French Kiss by James Patterson

Author:James Patterson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2016-10-04T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 24

I call Gary Kuehn at Vice. He’s one of the few guys in that department who’s smart enough to appreciate what he calls my shenanigans.

Shenanigans. English is a wonderful language.

Gary e-mails me a list of names of “superior sex workers” (translation: high-class hookers) and their managers (translation: drug-dealing abusive johns). I specifically request names of girls who regularly service the toniest areas of the Upper East Side.

I tell my new plan to no one—not K. Burke, not Nick Elliott, not even Gary. At midafternoon, I take an Uber car across town and check into a room at the Pierre, on Fifth Avenue at 61st Street. A mere seventeen hundred dollars a night. I silently thank my father for the large allowance that makes this expensive escapade possible.

I arrange for a series of these high-priced call girls to visit my room—one girl every thirty minutes. I do all the scheduling—the phoning and texting and e-mailing—myself.

At three o’clock a girl with incandescent mahogany skin appears. Her skin is so shiny it looks polished. Her hair is short and dark. She smiles. I am sitting in a comfortable blue club chair. She approaches me and touches my face.

“Please have a seat over there,” I say, pointing to the identical blue club chair opposite my own. No doubt she thinks we’re about to begin a freaky fantasy.

“Here is the first piece of news: I’m not going to touch you, but I will, of course, pay you for this visit.” I hand her three hundred-dollar bills. (The agreed-upon price was two fifty.)

“Here is the second piece of news, and perhaps it is not quite so welcome. I am going to ask you some questions.”

She smiles. I quickly add, “Nothing uncomfortable—just some simple talking and chatting. I am a detective with the NYPD.”

Her face becomes a mask of fear.

“But I promise. You have nothing to worry about.”

The questions begin:

Have you ever serviced a client at 655 Park Avenue?

Have you ever serviced a client at the Auberge du Parc Hotel?

Have you ever serviced a client who acted with extreme violence?

A client who hurt you, threatened you, brandished a weapon, a gun, a cane, a stick, a whip? A client who tried to slip a tablet or a powder or a suspicious liquid into a beverage?

Have you ever met with a client who was famous in his field—an actor, a diplomat, a senator, a governor, a foreign leader, a clergyman?

The answers are all no. And the pattern remains the same for every woman who follows.

A few of them tell me about men with some odd habits, but as the woman in the tight yellow jeans says, “A lot of guys have odd habits. That’s why they go to prostitutes. Maybe their fancy wives don’t want to suck toes or fuck in a tennis skirt or take it up the ass.”

Other statements are made.

A tall woman, the only woman I’ve ever seen who looked beautiful in a Mohawk haircut, says, “Okay, there is this congressman from New Jersey that I see once or twice a month.

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