Long Lost - By Harlan Coben Page 0,17

to me.

"Terrorist suspect?"

"Yes."

"You guys do terrorism?"

"Terrorism, homicide, the boundaries are no longer so clear. We do a little of everything."

He entered the attic space. I had to duck big-time now. There were clothes on a drying line. "You guys do your laundry up here?"

"No."

"So whose clothes?"

"Victims. That's where we hang them."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No."

I stopped and looked at them. A dark blue shirt was ripped and covered with bloodstains. "Do these belong to Rick Collins?"

"Follow me."

He opened a window and stepped outside onto the roof. He turned and looked back for me to follow.

Again I said, "You're kidding, right?"

"One of the great views of Paris."

"From the roof of 36 quai des Orfevres?"

I stepped out onto the slate-and wow, was he right about the view. Berleand lit a cigarette, sucked in a breath so deep I thought the entire cigarette might turn to ash, released it in a long stream through his nose.

"Do you often interrogate up here?"

"To be honest, this is a first," he said.

"You could threaten to push someone off."

Berleand shrugged. "Not my style."

"So why are we here?"

"We are not allowed to smoke indoors and I desperately need a cigarette."

He took another deep breath.

"I used to be okay with it, you know? Smoking outside only. I would jog up and down the five flights of stairs as my way of exercising. But then I'd be so out of breath from the cigarettes."

"It would cancel each other out," I said.

"Exactly."

"You might have considered quitting."

"But then I wouldn't have a reason to run down the stairs and so I wouldn't exercise. Follow me?"

"As much as I'd like to, Berleand."

He sat down and looked out. He gestured for me to do the same. So there I was, on the roof of one of the world's most famous police stations, staring at the most breathtaking view of Notre Dame.

"And look that way."

He pointed over his right shoulder. I looked over the Seine and there it was-the Eiffel Tower. I know how touristy it is to be awestruck by the Eiffel Tower, but I just stared for a moment.

"Amazing, no?" he said.

"Next time I get arrested, I need to bring a camera."

He laughed.

"Your English is really good," I said.

"We are taught here from a young age. I also spent a semester at Amherst College in my youth and worked two years in an exchange program with Quantico. Oh, and I have the entire Simpsons collection on DVD in English."

"That will do it."

He took another hit from the cigarette.

"How was he murdered?" I asked.

"Shouldn't I say something like, 'Aha, how do you know he's been murdered?' "

I shrugged. "Like you said, you don't process parking violations here."

"What can you tell me about Rick Collins?"

"Nothing."

"How about Terese Collins?"

"What do you want to know?"

"She's quite beautiful," he said.

"That's what you want to know?"

"I did a little research. We have CNN over here, of course. I remember her."

"So?"

"So about a decade ago she was at the top of her profession. Suddenly she quits and there isn't a Google mention of her again. I checked. There is no sign of employment. I can't get a residence, nothing."

I didn't reply.

"Where has she been?"

"Why don't you ask her?"

"Because right now, I'm asking you."

"I told you. I haven't seen her in eight years."

"And you had no idea where she was?"

"I didn't."

He smiled and wagged his finger at me.

"What?"

"You said 'didn't.' Past tense. That implies you now know where she was."

"Your good English," I said. "It has come back to haunt me."

"So?"

" Angola," I said. "Or at least, that's what she told me."

He nodded. A police or French siren went off. The French have a different siren than we do-more insistent, horrible, like the love child of a cheap car alarm and the wrong-answer buzzer on Family Feud. We let it shatter our silence and waited for it to fade away.

I said, "You made some calls, didn't you?"

"A few."

"And?"

He didn't say anything else.

"You know I didn't kill him. I wasn't even in the country."

"I know."

"But?"

"May I offer another scenario?"

"Shoot."

"Terese Collins murdered her ex-husband," Berleand said. "She needed a way to dispose of the body-someone she could trust to help clean up the mess. She called you."

I frowned. "And when I answered, she said, 'I just killed my ex-husband in Paris, please help me'? "

"Well, she might have just told you to fly here. She might have told you the purpose after you arrived."

I smiled. This had gone on long enough. "You know she didn't tell me that."

"How would I know that?"

"You were listening in,"