French Kiss (7 page)

I call Gary Kuehn
at Vice. He's one of the few guys in that department who's smart enough to appreciate what he calls my shenanigans.

Shenanigans.
English is a wonderful language.

Gary e-mails me a list of names of “superior sex workers” (translation: high-class hookers) and their managers (translation: drug-dealing abusive johns). I specifically request names of girls who regularly service the toniest areas of the Upper East Side.

I tell my new plan to no one—not K. Burke, not Nick Elliott, not even Gary. At midafternoon, I take an Uber car across town and check into a room at the Pierre, on Fifth Avenue at 61st Street. A mere seventeen hundred dollars a night. I silently thank my father for the large allowance that makes this expensive escapade possible.

I arrange for a series of these high-priced call girls to visit my room—one girl every thirty minutes. I do all the scheduling—the phoning and texting and e-mailing—myself.

At three o'clock a girl with incandescent mahogany skin appears. Her skin is so shiny it looks polished. Her hair is short and dark. She smiles. I am sitting in a comfortable blue club chair. She approaches me and touches my face.

“Please have a seat over there,” I say, pointing to the identical blue club chair opposite my own. No doubt she thinks we're about to begin a freaky fantasy.

“Here is the first piece of news: I'm not going to touch you, but I will, of course, pay you for this visit.” I hand her three hundred-dollar bills. (The agreed-upon price was two fifty.)

“Here is the second piece of news, and perhaps it is not quite so welcome. I am going to ask you some questions.”

She smiles. I quickly add, “Nothing uncomfortable—just some simple talking and chatting. I am a detective with the NYPD.”

Her face becomes a mask of fear.

“But I promise. You have nothing to worry about.”

The questions begin:

Have you ever serviced a client at 655 Park Avenue?

Have you ever serviced a client at the Auberge du Parc Hotel?

Have you ever serviced a client who acted with extreme violence?

A client who hurt you, threatened you, brandished a weapon, a gun, a cane, a stick, a whip? A client who tried to slip a tablet or a powder or a suspicious liquid into a beverage?

Have you ever met with a client who was famous in his field—an actor, a diplomat, a senator, a governor, a foreign leader, a clergyman?

The answers are all no. And the pattern remains the same for every woman who follows.

A few of them tell me about men with some odd habits, but as the woman in the tight yellow jeans says, “A lot of guys have odd habits. That's why they go to prostitutes. Maybe their fancy wives don't want to suck toes or fuck in a tennis skirt or take it up the ass.”

Other statements are made.

A tall woman, the only woman I've ever seen who looked beautiful in a Mohawk haircut, says, “Okay, there is this congressman from New Jersey that I see once or twice a month.”

A very tan woman in a saronglike outfit says, “Yeah, one guy was
sort of
into whips, but all he wanted was for me to unpin my hair and swing it against his dick.”

A woman who shows up in blue shorts cut off at mid-thigh, her shirt tied just above the navel, gives me some hope, but she, too, is a waste of time. “I think I was at 655 Park once. But it was for a woman. I hate working chicks. The few I've done were all, like, just into kissing and touching and petting. They're more work than the guys.”

No information of any value. Yes, two of the girls have been slapped—both of them by men who were drunk. Yes, the girl-on-girl prostitute at 655 Park works for the Russian gang, but she knows nothing about the death of Maria Martinez, and she has never even heard of Paulo Montes.

What I am learning from these few hours of wasted interviews is the knowledge that the world is filled with men who are happy to pay to get laid. That's it. That's the deal. Over and out. It is a gross and humiliating way for a girl to make money, but, in most cases, each has made her separate peace with it.

The interviews end. Thousands of dollars later I have nothing to show for my work.

It is definitely time for me to leave the Pierre.

It is definitely time for me to return home to Dalia.

Every morning at the
precinct, K. Burke and I have the following dialogue.

Instead of saying the words “Good morning,” she looks at me and says sternly, “You're late.”

I always respond with a cheery “And good morning to you,
ma belle.
”

It has become a funny little routine between the two of us, the sort of thing two friends might do. Who knows? Maybe K. Burke and I are becoming friends. Sometimes a mutually miserable situation can bring people together.

But this morning it's different. She greets me by saying, “Don't bother sitting down, Moncrief. We have an assignment from Inspector Elliott.”

