French Kiss

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.

After the second week, I had my exercise bike and weights sent over.

After a month I hired a company to deliver the three most valuable pieces from my contemporary Chinese art collection: the Zao Wou-Ki, the Zhang Xiaogang, and the Zeng Fanzhi. Dalia refers to them as the Z-name contemporary art collection. She said that when those paintings were hung in her living room, she knew I planned to stay.

But now we have this night. The night of Maria’s death. A night that’s the emotional opposite of that joyful night months ago.

“Will you be hungry later on?” Dalia asks.

“I doubt it,” I say. I pour us each another glass of wine. “Anyway, if we get hungry later on, I’ll make us some scrambled eggs.”

She smiles and says, “An eight-burner Garland range and we’re making scrambled eggs.”

That statement should be cute and funny. But we both know that nothing can be cute and funny this evening.

“I want to ask you something,” I say.

“Yeah, of course,” she says. She wrinkles her forehead a tiny bit. As if she’s expecting some scary question. I proceed.

“Are you angry that I’m so sad about Maria’s murder?”

Dalia pauses. Then she tilts her head to the side. Her face is now soft, tender, caring.

“Oh, Luc,” she says. “I would only be angry if you were not sad.”

I feel that we should kiss. I think Dalia feels the same way. But I also think something inside each of us is telling us that if we did kiss, no matter how chaste the kiss might be, it would be almost disrespectful to Maria.

We sit silently for a long time. We finish the bottle of Chardonnay.

It turns out that we never were hungry enough to scramble some eggs. All we did was wait for the day to end.