The Christmas Mystery

by James Patterson

  I look down toward the lake. I stand still. I imagine the scene of a few hours ago, a scene of terror as a man with a gun pursued me through the dark. Now the entire area is one of peace and beauty.

  A wooden shed sits not far from the main house. I have seen sheds like this outside some of the very old châteaux of France; they are remnants from hundreds of years earlier—outdoor bathrooms, basically toilets for the servants.

  I look through the one small glass window in the shed’s wooden door. The tiny household’s gardening equipment—old-fashioned hand mowers, clippers, axes, shovels. I open the door and see a rusty bow saw hanging on a hook. I take it down and walk toward the lake.

  In this forest of dead winter branches and hundreds of evergreens, I find a pine tree that is precisely the same height as myself—six feet, no taller, no shorter. It is not a tree from a storybook—not a scrawny lonely tree, yet not a great thick beauty. A tree. Simple. Lovely. A good representation of the work of God…if you are happy enough with life to still believe in God.

  The trunk is soft. I cut through easily. As I do, I notice how completely ruined my shoes and trousers are—stained with water and ice and snow and the feces of deer and dogs.

  I give the severed trunk an easy shove, and the tree falls forward. Just as I slip the bow saw over my shoulder and lift the bottom end of the trunk to drag the tree back toward the house, I hear a man’s voice calling.

  He shouts my name. He calls, “Detective Moncrief. Over here.”

  I wave at him, and he continues toward me. I recognize him as one of the Monticello police officers on the crime scene. He is no boy. He may be as old as thirty. As he comes closer I see that he is tall and blond and handsome, no doubt a local girl’s dream.

  But as is always the way with me, I am hesitant, suspicious. Perhaps the Kranes and Rudy Brunetti had a cabal of helpers up here. It would not be incredible—a few facilitators in the police force, in city hall, in the highway department.

  I drop the tree and slip the bow saw from my shoulder to my hand. I grip the saw handle tightly.

  The police officer stands next to me.

  “I can give you a hand with that,” he says. “I saw you from way up there.”

  “Ah, you caught me in the act of thievery,” I say.

  “I think you can help yourself to anything you want around here. You and Detective Burke are heroes. This is pretty amazing, the way you solved this case.”

  He nods his head nervously. He looks a bit goofy.

  “Persistence,” I say. “All it takes is persistence…and a great deal of patience.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” he says. Then he speaks quickly.

  “I was talking to your partner,” he says. “Um…I asked her…well, I hope you won’t be mad, but I asked her if you and her were anything more than partners.”

  I know exactly what the young man means, but I pretend otherwise.

  “More than partners?” I ask.

  “You know…God, I can’t believe I’m doing this…like…” He cannot get it out.

  “What did Detective Burke say?” I ask.

  “She said ‘absolutely not,’ but then she told me to ask you.”

  “She is teasing you, monsieur. Detective Burke and I are partners professionally, but we are just friends.”

  “Just friends,” he repeats. “So I could see her, go on a date with her?”

  “You could go to the moon with her,” I say.

  “I’ll help you with the tree,” he says. Then he adds, “You take the lighter end.”

  “I’m fine with this end,” I say. So we carry the tree. I see K. Burke is standing, waiting for us near the toolshed.

  “That’s where you were, Moncrief. Cutting down a tree?” she says with a smile. “I can’t believe it.”

  The police officer, K. Burke, and I are standing, admiring the tree.

  “Christmas is a few weeks away, K. Burke. Here is my gift to you. For Christmas and for saving my crazy little life. We can tie the tree to the roof of the car and bring it back to the city. This strapping young man can help us.”

  She looks at me. I speak.

  “Merry Christmas, Detective,” I say.

  “Merry Christmas, Detective,” she says.

  Then K. Burke begins to cry. I also feel my eyes fill with tears.

  The young police officer speaks.

  “Just friends,” he says. “Sure. Just friends.”