All I know is that unless Elliott has had an unexpected stroke of genius (highly unlikely) I am not interested in the assignment. I must also face the fact that my mood is terrible: interviewing the call girls has led to absolutely nothing, and I can share my frustration with no one. If I were to tell Burke or Elliott about my unapproved tactic they would both be furious.

“Whatever it is the inspector wants, we'll do it later.”

“It's already later,” Burke says. “It's one o'clock in the afternoon. Let's go.”

“Go where? It's lunchtime. I'm thinking that fish restaurant on 49th Street. A bit of sole meunière and a crisp bottle of Chablis…”

“Stop being a Frenchman for just one minute, Moncrief,” she says.

I can tell that K. Burke is uncomfortable with what she's about to say, but out it comes: “He wants us to visit some high-class strip clubs. He's even done some of the grunt work for us. He's compiled a list of clubs. Take a look at your phone.”

I swipe the screen and click on my assignments folder. I see a page entitled “NYC Club Visits. From: N. Elliott.”

Three more places are listed after these.

As a young man in Paris, full of booze and often with a touch of cocaine in my nose, I would occasionally visit the Théâtre Chochotte, in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, with some pals. It was not without its pleasures, but on one such visit I had a very bad experience: I ran into my father and my uncle in the VIP lounge. That was the night I crossed Chochotte and all Parisian strip clubs off my list. Even a son who has a much better relationship than I have with my father does not ever want to end up in a strip joint with the old man.

As for clubs in New York…I am no longer a schoolboy. I am no longer touching my nose with cocaine. And I now have Dalia waiting at home for me.

The fact is that my assignment would be the envy of most of my colleagues. But I am weary and frustrated and pissed off and…it seems impossible for me to believe, but I am growing tired of so much female flesh in my face.

“I won't do it,” I say to Burke. “You do it alone. I'll stay here and do some detail analysis.”

“No way am I going alone, Moncrief. C'mon.”

“I cannot. I will not,” I say.

“Then I suggest you tell that to Inspector Elliott.”

I feel my whole heart spiraling downward. The entrapment with Laura. The death of Paulo. The futile interviews with the call girls. Now I am expected to go to these sad places, where a glass of cheap vodka costs thirty dollars, and try to talk to women with breast implants who are sliding up and down poles.

“I am sick. I am tired,” I tell Burke.

“I know you are,” Burke says. And I can tell she means it. “But you need to do it for Maria. This is—”

I snap at her. “I do not need a pep talk. I know you're trying to be helpful, but that kind of thing doesn't work with me.”

Burke just stares at me.

“Tell Inspector Elliott we will make these ‘visits' tomorrow. Maria will still be dead tomorrow. Right now, I'm going home.”

Burke will tell Elliott
that I went home because of illness. And, of course, Elliott won't believe it.

But I think that K. Burke and I are now simpatico enough for her to cover for me.

“Suddenly he's sick?” Elliott will say. “That's pure bullshit.”

The answer Burke might produce could go something like, “Well, he was out sick all day yesterday.”

It makes no difference. For the moment I am engaged in a very important project: I am in a store on Ninth Avenue selecting two perfect fillets of Dover sole. The cost at Seabreeze Fish Market for a pound of this beautiful fish is one hundred and twenty dollars. I have no trouble spending that much (or more) on a bottle of wine. But—Jesus!—this is fish. In the taxi uptown to Dalia's apartment I hold the package of fish as if it were a newborn infant being brought home from the hospital.

The moment I walk through the door of the apartment I feel lighter, better, stronger. It's as if the air in Dalia's place is purer than the air in the dangerous, depressing crime scenes I frequent.

I place the precious fish in the refrigerator.

I unpack the few other items I've bought and remove my shirt. I'm feeling better already.

In a moment I'll start chopping the shallots, chopping the parsley, and heating the wine for the mustard sauce. This preparation is what trained chefs call the
mise en place
.

I decide to take off my suit pants. I toss them on the chair where my shirt is resting. I am—in my mind—no longer in a professionally equipped kitchen overlooking Central Park. I am in a wonderfully sunny beach house on the Côte d'Azur. I am no longer a gloomy angry detective; I am a young tennis pro away for a week of rest, awaiting the arrival of his luscious girlfriend.

I press a button on the entertainment console. Suddenly the music blares. It is Dalia's newest favorite: Selena Gomez. “Me and the Rhythm.” I sing along, creating my own lyrics to badly match whatever Selena is singing.

