French Kiss

Chapter 22

Auberge du Parc Hotel

Three days later

1:20 a.m.

Laura knocks on the hotel-room door. Everything feels just as it did the last time she visited Paulo.

She wears a white oxford-cloth shirt. Just as she did the last time. The tiny entrance hall where she waits stinks of liquor and bad cologne. Just as it did the last time. One other thing that’s the same, one other thing she cannot deny: she’s horribly frightened. Her arm shakes as she knocks on the door again.

Yes, Moncrief and Burke have assured her that everything is set up to keep her perfectly safe. This time, hidden in Paulo’s bedroom are two minuscule video surveillance cameras: one is attached to a large bronze lamp on the writing desk, the other to the fake gold-leaf-and-crystal chandelier hanging directly over the king-size bed. The videos play on monitors that are being watched two doors away by five people: Luc Moncrief, K. Burke, Inspector Nick Elliott, and two officers from Vice.

Paulo opens the door and steps back. He smiles at her.

This time Paulo manages to look even more disgusting than before. Laura Delarico quietly gasps as she takes in the repellent sight: Paulo the Pig is completely naked except for a pair of short brown socks.

“So,” he says. “They sent you back like I asked. I’m glad. You’re the best.”

Laura and the five people watching in the other room realize immediately that Paulo Montes is drunk or drugged or both. He stumbles. He slurs his words. His feeble erection collapses as he lunges toward her, and he begins half spitting and half kissing, half hugging and half groping her.

“Hold on. Come on. Just hold on,” Laura says. Then she uses one of the first conversation starters that a woman learns in “prostitute school.”

“Let’s get to know each other.”

Laura wonders how she will ever get Paulo to talk about the dark-haired woman, the woman who may have been Maria Martinez. Laura wafts in and out of that nightmare. She must keep reminding herself she is there to help uncover the truth of the death of a woman she never even knew.

Paulo is even more impatient this time at bat. He tugs hard at Laura’s shirt. Two buttons snap off and onto the floor. He pushes his greasy face into her breasts as if he is trying to suck in oxygen from the space between them.

Within a few seconds, he has her on the bed. They are, for the moment, side by side, facing each other. The slobbering. The saliva. The boozy breath.

“So,” Laura ventures, trying to cajole him into a calmer, gentler mood. “Just tell me how much more you like me than that dark-haired girl who was here.”

Paulo is in no mood for conversation. He is somewhere between crazy drunk and crazy turned on.

“Dark?” he shouts. “Was her hair dark? I don’t remember. Does any bitch have the color she’s born with? In Brazil they all lie. Lie and dye. That’s the joke in Rio and São Paulo. Let’s check you. Let’s see if you’re telling the truth.”

Laura fears a harsh inspection of her pubic hair. Instead Montes rolls over and on top of her. He grabs a great chunk of her hair and pulls it hard with his fat heavy hands. She yells for him to stop.

“I have to find the roots!” he screams and laughs simultaneously.

In the surveillance room, Inspector Elliott speaks loudly: “We’ve got to stop this immediately, Moncrief. We can haul him in right now for aggravated assault.”

“I don’t want him arrested. I want him to talk,” says Moncrief. “I want to get the story on Maria.”

“I swear, Moncrief. This whole thing is a half-assed setup. I should never have let it get this far.”

“Inspector! Look!” K. Burke says. All five in the surveillance group peer intently at the screen. Paulo Montes is grunting and making animal-like noises as he pinches one of Laura’s nipples hard and fiercely bites the other.

“That’s it!” yells Elliott.

“Give it five seconds,” says Moncrief as he grabs Elliott by the arm to urge him to remain. “The guy might calm down.”

Almost as if Montes actually heard Moncrief speak, Paulo begins gently massaging Laura’s breasts.

“There, there,” Paulo says softly. “You are beautiful. I could love a woman like you.”

Paulo gently brushes his lips against Laura’s beautiful soft cheeks. He touches her chin and runs his hand down her neck.

“Kiss me,” Paulo says. “Kiss me like you love me.”

Laura knows her job. She kisses him softly on his lips.

Then suddenly, horribly, Montes slaps Laura violently against her right cheek, so violently that her head snaps to the side. She lets out a scream.

“You are just another dumb bitch,” Montes shouts, saliva dripping from his mouth onto Laura’s face.

“Get away!” Laura screams. “Get the hell off of me!”

Paulo slaps her again, then holds her down by her wrists. She is fighting as hard as she can. But it’s useless.

Again she screams, “Get off! Stop it!”

As Paulo is about to sink his teeth into her, the door to the room swings open.

“NYPD! Freeze!” The voice belongs to Moncrief.

Moncrief, Burke, and both Vice officers are holding guns. They all rush toward the bed.

With the help of one of the Vice cops, Moncrief pulls Montes away from Laura.

Laura quickly rolls away from her attacker. Then she grabs a pillow and holds it up to cover her nakedness. Montes thrashes about in a futile attempt to free himself from Moncrief and the cop. He keeps struggling and manages to push his one free hand under another pillow. He pulls out a pistol. He shoots it once. The bullet hits the TV screen. It shatters into a small mountain of glass pieces. Moncrief pushes his own index and middle fingers into Montes’s face. The drunken Montes manages to get off one more shot. The bullet hits a Vice officer’s forearm. As Moncrief and the two officers struggle to pull the naked fat man to his feet, Montes struggles to bring his arm around. Montes aims the gun at Laura.

A final shot. It comes from Moncrief’s gun.

The bullet goes right into Montes’s neck via his Adam’s apple.

Laura Delarico is sobbing. K. Burke is on her cell, calling for reinforcements, forensics, the coroner, police attorneys, the DA’s office. Nick Elliott closes his eyes and shakes his head back and forth.

When she finishes her phone calls, K. Burke takes a gray jumpsuit from one of the police kits. She walks to Laura and helps her slip into it. For just a moment Burke’s eyes meet Moncrief’s.

The two of them are thinking the same thing. They are no closer to solving the case of Maria Martinez. And the one person who might have helped them is now dead.