with Berleand-he already knew all these answers. I’d been hoping to win his trust.

“Your cell phone,” he answered. “We replaced the battery with a listening device that holds the same charge. It’s very new technology, quite cutting edge.”

“So you know Terese thought her ex was missing.”

He tilted his head back and forth. “We know that’s what she told you.”

“Come on, Berleand. You heard her tone. She was genuinely distraught.”

“She seemed to be,” he agreed.

“So?”

He crushed out the cigarette. “You could also hear that she was holding back,” Berleand said. “She’s lying to you. You know it, I know it. I hoped that maybe you’d work it out of her, but you spotted the van.” He thought about it. “And that’s when you realized that you were bugged.”

“So we’re both very clever,” I said.

“Or not as clever as we think.”

“Have you notified his next of kin?”

“We’re trying.”

I aimed for subtle, but then again I thought we were somewhat past that. “Who is the next of kin?”

“His wife.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Please don’t push it,” Berleand said.

He took out another cigarette, stuck it between his lips, let it dip down as he lit it with a hand that had done this many times before.

“There was blood found at the scene,” he said. “Lots of it. Most belonged to the victim, of course. But preliminary tests tell us that there is at least one more person’s blood in the mix. So we have gathered a blood sample from Terese Collins, and we will run the proper DNA test.”

“She didn’t do it, Berleand.”

He said nothing.

“There’s something else you aren’t telling me,” I said.

“There is a lot I’m not telling you. You, alas, are not part of Groupe Berleand.”

“Can’t I be deputized or something?”

He made that mortified face again. Then: “It can’t be a coincidence,” he said. “Him being murdered right after his ex-wife arrives.”

“You heard what she told me. Her ex sounded scared. He’d probably gotten himself into some kind of mess-that’s why he called her in the first place.”

We were interrupted by the trill of his cell phone. Berleand unfolded it, put it to his ear, and listened. He probably made a hell of a poker player, my new friend Berleand, but something crossed his face and stayed there. He barked out something in French, clearly annoyed or puzzled. Then he went silent. After a few moments, he snapped the phone closed, stubbed out his cigarette, and stood.

“Problem?” I said.

“Take one last look.” Berleand brushed off his pants with both hands. “We don’t let a lot of tourists up here.”

I did. Some might find it odd, this police headquarters with its spectacular view. I decided to take the moment and look out and remember why murder was such an abomination.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“The lab received preliminary results on the DNA from the blood.”

“Already?”

He shrugged a little too theatrically. “We French are about more than wine, food, and women.”

“Pity. So what’s it show?”

“I think,” he began, ducking back inside through the window, “that we should talk to Terese Collins.”

We found her in the same holding cell where I’d been half an hour earlier.

Her eyes were red and swollen. When Berleand unlocked the door, all pretense of strength fled. She grabbed on to me, and I held her. She sobbed against my chest. I let her. Berleand stood there. I met his eye. He did the big shrug again.

“We are going to release you both,” he said, “if you will agree to surrender your passports.”

Terese pulled away, looked at me. We both nodded.

“I have a few more questions before you leave,” Berleand said. “Is that okay?”

“I realize that I’m a suspect,” Terese said. “Ex-wife in the same city after all these years, the phone calls between us, whatever. Doesn’t matter-I just want you to nail whoever killed Rick. So ask whatever you want, Inspector.”

“I appreciate your candor and cooperation.” He seemed so tentative now, almost too deliberate. Something he had heard during that phone call on the roof had thrown him. I wondered what was up.

“Are you aware that your ex-husband had remarried?” Berleand asked.

Terese shook her head. “I didn’t know, no. When?”

“When what?”

“Was he remarried?”

“I don’t know.”

“May I ask his wife’s name?”

“Karen Tower.”

Terese almost smiled.

“You know her?”

“I do.”

Berleand nodded and did the hand rub again. I expected him to ask how she knew Karen Tower, but he let that go.

“We have some preliminary blood tests back from the lab.”

“Already?” Terese looked surprised. “I just gave the sample, what, an hour ago?”

“Not on yours, no. Those will take some more time. This is the blood we found at the murder scene.”

“Oh.”

“Something curious.”

We both waited. Terese swallowed as if she were preparing for a blow.

“Most of the blood-nearly all of it, really-belonged to the victim, Rick Collins,” Berleand said. His voice was measured now, as if he were trying to wade his way through whatever he was about to tell us. “That’s hardly a surprise.”

We still said nothing.

“But there was another patch of blood found on the carpet, not far from the body. We’re not exactly sure how it got there. Our original theory was also the most obvious: There was a struggle. Rick Collins put up a fight and injured his killer.”

“And now?” I said.

“First off, we found blond hairs with the blood. Long blond hair. Like you’d find on a female.”

“Females kill.”

“Yes, of course.”

He stopped.

“But?” I said.

“But it still seems impossible for the blood to be the killer’s.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because, according to the DNA testing, the blood and blond hair belong to Rick Collins’s daughter.”

Terese didn’t scream. She just let out a moan. Her knees buckled. I moved fast, grabbing her before she hit the floor. I looked a question at Berleand. He was unsurprised. He was studying her, gauging this reaction.

“You don’t have children, do you, Ms. Collins?”

All color had drained from her face.

“Can you give us a second?” I said.

“No, I’m fine,” Terese said. She regained her footing and looked hard at Berleand. “I have no children. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Berleand did not reply.

“Bastard,” she said to him.

I wanted to ask what was going on, but maybe this was a time for shutting up and listening.

“We haven’t been able to reach Karen Tower yet,” Berleand said. “But I suppose that this daughter was hers too?”

“I suppose,” Terese said.

“And you, of course, knew nothing about her?”

“That’s right.”

“How long have you and Mr. Collins been divorced?”

“Nine years.”

I’d had enough. “What the hell is going on here?”

Berleand ignored me. “So even if your ex-husband married almost immediately, this daughter really couldn’t be more than, what, eight years old?”

That quieted the room.

“So,” Berleand continued, “now we know that Rick’s young daughter was at the murder scene and was injured. Where do you suppose she is now?”

WE chose to walk back to the hotel.

We crossed the Pont Neuf. The water was muddy green. Bells from a church pealed. People stopped on the bridge midspan and took pictures. One man asked me to snap one of him and what I guessed was his girlfriend. They snuggled in close and I counted to three and took the picture and then they asked if I minded taking one more and I counted to three again and did and then they thanked me and moved on.