Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) Read Online Free PDF Page B

I didn’t like this.
    Two men stepped into the room. The first was younger, late twenties maybe, good-looking with sandy hair and that three-day growth pretty boys use to look more rugged. He wore jeans and boots and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the start of the elbow. He leaned his back against a wall, folded his arms across his chest, and chewed a toothpick.
    The second man was midfifties with oversize wire-rimmed glasses and tired gray hair that was dangerously close to a comb-over. He was drying his hands on a paper towel as he entered. His windbreaker looked like something Members Only sold in 1986.
    So much for Frenchmen and their haute couture.
    The older man did the talking. “What is the purpose of your visit to France?”
    I looked at him, then at the toothpick chewer, then back to him. “And you are?”
    “I’m Captain Berleand. This is Officer Lefebvre.”
    I nodded at Lefebvre. He chewed the toothpick some more.
    “Purpose of your visit?” Berleand asked again. “Business or pleasure?”
    “Pleasure.”
    “Where will you be staying?”
    “In Paris.”
    “Where in Paris?”
    “At the Hotel d’Aubusson.”
    He didn’t write it down. Neither of them had pen or paper.
    “Will you be by yourself?” Berleand asked.
    “No.”
    Berleand was still wiping his hands on the paper towel. He stopped, used one finger to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. When I still hadn’t said anything else, he shrugged a “Well?” at me.
    “I’m meeting a friend.”
    “The friend’s name?”
    “Is that necessary?” I asked.
    “No, Mr. Bolitar, I’m nosy and am asking for no apparent reason.”
    The French are into sarcasm.
    “The name?”
    “Terese Collins,” I said.
    “What is your occupation?”
    “I’m an agent.”
    Berleand looked confused. Lefebvre, it seemed, didn’t speak English.
    “I represent actors, athletes, writers, entertainers,” I explained.
    Berleand nodded, satisfied. The door opened. The first officer handed Berleand the bowl with my belongings. He put it on the table next to my bag. Then he started wiping his hands again.
    “You and Ms. Collins didn’t travel together, did you?”
    “No, she is already in Paris.”
    “I see. How long do you plan on staying in France?”
    “I’m not sure. Two, three nights.”
    Berleand looked at Lefebvre. Lefebvre nodded, peeled himself off the wall, headed for the door. Berleand followed.
    “Sorry for any inconvenience,” Berleand said. “I hope you have a pleasant stay.”

5

     
     
     
    TERESE Collins was waiting for me in the lobby.
    She hugged me but not too hard. Her body leaned against mine for support, but again not that much, not a total collapse or anything. We were both reserved in our first greeting in eight years. Still, as we held each other, I closed my eyes and thought I could smell the cocoa butter.
    My mind flashed to the Caribbean island, but mostly it flashed—let’s be honest here—to the thing that truly defined us: the soul-piercing sex. That desperate clawing and shredding that makes you understand, in a totally non-sadomasochistic way, how pain—emotional pain—and pleasure not only intermingle but amplify each other. Neither of us had an interest in words or feelings or false comforts or hand-holding or even, well, reserved hugs—as if all that stuff were too tender, as if a gentle caress might pop this fragile bubble that temporarily protected us both.
    Terese pulled back. She was still knee-knockingly beautiful. There had been aging, but on some women—maybe most women in this era of too much facial tucking—a little aging works.
    “So what’s wrong?” I asked.
    “That’s your opening line after all these years?”
    I shrugged.
    “I opened with ‘Come to Paris,’ ” Terese said.
    “I’m working on dialing back the charm,” I said, “at least until I know what’s wrong.”
    “You must be exhausted.”
    “I’m fine.”
    “I got a room for us. A duplex.