French Kiss

Chapter 27

But the truth is “yes.” There has been another woman stabbed, another woman connected to the New York City police. Only this time the woman is neither an officer nor a detective. This time the woman is also connected to me.

“Who is it, goddamn it?”

Elliott’s exact words: “It’s Dalia, Moncrief.”

A pause and then he adds quietly, “Dalia is dead.”

I kneel on the gray granite floor and pound it. Tears do not come, but I cannot stop saying “no.” If I say the word loudly enough, often enough, it will eradicate the fact of “yes.”

For a few moments I actually believe that the call from Nick Elliott never happened. I am on the floor, and I pick up the phone. I observe it as if it were a foreign object-a paperweight, a tiny piece of meteorite, a dead rat. But the caller ID says N/ELLIOTT/NYPD/17PREC.

An overwhelming energy goes through me. Within seconds I am back in my pants and shirt. I slip on my shoes, without socks. I go bounding out the door, and the madness within me makes me certain that running down the back stairs of the apartment building will be faster than calling for the elevator.

Once outside, I see two officers waiting in a patrol car.

“Detective Moncrief. We’re here to take you to the crime scene. Take the passenger seat.”

I don’t even know where the crime scene is. I grab the shoulders of the other cop and shake him violently.

“Where the hell are you taking me? Where is she?” I shout. “Where are we going?”

“To 235 East 20th Street, sir. Please get into the car.”

Within moments we are suffocated in midtown rush-hour traffic. How can there be so much traffic when Dalia is dead?

At Seventh Avenue and 45th, the streets are thick with sightseeing buses and cabs. Some people are dressed up as Big Bird and Minnie Mouse. The sidewalks teem with tourists and druggies and strollers and women in saris and schoolchildren on trips and…I tell the driver to unlock the doors. I will walk, run, fly.

“This traffic will break below 34th Street, Detective.”

“Unlock the fucking door!” I scream. And so he does, and I am on the sidewalk again. I don’t give a shit that I am pushing people aside.

Within minutes I am at Seventh Avenue and 34th Street. The streets remain packed with people and cabs and cars and buses.

I cross against the light at 34th Street, Herald Square, Macy’s. Where the hell is Santa Claus when you need him?

Sirens. Cars jostle to clear a route for the vehicle screeching out the sirens.

I am rushing east on 32nd Street. I am midway between Broadway and Fifth Avenue, a block packed almost entirely, crazily, with Korean restaurants. Suddenly the sirens are fiercely loud.

“Get in the car, Moncrief. Get back in the car.” It is the same driver of the same patrol car that picked me up earlier. They were right about the traffic, but I am vaguely glad that I propelled myself this far.

In a few minutes we are at 235 East 20th Street. The police academy of the New York City Police Department. The goddamn police academy. Dalia is dead at the police academy. How the hell did she end up here?

“We’re here, Detective,” says one of the officers.

I turn my head toward the building. K. Burke is walking quickly toward the car. Behind her is Nick Elliott. My chest hurts. My throat burns.

Dalia is dead.