Gladyss of the Hunt (4 page)

I suddenly remembered. “Oh! I might've found a clue.”

I showed him the lipstick I'd found on the stairs. “It doesn't match anything she's wearing, but I thought it might possibly be evidence.”
Still wearing his latex gloves, he carefully took the lipstick.

“But you found this outside the room?”

“Yes.”

“You're a crazy little go-getter, aren't you? I like that.”

He tossed the lipstick into the trash. “There's a reason we have a crime scene. You can go crazy if you start on an endless scavenger hunt. Unless of course you find a gun. Those are always keepers.”

“Sorry.” I'd hoped that my Kundalini had finally been turned on.

“Most cops are fat and lazy, so you get points for trying.”

“You said the other victims were all blondes?”

“Yeah, why?”

“And this girl's pretty tall.”

“Even without her head,” he joked.

“So he must be calling escort services and asking for tall blondes.”

“You figured that out, did you?”

“I'm a tall blonde,” I said.

“Chronou,” he read my name plate. “What are you, Greek?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Greeks are usually brunette.”

“Not necessarily. If you read histories of ancient Greece, they are usually described as a blonde race.”

“But how do I know you're a natural blonde?” he said, sliding his unlit cigarette back into the pack.

“Does this look like a dye job?” I said, plucking off my hat and ear warmers.

“I don't know how he knows,” the detective said earnestly, “but with all the vics, the carpet has always matched the drapes.”

I wasn't sure if he was kidding me, so I didn't say anything. When I saw the helpful maid passing by, I introduced her to Detective Farrell without making eye contact with him.

“You look familiar,” Farrell said. “I never hauled you in for anything, did I?”

“No sir.”

He gave her a slight grin and thanked her for her help, then turned back to me.

“So how'd you like a juicy ninety-day assignment?” he asked.

“Sure,” I shot back.

The PBA had a rule that cops couldn't get temporary transfers to
homicide for longer than 90 days, because these short assignments rarely led to promotions. Still, it was a chance to get my foot in the door.

“Prove to me you're a natural blonde and the assignment's all yours,” he said.

I lifted my right leg, yanked up the cuff of my pants along with my long johns, and showed him the two-week growth of yellowish stubble on my upper calf.

“I ain't showing you my carpet, but you can see my welcome mat.”

The detective broke out laughing.

“A female cop who shaves her legs that infrequently deserves to be brought in from the cold.”

It crossed my mind that if he did get me a transfer, I'd have a conflict. I was scheduled to have laser surgery on my eyes in little more than a month, to fix my nearsightedness. An eye-glassectomy, as my neighbor Maggie called it. But I'd only be out of action for a day or so.

Detective Sergeant Bernie Farrell wrote down my name and badge number, and asked why my first name had two esses instead of one. I explained that it was an old Welsh spelling.

“I thought you were Greek.”

“I am. My mom named me after an old family friend.”

Two other detectives from Farrell's squad came by, a rotund black man and a slim white woman, both in their forties. He quietly reviewed several points with them and they all left together.

Over the next hour or so, several other cops dropped in to see the murder scene. I copied down their names and badge numbers. Toward the end of the shift, O'Ryan finally made an appearance.

“So this is your big murder case?” he asked, peeking inside.

“Guess what?” I said. “The lead detective said he was going to consider me for a ninety-day homicide assignment.”

“Whose case is it?”

“Detective Farrell's.”

“Burnout Farrell!” He burst out laughing. “Oh, you drew the short straw on this one!”

“Why?”

He carried on chuckling like I had just been pranked.

“Aside from the rumor that he killed his partner, he is one nasty SOB.”

“What do you mean he killed his partner?”

“The guy had some lingering disease, and Farrell was the last to see him alive at the hospital.”

“As long as he wasn't shot in the back.”

“Anyway, they might give you a thirty-day, but that's it.”

“Hey, thirty days in homicide is fine.”

O'Ryan looked closely at the body. Probably because we were amateurs at this, we talked like seasoned detectives. I relayed what I'd seen and what I'd been told, and we hypothesized about the killing just as they had taught us in the academy.

“If he didn't screw her, why'd he kill her here?” O'Ryan said, trying to get inside the killer's head. I shrugged. “It'd be so much easier to pick her up in a car, then he could just dump her body in the river. That's what I would do.”

The Caribbean maid appeared in the hallway.

“Where's that other guy?” she asked.

“What other guy?”

“That older guy that was here with you.”

“He left.”

“I saw him with her before, that's why I'm asking.”

O'Ryan gave me a funny look and asked her, “You saw the lead detective with the victim on a previous occasion?”

“Yes sir.”

“When?”

“A few weeks ago. They were in here together.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. Game leg. Smoker's hack. He was pretty rough with her, too.”

“Lucky he didn't recognize you,” O'Ryan said.

“He probably did. That's why he asked me if I had a criminal record. He was trying to 'timidate me.”

“Was he
with
her?” O'Ryan asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Was the detective her john?”

She shrugged.

“Was he alone or with another cop?” I asked.

“You know what? Maybe I'm wrong. Forget it,” she said nervously and left.

If she was right, I thought, that could account for Farrell's weird reaction on seeing the victim's body.

