French Kiss

Chapter 30

A loft. A big space; bare, barren. Not a handsome space. It is way too basic to be anything but big.

I lived here before Dalia came back into my life. Even when I lived here, I was too compulsive to have allowed it to become a cheesy bachelor pad-no piles of dirty clothing; no accumulation of Chinese-food containers. In fact, no personal touches of any kind. But of course I was spending too many of my waking hours with the NYPD to think about furniture and paint and bathroom fixtures.

I turn the key and walk inside. I am almost startled by the sparseness of it-a gray sofa, a black leather club chair, a glass dining table where no one has ever eaten a meal. Some old files are stacked against a wall. Empty shelves near the sofa. Empty shelves in the kitchen. I have lived most of my New York life with Dalia, at Dalia’s home. That was my real home. Where am I now?

I stretch out on the sofa. Fifteen seconds later, I am back on my feet. The room is stuffy, dry, hot. I walk to the thermostat that will turn on the air-conditioning, but I stare at the controls as if I don’t quite know how to adjust the temperature. I remember that there is a smooth single-malt Scotch in a cabinet near the entryway, but why bother? I need to use the bathroom, but I just don’t have energy enough to walk to the far side of the loft.

Then the buzzer downstairs rings.

At least I think it’s the buzzer downstairs. It’s been so long since I heard it. I walk to the intercom. The buzz comes again, then once more. Then I remember what I’m expected to say. A phrase that is ridiculously simple.

“Who is it?”

For a split second I stupidly imagine that it will be Dalia. “It was a terrible joke,” she will say with a laugh. “Inspector Elliott helped me fool you.”

Now a hollow voice comes from the intercom.

“It’s K. Burke.”

I buzz her inside. Moments later I open the door and let her into the loft.

“How did you know where to find me?” I ask.

“I called your cell twenty times. You never picked up. Then I called Dalia’s place twenty times. You weren’t there, or you weren’t picking up. So I found this place listed as the home address in your HR file. If I didn’t find you here, I was going to forget it. But I got lucky.”

“No, K. Burke. I got lucky.”

I have no idea why I said something so sweet. But I think I mean it. Again, an idea that comes and goes in a split second: whoever is trying to destroy me-will he go after K. Burke next?

She gives me a smile. Then she says, “I’m about to say the thing that always annoys me when other people say it.”

“And that is…”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

I take a deep breath.

“You mean like brewing a pot of coffee or bringing me a bag of doughnuts or cleaning my bathroom or finding the son of a bitch who-”

“Okay, I got it,” she says. “I understand. But actually, Nick Elliott and I did do something for you.”

My forehead wrinkles, and I say, “What?”

“We tracked down Dalia’s father. He’s in Norway shooting a film.”

“I was going to call him soon,” I say. “But I was building up courage. Thank you.” And just thinking about father and daughter begins to break my already severed heart.

“How did he accept the news?” As if I needed to ask.

“It was awful. He wailed. He screamed. He put his assistant on, and he eventually…well, he sort of composed himself and got back on the line.”

My eyes begin filling with tears. My chin quivers. I rub my eyes. I am not trying to hide my emotions. I am merely trying to get through them.

“He sends you his love,” K. Burke says. I nod.

“He is as fine a man as Dalia was a woman,” I say.

“He asked me to tell you two things.”

I can’t imagine what Monsieur Boaz wanted to tell me.

“He said, ‘Tell Luc that I will come to America tomorrow, but he should bury Dalia as soon as possible. That is the Jewish way.’”

“I understand,” I say. Then I ask, “And the other?”

“He said, ‘Tell Luc thank you…for taking such good care of my girl.’”

This comment should make me weep, but instead I explode with anger. Not at Menashe Boaz, but at myself.

“That’s not true!” I yell. “I did not take good care of her.”

“Of course it’s true,” K. Burke says firmly. “You loved her totally. Everybody knows that.”

“I…let…her…die.”

“That’s just stupid, Moncrief. And it smells a little of…” K. Burke abruptly stops talking.

“What? Finish your thought. It smells of what?” I say.

“It smells of…well…self-pity. Dalia was murdered. You could not have prevented it.”

I walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the loft. I look down at Gansevoort Street. It’s this year’s chic hot-cool place to be-the expensive restaurants and expensive boutiques, the High Line, the cobblestone streets. It is packed with people. I am disgusted with them because I am disgusted with me. Because Dalia and I will never again be among those people.

I turn and face Detective Burke, and suddenly I am more peaceful. I am truly grateful that she is here. She has stopped by to offer the “personal touch” and I was hesitant at first. Afraid I would feel nervous or embarrassed. But K. Burke has done a good thing.

I walk back toward her and speak slowly, carefully.

“There is one thing we need to discuss very soon. You must realize that these two murders had nothing to do with prostitutes or Brazilian drug dealers or…well, all the things we have been guessing at.”

“I realize that,” she says. I continue speaking.

“The first murder, at a rich man’s home, was to confuse us. The next murder, at a school where people learn to be police professionals-that was to torment us.”

K. Burke nods in simple agreement.

“These murders have to do with me,” I say.

“In that case,” K. Burke says, “these murders have to do with us.”