French Kiss (11 page)

A creaking sound, like
one you would hear in an old horror movie, comes from the door. It opens, and a burst of light surges into the bleak room.

Wren has returned, and with him is a young prison guard. The guard escorts the prisoner—Marcel Ballard.

Ballard is ugly. His fat face is scarred on both cheeks. Another scar is embedded on the right side of his neck. The three scars show the marks of crude surgical stitching. Prison fights, perhaps?

His head is completely bald. He is unreasonably heavy for a man who dines only on prison rations; he must be trading something of value for extra food.

The guard removes the handcuffs from Ballard.

Ballard comes rushing toward me. He is shouting.

The guard moves to pull Ballard away from me, but Ballard is too fast for him.

“Moncrief, mon ami, mon pote!”
he yells. Then he embraces me in a tight bear hug. In accented English, the guard translates, “My friend! My best friend!”

Then Ballard kisses me on both cheeks.

It is Ballard who
enlightens K. Burke.

“You wonder why we embrace, mademoiselle?”

“Not really,” says K. Burke. “I know about you and the detective. I know that you received a lesser sentence because of
him,
and I know that he received some valuable information because of
you.
”

Ballard smiles. I look away from the two of them.

“Detective Moncrief, you have not told your colleague the entire story of our relationship?” Ballard asks, his eyes almost comically wide.

For a reason I can't explain, I am becoming angry. With a snappish tone I respond, “No. I didn't think it was necessary. I thought it was between the two of us.”

“But many others know,” Ballard responds. “May I tell her?”

“Do whatever you like,” I say. The bleakness of the prison, the memory of the Longchamp arrests, and the indelible pain of Maria and Dalia's deaths all close in on me. I am sinking into a depression. There is no reason why I should be angry that Burke will be hearing the story of Ballard and me. Still, he hesitates.

I try to restore a lighter tone to the conversation. “No, really. If you want to tell her, go right ahead.”

After a pause, Ballard tells her, “When I was arrested I was the father of an infant, and I was also the father of three other children, all of them under the age of five years.”

He pauses, and with a smile says, “Yes, we are a very Catholic family. Four children in five years.” Burke does not smile back.

Then he continues. “Life would have been desperate for my wife, Marlene, without me. The children would have starved. When I was sentenced to the two decades in the prison, I worried and prayed, and my prayers were answered.

“In my second month inside this hell, Marlene writes to me with news. She is receiving a monthly stipend, a generous stipend, from Monsieur Moncrief.”

He pauses, then adds, “I was overwhelmed with gratitude for his extreme generosity.”

Burke nods at Ballard. Then she turns to me and says, “Good man, Detective.”

I do not care to slosh around in sentimentality. I gruffly announce, “Look, Ballard. I am here for a reason. An important reason. You may be able to pay me back for that ‘extreme generosity.'”

The gossip network in
a prison is long and strong.

Ballard confirms this. “I was overcome with sadness and anger when I heard about your police friend and your girlfriend, Detective. I could not write to you. I could not telephone. I did not know what to say. And, I am ashamed to admit, I was afraid. If the other prisoners found out that I was speaking to a member of the Paris police, I might be in danger.”

“I understand,” I say. “Besides, Marlene wrote me and expressed her outrage and sympathy.”

“Très bien,”
he says. “Marlene is a good woman.”

I am silent. I want to speak, but I cannot. Suddenly everything is rushing back—the sight of Maria in the lavish Park Avenue apartment, the sight of Dalia on the gurney, the crazed run that I made through Hermès and the wine shop.

I think Burke senses that I have wandered off to a deeper, darker place. She keeps a steady gaze on me.

Ballard looks confused. He is waiting for me to say something. My tongue freezes as if it's too big for my mouth. My brain is too big for my head, and my heart is too broken to function.

Ballard reaches across the little table and places his rough hand on mine.

“The heart breaks, Detective.”

I remain silent. Ballard speaks.

“What can I do, my friend?”

My head is filling with pain. Then I speak.

“Listen to me, Marcel. I believe that someone being held in this prison arranged for the executions of my partner, Maria, and my lover, Dalia. I think whoever it was also planned to kill my current partner, the person sitting here.”

I cannot help but notice that Ballard does not react in any way to what I'm saying. He finally removes his hand from mine. He continues to listen silently. If he is anything, he is afraid, stunned.

“It is pure revenge, Ballard. There are men here in Clairvaux who detest me. They don't blame their crimes for their imprisonment. They blame
me
. They think that by killing the people I am close to…they are killing me…and you know something, Ballard? They are right.”

