French Kiss

Chapter 7

Cops and lights and miles of yellow tape: POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.

Sirens and detectives crowd the blocks between 65th and 67th Streets. Even the mayor’s car (license NYC 1) is here.

People from the neighborhood, doormen on break, and students from Hunter College try to catch a glimpse of the scene. Hundreds of people stand on the blocked-off avenue. It’s a tragedy and a block party at the same time.

Detective Gabriel Ruggie approaches me. There will be no French-guy jokes, no late-guy jokes, no Pretty Boy jokes. This is serious shit. Ruggie talks.

“Elliott is up there now. The scene is at the seventh floor front. He said to send you up right away.”

I walk through the fancy lobby. It’s loaded with cops and reporters and detectives. I hear a brief litany of somber “hellos” and “hiyas,” most of them followed by various mispronunciations of my name.

Luke. Look. Luck.

Who the hell cares now? This is Cop Down.

Detective Christine Liang is running the elevator along with a plainclothes officer.

“Hey, Moncrief. Let me take you up,” Liang says. “The inspector’s been asking where you are.”

What the hell is the deal? Ten minutes ago I’m supervising New York’s dumbest little crime of the day. Now, all of a sudden, the most serious type of crime-officer homicide-requires my attention.

“Good-you’re here,” Elliott says as I step from the elevator. I feel as if he’s been waiting for me. It’s the typical chaos of a homicide, with fingerprinting people, computer people, the coroner’s people-all the people who are really smart, really thorough; but honestly, none of them ever seem to come up with information that helps solve the case.

I’m scared. I don’t mind saying it. Elliott hits his phone and says, “Moncrief is here now.”

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“Just headquarters. I let them know you were here. They were trying to track you down.”

“But you knew where I was. You sent me there,” I say, confused.

“Yeah, I know. I know.” Elliott seems confused, too.

“What’s the deal?” I ask.

“Come with me,” Elliott says. The crowd of NYPD people parts for us as if we’re celebrities. We walk down a wide hall with black and white marble squares on the floor, two real Warhols on the walls. Suddenly I have a flash of an apartment in Paris-the high ceilings, the carved cornices. But in a moment I’ve traveled back from boulevard Haussmann to Park Avenue.

At the end of the hallway, an officer stands in front of an open door. Bright lights-floodlights, examination lights-pour from the room into the hallway. The officer moves aside immediately as Elliott and I approach.

Three people are huddled in a group near a window. I catch sight of a body, a woman. Elliott and I walk toward the group. We are still a few feet away when I see her. When my heart leaps up.

Maria Martinez.

A black plastic sheet covers her torso. Her head, blood speckling and staining her hair, is exposed.

Elliott puts a hand on my shoulder. I don’t yell or cry or shake. A numbness shoots through me, and then the words tumble out.

“How? How?”

“I told you this morning, she was on loan to Vice. They had her playing the part of a high-class call girl. It seems that…well, whoever she was supposed to meet decided to…well, take a knife to her stomach.”

I say nothing. I keep staring at my dead partner. Elliott decides to fill the air with words. I know he means well.

“The owners of this place are at their house in Nantucket. No servants were home…no…”

I’ve stopped listening. Elliott stops talking. The police photographers keep clicking away. Phil Namanworth, the coroner, is typing furiously on his laptop. Cops and detectives come and go.

Maria is dead. She looks so peaceful. Isn’t that what people always say? But it’s true. At least in this case it’s true. In death there is peace, but there’s no peace for those of us left behind.

Elliott looks me straight in the eye.

“Ya know, Moncrief, I’d like to say that in time you’ll get over this.” He pauses. “But I’d be a liar.”

“And a good cop never lies,” I say softly.

“Come back to the precinct in my car,” Elliott says.

“No, thank you,” I answer. “There’s someplace I’ve got to be.”