French Kiss by James Patterson Page B

hours, and already you’re on your way to becoming a true Parisienne .”

Chapter 33
    We meet at five.
    “I am not a happy man,” I say to K. Burke after I give our destination to the cabdriver. Then I say, “Perhaps I will never be a completely happy man again, but I am un peu content when I am in Paris.” Burke says nothing for a few seconds.
    “Perhaps someday you will be happi er. ” She speaks with an emphasis on the last syllable. Perhaps someday I will be.
    Then I explain to her that because we will have to get back to our investigation tomorrow—“And, like many things, it might come to a frustrating end,” I caution—this early evening will be the only chance for me to show her the glory of Paris.
    Then I quickly add, “But not the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre or Notre Dame. You can see those on your own. I will show you the special places in Paris. Places that are visited by only the very wise and the very curious.”
    Detective Burke says, “Merci, Monsieur Moncrief.   ”
    I smile at her, and then I say to the cabdriver, “Nous sommes arrivés.” We are here.
    Burke reads the sign on the building aloud. Her accent is amusingly American-sounding: “Museé…des…Arts…Forains?”
    “It is the circus museum,” I say. And soon we are standing in a huge warehouse that holds the forty carousels and games and bright neon signs that a rich man thought were worth preserving.
    “I can’t decide whether this is a dream or a nightmare,” Burke says.
    “I think that it is both. ”
    We ride a carousel that whirls amazingly fast. “I feel like I’m five again!” shouts K. Burke. We play a game that involves plaster puppets and cloth-covered bulls. K. Burke wins the game. Then we are out and on our way again.
    This time out I tell our cabdriver to take us to Paris Descartes University.
    “Vous êtes médecin?” the cabdriver asks.
    I tell him that my companion and I are doctors of crime, which seems both to surprise and upset him. A few minutes later we are ascending in the lift to view the Musée d’Anatomie Delmas-Orfila-Rouvière. The place is almost crazier than the circus museum. It’s a medical museum with hundreds of shelves displaying skulls and skeletons and wax models of diseased human parts. It is at once astonishing and disgusting.
    At one point Burke says, “We’re the only people here.”
    “You need special permission to enter.”
    “Aren’t we the lucky ones?” Burke says, with only slight sarcasm.
    From there we take another cab ride—to the Pont des Arts, a pedestrian bridge across the Seine. I show her the “love locks,” the thousands of small padlocks attached to the rails of the bridge by lovers.
    “They are going to relocate some of the locks,” I tell Burke. “There are so many that they fear the bridge may collapse.”
    So much love, I think. And for a moment my heart hurts. But then I hail another cab. I point out the Pitié-Salpêtrière hospital, and we both laugh when I explain that it was once an asylum for “hysterical women.”
    “Don’t get any ideas, Moncrief,” Burke says.
    Since our bodies are still on American time, it is almost lunchtime for us, and I ask K. Burke if she is hungry.
    “Tu as faim?” I ask.
    “ Très, très hungry. Famished, in fact.”
    Ten minutes later, we are in the rough-and-tumble Pigalle area. I tell Detective Burke that she can always dine at the famous Parisian restaurants—Taillevent, Guy Savoy, even the dining room in our hotel. But tonight, I am taking her to my favorite restaurant, Le Petit Canard.
    “Isn’t this the area where you made your famous drug bust?” Burke asks.
    “C’est vrai,” I tell her. “You have a good memory.”
    She is looking out the taxi window. The tourists have disappeared from the streets. The artists must be inside smoking weed. Only vagrants and prostitutes are hanging around.
    “Ignore the neighborhood. Le Petit Canard is amazing. I used to come here a great deal when I lived