Gladyss of the Hunt (2 page)

I don't remember falling asleep that night, but when I woke up early the next morning O'Ryan was passed out next to me, snoring loudly. When I delicately tried to revive him, he only rolled to the far side of the bed. For a couple of fidgety hours I tried to go back to sleep. Eventually, unable to get past his kazoo-like snoring, I quietly dressed and went home.

Later that day I decided that my continued virginity was officially Carl's fault. I left a message on Eddie's voice mail apologizing for tiptoeing out, adding that I had New Year's chores awaiting me. I expected that he would quickly call me back, and we'd pick up where we left off, but the call never came. In fact, though I saw him every day at work, over the days and weeks that followed he didn't say a
single word about the aborted act—it was as if the evening had never happened.

I finally called Carl and complained about his phone call interruptus. Without apologizing, he said, “You know, this is exactly what I suspected would happen. I knew you'd go out and do something crazy on New Year's Eve, and I was right!”

“Give me a break! You're not my father!”

“No, I'm your older brother and . . .” He took a deep breath. “And you don't need to rush into this, is all I'm saying.”

“I'm not rushing! I'm the last virgin in this city and Eddie O'Ryan happens to be a really good guy. We work together.”

“That's no reason to jump in the sack with him.”

“We get along. In fact, he's my most compatible sign—a Scorpio.”

“Trust me, I saved you from getting stung by a scorpion!” he said, compelling me to hang up on him.

Some winters New York got off easy, but that year it was unforgivably cold. In fact if it hadn't been so damn cold, I probably would've requested a new assignment and a new partner, but the frost seemed to freeze all insecurities. With wind chills hitting minus ten, it was all I could do just to stay on the job. This was before we knew that global warming meant manic cold as well as hot weather. After a barrage of storms that dropped over four feet of snow in a single month, everything froze into mini glaciers. I'd always get a thrill when I heard that alternate side of the street parking had been suspended—it meant a day I didn't have to write tickets. Unfortunately, those days were few.

I was in the habit of grabbing a venti cup of Starbucks chai when I started my morning tour. Usually I'd spot a violation before I was halfway through drinking it, and I'd have to toss the remainder so I could write the ticket. That day, still feeling a little sleepy, I made the mistake of ordering a coffee. As if that wasn't bad enough, I was able to down the entire twenty ounces without writing a single ticket and I soon found myself in desperate need of a bathroom. The only sanitary establishment on Forty-second between Ninth and Tenth was an expensive restaurant called DiCarlo's, and I was pleasantly surprised to see it was open that early. I went in and asked the maitre
d' if I could use their facilities. She pointed to the rear.

As I headed back there, I overheard a waiter addressing the place's only customer: “Sir, I truly regret having to ask, but cigarette smoking in New York restaurants is no longer permitted.”

When I returned a couple minutes later, I heard the maitre d' saying, “I'd hate to have to ask you again . . .”

“All right, just one autograph.”

Now that my eyes had adjusted to the dark room, I realized the customer in question was none other than motion picture star Noel Holden, sitting in a corner booth. Of all the celebrities in the pantheon of tabloid gods, he was the one my next door neighbor Maggie was most obsessed with. She had clipped photos of him from various magazines and taped them around the mirror above her armoire.

“It's the cigar, sir,” the maitre d' replied. “I believe the waiter just explained—”

“The waiter only said
cigarette
smoking was prohibited.”

“No smoking is allowed of any kind,” the maitre d' said politely.

“Look, this is a hundred dollar cigar.” Holden held it up. “I can't just put it out.”

“We're in the process of getting a smoking van that will be parked out front,” she told him. “Right now though, all we have is a Bloomberg bucket near the front door.”

Restaurant smoking was the first casualty of the new mayor's health crusade, which would eventually lead to the banning of trans fats in restaurants and the creation of a city-wide bike system.

“It's twenty degrees below outside. Let me just have a minute and…” He took another thick puff.

“Either put out the cigar right now or I'll write you a ticket,” I said, stepping in. Technically it was the job of the Cabaret Unit to monitor illegal smoking, but I owed the maitre d' a favor.

“This cigar probably cost more than your ticket,” Holden said, looking me over. “But if you're leaving, I'll go with you and smoke it outside.”

“Fair enough,” I replied, staring back at him. His zero-fat body and aching good looks were a genuine anomaly. A couple hundred years ago, such absurd perfection would've gotten him shunned as a freak.

“You know, I have an even better idea,” he said. “Why don't I put
out the cigar and you join me for an early lunch?”

“Because I'm on duty.”

He stood up and escorted me outside, then—despite the fact that he was wearing only a light sports jacket—followed me into the arctic chill.

I suppose I should've been flattered, but I knew from Maggie's constant chatter about him that Holden was already involved with someone. a surgically enhanced airhead heiress called Venezia Ramada. She had worked briefly as a fashion model, but her breasts were so salined up that they crowded the return lane on the catwalk. Recently she'd completed her first movie—with co-star Noel Holden.

“How about a quick drink?” he persisted as he followed me up the frozen block. “A wholesome cup of cocoa. What do you say?”

“I'm on duty, sir.”

“Surely an Amazonian princess like you can do anything you want.”

O'Ryan must've spotted us leaving the restaurant. Sneaking up behind us, he suddenly shoved the actor up against a closed store-front. The icy sidewalk forced Holden to grab hold of O'Ryan to regain his balance, at which point O'Ryan slipped backwards on the ice and fell right on his ass.

“I'm so sorry,” the actor said, unable to avoid a snicker as he extended a hand. “I'm Noel Holden.”

