But more than that, Paris makes you feel for lack of a better term alive. Check that. Paris makes you want to feel alive. You want to do and be and savor when you are here. You want to feel, simply feel, and it doesn 't matter what. All sensation is heightened. Paris makes you want to cry and laugh and fall in love and write a poem and make love and compose a symphony.
Terese reached her hand across the table and took mine.
You could have called, I said. You could have let me know you were okay.
I know.
I haven't moved, I said. My office is still on Park Avenue. I still share Win 's apartment at the Dakota.
And you bought your parents' house in Livingston, she added.
It wasn't a slip of the tongue. Terese knew about the house. She knew about Ali. Terese wanted me to know that she 'd been keeping tabs on me.
You just disappeared, I said.
I know.
I tried to find you.
I know that too.
Can you stop saying 'yI know'?
Okay.
So what happened? I asked.
She took back her hand. Her eyes drifted toward the Seine. A young couple walked by us. They were fighting in French. The woman was outraged. She picked up a crushed soda can and hurled it at her boyfriend 's head.
You wouldn't understand, Terese said.
That's worse than 'yI know.'
Her smile was so sad. I'm damaged goods. I would have taken you down with me. I cared too much about you to let that happen.
I understood. And I didn't. No offense, but that sounds like a load of self-rationalization.
It's not.
So where have you been, Terese?
Hiding.
From what?
She shook her head.
So why am I here? I asked. And please don't tell me it 's because you missed me.
It isn't. I mean, I do miss you. You have no idea how much. But you're right, that 's not why I called.
So?
The waiter appeared in a black apron and white shirt. Terese ordered for both of us in fluent French. I don't speak a word of French so for all I know she ordered me diaper rash on whole wheat.
A week ago I got a call from my ex-husband, she said.
I hadn't even known she'd been married.
I hadn't spoken to Rick in nine years.
Nine years, I repeated. That would be right around the time we met.
She looked at me.
Don't be dazzled by my mathematical prowess, I said. Math is one of my hidden talents. I try not to brag.
You're wondering if Rick and I were still married when we ran off to that island, she said.
Not really.
You're so damn proper.
No, I said, thinking again about the soul piercing on that island, I'm not.
As I can attest?
Again, I said, hidden talents I try not to brag.
Good thing. But let me set your mind at ease. Rick and I weren't together when we met.
So what did ex-husband Rick want?
He said he was in Paris. He said it was urgent I come.
To Paris? I asked.
No, to Six Flags Great Adventure in Jackson, New Jersey. Of course Paris.
She closed her eyes. I waited.
I'm sorry. That was uncalled-for.
Nah, I like you snarky. What else did your ex say?
He told me to stay at the Hotel d'Aubusson.
And?
And that's it.
I shifted in the chair. That was the entire phone call? 'yHi, Terese, it's Rick, your ex-husband whom you haven 't spoken to in nearly a decade, come to Paris immediately, and stay at the Hotel d 'Aubusson, and oh, it 's urgent '?
Something like that.
You didn't ask him why it was so urgent?
Are you being intentionally dense? Of course I asked.
And?
He wouldn't tell me. He said he needed to see me in person.
And you just dropped everything and came?
Yes.
After all these years, you just . . . I stopped. Wait a second. You told me you were in hiding.
Yes.
Were you hiding from Rick too?
I was hiding from everyone.
Where?
In Angola.
Angola? I just let that go for now. So how did Rick find you?
The waiter arrived. He brought two cups of coffee and what looked like an open ham and cheese sandwich.
They're called Croque Monsieurs, she said.
I knew that. Open-face ham and cheese, but with a fancy name.
Rick worked with me at CNN, she said. He's probably the best investigative reporter in the world, but he hates being on air, so he stays behind the scenes. He tracked me down, I guess.
Terese was paler, of course, than she'd been on that sun-blessed island. The blue eyes had less sparkle, but I could still see the gold ring around each pupil. I have always preferred dark-haired women, but her lighter locks had won me over.
Okay, I said. Go on.
So I did as he asked. I got here four days ago. And I haven't heard a word from him.
You called him?
I don't have a number. Rick was very specific. He told me he'd contact me when I arrived. So far he hasn 't.
And that's why you called me?
Yes, she said. You're good at finding people.
If I'm so good at finding people, how come I couldn't find you?
Because you didn't look that hard.
That could be true.
She leaned forward. I was there, remember?
I do.
She didn't add the obvious. She had helped me back then, when a life very important to me hung in the balance. Without her, I would have failed.
You don't even know if your ex is missing, I said.
Terese didn't reply.
He could've just been looking to exact a little payback. Maybe this is Rick's twisted idea of a joke. Or maybe whatever it was, it wasn 't really that important. Maybe he changed his mind.
She just looked at me some more.
