Free French Kiss by James Patterson Page B

cannot return to Dalia’s apartment at 15 Central Park West. Instead I will go to the loft where I once lived. The place is in the stupidly chic Meatpacking District. I bought the loft before I renewed my life with Dalia. I sometimes lend the place to friends from Europe who are visiting New York. I’m pretty sure it is empty right now.
    Will I pick up the pieces? There is no way that will ever happen.
    Move on, they will say. Mourn, then move on. I will not do that, because I can’t.
    Get over it? Never. Someone else? Never.
    Nothing will ever be the same.
    As I give the address to the cabdriver, I find my chest heaving and hurting. I insist—I don’t know why—on holding in the tears. In those few minutes, with my chest shaking and my head aching, I realize what Elliott and Burke and probably others have come to realize: first, my partner, Maria Martinez; then my lover, Dalia Boaz.
    Oh, my God. This isn’t about prostitutes. This isn’t about drugs. This is about me.
    Somebody wants to hurt me. And that somebody has succeeded.

Chapter 30
    A loft. A big space; bare, barren. Not a handsome space. It is way too basic to be anything but big.
    I lived here before Dalia came back into my life. Even when I lived here, I was too compulsive to have allowed it to become a cheesy bachelor pad—no piles of dirty clothing; no accumulation of Chinese-food containers. In fact, no personal touches of any kind. But of course I was spending too many of my waking hours with the NYPD to think about furniture and paint and bathroom fixtures.
    I turn the key and walk inside. I am almost startled by the sparseness of it—a gray sofa, a black leather club chair, a glass dining table where no one has ever eaten a meal. Some old files are stacked against a wall. Empty shelves near the sofa. Empty shelves in the kitchen. I have lived most of my New York life with Dalia, at Dalia’s home. That was my real home. Where am I now?
    I stretch out on the sofa. Fifteen seconds later, I am back on my feet. The room is stuffy, dry, hot. I walk to the thermostat that will turn on the air-conditioning, but I stare at the controls as if I don’t quite know how to adjust the temperature. I remember that there is a smooth single-malt Scotch in a cabinet near the entryway, but why bother? I need to use the bathroom, but I just don’t have energy enough to walk to the far side of the loft.
    Then the buzzer downstairs rings.
    At least I think it’s the buzzer downstairs. It’s been so long since I heard it. I walk to the intercom. The buzz comes again, then once more. Then I remember what I’m expected to say. A phrase that is ridiculously simple.
    “Who is it?”
    For a split second I stupidly imagine that it will be Dalia. “It was a terrible joke,” she will say with a laugh. “Inspector Elliott helped me fool you.”
    Now a hollow voice comes from the intercom.
    “It’s K. Burke.”
    I buzz her inside. Moments later I open the door and let her into the loft.
    “How did you know where to find me?” I ask.
    “I called your cell twenty times. You never picked up. Then I called Dalia’s place twenty times. You weren’t there, or you weren’t picking up. So I found this place listed as the home address in your HR file. If I didn’t find you here, I was going to forget it. But I got lucky.”
    “No, K. Burke. I got lucky. ”
    I have no idea why I said something so sweet. But I think I mean it. Again, an idea that comes and goes in a split second: whoever is trying to destroy me—will he go after K. Burke next?
    She gives me a smile. Then she says, “I’m about to say the thing that always annoys me when other people say it.”
    “And that is…”
    “Is there anything I can do for you?”
    I take a deep breath.
    “You mean like brewing a pot of coffee or bringing me a bag of doughnuts or cleaning my bathroom or finding the son of a bitch who—”
    “Okay, I got it,” she says. “I understand. But actually, Nick Elliott and I did