Long Lost - By Harlan Coben Page 0,10

each passport little more than a cursory glance. When it was my turn, the female immigration officer looked at my passport, then at my face, then back at the passport, then back at me. Her eyes lingered. I smiled at her, keeping the Bolitar Charm setting on Low. I didn't want the poor woman disrobing right there at customs.

The agent turned away as if I'd said something rude. She nodded at a male agent. When she turned back to me, I figured I should up my game. Widen the smile. Turn the charm setting from Low to Stun.

"Step to the side, please," she said with a frown.

I was still grinning like an idiot. "Why?"

"My colleague will take care of your case."

"I'm a case?" I said.

"Please step to the side."

I was holding up the line and the passengers behind me were not pleased about it. I stepped to the side. The other uniformed agent said, "Please follow me."

I didn't like this, but what choice did I have? I wondered, why me? Maybe there was a French law against being this charming because-snap-there should be.

The agent led me into a small windowless room. The walls were beige and bare. There were two hooks behind the door with hangers on them. The seats were molded plastic. There was a table in the corner. The officer took my bag and put it on the table. He started rummaging through it.

"Empty your pockets, please. Put everything in this bowl. Remove your shoes."

I did. Wallet, BlackBerry, loose change, shoes.

"I need to search you."

He was pretty thorough. I was going to make a joke about him enjoying it or maybe say a boat ride on the Bateau Mouche would be nice before he felt me up, but I wondered about the French sense of humor. Wasn't Jerry Lewis an icon here? Maybe a sight gag would be more appropriate.

"Please sit."

I did. He left, taking the bowl with my belongings with him. For thirty minutes I sat there alone-cooling my heels, as they say. 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."
Chapter 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.