Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) by Harlan Coben Read Free Book Online Page B

Café 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.”
    “The food,” I said. “I expected better food, this being a Parisian jail and all.”
    “I will speak to the chef personally.”
    Berleand unlocked the glass door. I followed him down the corridor. I expected him to take me to an interrogation room, but that wasn’t the case. We stopped in front of a door with a little sign next to it that read GROUPE BERLEAND. I looked at him.
    “Your first name is Groupe?”
    “Is that supposed to be funny?”
    We entered. I figured Groupe probably meant “Group” and judging by what was inside the room I guess I was right. Six desks were crammed into an office that wouldn’t be called spacious if there had been only one. We must have been on the top floor because the mansard roof caused the ceiling to slant across most of the room. I had to duck when I walked in.
    Four of the six desks were currently taken by what I assumed were other officers, part of Groupe Berleand. There were old-fashioned computer monitors, the kind that took up nearly half the desk space. Family pictures, banners of favorite sports teams, a poster for Coke, a calendar with hot women—the whole atmosphere was less a top-level police headquarters and more a muffler shop backroom in Hoboken.
    “Groupe Berleand,” I said. “So you’re the chief?”
    “I’m a captain in the Brigade Criminelle. This is my team. Sit.”
    “What, here?”
    “Sure. That’s Lefebvre’s desk. Use his chair.”
    “No interrogation room?”
    “You keep thinking you’re in America. We conduct all interviews in the team office.”
    The other officers seemed oblivious to our doings. Two were enjoying coffees and chatting. The other typed at his desk. I sat. There was a box of wipes on his desk. Berleand plucked one out and started with the hand cleaning again.
    “Tell me about your relationship with Terese Collins,” he said.
    “Why?”
    “Because I enjoy being up to date on the latest gossip.” There was steel beneath the quasi-humor. “Tell me about your relationship.”
    “I haven’t seen her in eight years,” I said.
    “And yet here you two are.”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “She called and invited me to spend a few days in your city.”
    “And you just dropped everything and flew over?”
    My reply was a simple eyebrow arch.
    Berleand smiled. “I almost blew another French stereotype, eh?”
    “You’re worrying me, Berleand.”
    “So you came for a romantic rendezvous?”
    “No.”
    “Then?”
    “I didn’t know why she wanted me to come. I just sensed that she was in trouble.”
    “And you wanted to help?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you know what she needed help with?”
    “Before I arrived? No.”
    “And now?”
    “I do, yes.”
    “Would you mind telling me?”
    “Do I have a choice?” I asked.
    “Not really, no.”
    “Her ex-husband is missing. He called her, said he had something urgent to discuss with her, and then he vanished.”
    Berleand seemed