Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) by Harlan Coben Page B

marriage difficulties between Rick Collins and Karen Tower and it added up. Of course, there were still major holes to fill—like why Collins would call Terese, his first wife, and tell her it was urgent to see him in Paris—but one step at a time.
    I started explaining my theory to Berleand, but I could see that he wasn’t buying so I stopped the sell.
    “What am I missing?” I asked.
    His cell phone trilled. Again Berleand spoke in French, leaving me totally in the dark. I’d have to take a Berlitz course or something when I got home. When he hung up, he quickly unlocked the holding cell and waved for me to come out. I did. He started down the corridor at a hurried pace.
    “Berleand?”
    “Come on. I need to show you something.”
    We headed back into the Groupe Berleand room. Lefebvre was there. He looked at me as if I’d just dropped out of his worst enemy’s anus. He was hooking up another monitor to the computer, flat screen and maybe thirty inches wide.
    “What’s going on?” I asked.
    Berleand sat at the keyboard. Lefebvre backed off. There were two other cops in the room. They too stood back by the wall. Berleand looked at the monitor, then at the keyboard. He frowned. On his desk was the dispenser for towelettes. He pulled one out and started wiping down the keyboard.
    Lefebvre said something in French that sounded like a complaint.
    Berleand snapped something back, gesturing to the keyboard. He finished wiping it down and then started typing.
    “The blond girl in the van,” Berleand said to me. “How old would you say she was?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Think.”
    I tried, shook my head. “All I saw was long blond hair.”
    “Sit down,” he said.
    I pulled up a chair. He opened an e-mail and downloaded a file.
    “More video will be coming in,” he said, “but this still-frame is the clearest.”
    “Of what?”
    “Surveillance camera from the de Gaulle airport lot.”
    A color photograph came up—I’d expected something grainy and black-and-white, but this one was fairly clear. Tons of cars—duh, it’s a parking lot—but people too. I squinted.
    Berleand pointed to the upper right. “Is that them?”
    The camera was unfortunately so far away that the subjects could only be seen at a great distance. There were three men. One was covering his face with something white, a shirt maybe, staving off the blood. Scar Head.
    I nodded.
    The blond girl was there too, but now I understood his question. From this angle—a back shot—I couldn’t really tell her age but she certainly wasn’t six or seven or even ten or twelve, unless she was unusually tall. She was full grown. The clothing suggested a teenager, someone young, but nowadays it is hard to know for certain.
    The blonde walked between the two healthier men. Scar Head was on the far right.
    “It’s them,” I said. Then I added: “What did we figure the daughter would have had to be? Seven or eight. The blond hair, I guess. It threw me. I overreacted.”
    “I’m not so sure.”
    I looked at Berleand. He took off his glasses, placed them on the table, and rubbed his face with both hands. He barked out something in French. The three men, including Lefebvre, left the room. We were alone.
    “What the hell is going on?” I asked.
    He stopped rubbing his face and looked at me. “You are aware that no one at the café saw the other man pull a gun on you.”
    “Of course they didn’t. It was under the table.”
    “Most people would have put up their hands and gone quietly. Most people would not have thought to smash the man’s face with a table, grab his gun, and shoot his accomplice in the middle of the boulevard.”
    I waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, I added: “What can I say? I’m the balls.”
    “The man you shot—he was unarmed.”
    “Not when I shot him. His cohorts took the gun when they fled. You know this, Berleand. You know I didn’t just make this up.”
    We sat there for another minute. Berleand