And if he's missing, I'm not sure how I can help. Yeah, okay, I can do some stuff at home. But we 're in a foreign country. I don 't speak a word of the language. There 's no Win to help me, no Esperanza or Big Cyndi.
I'm here. I speak the language.
I looked at her. There were tears in her eyes. I had seen her devastated, but I had never seen her look like that. I shook my head.
What aren't you telling me?
She closed her eyes. I waited.
His voice, she said.
What about it?
Rick and I started dating my first year of college. We were married for ten years. We worked together nearly every day.
Okay.
I know everything about him, his every mood, you know what I mean?
I guess.
We'd spent time in war zones. We discovered torture chambers in the Middle East. In Sierra Leone we saw things no human being should ever see. Rick knew how to keep personal perspective. He was always even, always kept his emotions in check. He hated the hyperbole that naturally came with TV news. So I have heard his voice under every kind of circumstance.
Terese closed her eyes again. But I never heard him sound like that.
I reached my hand back across the table, but she didn't take it.
Like what? I said.
There was a tremor that had never been there before. I thought . . . I thought maybe he'd been crying. He was beyond terrified this from a man I never saw remotely scared before. He said he wanted me to be prepared.
Prepared for what?
Her eyes were wet now. Terese clasped her hands prayerlike, resting her fingertips on the bridge of her nose. He said what he was going to tell me would change my entire life.
I sat back, frowned. He used that exact phrase change your entire life?
Yes.
Terese was not one for hyperbole either. I wasn't sur
e what to make of it.
So where does Rick live? I asked.
I don't know.
Could he live in Paris?
He could.
I nodded. Did he remarry?
I don't know that either. Like I said, we haven't talked in a long time.
This was not going to be easy.
Do you know if he still works for CNN?
I doubt it.
Maybe you could give me a list of friends and family, something to start with.
Okay.
Her hand shook as she picked up the coffee cup and brought it to her lips.
Terese?
She kept the cup up, as though using it for protection.
What could your ex-husband possibly tell you that could change your entire life?
Terese looked away.
Red double-decker buses flowed along the Seine, loaded up with sightseers. All the buses had this department-store ad of an attractive woman wearing an Eiffel Tower on her head. It looked ridiculous and uncomfortable. The Eiffel Tower hat appeared heavy, tottering on the woman 's skull, held in place by a skimpy ribbon. The model 's swan neck was bending as though in mid-snap. Who thought this was a good way to advertise fashion?
Foot traffic was picking up. The girl who'd hurled the crushed can was now making out with her target. Ah, the French. A traffic officer started gesturing for a white van to stop blocking traffic. I turned and waited for Terese to answer. She put down her coffee.
I can't imagine.
But there was a catch in her throat. A tell, if you were playing cards with her. She wasn't lying. I was pretty sure of that. But she wasn 't telling me everything either.
And there's no chance your ex is just being vindictive?
None.
She stopped, looked off, tried to gather herself.
It was time, I knew, to take the big step. I said, What happened to you, Terese?
She knew what I meant. Her eyes wouldn't meet mine, but a small smile played on her lips.
You never told me either, she said.
Our unspoken island rule.
Yes.
But we're off that island now.
Silence. She was right. I had never told her what had led me to that island either what had devastated me. So maybe I should go first.
I was supposed to protect someone, I said. I messed up. She died because of me. And to complicate things, I reacted badly.
Violence, I thought again. The undying echo.
You said 'yshe,' Terese said. It was a woman you were supposed to protect?
Yes.
You visited her grave site, Terese said. I remember.
I said nothing.
It was Terese's turn now. I sat back and let her get ready. I remembered what Win had told me about her secret, about it being very bad. I felt nervous. My eyes darted about and that was when I saw something that made me pause.
The white van.
You get used to living this way after a while. On guard, I guess. You look around and you start to see patterns and you wonder. This was the third time I had spotted the same van. Or at least I thought it was the same van. It had been outside the hotel when we left. And more to the point, the last time I saw it, the traffic cop was asking it to move.
Yet it was in the exact same place.
I turned back to Terese. She saw the look on my face and said, What?
The white van may be following us.
I didn't add, Don't look, or any of that. Terese would know better.
What should we do? she asked.
I thought about it. Pieces started to fall into place. I hoped that I was wrong. For a moment I imagined that this could all be over in a matter of seconds. Ex-hubby Rick was driving the van, spying on us. I go over, I open the door, I rip him out of the front seat.
I stood up and looked directly at the van's driver-side window. No point in playing games if I was right. There was a reflection but I could still make out the unshaven face and, more to the point, the toothpick.
It was Lefebvre from the airport.
He didn't try to hide himself. The door opened and he stepped out. From the passenger side, the older agent, Berleand, stumbled into view. He pushed up his glasses and smiled almost apologetically.
I felt like an idiot. The plainclothes at the airport. That should have tipped me off. Immigration officers wouldn't be in plainclothes. And the irrelevant questioning. A stall. I should have seen it.
