Gladyss of the Hunt (12 page)

“Maybe I resemble his last cellmate,” I kidded as we left his hovel.

“After a lifetime in prison,” Bernie said, “he's learned to hate anyone he thinks is weaker than him. And fear anyone stronger than him.”

Over the course of the following week, I wondered if Bernie's life lessons weren't much different. At the precinct, he was always trading on his presumed power. He would only let me see parts of a file, like an M.E's autopsy report, if I joined him for lunch. He'd let me read some useless witness statements only after I brought him a cup of coffee.

I finally lost it. “Tell you what! I'll toss you a donut if you tell me why the maid at the Templeton said she saw you with the victim
before
she was murdered.”

“Wow,” he responded. “I'm impressed that you sat on that for this long. Let's see, it's probably because I interviewed Nelly Linquist at the hotel a few weeks earlier. I knew I'd seen that fucking maid somewhere.”

“Shit, you interviewed the victim?”

“For another case, yeah. Crime is a small world filled with the same cast of sad characters. A witness to one murder advances to being a victim in another. It's a strange promotion in this miserable career, you'll see.”

“Why didn't you mention this before?”

“Who the hell are you? Some fucking shoofly?” That was a cop who worked in Internal Affairs, investigating other cops.

“Look, I'm just trying to learn how this job is done. And you won't even let me see autopsy photos. If you think you're protecting me . . .”

“It's not you I'm protecting,” he said and let loose a sigh. “Seeing dead bodies never bothered me till I worked down at World Trade. When someone found someone in the rubble, everyone wanted a look. After so many years in homicide . . . I don't know, I just felt like this was the last courtesy I could afford them.”

“But how am I expected to ever solve a case if…”

“You're not gonna solve shit!” he shouted. “You're just a blonde kid who flirted with me so I picked you as bait for a killer. Is that clear enough for you?”

“Fuck you!” I yelled back and stormed off.

I worked with Annie for the rest of the day, while Alex, who was fairly thick-skinned, teamed up with Bernie. Annie assured me that Bernie had always been a gentleman in the past. His lashing out was a recent development. Privately, though, I felt like maybe Bernie was right. What right did I have to expect anything? I was a giant blonde virgin freak who couldn't even get Eddie O'Ryan in the sack. Being with Annie for the next few days slowly restored my ailing self-confidence. Once I spotted a cardboard box in the top drawer of her desk. When I asked her what it was, she handed it to me. Inside I saw the long piece of plastic I recognized instantly.

“You've got Hermione's wand!” I said. waving it like the character does.

“Oh my God,
you're
a Harry Potter fan too?”

We both started laughing, comparing notes. She confessed it was her kids who got her into it. She told me how she had stood on line for three hours when the last book was published. Trying not to blush, I told her I had bought it on the second day. We were two of the three million people who bought a book written for children on the very first weekend it had come out.

Annie could be as tough as Bernie, but without being an asshole about it. When one ex-con we stopped thought he could screw with us, two defenseless chicks, she knocked him against a wall, kicked his feet apart and warned him that if she got stuck by a needle while patting him down, he'd spend the rest of his life pissing through a tube.

“There's one in my back pocket,” he warned her. “But I just got it from the Exchange. Please don't toss it.”

She let him remove the syringe and place it carefully on the ground. He was instantly grateful.

By the week's end, we had nearly exhausted the entire list of suspects. Most of them had either vanished, were dead, or were back in jail doing hard time. The rest had solid alibis. That Friday I was just too cold and exhausted to go to yoga. Even though I needed to unwind, I dragged my skinny butt home to bed, where I lay on my back and stared at the small square of wall I shared with Maggie until it seemed to be staring back. At least it was quiet. She wasn't home. I had started to drift off when my cell chimed.

“I just heard Burnout got mugged,” O'Ryan said.

“Yeah, last Monday.”

“Poor guy. Must be embarrassing,” O'Ryan said, his voice shading into sarcasm.

“Try saying that with a little humility,” I shot back.

“What are you talking about?” he asked playing dumb. “I was being sincere.”

“What do you want, Ed?”

“Actually it's almost Valentine Day, so I was wondering if you wanted to grab some chow and finally have that big romantic night we were supposed to have.”

I remembered how the last time I saw him I had invited him up. I'd changed into a skimpy miniskirt, but instead of making a move he'd confessed he was dating someone else and that he'd lost his New Year's Eve hard-on once he saw a picture of me and my twin brother.

Despite all that, I was about to say yes when I suddenly remembered. “Oh shit! Tonight is the night!”

“What night?”

“I'm supposed to meet him.”

“Meet who?”

“The great Noel Holden. Tonight is when he's finally returning home from the North Pole for a pre-premiere party.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he blurted. “You're rejecting me for that big fruit?”

“I'm not rejecting you for anything,” I explained. “It's work, remember?”

“Do us both a favor,” he said lowering his voice. “Believe me when I say he's not the killer and let's have some fun.”

“We'll have some fun tomorrow night. I'm just going to get his prints and that's it.”

“Is he coming to your house?” Eddie asked as though planning a stakeout.

“He's suppose to pick me up on the corner in a private car,” I said, “and I'm being driven to the party.”

“Where?”

“I don't know where.” I was glad that I couldn't tell him.

“You bringing your 9?”

“Where would I put it?” Nothing was bulkier than a handgun.

“Be very careful. Don't drink. Don't go anywhere alone with him.”

“Relax,” I said again.

“If I don't hear from you by ten I'm calling in an APB.”

“Make it two. You're worse than my brother.”

