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Authors: Harlan Coben

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Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) (8 page)

BOOK: Long Lost (Myron Bolitar)
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“Are you good at finding people?”
I shrugged. “I think I know where Rick Collins is.”
Berleand looked at Lefebvre. Lefebvre stood a little straighter.
“Oh? Where is he?”
“A nearby morgue,” I said. “Somebody murdered him.”
7
 
 
 
BERLEAND took me out of the Groupe Berleand office and turned right.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
He wiped his hands on his pants legs and said, “Just follow me.”
We walked in a corridor with an opening that dropped down five floors. A steel net covered the space.
“What’s up with the net?” I asked.
“Two years ago we brought in a terrorist suspect. A woman, as a matter of fact. When we walked her down this hallway, she grabbed one of the guards and tried to throw them both over the railing.”
I looked down. It was a long drop.
“They die?”
“No, another officer grabbed them by the ankles. But now we have the netting.”
He took two steps up into what appeared to be the attic. “Watch your head,” Berleand said to me.
“Terrorist suspect?”
“Yes.”
“You guys do terrorism?”
“Terrorism, homicide, the boundaries are no longer so clear. We do a little of everything.”
He entered the attic space. I had to duck big-time now. There were clothes on a drying line. “You guys do your laundry up here?”
“No.”
“So whose clothes?”
“Victims. That’s where we hang them.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
I stopped and looked at them. A dark blue shirt was ripped and covered with bloodstains. “Do these belong to Rick Collins?”
“Follow me.”
He opened a window and stepped outside onto the roof. He turned and looked back for me to follow.
Again I said, “You’re kidding, right?”
“One of the great views of Paris.”
“From the roof of 36 quai des Orfèvres?”
I stepped out onto the slate—and wow, was he right about the view. Berleand lit a cigarette, sucked in a breath so deep I thought the entire cigarette might turn to ash, released it in a long stream through his nose.
“Do you often interrogate up here?”
“To be honest, this is a first,” he said.
“You could threaten to push someone off.”
Berleand shrugged. “Not my style.”
“So why are we here?”
“We are not allowed to smoke indoors and I desperately need a cigarette.”
He took another deep breath.
“I used to be okay with it, you know? Smoking outside only. I would jog up and down the five flights of stairs as my way of exercising. But then I’d be so out of breath from the cigarettes.”
“It would cancel each other out,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“You might have considered quitting.”
“But then I wouldn’t have a reason to run down the stairs and so I wouldn’t exercise. Follow me?”
“As much as I’d like to, Berleand.”
He sat down and looked out. He gestured for me to do the same. So there I was, on the roof of one of the world’s most famous police stations, staring at the most breathtaking view of Notre Dame.
“And look that way.”
He pointed over his right shoulder. I looked over the Seine and there it was—the Eiffel Tower. I know how touristy it is to be awestruck by the Eiffel Tower, but I just stared for a moment.
“Amazing, no?” he said.
“Next time I get arrested, I need to bring a camera.”
He laughed.
“Your English is really good,” I said.
“We are taught here from a young age. I also spent a semester at Amherst College in my youth and worked two years in an exchange program with Quantico. Oh, and I have the entire
Simpsons
collection on DVD in English.”
“That will do it.”
He took another hit from the cigarette.
“How was he murdered?” I asked.
“Shouldn’t I say something like, ‘Aha, how do you know he’s been murdered?’ ”
I shrugged. “Like you said, you don’t process parking violations here.”
“What can you tell me about Rick Collins?”
“Nothing.”
“How about Terese Collins?”
“What do you want to know?”
“She’s quite beautiful,” he said.
“That’s what you want to know?”
“I did a little research. We have CNN over here, of course. I remember her.”
“So?”
“So about a decade ago she was at the top of her profession. Suddenly she quits and there isn’t a Google mention of her again. I checked. There is no sign of employment. I can’t get a residence, nothing.”
I didn’t reply.
“Where has she been?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“Because right now, I’m asking you.”
“I told you. I haven’t seen her in eight years.”
“And you had no idea where she was?”
“I didn’t.”
He smiled and wagged his finger at me.
“What?”
“You said ‘didn’t.’ Past tense. That implies you now know where she was.”
“Your good English,” I said. “It has come back to haunt me.”
“So?”
“Angola,” I said. “Or at least, that’s what she told me.”
He nodded. A police or French siren went off. The French have a different siren than we do—more insistent, horrible, like the love child of a cheap car alarm and the wrong-answer buzzer on
Family Feud
. We let it shatter our silence and waited for it to fade away.
I said, “You made some calls, didn’t you?”
“A few.”
“And?”
He didn’t say anything else.
“You know I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t even in the country.”
“I know.”
“But?”
“May I offer another scenario?”
“Shoot.”
“Terese Collins murdered her ex-husband,” Berleand said. “She needed a way to dispose of the body—someone she could trust to help clean up the mess. She called you.”
I frowned. “And when I answered, she said, ‘I just killed my ex-husband in Paris, please help me’? ”
“Well, she might have just told you to fly here. She might have told you the purpose after you arrived.”
I smiled. This had gone on long enough. “You know she didn’t tell me that.”
“How would I know that?”
“You were listening in,” I said.
Berleand didn’t face me then. He just kept smoking the cigarette and looked out at the view.
“When you stopped me at the airport,” I continued, “you put a bug on me somewhere. My shoes maybe. Probably my cell phone.”
It was the only thing that made sense. They found the body, maybe checked Rick Collins’s cell phone or whatever, found out his ex-wife was in town, put a tap on her phone, saw that she called me, held me up at the airport long enough to put on a bug and start surveillance.
That was why I had been so forthcoming with Berleand—he already knew all these answers. I’d been hoping to win his trust.
“Your cell phone,” he answered. “We replaced the battery with a listening device that holds the same charge. It’s very new technology, quite cutting edge.”
“So you know Terese thought her ex was missing.”
He tilted his head back and forth. “We know that’s what she told you.”
“Come on, Berleand. You heard her tone. She was genuinely distraught.”
“She seemed to be,” he agreed.
“So?”
He crushed out the cigarette. “You could also hear that she was holding back,” Berleand said. “She’s lying to you. You know it, I know it. I hoped that maybe you’d work it out of her, but you spotted the van.” He thought about it. “And that’s when you realized that you were bugged.”
“So we’re both very clever,” I said.
“Or not as clever as we think.”
“Have you notified his next of kin?”
“We’re trying.”
I aimed for subtle, but then again I thought we were somewhat past that. “Who is the next of kin?”
“His wife.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Please don’t push it,” Berleand said.
He took out another cigarette, stuck it between his lips, let it dip down as he lit it with a hand that had done this many times before.
“There was blood found at the scene,” he said. “Lots of it. Most belonged to the victim, of course. But preliminary tests tell us that there is at least one more person’s blood in the mix. So we have gathered a blood sample from Terese Collins, and we will run the proper DNA test.”
“She didn’t do it, Berleand.”
He said nothing.
“There’s something else you aren’t telling me,” I said.
“There is a lot I’m not telling you. You, alas, are not part of Groupe Berleand.”
“Can’t I be deputized or something?”
He made that mortified face again. Then: “It can’t be a coincidence,” he said. “Him being murdered right after his ex-wife arrives.”
“You heard what she told me. Her ex sounded scared. He’d probably gotten himself into some kind of mess—that’s why he called her in the first place.”
We were interrupted by the trill of his cell phone. Berleand unfolded it, put it to his ear, and listened. He probably made a hell of a poker player, my new friend Berleand, but something crossed his face and stayed there. He barked out something in French, clearly annoyed or puzzled. Then he went silent. After a few moments, he snapped the phone closed, stubbed out his cigarette, and stood.
“Problem?” I said.
“Take one last look.” Berleand brushed off his pants with both hands. “We don’t let a lot of tourists up here.”
I did. Some might find it odd, this police headquarters with its spectacular view. I decided to take the moment and look out and remember why murder was such an abomination.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“The lab received preliminary results on the DNA from the blood.”
“Already?”
He shrugged a little too theatrically. “We French are about more than wine, food, and women.”
“Pity. So what’s it show?”
“I think,” he began, ducking back inside through the window, “that we should talk to Terese Collins.”
8
 
