Long Lost - By Harlan Coben Page 0,18

I said.

Berleand didn't face me then. He just kept smoking the cigarette and looked out at the view.

"When you stopped me at the airport," I continued, "you put a bug on me somewhere. My shoes maybe. Probably my cell phone."

It was the only thing that made sense. They found the body, maybe checked Rick Collins's cell phone or whatever, found out his ex-wife was in town, put a tap on her phone, saw that she called me, held me up at the airport long enough to put on a bug and start surveillance.

That was why I had been so forthcoming with Berleand-he already knew all these answers. I'd been hoping to win his trust.

"Your cell phone," he answered. "We replaced the battery with a listening device that holds the same charge. It's very new technology, quite cutting edge."

"So you know Terese thought her ex was missing."

He tilted his head back and forth. "We know that's what she told you."

"Come on, Berleand. You heard her tone. She was genuinely distraught."

"She seemed to be," he agreed.

"So?"

He crushed out the cigarette. "You could also hear that she was holding back," Berleand said. "She's lying to you. You know it, I know it. I hoped that maybe you'd work it out of her, but you spotted the van." He thought about it. "And that's when you realized that you were bugged."

"So we're both very clever," I said.

"Or not as clever as we think."

"Have you notified his next of kin?"

"We're trying."

I aimed for subtle, but then again I thought we were somewhat past that. "Who is the next of kin?"

"His wife."

"Do you have a name?"

"Please don't push it," Berleand said.

He took out another cigarette, stuck it between his lips, let it dip down as he lit it with a hand that had done this many times before.

"There was blood found at the scene," he said. "Lots of it. Most belonged to the victim, of course. But preliminary tests tell us that there is at least one more person's blood in the mix. So we have gathered a blood sample from Terese Collins, and we will run the proper DNA test."

"She didn't do it, Berleand."

He said nothing.

"There's something else you aren't telling me," I said.

"There is a lot I'm not telling you. You, alas, are not part of Groupe Berleand."

"Can't I be deputized or something?"

He made that mortified face again. Then: "It can't be a coincidence," he said. "Him being murdered right after his ex-wife arrives."

"You heard what she told me. Her ex sounded scared. He'd probably gotten himself into some kind of mess-that's why he called her in the first place."

We were interrupted by the trill of his cell phone. Berleand unfolded it, put it to his ear, and listened. He probably made a hell of a poker player, my new friend Berleand, but something crossed his face and stayed there. He barked out something in French, clearly annoyed or puzzled. Then he went silent. After a few moments, he snapped the phone closed, stubbed out his cigarette, and stood.

"Problem?" I said.

"Take one last look." Berleand brushed off his pants with both hands. "We don't let a lot of tourists up here."

I did. Some might find it odd, this police headquarters with its spectacular view. I decided to take the moment and look out and remember why murder was such an abomination.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"The lab received preliminary results on the DNA from the blood."

"Already?"

He shrugged a little too theatrically. "We French are about more than wine, food, and women."

"Pity. So what's it show?"

"I think," he began, ducking back inside through the window, "that we should talk to Terese Collins."
Chapter 8

WE found her in the same holding cell where I'd been half an hour earlier.

Her eyes were red and swollen. When Berleand unlocked the door, all pretense of strength fled. She grabbed on to me, and I held her. She sobbed against my chest. I let her. Berleand stood there. I met his eye. He did the big shrug again.

"We are going to release you both," he said, "if you will agree to surrender your passports."

Terese pulled away, looked at me. We both nodded.

"I have a few more questions before you leave," Berleand said. "Is that okay?"

"I realize that I'm a suspect," Terese said. "Ex-wife in the same city after all these years, the phone calls between us, whatever. Doesn't matter-I just want you to nail whoever killed Rick. So ask whatever you want, Inspector."

"I appreciate your candor and cooperation." He seemed so