Both Lefebvre and Berleand reached into their pockets. I thought that they'd pull out guns, but both produced red arm-bands with the word police written on them. They slipped them up to their biceps. I looked left and saw uniformed cops heading toward us.
I did not move. I kept my hands to the sides where they could clearly see them. I had little idea what was happening here, but this was no time for sudden moves.
I kept my eyes on Berleand's. He approached our table, looked down at Terese, and said to both of us, Will you please come with us?
What's this about? I asked.
We can talk about that at the station.
Are we under arrest? I asked.
No.
Then we're not going anywhere until we know what this is about.
Berleand smiled. He looked at Lefebvre. Lefebvre smiled through the toothpick. I said, What?
Do you think this is America, Mr. Bolitar?
No, but I think this is a modern democracy with certain inalienable rights. Or am I wrong?
We don't have Miranda rights in France. We don't have to charge you to take you in. In fact, I can hold you both for forty-eight hours on little more than a whim.
Berleand got closer to me, pushed up the glasses again, wiped his hands on the sides of his pants. Now again I ask: Will you please come with us?
Love to, I said.
Chapter 6
THEY separated Terese and me right there on the street.
Lefebvre escorted her to the van. I started to protest, but Berleand gave me a bored look that indicated my words would be superfluous at best. He led me to a squad car. A uniformed officer drove. Berleand slipped into the backseat with me.
How long's the ride? I asked.
Berleand looked at his wristwatch. About thirty seconds.
He may have overestimated. I had, in fact, seen the building before the bold and stark sandstone fortress sitting across the river. The mansard roofs were gray slate, as were the cone-capped towers scattered through the sprawl. We could have easily walked. I squinted as we approached.
You recognize it? Berleand said.
No wonder it had grabbed my eye before. Two armed guards moved to the side as our squad car pulled through the imposing archway. The portal looked like a mouth swallowing us whole. On the other side was a large courtyard. We were surrounded now on all sides by the imposing edifice. Fortress, yeah, that did fit. You felt a bit like a prisoner of war in the eighteenth century.
Well?
I did recognize it, mostly from books by Georges Simenon and because, well, I just knew it because in law-enforcement circles it was legendary.
I had entered the courtyard of 36 quai des Orf+?vres the renowned French police headquarters. Think Scotland Yard. Think Quantico.
Soooo, I said, stretching the word out, gazing through the window, whatever this is, it's big.
Berleand turned both palms up. We don't process traffic violations here.
Count on the French. The police headquarters was fortress solid and intimidating and gigantic and absolutely gorgeous.
Impressive, no?
Even your police stations are architectural wonders, I said.
Wait until you see the inside.
Berleand, I quickly learned, was being sarcastic again. The contrast between the fa+oade and what lay inside was whiplash stark. The outside had been created for the ages; the interior held all the charm and personality of a public toilet along the New Jersey Turnpike. The walls were off-white, or maybe they 'd been white but had yellowed over the
years. They had no paintings, no wall hangings of any kind, but enough scuff marks to make me wonder if someone had maybe run across them with dress shoes. The floors were made up of linoleum that would have been deemed too dated for tract housing in 1957.
There was no elevator as far as I could tell. We trudged up a wide staircase, the French version of a perp walk. The climb seemed to take a long time.
This way.
Exposed wires crisscrossed the ceiling, looking like central casting for a fire hazard. I followed Berleand down a corridor. We passed a microwave oven sitting on the floor. There were printers and monitors and computers lining the walls.
You guys moving?
No.
He led me to a holding cell, maybe six by six. Just one. It had glass where there might normally be bars. Two benches attached to the walls formed a Vin the corner. The mattresses were thin and blue and looked suspiciously like the wrestling mats I remembered from junior high school gym class. A threadbare blanket of burnt orange, like something a bad airline had used for too long, lay folded on the bench.
Berleand spread his arm like a ma+' welcoming me to Caf+! Maxim's.
Where's Terese?
Berleand shrugged.
I want a lawyer, I said.
And I want to take a bubble bath with Catherine Deneuve, he countered.
Are you telling me I don't have the right to have a lawyer present during questioning?
That's correct. You can talk to one beforehand, but he will not be present during questioning. And I will be honest with you. It makes you look guilty. It also makes me grumpy. So I would advise against it. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable.
He left me alone. I tried to think it through, not making any rash moves. The wrestling-mat mattress was sticky and I didn't want to know from what. The smell in here was rancid that horrible combo of sweat and fear and, uh, other bodily fluids. The stench climbed into my nostrils and hung tight. An hour passed. I heard the microwave. A guard brought me food. Another hour passed.
When Berleand came back, I was leaning against a somewhat clean spot I'd found on the glass wall.
I trust your stay was comfortable.
Long Lost (2009) Page 4