Slapping it away, O'Ryan sprang to his feet and yelled, “I know who you are, asshole! That doesn't give you the right to harass a police officer!”

“Pardon?”

“It's okay,” I told O'Ryan.

“If you
ever
disrespect a cop again,” O'Ryan said, shoving his long index finger into the man's pretty face, “I don't care
who
you are.”

“Was I disrespecting you, my dear?” the handsome one asked me innocently. Of course he wasn't, but I couldn't say that. You were supposed to back up your partner. I simply turned away and walked east. O'Ryan followed.

Female civilians are constantly flirting with male cops—I couldn't count how many times I'd seen O'Ryan enjoying this—but when a
guy did it, apparently it was harassment. Nearly a month had passed since Eddie's failed deflowering of me, and he still hadn't so much as mentioned it.

It wasn't until we turned down Ninth Avenue that I finally said, “What the hell is your problem, Eddie?”

“It's just—I thought he was coming on to you.”

“What if he was?”

He looked away, red-faced. “I saw you coming out of that restaurant with him trailing you,” he said contritely, “and I thought you might be in trouble.”

“Did I look like I was trouble?”

“What were you doing in there anyway?”

“I had to use the goddamn bathroom.”

We proceeded silently down Ninth Avenue, searching for quality-of-life violations or anything that might put the awkwardness behind us.

“Help! Police!” we heard as we reached the corner of Thirty-fifth Street.

We turned to see our sergeant grinning at us from his patrol car. Warm air seeped from his half-lowered window as he asked, “So which one of you wants your first big murder case?”

“What do you mean?” O'Ryan asked.

“I got a crime scene needs protecting.” Sgt. McKenner said.

Security guard work. O'Ryan didn't say anything, so I said, “I'll take it.”

O'Ryan often bragged about his pals in City Hall and was hoping for some big administrative appointment in the Mayor's office sooner or later. He had offered to take me with him when it came through, but back then all I wanted was to be in homicide. Still, he usually would've fought to be on a murder scene, so I figured he was trying to make amends.

“Pick up some lunch. You're going to be there a while.”

“Where?”

“The Templeton, southeast corner of Forty-second and Ninth.”

“We just passed there.” The hotel was half a block east of the pricey restaurant where I had just peed. It was a dive.

“The body was called in this morning, but the murder probably took place last night,” the sergeant explained. “I need you to go and
relieve the first on the scene.”

I grabbed another tea on the way. Rookies always caught the jobs no one else wanted. We were constantly being tossed into line-ups or watching investigation sites. And if we were lucky, we occasionally guarded a murder scene.

Several police cars were parked out front of the Templeton. In the lobby was a sloppily dressed clerk who silently pointed to the metal gate to his right. When I went over to it, he buzzed me in, then I went up a flight of stairs.

The browning wallpaper looked more like flypaper. The lighting was permanently dim, and the floor tiles were worn down or missing altogether.

A yellow ribbon sagged loosely across the end of the second-floor corridor. As I stepped over it, I heard a police radio and traced it to Room 236. A big, middle-aged patrolman named Lenny Lombardi was leaning in the doorway finishing a hotdog.

“What's up?”

“It's the Blonde Hooker thing,” he replied. Somebody had killed two prostitutes within the past two months, both of them tall and blonde. I didn't know exactly what had happened, but there were rumors that the murderer had mutilated the bodies horribly.

“So what exactly does he do?”

“Believe me, you don't want to know. And you don't want to go in there.” He pointed behind him with his half-eaten hotdog.

“I've seen bodies before,” I replied, although actually I had only seen new ones. At that point, childbirths were my one claim to fame. I had driven one bursting mama to Roosevelt Hospital, and on another occasion I'd arrived in the middle of a labor in process and helped in the delivery.

“The killer pulled this one apart limb by limb, numbered the pieces, then taped her back together.” An annoying strand of sauerkraut was hanging from Lenny's large right cheek.

“Numbered her?” Inside I could only see the back of one of the gloved and masked CSU investigators. He was on his hands and knees, going over the worn carpet with a lint brush. Since the window was open and it was about thirty degrees, he had kept his
Northern Exposure parka on. The other technician had Crime Scene Unit printed on the back of his jacket, and was dusting the end table for fingerprints. Their metallic suitcases were open in the corner of the room.

When I took a step inside the room, I saw the vic. With her blood-splattered arms and legs thrust in the air, it looked as if she'd died in the Happy Baby yoga pose. I couldn't understand how the limbs were defying gravity until one of the forensic people moved away. Several tight coils of transparent tape glistened in the sunlight. The tape encompassed the victim's elbows and wound its way up her wrists. A black bracelet with large onyx-like pieces dangled from her left wrist, and between her slightly curled fingers the killer had apparently slipped a business card for some local establishment. Another spiral of tape was wrapped around her knees and connected her ankles. More tape tied her upper and lower limbs together.

Not until I looked closely did I see the full barbarity of the crime. The victim had been raggedly decapitated. Nestled on her abdomen, within the tightly woven confinement of taped-up arms and legs, was her head. I slipped back out to the hallway.

“Anyone know who she is?”

“Pross.”

As I watched the technicians dusting the surfaces and the bedside lamp, I asked, “When did they find her?”

“Maid found her this morning,” Lenny said.

“No one saw the john?”

“The desk clerk said the girl signed for the room. A guy was with her, but he couldn't even give an age or race,” Lenny explained. I knew he was tired of talking about it.

“So whose case is it?”

“Hernandez already came and went.” He was one of the precinct homicide detectives.