“I thought this was a murder investigation.”

“But it's supposed to be a date.”

“Do you plan to kiss him?” he ventured.

“I'll call you later,” I said, unwilling to talk about my personal life with the one and only guy who had decided to proceed cautiously when I was finally ready to go all the way.

Without proper time to doll myself up, I quickly pulled on a dress and heels, touched up my face, took out my contacts, which were irritating me, spritzed on some perfume, grabbed my glasses, and dashed out the door. There on the corner, as though carjacked from a high school prom, was a white stretch limo. Tiredly I opened the door and hopped in. I found myself sitting next to a sweet little old lady puffing on a cigarette.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asked.

“Sorry, wrong limo!” I got out as the light changed, and her car sped off up Sixth Avenue.

“
Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle
,” I heard a baritone voice behind me. A stocky, middle-aged man in an dark suit approached. “Monsieur Holden asked that I pick up someone fitting your stunning description.”

He led me halfway down the block to a dark blue sedan and opened the back door.

On the leather seat was a small wrapped package with a beautiful silver bow. Next to it was a single rose. A small card from Tiffany's jewelry said: “To my favorite law enforcer. Here's some added protection from your loving culprit, Noel.”

I unwrapped the package. Inside was a silver derringer that looked like it was from the 1930s. When I pulled the trigger, a little blue flame shot out the muzzle – it was a cigarette lighter. As we drove, I wondered if there was any way I could get the actor to give O'Ryan some lessons in charm.

CHAPTER SIX

Noel's chariot sped me north through the glossy blur of a crisp New York night. In what seemed like a few seconds we stopped in front of an older, figurative-style high-rise apartment building on Central Park West. A doorman dressed like an admiral opened the front door and, without my asking, directed me to the elevator to the penthouse. The polished brass elevator had a throne-like chair in it, which I only mustered the courage to sit on when we were almost there. A valet waiting in the hallway took my shabby jacket, and I could hear a lively party raging. As though by invisible radar, Noel intercepted me at the door. He wore a tuxedo and held an empty champagne glass. I realized that I was embarrassingly underdressed for the occasion.

“You should have told me this was formal,” I reproached him.

“Nonsense, you look great,” he replied. As a waitress passed with champagne, Noel handed over his empty flute and took two fresh glasses, handing me one.

It was hardly the classic eight-room apartment. In fact this place was unlike any residence I'd ever seen in the five boroughs. House music played from a large and distant room. Noel led us toward the tasteful sounds. Soon we were in a space entirely enclosed in glass, lit by a fuzzy, white sheen from the rising moon. Everyone but me seemed to be wearing clothes designed by Edith Head. It was as if we were all on a 1940s film noir set. According to Noel, the massive living room was domed with a series of glass panels, operated by cranks and levers and resembling a miniature version of England's historic Crystal Palace. At least half the space was convertible, he explained. During the warm months the top was opened, so the apartment became al fresco.

I quickly downed the expensive bubbly and Noel lifted two more
glasses from yet another roving tray.

I gulped down my second glass and asked, “So who lives here anyway?”

“Miriam Williams, the producer.”

I remembered now, and Maggie had been impressed by the name. As I looked around the room, I spotted quite a few celebrities, including the latest rap sensation, Slimdonk, and WB's hottest teenage star, Ji. Floating above the crowd in long delicate steps, she looked like a vertebra that had been dipped in tanned flesh-colored paint, then slithered into a strapless silk stocking. As she levitated around the room, I could only wonder where she kept her vital organs.

Everybody knew Noel Holden, and he introduced me to everyone. Between countless air kisses and tiny hummingbird hand waves, Noel explained that most of the beautiful faces were actors or models, while most of the “real-looking people” were behind-the-scenes types.

“What scenes are they behind?” I asked. After all, this wasn't Hollywood.

“Here's the face to ask,” Noel said as a middle-aged man with oily skin approached.

“Gladyss, this is my all-seeing, all-knowing agent, Igor Moore. Gladyss wants to know what I do for money.”

The agent grinned impishly, as though he might not utter a single word without a commission, but then he spoke. “In addition to playing constantly challenging roles that plumb the crisis of human existence, Noel Holden is in great demand as himself. Every luxurious product needs a trusted celebrity spokesmodel to assure its usefulness to the discriminating and sophisticated masses. Noel Holden's glorious form is under contract to several major clothing designers. Furthermore, his voice is licensed to a world-class car manufacturer as well as to a highly reliable maker of double-A batteries.”

“Speaking of which, where the fuck is that indigo Dino?” Noel interrupted. Igor said he was talking to a member of the press and pointed across the room. Dino turned out to be Noel's press agent, an African American.

“It's only a fortnight till fashion week,” the agent shouted as we moved off. That was when Noel was doing his publicity walk for
Fashion Dogs
. “Party! Party! Party!' he chanted at us.

“What was all that about?” I asked.

“Igor's always pushing me to get out there more. Get my face on magazine covers and my name in columns. Frankly, that's the part of this job that I hate.” Noel seized two more glasses from a passing tray and handed one to me. “Constantly hustling for endless endorsements . . . I mean, what the hell happened to the art?”

“Oh my God!” A tray-toting caterer suddenly screeched. Behind her false eyelashes I recognized my neighbor, Maggie.

“Noel Holden, this is my dear friend and neighbor Maggie Bernardo,” I introduced.

He delicately kissed the knuckles of her forefingers. Although I suspected that Maggie had moved heaven and earth to get the gig, and intrude on my date, I was still glad to see her there.

“
Enchanté
,” he greeted her.