Again silence. A long silence. The minute that feels like an hour.

Ballard interrupts the quiet. He is calm. “
C'est vrai, monsieur le lieutenant.
Someone who hates you is killing the women you love.”

“Tell me, Marcel. Tell me if you truly have gratitude for what I've done to help your wife and children: do you have any idea who ordered these murders?”

Ballard looks at Burke. Then he looks at me. Then he looks down at the table. When he looks back up again a few moments later his eyes are wet with tears. He speaks.

“Everyone inside this asylum is cruel. You have to learn to be cruel to survive here.”

I am awestruck at Ballard's intensity. He continues.

“But there is only one man who has the power to buy such a horror in the outside world. And I think you know who that is. I think you know without my even saying his name.”

And I know the person we should bring in.

Burke and I wait
for Adrien Ramus.

We wait in a smaller, bleaker room than the one in which we met with Ballard. This room is located within the high-security area, where the most treacherous prisoners are kept. It is not solitary confinement, but it is the next worst thing. Isolation, only relieved for food and fifteen minutes of recreation a day in the yard.

The room has no table, no chairs. It is bare except for the emergency button, three clubs, and three mace cartridges that hang on the wall.

The door opens with the same horror-film creak as the door in the previous interview room. Tomas Wren once again accompanies the prisoner, but Ramus apparently warrants
three
guards to keep him under control. What's more, I suspect that the handcuffs behind Ramus's back will not be removed.

Ramus is gaunt, thin as a man with a disease. His nose is too big for his face. His eyes are too small for his face. Yet all his characteristics come together to form a frightening but handsome man. He could be an aging fashion model.

Years ago, during his booking, his trials, and his sentencing, Ramus spat on the floor whenever he saw me. When this vulgarity earned him a club to the head from a policeman or a prison guard, Ramus didn't care. It was worth a little pain to demonstrate his hatred for the detective who had brought him down.

Ramus does not disappoint this time. Upon seeing me he immediately lobs a small puddle of spittle in my direction.

I sense madness—not only in Ramus but also in myself. I reach across and grab him by the chin. I push his head back as far as it will go without snapping it off. I know the guards probably hate Ramus as much as I do. I know they won't stop me. I could beat Ramus if I wished to.

“My partner! My lover!” I shout. “It was you!”

He just stares at me. He twists his neck forcefully, trying to relieve the pain of my assault. I let go of his chin, then shout again.

“You have sources on the outside who can do such things!”

Now Ramus smiles. Then he speaks. The voice is rough, the words staccato.

“You are a fool, Moncrief. I have sources, yes. But anyone inside this pit of hell can buy influence outside. Put the pieces together, Moncrief. Are you so stupid?”

He spits again. Then he just stares at me. I speak more softly now.

“You will burn in hell…and I cannot wait for that time! I cannot wait for God to burn you. And you will do more than die and burn. You will first
suffer.
And then die and burn. I will see to it.”

He says, “When I heard that your two women friends were killed I was happy. I was joyful.”

My heart is beating hard. My chest is heaving up and down. Ramus continues.

“Some men are very powerful…sometimes even
more
powerful in the shadows of a prison than they are on the streets of the city.”

I feel my hand and both my arms tense up completely. In seconds I will be at him once again. This time I will force my hand around his neck. Then I will force my fingers around his Adam's apple. Then…

He speaks again.

“Believe whatever you want, Moncrief. It is of no meaning to me. As I say, you are a stupid, pathetic fool. When will you learn? Where I am concerned, you are powerless. The boss? He is Ramus.”

The tension and strength suddenly drain from my body. My arms fall to my side. I am the victim of a perfect crime.

I bow my head.
I have solved the case, but the women closest to me are gone.

I try to control my shaking limbs. I try to hold my feelings inside me.

“Get him out of here,” I say to the guards.

Ramus says nothing more. They lead him out. It's over.

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?”

All prisoners are equal
in the mess hall. At least that's the way it's supposed to be. Same horrid food, same rancid beverages. But in prison, those who have money also have influence. And those with money and influence live a little better.

Marcel Ballard supplies two kitchen workers with a weekly supply of filtered Gauloises cigarettes. So the workers show their gratitude by heaping larger mounds of instant mashed potatoes on Ballard's plate and by giving him a double serving of the awful industrial cheese that is supplied after the meal. On some lucky occasions, Ballard goes to take a slug of water from his tin cup and finds that a kitchen ally has replaced the water with beer or, better still, a good amount of Pernod.

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.