  Chapter 27

  Christmas is coming. And as my favorite American expression goes:

  I couldn’t care less.

  In the past I would have been in deep consultation with Miranda, my traditional Cartier shopping assistant. Miranda had a 1.000 batting average in helping me select the perfect Christmas gift for Dalia. Not too flashy, but not too boring. Something with sparkle, but something that did not call attention to itself…like Dalia herself.

  It is December 20, and whatever gift-giving I am doing these few days is taken care of with a checkbook. I write gift checks for the daily maid, the twice-a-week laundress, the wine merchant at Astor who advises me when a particular Bordeaux is at its peak, Xavier who cuts my hair at Roman K, and…and that is it.

  I consider giving something special to Detective Burke. But what do you give a person who has saved your life? An expensive car, an expensive trip, an expensive bracelet? They each sound ridiculous, and I think perhaps that any of them would insult Katherine Burke.

  The days since the arrests of the art forgery gang have been dull. Elliott suggested that we take some time off. I tried to do so, but a man can only play so much squash and attend so many exhibitions at MoMA and the Morgan.

  K. Burke takes a few days to do some Christmas shopping with her nieces and nephews in New Jersey. I decline to accompany them to the Short Hills Mall.

  When we return to work we catch up on the paperwork for the forgery case. We make an easy arrest of a drug dealer outside Julia Richman High School on East 67th Street. Elliott asks us to spend two days renewing our former Bloomingdale’s assignment. We are reluctant and grumpy and unpleasant about the assignment, but the department store is a block away from Le Veau d’Or, where we have lunch this afternoon. The impeccably old-fashioned French restaurant on 60th Street still knows how to make perfect veal kidneys in a mustard sauce. And this afternoon Le Veau d’Or becomes the first (and most likely, last) restaurant where K. Burke has her first taste of tripes à la mode de Caen. When I tell her that tripe is the stomach lining of a cow, she simply shrugs and says, “All I know is that it tastes good. Thanks for the reco.” I think she is lying. But such a lie means that she must finish eating the dish.

  Bloomingdale’s closes at 10:00 p.m. Fifteen minutes later I am sitting in my apartment, sifting through Christmas cards wishing me Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année.

  I stand and pour myself a small glass of Pepto-Bismol. Have I grown too old for veal kidneys?

  The phone rings. The Caller ID shows the familiar 161 area code for Paris, but the remainder of the phone number means nothing to me.

  As I reach for the phone I remember that it is about five in the morning in Paris.

  “Luc,” she says. “It is Babette.”

  Babette Moreau is my father’s personal secretary. She has been his secretary for forty years, maybe longer.

  My instincts tell me why she is calling.

  “Votre père est mort.”

  Your father has died.

  My first instinct is to feign sadness. I do not want Mademoiselle Babette to have proof of what she already knows: my father and I had a distant, sometimes angry relationship. He was a man of great financial achievement and great emotional distance. Early on—when it became clear that he and I had nothing in common except that we were related—he, a young widower, dispatched me to the care of nannies and tutors and tennis instructors and private schools. He thought that my interest in police work was ridiculous, and, while he was extremely generous with his money, he was extremely sparing with his love
and companionship. This system worked. He did not care much about me. And I surely did not care very much about him.

  A different son might burst into tears. A different son might express over-the-top shock at the news. But I am not that son. And I am a detective, not an actor.

  “A heart attack,” Babette says. “No pain. He was at his desk, of course.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “The arrangements?” I ask.

  “Notre Dame,” she says. “That is what he would have wanted.”

  “Yes,” I reply. “That is certainly what he would have wanted.”

  A pause, and then she asks what she is afraid to ask.

  “Will you attend?” she says.

  I do not pause.

  “Of course,” I say. It is an honest response. No, I am not moved by his death. But for a son not to attend his father’s funeral is an extraordinary offense.

  I tell her that I will leave tomorrow for Paris. She tells me that she will schedule the funeral after my arrival. I tell her to call me if there is anything else I need to know. The conversation ends.

