French Kiss

Chapter 39

A few years ago, a detective with the Paris police described the prison at Clairvaux as “hell, but without any of the fun.” I think the detective was being kind.

As K. Burke and I present identification to the entrance guards, I tell her, “Centuries ago this was a Cistercian abbey, a place of monks and prayer and chanting.”

“Well,” she says as she looks around the stained gray walls. “There isn’t a trace of God left here.”

Burke and I are scanned with an electronic wand, then we step through an X-ray machine and are finally escorted to a large vacant room-no chairs, no tables, no window. We stand waiting a few minutes. The door opens, and an official-looking man as tall as the six-foot doorway enters. He is thin and old. His left eye is made of glass. His name is Tomas Wren. We shake hands.

“Detective Moncrief, I was delighted to hear your message this morning that you would be paying us a visit.”

“Merci,” I say. “Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice.”

Wren looks at Detective Burke and speaks.

“And you, of course, must be Madame Moncrief.”

“Non, monsieur, je suis Katherine Burke. Je suis la collègue de Monsieur Moncrief.”

“Ah, mille pardons,” Wren says. Then Wren turns to me. He is suddenly all business.

“I have told Ballard that you are coming to see him.”

“His reaction?” I ask.

“His face lit up.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I say.

“You never know with Ballard. He can be a dangerous customer,” says Wren. “But he owes you a great deal.”

With a touch of levity, I say, “And I owe him a great deal. Without his help I would never have made the arrests that made my career take off.”

Wren shrugs, then says, “I have set aside one of the private meeting rooms for you and Mademoiselle Burke,” Wren adds.

We follow him down another stained and gray hallway. The private room is small-perhaps merely a dormitory cell from the days of the Cistercian brothers-but it has four comfortable desk chairs around a small maple table. A bit more uninviting, however, are the bouton d’urgence-the emergency button-and two heavy metal clubs.

Wren says that he will be back in a moment. “With Ballard,” he says.

As soon as Wren exits, Burke speaks.

“I remember this case from the other day, Moncrief. On the computer. Ballard is the horse trainer who killed some guy and wounded another at the Longchamp racecourse.”

“Yes, indeed, Detective.”

“But I don’t totally get what’s going on here now.”

“You will,” I say.

“If you say so,” she answers.

I nod, and as I do I feel myself becoming…quiet…no, the proper word is…frightened. A kind of soft anxiety begins falling over me. No man can ever feel happy being in a prison, even for a visit. It is a citadel of punishment and futility. But this is something way beyond simple unhappiness. Burke senses that something is wrong.

“Are you okay, Moncrief?” she says.

“No, I am not. I am twice a widower of sorts. And now I feel I am in the house where those plans were made. No, Detective. I am not okay. But you know what? I don’t ever expect to be okay. Excuse me if that sounds like self-pity.”

“No need to apologize. I understand.”