I chop the shallot to the beat of the music. I scrape the chopped pieces into my hand and toss them into a sauté pan.

I am moving my feet and hips. I drop a half pound of Irish butter into the pan, and now I feel almost compelled to dance.

I sing. I dance. When I don't sing I am talking to an imaginary Dalia.

“Yes,”
I am saying.
“Your favorite. Dover sole.”

“Yes, there is a bottle of Dom Pérignon already in the fridge.”

“Yes, I left early to make this dinner.”

“The hell with them. They can fire me, then.”

The music beats on. I rhythmically slap away at the parsley leaves with my chef's knife.

In the distance I hear the buzzing of a cell phone. The sound of the phone at first seems to be a part of Selena's song. Then I recognize the tone. It is my police phone. For a moment I consider ignoring it. Then I think that perhaps there is news on Maria Martinez's case. Or it might merely be Nick or K. Burke calling to torment me. But nothing can torment me tonight.

I let the music continue. Whoever my caller is can sing along with me.

I yank my suit jacket from the pile of clothing. I find my phone.

“What's up?” I yell loudly above the music.

My prediction is correct. It is Inspector Elliott on the line.

He speaks. I listen. I stop dancing. I drop the phone. I fall to my knees and I scream.

“Noooooooo!”

But the truth is
“yes.” There has been another woman stabbed, another woman connected to the New York City police. Only this time the woman is neither an officer nor a detective. This time the woman is also connected to me.

“Who is it, goddamn it?”

Elliott's exact words: “It's Dalia, Moncrief.”

A pause and then he adds quietly,
“Dalia is dead.”

I kneel on the gray granite floor and pound it. Tears do not come, but I cannot stop saying “no.” If I say the word loudly enough, often enough, it will eradicate the fact of “yes.”

For a few moments I actually believe that the call from Nick Elliott never happened. I am on the floor, and I pick up the phone. I observe it as if it were a foreign object—a paperweight, a tiny piece of meteorite, a dead rat. But the caller ID says
N/ELLIOTT/NYPD/17PREC
.

An overwhelming energy goes through me. Within seconds I am back in my pants and shirt. I slip on my shoes, without socks. I go bounding out the door, and the madness within me makes me certain that running down the back stairs of the apartment building will be faster than calling for the elevator.

Once outside, I see two officers waiting in a patrol car.

“Detective Moncrief. We're here to take you to the crime scene. Take the passenger seat.”

I don't even know where the crime scene is. I grab the shoulders of the other cop and shake him violently.

“Where the hell are you taking me? Where is she?” I shout. “Where are we going?”

“To 235 East 20th Street, sir. Please get into the car.”

Within moments we are suffocated in midtown rush-hour traffic. How can there be so much traffic when Dalia is dead?

At Seventh Avenue and 45th, the streets are thick with sightseeing buses and cabs. Some people are dressed up as Big Bird and Minnie Mouse. The sidewalks teem with tourists and druggies and strollers and women in saris and schoolchildren on trips and…I tell the driver to unlock the doors. I will walk, run, fly.

“This traffic will break below 34th Street, Detective.”

“Unlock the fucking door!” I scream. And so he does, and I am on the sidewalk again. I don't give a shit that I am pushing people aside.

Within minutes I am at Seventh Avenue and 34th Street. The streets remain packed with people and cabs and cars and buses.

I cross against the light at 34th Street, Herald Square, Macy's. Where the hell is Santa Claus when you need him?

Sirens. Cars jostle to clear a route for the vehicle screeching out the sirens.

I am rushing east on 32nd Street. I am midway between Broadway and Fifth Avenue, a block packed almost entirely, crazily, with Korean restaurants. Suddenly the sirens are fiercely loud.

“Get in the car, Moncrief. Get back in the car.” It is the same driver of the same patrol car that picked me up earlier. They were right about the traffic, but I am vaguely glad that I propelled myself this far.

In a few minutes we are at 235 East 20th Street. The police academy of the New York City Police Department. The goddamn police academy. Dalia is dead at the police academy. How the hell did she end up here?

“We're here, Detective,” says one of the officers.

I turn my head toward the building. K. Burke is walking quickly toward the car. Behind her is Nick Elliott. My chest hurts. My throat burns.

Dalia is dead.