  What do I do next? I telephone K. Burke.

  “That’s awful, Moncrief,” she says. Then a pause. Then…“Listen. I know you and your father didn’t have the best relationship. But he was your father. Nothing changes that. Do you want me to come by and be with you?”

  “No,” I say. “No. But there is something you can do to help me through this.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon…come to Paris with me.”

  Chapter 28

  “I am embarrassed to be enjoying this flight so much,” says K. Burke.

  The premier cabin is spacious and elegant. Aside from an exotic-looking sheik who is traveling with a valet, Burke and I are the only other passengers in the first-class compartment of this Air France flight to Paris. The luxury is, even for a spoiled brat like me who has flown first class his entire life, extraordinary. It is slightly intoxicating to be above the Atlantic Ocean with so much stuff at one’s disposal: flatbed seats for perfect sleeping, each bed with a small dressing room attached; perfectly chilled bottles of Dom Pérignon; access to first-run movies.

  “And you are embarrassed…why?” I ask.

  “Because we are going to Paris for a funeral. Not a wedding, not a birthday party, not even a business meeting. A funeral.”

  “Just pretend that it is one of the pleasanter events you just mentioned,” I say. “Or call it business. I’m certain business will be discussed. I have already received two emails from my late father’s personal assistant Babette and three emails from his protégé, Julien Carpentier.”

  “Julien Carpentier,” Burke repeats. “That’s a new name for me.”

  “Julien is his ‘business assistant.’ Julien is the new and improved version of the son I was supposed to be. If I had turned out to be the person my father wished me to be—ambitious, serious, businesslike—I would have been Julien. Instead I became what my father called un policier fou, a foolish policeman.”

  “And Julien is an asshole, I suppose?” K. Burke asks as she piles a generous spoonful of beluga caviar onto a warm blini.

  “Surprisingly not. I do not know him well, but the few times I’ve seen or spoken with Julien, he has been quite…I don’t know the word precisely…pleasant…authentic…yes, that is it, authentic. I think he is happy with his luck to have such an important position. Plus he diverts my father’s attention from me. Julien and Babette are both probably truly saddened by my father’s death. While you and I are sitting in luxury, sipping the bubble-water, soon to go to sleep on Pratesi bed linens, Julien is tending to the comings and goings of the company.”

  The flight attendant stops at our seats. She is carrying the 500mg tin of beluga with her. Pointing at the tin with her mother-of-pearl caviar spoon, she asks if we would like some more.

  Burke hesitates.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “Have some more. Caviar builds strength. You will need all you can get for our important meetings.”

  I smile, but the flight attendant takes my remarks seriously.

  “Ah, you are in France on business?” she says.

  “In a manner of speaking,” I say.

  “I hope you will meet with great success,” she says.

  When the pretty young woman leaves us, Detective Burke speaks.

  “By the way, Moncrief. I did do something that you forgot to do,” she says.

  “Whatever we failed to pack will be available at my father’s house,” I say.

  “Don’t be so smug. It’s nothing as simple as dental floss or underwear. You forgot to tell Inspector Elliott that we are disappearing for three days.”

  “We are not disappearing, K. Burke. We are on holiday,” I say.

  “Well, maybe you can be cavalier about this. But not me. I need this job. Anyway, I called Elliott earlier and told him that he was right, we both needed a real break, that the work from the forgery case finally caught up with us. So we were taking a few days off.”

  “And he said what?”

  “He said ‘You two guys deserve it. Have fun.’”

  I begin to laugh. Burke looks confused. My laughter grows louder.

  “What’s so funny, Moncrief?”

  “Don’t you see? Our boss thinks that we’re off on a romantic journey.”

  I keep on laughing. Detective Burke does not.

  Chapter 29

  Eight o’clock in the morning at Charles de Gaulle airport.

  Burke and I are fast-tracked through customs. We are suffering from “Dom Pérignon Syndrome,” an alcohol-fueled sleep followed by a walloping morning headache.

