French Kiss

Chapter 29

“Do you want to ride in the ambulance with her?” Elliott asks. And before I can answer he adds, “I’ll go with you if you want. We’ve got to get Dalia to the research area.”

The research area. That is the NYPD euphemism for “the morgue.” It is what they say to parents whose child has been run over by a drunk driver.

“No,” I say. “There’s nothing to be done.”

K. Burke looks at me and says what everybody says in a situation like this: “I don’t know what to say.”

And me? I don’t know what to say, either-or what to think or feel or do. So I say what comes to mind: “Keep me posted.”

I walk quickly through the lineup of colleagues and strangers lining the cement-block hallway. I jump over the giant stone barricades that encircle the police academy in case of attack. I am now running up Third Avenue.

“May I help you, monsieur?” That is the voice I hear. Where have I run? I don’t recall a destination. I barely remember running. Did I leave Dalia’s dead body behind? I look at the woman who just spoke to me. She used the word monsieur. Am I in Paris?

She is joined by a well-dressed man, an older man, a gentleman.

“Can I be of some help, Monsieur Moncrief?”

“Où suis-je?” I ask. Where am I?

“Hermès, Monsieur Moncrief. Bonsoir. Je peux vous aider?”

The Hermès store on Madison Avenue. It is…was…Dalia’s favorite place in the entire world to shop.

“Non. Merci, Monsieur. Je regarde.” Just looking.

On the glass shelves is a collection of handbags, purses, and pocketbooks in red and yellow and green. Like Easter and Christmas. I feel calm amid the beauty. It is a museum, a palace, a château. The silk scarves hanging from golden hooks. The glass cases of watches and cufflinks. The shelves of briefcases and leather shopping bags. And then the calm inside me dissipates. I say, “Bonsoir et merci” to the sales associate.

I have neither my police phone nor my personal cell. I do not have my watch. I do not know the time. I know I am not crazy. I’m simply crazed.

It’s early evening. I walk to Fifth Avenue. The sidewalks are crowded, and the shops are open. I walk down to the Pierre. I was recently inside the Pierre. Was I? I think I was. I continue walking south, toward the Plaza. No water in the fountain? A water shortage, perhaps? I turn east, back toward Madison Avenue, then start north again.

Bottega Veneta. I walk inside. No warm greeting here. A bigger store than Hermès. Instead of a symphony of leather in color, this is a muted place in grays and blacks and many degrees of brown. Calming, calming, calming, until it is calming no longer.

I leave. My next stop is Sherry-Lehmann, the museum of wine. I walk to the rear of the store, where they keep their finest bottles-the Romanée-Conti, Pétrus, Le Pin, Ramonet Montrachet, the thousand-dollar Moët. The bottles should all be displayed under glass, like the diamonds at Tiffany.

I am out on the sidewalk again. I am afraid that if I don’t keep moving, I will explode or collapse. It is that extraordinary feeling that nothing good will ever happen again.

A no-brainer: I cannot return to Dalia’s apartment at 15 Central Park West. Instead I will go to the loft where I once lived. The place is in the stupidly chic Meatpacking District. I bought the loft before I renewed my life with Dalia. I sometimes lend the place to friends from Europe who are visiting New York. I’m pretty sure it is empty right now.

Will I pick up the pieces? There is no way that will ever happen.

Move on, they will say. Mourn, then move on. I will not do that, because I can’t.

Get over it? Never. Someone else? Never.

Nothing will ever be the same.

As I give the address to the cabdriver, I find my chest heaving and hurting. I insist-I don’t know why-on holding in the tears. In those few minutes, with my chest shaking and my head aching, I realize what Elliott and Burke and probably others have come to realize: first, my partner, Maria Martinez; then my lover, Dalia Boaz.

Oh, my God. This isn’t about prostitutes. This isn’t about drugs. This is about me.

Somebody wants to hurt me. And that somebody has succeeded.