French Kiss

Chapter 36

K. Burke sits outdoors at a small bistro table on rue Vieille du Temple. She is alone. Moncrief had asked if he could be by himself for a while. “I must walk. I must think. Perhaps I must mourn. Do you mind?” Moncrief had said.

“I understand,” she said, and she did understand. “I don’t need a chaperone.”

She sips a glass of strong cider and eats a buckwheat crepe stuffed with ham and Gruyère. It is eight o’clock, a fairly early dinner by French standards. At one table sits a family of German tourists-very blond parents with two very beautiful teenage daughters. At another, an older couple (French, Burke suspects) eating and chewing and drinking slowly and carefully. Finally, there are two young Frenchwomen who appear to be…yes, K. Burke is right…very much in love with each other.

Burke’s own heart is still breaking for Moncrief, but she must admit that she is enjoying being alone for a few hours.

Back in her hotel room, she takes a warm bath. A healthy dose of lavender bath oils; a natural sea sponge. Afterward, she dries herself off with the thick white bath sheets and douses herself with a nice dose of the accompanying lavender powder.

She slips on her sleep shirt, and she’s about to slide under the sheets when her phone buzzes. A text message.

R U Back in yr room? All is well? Mncrf.

She imagines Moncrief in some mysterious part of Paris, at a zinc bar with a big snifter of brandy. She is thankful for his thoughtfulness.

Yes. K. Burke.

But then, for just a moment she considers her own uneasiness. She simply cannot get used to not having a gun to check. So she does the next best thing: she checks that the door is double-locked. She adjusts the air-conditioning, making the temperature low enough for her to happily snuggle under the thick satin comforter. Within a few minutes she is asleep.

Two hours later, she is wide awake. It is barely past midnight, and Burke is afraid that jet lag is playing games with her sleep schedule. Now she may be up for hours. She takes a few deep breaths. The air makes her feel at least a little better. Maybe she will get back to sleep. Maybe she should use the bathroom. Yes, maybe. Or maybe that will prevent her from falling asleep again. On the other hand…

There is a sound in the room. At first she thinks it’s the air conditioner kicking back into gear. Perhaps it is the noise from the busy rue de Rivoli below. She sits up in bed. The noise. Again. Burke realizes now that the sound is coming from the door to her hotel room. Some sort of key? What the hell?

“Who’s there?” she shouts.

No answer.

“Who’s there?”

Goddamn it. Why doesn’t she have a gun?

She should have insisted that Moncrief get them guns. He was right. She feels naked without it.

She rolls quickly-catching herself in the thick covers, afraid in the dark-toward the other side of the bed. She drops to the floor and slides beneath the bed just as a shaft of bright light from the hallway pierces the darkness. Someone else is in the room with her. She moves farther underneath the bed. Jesus Christ, she thinks. This is an awful comedy, a French farce-the woman hiding beneath the bed.

As soon as she hears the door close, the light from the hallway disappears.

“Don’t move, Detective!” a muffled, foreign-sounding voice hisses.

Then a gunshot.

The bullet hits the floor about a foot away from her hand. There’s a quick loud snapping sound. A spark on the blue carpet. She tries to move farther under the bed. There is no room. It is so unlike her to not know what to do, to not fight back, to not plot an escape. This feeling of fright is foreign to her.

Another bullet. This one spits its way fiercely through the mattress above her. It hits the floor also.

Another bullet. No spark. No connection.

A groan. A quick thud.

Then a voice.

“K. Burke! It is safe. All is well.”