  In the reception lounge K. Burke says to me, “There he is. There’s Julien Carpentier.” She points to a handsome man in his late twenties, perhaps his early thirties. Six feet tall or so. Light-brown hair. A well-cut, dark-blue overcoat, a dark-blue silk scarf.

  “How did you know that man is Julien?” I ask. “You’ve never seen him before.”

  “Correct. But I know it’s Julien Carpentier because he looks exactly like you.”

  It has been at least a year since I have seen Julien, but for some reason this time, in the bright unflattering light of the airport, I see the truth of K. Burke’s observation. He is not a mirror image of me, not a twin, but we both have a sharp nose, straight long hair, green eyes.

  Julien is accompanied by a beautiful woman who is formally dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform—black suit, brass buttons, large cap. I cannot help but think that this is the beginning of a pornographic film.

  Julien moves toward me quickly and embraces me like a brother, which perhaps he thinks he is. I return the hug with a lot less vigor.

  “Mon ami, Luc. Welcome. Welcome.” He turns to Katherine Burke and makes a small quick bow from the waist. “And this, of course, is Mademoiselle Burke, a fine companion to have at this sorrowful time.”

  Julien takes Burke’s hand, bows once again, and—well, he doesn’t quite kiss her hand—he gently brushes Burke’s hand beneath his lips.

  “I only wish that we might have met under happier circumstances,” Julien says. K. Burke says that she agrees.

  “Huguette and I will go gather your luggage,” Julien says. “We will meet you at the doorway marked D-E.” As they leave for the luggage carousel Burke mumbles, “No. Don’t…it’s all right. I…” In the noise of the terminal they do not hear her.

  “Let them go,” I say. “We will have to listen to Julien chatter all the ride into Paris. Let’s take a short break from him right now.”

  “But, Moncrief. There’s only one little suitcase, mine. You said you didn’t need to bring anything, that you had a lot of clothing at your father’s. Julien and that hot-looking driver are going to be looking for your stuff. And then they’ll…”

  “Listen. I have only been with Julien about sixty seconds, and he is already annoying me with yak-yak-yak.”

  “You’re wrong. I think
he’s genuinely glad to see you. And I think he’s far more broken up about your father’s death than you are.”

  “The woman who served us dinner on the plane was more broken up about my father’s death than I am,” I say.

  I take a deep breath. I squeeze a few eyedrops into my eyes and say to K. Burke, “Very well. Let’s go to the luggage area and find them. We’ll tell them that we were so jet-lagged that we forgot we only had one small piece of luggage.”

  “You’re impossible, Moncrief.”

  “Let’s go find them, but…”

  “But what?” Burke says.

  “But let us walk very, very slowly.”

  Chapter 30

  As predicted, Julien talks incessantly on the ride into Paris.

  “Your father was a tough boss, but a fair boss.”

  “The factory workers in Lille and Beijing are all anxious about their future.”

  “Monsieur le docteur said the heart attack came fast. He did not suffer.”

  “I wanted the funeral at Sacré-Cœur. Babette wanted Notre Dame. She, of course, got her way. It is only right. She knew him best.”

  “The American ambassador, the ambassadors from Brazil and Poland, even the Russian ambassador, the one your father detested, will be there.”

  “We are prepared with security for the paparazzi. They will come for the television and cinema personalities.”

  “The presidents of all your father’s offices are attending, of course.”

  “I am so grateful that the heart attack came quickly. Not that it was not expected after the two bypass surgeries and the ongoing atrial fibrillation.”

  “There will be a children’s choir at the mass as well as the regular Notre Dame chorus.”

  K. Burke listens intently. I think she may actually be intrigued by the details of this grand affair. Julien and Babette have planned my father’s funeral as if it were a royal wedding—red floral arrangements, Paris Archbishop André Vingt-Trois to officiate, Fauchon to cater the luncheon after the burial.