French Kiss (12 page)

“I thought you were
out today,” K. Burke says to me, as crisp and confident as ever. Whatever jet-lag body-clock adjustment she had to make has been made.

“I was,” I say. “But I had to see you. I must show you something on the computer.”

“What's with you, Moncrief? You sound a little—I don't know…creepy. It's like your energy level is down a few notches.”

“Yes, Detective. I am stunned. I am walking in a dream. Maybe half a dream and half a nightmare.”

As always, about a dozen other New York City detectives are very interested in our conversation. Everyone is aware of the murders. Now many are aware of the attack on Burke in Paris.

“Interview room 4 is free. I checked. Let's go there,” I say.

Perhaps for the benefit of our police colleagues, Burke shrugs her shoulders in that I-dunno-maybe-he's-a-little-crazy way. Then she follows me down the hall to the interview room.

I close the curtain to prevent anyone from spying on us through the two-way mirror. I place my laptop on the table, open it, and tap a few buttons.

“I've read it maybe fifty times,” I say. “Now it's your turn. Please read. Then I am going to delete it.”

K. Burke looks vaguely frightened, but she is also curious. I can tell. Her eyes widen, then they relax. Then her forehead wrinkles. She begins to read.

Burke looks away from the screen. She looks directly at me.

“Ballard?” she says. “But I thought…no. Not Ballard!”

“Keep reading,” I say.

Burke and I say nothing for a few moments.

Then she looks at me and speaks. “Do you believe this is true?”

I nod, and, for assurance, I say, “I am certain.”

I walk to the other side of the room. I look out the perpetually dirty window. The tops of the brownstones look like figures drawn in charcoal when seen through the dirt on the glass.

“But, Moncrief, you mean…all these years you were helping Ballard, and all these years he was planning to destroy your life?” she says. “You must be amazed at this.”

“To be honest, I am not amazed.
I knew.
”

Now Burke is the one who is amazed. She is speechless.

“Ramus is indeed a wretched excuse for a human being. But if he had ordered the executions he would have happily bragged to me about them. He would have told me directly that he was the talent behind the killings. But…he stopped just short of bragging.

“That is why I assaulted him. But I could not drive him to say what he would have been glad to say. He would not admit to being the force behind the killings.

“Then we add the fact that Ballard was so effusive in his thanks to me. Bah! I put him in prison for most of his life. Do you think he cares what happens to his family? Do you think he cares about their welfare? I instinctively knew he was throwing the
connerie,
the bullshit, at me.”

I can tell she wants to smile, but this moment is too serious.

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

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