French Kiss

Chapter 10

The person responsible for whatever skill I have in speaking decent English-very little French accent, pretty good English vocabulary-is Inspector Nick Elliott. No one has mastered the art of plain speaking better than he has.

“Morning, Pretty Boy. Looks like it’s going to be a shitty day” is a typical example.

This morning Elliott and a woman I’ve never seen before appear at my desk. Looks like I’m about to receive an extra lesson in basic communication skills.

“Moncrief, meet Katherine Burke. You two are going to be partners in the Martinez investigation. I don’t care to discuss it.”

I barely have time to register the woman’s face when he adds, “Good luck. Now get the hell to work.”

“But sir…” I begin.

“Is there a problem?” Elliott asks, clearly anxious to hit the road.

“Well, no, but…”

“Good. Here’s the deal. Katherine Burke is a detective, a New York detective, and has been for almost two years. She knows police procedure better than most people know their own names. She can teach you a lot.”

I go for the end-run charm play.

“And I’ve got a lot to learn,” I say, a big smile on my face.

He doesn’t smile back.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Elliott says as he turns and speaks to Burke. “Moncrief has the instincts of a good detective. He just needs a little spit and polish.”

As he walks away, I look at Katherine Burke. She is not Maria Martinez. So, of course, I immediately hate her.

“Good to meet you,” she says.

“Same here.” We shake, more like a quick touch of the hands.

My new partner and I study each other quietly, closely. We are like a bride and groom in a prearranged marriage meeting for the first time. This “marriage” means a great deal to me-joy, sorrow, and whether or not I can smoke in the squad car.

So what do I see before me? Burke is thirty-two, I’d guess. Face: pretty. No, actually très jolie. Irish; pale; big red lips. A good-looking woman in too-tight khakis. She seems pleasant enough. But I’m not sensing “warm and friendly.”

And what does she see? A guy with an expensive haircut, an expensive suit, and-I think she’s figured out already-a pretty bad attitude.

This does not bode well.

“Listen,” she says. “I know this is tough for you. The inspector told me how much you admired Maria. We can talk about that.”

“No,” I say. “We can forget about that.”

Silence again. Then I speak.

“Look. I apologize. You were trying to be nice, and I was just being…well…”

She fills it in for me: “A rude asshole. It happens to the best of us.”

I smile, and I move a step closer. I read the official ID card that hangs from the cord around her neck. It shows her NYPD number and, in the same size type, her title. These are followed by her name in big bold uppercase lettering:

K. BURKE

“So you want to be called K. Burke?” I ask her as we walk back to the detective room.

“No. Katherine, Katie, or Kathy. Any of those are fine,” she says.

“Then why do you have ‘K. Burke’ printed on your ID?”

“That’s what they put there when they gave me the ID,” she says. “The ID badge wasn’t high on my priority list.”

“K. Burke. I like it. From now on, that’s what I’m going to call you. K. Burke.”

She nods. For a few moments we don’t speak. Then I say, “But I must be honest with you, K. Burke. I don’t think this is going to work out.”

She speaks, still seriously.

“You want to know something, Detective Moncrief?”

“What?”

“I think you’re right.”

And then, for the first time, she smiles.