Free French Kiss by James Patterson Page A

give me privacy in a very public situation.
    I must touch Dalia. I should do it gently, of course. I take Dalia’s face in both my hands. Her cheeks feel cold, hard. I lean in and brush my lips against her forehead. I pull back a tiny bit to look at her. Then I lean in again to kiss her on the lips.
    The room is silent. Deadly silent. I have heard silence before. But the world has never been this quiet.
    I will stand here for the rest of my life just looking at her. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll never move from this spot. I stroke her hair. I touch her shoulders. I stand erect, then turn around.
    Nick Elliott is looking at the ground. K. Burke’s chin is quivering. Her eyes are wet. I speak, perhaps to Nick or K. Burke or everyone in the room or perhaps I am simply talking to myself.
    “Dalia is dead.”

Chapter 29
    “Do you want to ride in the ambulance with her?” Elliott asks. And before I can answer he adds, “I’ll go with you if you want. We’ve got to get Dalia to the research area.”
    The research area . That is the NYPD euphemism for “the morgue.” It is what they say to parents whose child has been run over by a drunk driver.
    “No,” I say. “There’s nothing to be done.”
    K. Burke looks at me and says what everybody says in a situation like this: “I don’t know what to say.”
    And me? I don’t know what to say, either—or what to think or feel or do. So I say what comes to mind: “Keep me posted.”
    I walk quickly through the lineup of colleagues and strangers lining the cement-block hallway. I jump over the giant stone barricades that encircle the police academy in case of attack. I am now running up Third Avenue.
    “May I help you, monsieur?” That is the voice I hear. Where have I run? I don’t recall a destination. I barely remember running. Did I leave Dalia’s dead body behind? I look at the woman who just spoke to me. She used the word monsieur. Am I in Paris?
    She is joined by a well-dressed man, an older man, a gentleman.
    “Can I be of some help, Monsieur Moncrief?”
    “Où suis-je?” I ask. Where am I?
    “Hermès, Monsieur Moncrief. Bonsoir. Je peux vous aider?”
    The Hermès store on Madison Avenue. It is…was…Dalia’s favorite place in the entire world to shop.
    “Non. Merci, Monsieur. Je regarde.” Just looking.
    On the glass shelves is a collection of handbags, purses, and pocketbooks in red and yellow and green. Like Easter and Christmas. I feel calm amid the beauty. It is a museum, a palace, a château. The silk scarves hanging from golden hooks. The glass cases of watches and cufflinks. The shelves of briefcases and leather shopping bags. And then the calm inside me dissipates. I say, “Bonsoir et merci” to the sales associate.
    I have neither my police phone nor my personal cell. I do not have my watch. I do not know the time. I know I am not crazy. I’m simply crazed.
    It’s early evening. I walk to Fifth Avenue. The sidewalks are crowded, and the shops are open. I walk down to the Pierre. I was recently inside the Pierre. Was I? I think I was. I continue walking south, toward the Plaza. No water in the fountain? A water shortage, perhaps? I turn east, back toward Madison Avenue, then start north again.
    Bottega Veneta. I walk inside. No warm greeting here. A bigger store than Hermès. Instead of a symphony of leather in color, this is a muted place in grays and blacks and many degrees of brown. Calming, calming, calming, until it is calming no longer.
    I leave. My next stop is Sherry-Lehmann, the museum of wine. I walk to the rear of the store, where they keep their finest bottles—the Romanée-Conti, Pétrus, Le Pin, Ramonet Montrachet, the thousand-dollar Moët. The bottles should all be displayed under glass, like the diamonds at Tiffany.
    I am out on the sidewalk again. I am afraid that if I don’t keep moving, I will explode or collapse. It is that extraordinary feeling that nothing good will ever happen again.
    A no-brainer: I