French Kiss

Chapter 44

The next afternoon K. Burke and I fly back to New York City.

Closure. K. Burke is smart enough and now knows me well enough not to talk about “closure,” a glib and wishful concept. Nothing closes. At least not completely.

Friends and colleagues and family will say (and some have said already), “You’re lucky. At least you’re young and rich and handsome. You’ll get over this. You’ll find a way to learn to move on.”

I will nod affirmatively, but only to stop their chatter. Then my response will be simple: “No. Those qualities-youth, wealth, physical attributes-are randomly distributed. They protect you from very little of life’s real agonies.”

Menashe Boaz and I speak on the telephone. He is still in Norway with his film-“wrapping in three days.” His voice, predictably, is somber. I am one of the few people who knows precisely how he feels. With my complete agreement, he decides that he will send two assistants to New York to oversee clearing out Dalia’s apartment. Sad? It is beyond sad. Menashe and I cannot have this conversation without the occasional tear. It is a miracle that we can have the conversation at all.

“I don’t want a thing from Dalia’s apartment,” I tell him. I never want to enter the place again.

Any book I’ve left there I will never finish reading. Any suit in her closet I will never wear again. The real keepsakes are all inside me. A handful of wonderful photographs are on my phone.

Full of jet lag, fatigue, tension, and sorrow, K. Burke and I speak with Inspector Elliott at the precinct. I describe in broad strokes our time in Paris. Burke describes the same thing, but in much greater detail. I say the words I’ve been aching to say: “The case is solved.”

When our two hours with Elliott are over, I tell K. Burke that her memory is “astonishing. I mean it.”

She says, “Almost as good as yours. I mean it.”

We return to the detective pool-piles of files, the endless recorded phone messages, the crime blotter. I see that Burke is not her usual ambitious self. She is shuffling papers, typing slowly on her computer.

“Something is troubling you, Detective?” I say.

She looks up at me and speaks. “I’m angry that Ramus has brought us down. I know that’s stupid. I know the case is solved. But he has committed the perfect crime. He can kill and get away with it. It really pisses me off. I can only imagine how you must feel.”

“Life goes on, K. Burke. Who knows? Maybe tomorrow will be a little bit better,” I say.

Detective Burke smiles. Then she speaks.

“Exactly. Who knows?”