French Kiss by James Patterson Read Free Book Online

Burke says. Where does she hide that beautiful soothing voice?
    “I don’t think there’s much I can tell you,” Laura says. “I get a call. I turn a trick. That’s how it goes.”
    “Tell us anything,” I say.
    “Anything?” Laura says. Her voice is suddenly loud, suddenly scared. “Like what? What does ‘anything’ mean? What I ate for lunch? What classes I went to? Anything?”
    The conversation needs K. Burke’s smooth-as-silk voice. Here it comes.
    “Maria Martinez was found murdered on Tuesday,” K. Burke says. “Were you working Tuesday morning or Monday night?”
    Laura closes her eyes. Her lips curl with disgust. She spits out three little words: “Paulo the Pig.”
    Burke and I are, of course, confused. I picture a cartoon character in a Spanish children’s television program.
    But Laura repeats it, this time with even more venom. “Paulo the Pig.”
    “That’s a person, I assume,” Burke says.
    “A person who deserves his nickname. If you’re a girl on call and you get assigned to Paulo the Pig, you never forget it.”
    Her hands shake a bit. Her eyes begin to water.
    “That’s where I was the night your friend was murdered. I was with Paulo. Paulo Montes.”
    “Tell us, Laura,” I say. “We need to know what happened that night with you and Paulo. Everything you remember. You’re safe with us.”
    Her story is disgusting.

Chapter 18
    Auberge du Parc Hotel
Monday evening
    Paulo Montes, a Brazilian drug dealer, is usually followed everywhere by two bodyguards. Tonight, however, he sends them away and waits alone for the arrival of his hired girl.
    The fat middle-aged man has dressed appropriately for the occasion—a sweat-soaked sleeveless undershirt. Thick curly black hair grows like an unmown lawn over both Paulo’s chest and back. The hairs crawl up and down his shoulders and neck. He wears long white silk shorts—longer than boxers, almost long enough to touch his fleshy pink knees. Montes has greased himself up with a nauseating combination of almond oil and lavender cologne. He has used this same overwhelming oil-and-cologne concoction to slick back the greasy hair above his fat round face.
    Paulo answers the door himself. “You’re much prettier than that dark-haired bitch they sent up an hour ago,” he says.
    He is speaking to Laura Delarico—tall, slim, blond. With her fine youthful features, Laura is easily Paulo’s fantasy come to life—a combination of Texas cheerleader and Italian fashion model. Fresh and clean, lithe and athletic. Just what Paulo is longing for.
    He begins quickly, clumsily unbuttoning Laura’s white oxford-cloth shirt. “The first one they sent was the kind I could find for ten dollars in an alley in São Paulo. Dark hair, dark skin. Screwing her would be like screwing myself.”
    Paulo Montes laughs uproariously at his little joke. Laura smiles. She’s been taught to smile at a client’s jokes.
    Paulo pulls her onto the bed. His fingers are fat, and he has become bored with trying to unbutton Laura’s shirt. So he pulls it up and over her head. He tugs at Laura’s panties, ripping them.
    Soon she is naked. Soon Paulo the Pig is naked. Every inch of Laura’s flesh is disgusted by him. She feels he might crush her with his weight, but she’s skilled at positioning her shoulders and hips in such a way as to minimize all discomfort. She tries to ignore the garlicky alcohol smell as he roughly kisses her face and lips, as he squirms slowly downward to kiss her breasts. He suddenly slaps her face. For some sick reason this makes him laugh. Paulo Montes then pulls hard at her hair.
    “Stop it,” Laura says. “You’re hurting me.”
    “Like I give a shit,” Paulo says. Now he grabs her genitals. His filthy fingernails travel harshly around her vagina. She feels scratching, bleeding. With his other hand he pulls hard at another handful of hair. “I’m paying good money for this!” he yells. “I’m in charge.”
    He pushes himself back