 
 
WE found her in the same holding cell where I’d been half an hour earlier.
Her eyes were red and swollen. When Berleand unlocked the door, all pretense of strength fled. She grabbed on to me, and I held her. She sobbed against my chest. I let her. Berleand stood there. I met his eye. He did the big shrug again.
“We are going to release you both,” he said, “if you will agree to surrender your passports.”
Terese pulled away, looked at me. We both nodded.
“I have a few more questions before you leave,” Berleand said. “Is that okay?”
“I realize that I’m a suspect,” Terese said. “Ex-wife in the same city after all these years, the phone calls between us, whatever. Doesn’t matter—I just want you to nail whoever killed Rick. So ask whatever you want, Inspector.”
“I appreciate your candor and cooperation.” He seemed so tentative now, almost too deliberate. Something he had heard during that phone call on the roof had thrown him. I wondered what was up.
“Are you aware that your ex-husband had remarried?” Berleand asked.
Terese shook her head. “I didn’t know, no. When?”
“When what?”
“Was he remarried?”
“I don’t know.”
“May I ask his wife’s name?”
“Karen Tower.”
Terese almost smiled.
“You know her?”
“I do.”
Berleand nodded and did the hand rub again. I expected him to ask how she knew Karen Tower, but he let that go.
“We have some preliminary blood tests back from the lab.”
“Already?” Terese looked surprised. “I just gave the sample, what, an hour ago?”
“Not on yours, no. Those will take some more time. This is the blood we found at the murder scene.”
BOOK: Long Lost (Myron Bolitar)
6.11Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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