Adrien Ramus has even more influence than Ballard. Ramus, you see, has even more bribery material at his disposal. Even Tomas Wren has snapped at the bait Ramus dangles. Because he gives Wren the occasional gift of a few grams of cocaine, Ramus has a relatively easy time of it in isolation—a private cell, a radio. Ramus sells many things to many prisoners. He always has a supply of marijuana for those who want to get high and access to local attorneys for those who want to get out.
It is Tuesday’s supper. The menu never changes. Sunday is a greasy chicken thigh with canned asparagus spears that smell like socks. Monday is spaghetti in a tasteless oil. And then Tuesday. Tuesday at Clairvaux is always—unalterably, predictably—white beans, gray meat in brown gravy, canned spinach, and a thin slice of cheap unidentifiable white cheese.
Guards patrol the aisles.
No conversation is allowed. But that rule is constantly broken, usually with a shout-out declaring, “This food is shit.” Sometimes there’s a warning from someone just on the edge of sanity, a “Stop staring at me or I’ll slice off your balls” or “You are vomiting on me, gros trou du cul.” That charming phrase translates as “you big asshole.”
This evening is relatively quiet until one man slashes another man’s thigh, and as both victim and abuser are hauled away, most of the other prisoners cheer like small stupid boys watching a game. Two other men fight, then they are separated. Two more men fight, and the guards, for their own amusement, allow the fight to proceed for a few minutes until, finally, one man lies semiconscious on the floor.
Suppertime, an allotment of twenty minutes, has almost ended. Some men, like Marcel Ballard, have, for a few euros, bought their neighbor’s beans or cheese. Ballard stuffs the food into his round mouth.
Other prisoners have not even touched their plates. Most likely they have chocolate bars and bread hidden in their cells; most likely such luxuries have been supplied—for a price, of course—by Adrien Ramus.
Hundreds of years ago this mess hall was the refectory of Clairvaux Abbey. Here the hood-clad monks chanted their “Benedic, Domine,” the grace said before meals. The faded image of Saint Robert of Molesme, the founder of the Cistercian order, is barely visible above the doors to the kitchen. Often, when some angry prisoner decides to throw a pile of potatoes, the mess ends up on Saint Robert’s faded face.
The men are ordered to pass their individual bowls to the end of each table. Most do so quietly. Others find that this chore gives them the opportunity to call a fellow diner a prick or, sometimes more gently, a bitch.
Lukewarm coffee is passed around in tin pitchers. Nothing is ever served hot. Too dangerous. Boiling soup or steaming coffee could be poured over an enemy inmate’s head. Almost everyone pours large amounts of sugar into their cups. Almost everyone drinks the coffee, including one of the most prominent and influential prisoners, who sits silently at the end of a table.
That prisoner takes a gulp of coffee. He then places the cup on the wooden table. Suddenly the man’s right hand flies to his neck, his left hand to his belly. He lets out a hoarse and stifled gasp. His head begins shaking, and a putrid green liquid surges from his mouth. The prisoners near him move away. Two guards move in on the victim. As trained, two other guards rush to protect the exit doors. This might easily be a scheme to start an uprising.
This, however, turns out not to be a trick. The stricken prisoner falls forward onto the wooden table. His head bounces twice on the wood. His poisoned coffee spills onto the floor. He is dead.
Prisoners are shouting. Guards are swinging their clubs.
Adrien Ramus remains seated. No smile. No anger. No expression. He is satisfied.
At this exact same time, the rest of the world continues turning.
In Paris, a group of French hotel workers are busy replacing the bullet-scarred carpeting where K. Burke was attacked.
In Norway, Menashe Boaz is calling “Cut” and then saying, “Fifteen-minute break.” He must be alone.
In New York, Luc Moncrief, who has just come in from running four miles on the West Side bike path, sits in a big leather chair in his apartment. He is sweaty and tired and sad. But for some unknowable reason he finds that he is suddenly at peace.
Chapter 46
“I thought you were out today,” K. Burke says to me, as crisp and confident as ever. Whatever jet-lag body-clock adjustment she had to make has been made.
“I was,” I say. “But I had to see you. I must show you something on the computer.”
“What’s with you, Moncrief? You sound a little—I don’t know…creepy. It’s like your energy level is down a few notches.”
“Yes, Detective. I am stunned. I am walking in a dream. Maybe half a dream and half a nightmare.”
As always, about a dozen other New York City detectives are very interested in our conversation. Everyone is aware of the murders. Now many are aware of the attack on Burke in Paris.
“Interview room 4 is free. I checked. Let’s go there,” I say.
Perhaps for the benefit of our police colleagues, Burke shrugs her shoulders in that I-dunno-maybe-he’s-a-little-crazy way. Then she follows me down the hall to the interview room.
I close the curtain to prevent anyone from spying on us through the two-way mirror. I place my laptop on the table, open it, and tap a few buttons.
“I’ve read it maybe fifty times,” I say. “Now it’s your turn. Please read. Then I am going to delete it.”
K. Burke looks vaguely frightened, but she is also curious. I can tell. Her eyes widen, then they relax. Then her forehead wrinkles. She begins to read.
Monsieur Moncrief:
I believe that the following information will be of interest to you.
