French Kiss

Chapter 26

Burke will tell Elliott that I went home because of illness. And, of course, Elliott won’t believe it.

But I think that K. Burke and I are now simpatico enough for her to cover for me.

“Suddenly he’s sick?” Elliott will say. “That’s pure bullshit.”

The answer Burke might produce could go something like, “Well, he was out sick all day yesterday.”

It makes no difference. For the moment I am engaged in a very important project: I am in a store on Ninth Avenue selecting two perfect fillets of Dover sole. The cost at Seabreeze Fish Market for a pound of this beautiful fish is one hundred and twenty dollars. I have no trouble spending that much (or more) on a bottle of wine. But-Jesus!-this is fish. In the taxi uptown to Dalia’s apartment I hold the package of fish as if it were a newborn infant being brought home from the hospital.

The moment I walk through the door of the apartment I feel lighter, better, stronger. It’s as if the air in Dalia’s place is purer than the air in the dangerous, depressing crime scenes I frequent.

I place the precious fish in the refrigerator.

I unpack the few other items I’ve bought and remove my shirt. I’m feeling better already.

In a moment I’ll start chopping the shallots, chopping the parsley, and heating the wine for the mustard sauce. This preparation is what trained chefs call the mise en place.

I decide to take off my suit pants. I toss them on the chair where my shirt is resting. I am-in my mind-no longer in a professionally equipped kitchen overlooking Central Park. I am in a wonderfully sunny beach house on the Côte d’Azur. I am no longer a gloomy angry detective; I am a young tennis pro away for a week of rest, awaiting the arrival of his luscious girlfriend.

I press a button on the entertainment console. Suddenly the music blares. It is Dalia’s newest favorite: Selena Gomez. “Me and the Rhythm.” I sing along, creating my own lyrics to badly match whatever Selena is singing.

Ooh, all the rhythm takes you over.

I chop the shallot to the beat of the music. I scrape the chopped pieces into my hand and toss them into a sauté pan.

I am moving my feet and hips. I drop a half pound of Irish butter into the pan, and now I feel almost compelled to dance.

I sing. I dance. When I don’t sing I am talking to an imaginary Dalia.

“Yes,” I am saying. “Your favorite. Dover sole.”

“Yes, there is a bottle of Dom Pérignon already in the fridge.”

“Yes, I left early to make this dinner.”

“The hell with them. They can fire me, then.”

The music beats on. I rhythmically slap away at the parsley leaves with my chef’s knife.

In the distance I hear the buzzing of a cell phone. The sound of the phone at first seems to be a part of Selena’s song. Then I recognize the tone. It is my police phone. For a moment I consider ignoring it. Then I think that perhaps there is news on Maria Martinez’s case. Or it might merely be Nick or K. Burke calling to torment me. But nothing can torment me tonight.

I let the music continue. Whoever my caller is can sing along with me.

I yank my suit jacket from the pile of clothing. I find my phone.

Ooh, all the rhythm takes you over.

“What’s up?” I yell loudly above the music.

My prediction is correct. It is Inspector Elliott on the line.

He speaks. I listen. I stop dancing. I drop the phone. I fall to my knees and I scream.

“Noooooooo!”