Three hours ago, at 1800 hours Paris, an inmate in my charge died, the direct result of poison administered to his coffee.
He was a man of your acquaintance: Marcel Ballard.
Burke looks away from the screen. She looks directly at me.
“Ballard?” she says. “But I thought…no. Not Ballard!”
“Keep reading,” I say.
Ballard’s death was obviously planned and perpetrated by someone inside La maison centrale de Clairvaux.
I know that it was your belief that the murders of Maria Martinez and Dalia Boaz were ordered by another prisoner, Adrien Ramus.
I must inform you, however, that evidence taken here at this scene after today’s murder proves otherwise.
An investigation of Ballard’s cell revealed a laptop computer hidden within a broken tile beneath the toilet.
An examination of the laptop’s contents showed frequent correspondence between Ballard and two Frenchmen who were in the United States on visitor visas. One of them, Thierry Mondeville, returned to France a few days ago. Mondeville has now been identified as the attacker in the incident involving Katherine Burke and yourself.
Further correspondence indicates Ballard’s extreme anger at his imprisonment and the role you played in causing it. Ballard explicitly held you responsible for “destroying my life and destroying my family.”
Upon its release by the police I will forward a file containing the complete contents of Ballard’s computer as well as the findings and conclusions of the official investigation.
Je vous prie d’agréer, Monsieur, mes
respectueuses salutations,
Tomas Wren
Burke and I say nothing for a few moments.
Then she looks at me and speaks. “Do you believe this is true?”
I nod, and, for assurance, I say, “I am certain.”
I walk to the other side of the room. I look out the perpetually dirty window. The tops of the brownstones look like figures drawn in charcoal when seen through the dirt on the glass.
“But, Moncrief, you mean…all these years you were helping Ballard, and all these years he was planning to destroy your life?” she says. “You must be amazed at this.”
“To be honest, I am not amazed. I knew.”
N
ow Burke is the one who is amazed. She is speechless.
“Ramus is indeed a wretched excuse for a human being. But if he had ordered the executions he would have happily bragged to me about them. He would have told me directly that he was the talent behind the killings. But…he stopped just short of bragging.
“That is why I assaulted him. But I could not drive him to say what he would have been glad to say. He would not admit to being the force behind the killings.
“Then we add the fact that Ballard was so effusive in his thanks to me. Bah! I put him in prison for most of his life. Do you think he cares what happens to his family? Do you think he cares about their welfare? I instinctively knew he was throwing the connerie, the bullshit, at me.”
I can tell she wants to smile, but this moment is too serious.
“But most important, I could not have put Ramus in prison if Ballard had not given me information on him. I knew that someday Ramus would punish Ballard. This was timing parfait. Ballard falsely pinned the crimes on Ramus and Ballard had previously betrayed him. So, le poison dans le café.”
“So the case is solved,” she says. But she speaks softly, cautiously.
“I guess so,” I say. I know, however, that there is sorrow in my voice.
I walk back to the table where the opened laptop rests. Then I push the button marked DELETE.
Chapter 47
I leave the precinct and head toward Fifth Avenue and 52nd Street. I am standing outside a fabulous shop, Versace. I pause and then walk through the great arched center door.
This was one of Dalia’s favorite stores. I can remember almost every single item Dalia ever bought here.
The black skirt. If I looked hard I could see through the tightly woven material and catch a glimpse of Dalia’s exquisite legs.
The shoes with thick cork platforms that made Dalia a half inch or so taller than I am. We always laughed at that.
The belts with golden buckles. The black leather shopping totes. The crazy shirts with variously colored geometric shapes that shout at you.
“Signor Moncrief. It has been a thousand years since we have seen you,” says the store manager, Giuliana. “Welcome. You have been away, perhaps?” she adds.
“Yes. I’ve been away. Far away.”
Giuliana tilts her head to one side. “I heard of the tragedy of Miss Boaz, of course. We were all so sad.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I read your condolence note. I read it more than once.”
“We liked her so very much,” says Giuliana. Then she says, “I will leave you alone. Call on me if I can help you.”
“I will,” I say. “Grazie.”
She walks away, and I remain still, moving only my head. I take in the lights from the golden fixtures. The multitude of wallets laid out in their cases in neat overlapping rows.
It is late summer. So they are showing fall coats, fall dresses, fall scarves. Reds and browns and dark yellows. Black jeans and white jeans. And lots and lots of sunglasses. Even the mannequins are wearing sunglasses.
“Sunglasses are always in season,” Dalia used to say.
I am about to move deeper into the store. I am calm. Not completely calm, but I am calm.
Then my phone rings. The caller is identified as “K. Burke.”
I answer.
“Good afternoon, K. Burke. Don’t tell me. There’s been a murder.”
“How did you know?” she says.
“I just knew. Somehow I just knew.”
About the Authors
JAMES PATTERSON has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.
RICHARD DiLALLO is a former advertising creative director. He has had numerous articles published in major magazines. He lives in Manhattan with his wife.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
About the Authors
Newsletters
Copyright
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2016 by James Patterson
Cover design by Kapo Ng; photograph by Sue Patterson
Cover copyright © 2016 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The BookShots name and logo are a trademark of JBP Business, LLC.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
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ISBN: 9780316361552
E3-20160811-NF-DA
French Kiss Page 10