“Most detectives look like johns, though.” O'Ryan always defended cops automatically. “And there are a lot of vindictive people in this job.”

“Believe me,” I said staring at him with arched brows, “I know.”

“Listen,” O'Ryan said slightly jerkily. “I'm sorry about earlier today.”

“You should be.”

“Hey, if he was just another guy, I wouldn't have said anything, but I read enough gossip columns to know Holden's a real sleazebag.”

“Like what, exactly?”

“Like he slept with the director's fiancée! And the guy was supposedly his best friend.”

The ME finally showed up and began his examination of the body. If it had taken him this long to get here during the worst of the summer heat, it would've been decomposed by now. Feeling self-conscious, O'Ryan checked his watch and said he'd better get back to work.

Half an hour later, when the ME was done and was signing the paperwork, I radioed for the morgue. The ME left, and twenty minutes later the meat wagon arrived and took all the parts of the ravaged body away, leaving a bloody spot in the middle of the carpeted floor, where the killer had evidently done all his cutting. I carefully sealed the room with a BY ORDER OF THE NYPD sticker, and locked the door, taking the key with me.

CHAPTER TWO

I told the Templeton clerk that the room was off limits until further notice and stepped out into the freezing air. I stood still for a minute and began taking deep, lucid breaths. Just as the Renunciate had taught me, it felt like water filling my lungs. I thought about the poor Jane Doe I'd spent the whole day watching, wondering how her entire life had somehow led her to that awful room that she wouldn't leave alive. Continuing to breathe from my abdomen, I focused on the thought that my entire purpose was to find her killer. Then I looked across the street and saw a slim, handsome guy who was checking me out. As he stepped under a street light, I couldn't believe what I was seeing: Noel Holden, megastar, was just standing on the northwest corner of Forty-second and Ninth, grinning at me like an idiot.

I remembered O'Ryan shoving him that morning and smiled, slightly embarrassed. He started crossing the street toward me. As he approached, I wondered what the odds were of running into the same Hollywood hulk twice in one day.

“Forgive me if I was rude earlier. And please allow me to properly introduce myself. I'm Noel Holden.” He extended his hand.

“Gladyss Chronou,” I replied, although part of me wanted to ask him something—like if he'd really had sex with Britney Spears, as one gossip column had recently implied. We shook hands briefly and I pulled my coat tightly around me.

“So you're dating that other cop?” he asked.

“No, but…”

“All I was suggesting is that we grab a quick coffee.”

If I hadn't spent the whole day looking forward to a late night yoga class, I would've agreed. As a compromise, I said, “I'm walking
back to my precinct. Instead of getting coffee, why don't you walk with me and we can talk.”

“Sounds good,” he replied.

Aside from the novel sensation of being with a celebrity, it struck me as odd that Holden just happened to be lingering outside a murder scene. As Detective Farrell had reminded me, it was something that murderers have been known to do.

As we carefully walked the dark and icy streets to the precinct, he asked me a slew of questions: Where was I born . . . and raised . . . and educated. Did I have a boyfriend . . . a girlfriend? Had I ever dated another girl?

“Why don't we talk about you for a while?” I finally interrupted.

“Sure,” he said, and without any further prompting gave a quick rundown of his film and TV work. He didn't say anything about his high-profile romances that were eternally being gossiped about, but I was aware for the first time that juicy tidbits of his life had been slipped into my memory anyway, almost against my will, thanks to the media machine.

And I now had some insight into my neighbor's skittish mind, and even an inkling about how Maggie could be deluded into thinking that just because she had learned intimate details of some celebrities' lives, a sentimental osmosis had mysteriously occurred: She must've thought that they had come to know, and more specifically care, about her.

Finally Noel got to his current endeavor, a crime flick called
Fashion Dogs
. It was his twelfth starring film, he told me; it costarred Venezia Ramada and was directed by Crispin Marachino. He told me he was meeting the two of them shortly, then talked about his role in the new film.

“Let me get this straight,” I said, after listening to his summary of the plot. “You play a male fashion model who is also an undercover cop?”

“He's only an
amateur
model,” Noel said earnestly.

“Oh,
that
sounds likely,” I said. Cops were notoriously unfashionable.

“Actually, Crispin has got me doing the catwalk for Anton Rocmarni during Fashion Week to publicize the movie.”

“Wow.”

“I just read in the newspaper that they finally convicted the Green River Killer after all these years,” he said out of the blue.

“Yeah, I read about that too.”

“He killed forty-eight hookers in the 80s and only just got caught 'cause of DNA testing.”

“I heard he pled to forty-nine murders. Did he get sentenced yet?”

“Yeah, it was a plea bargain, life imprisonment.” He sounded almost gleeful. “Forty-nine murdered girls and not even the death penalty.”

“That is unbelievable.” Sentencing in America did frequently seem arbitrary.

“The thing is: forty-nine murders and suddenly he just stops? I mean he hasn't murdered anyone in nearly twenty years.” Noel said blithely. “God, he must have been attending Murderers Anonymous meetings to keep from making it a round fifty.”

I could've pointed out that the killer actually claimed he'd killed many more than fifty women. Instead I said, “I find it a little distressing that you find that so amusing.”

“Come on, this country is obsessed with crime. It's entertainment.
Law & Order
and all those shows are huge. Isn't that one of the reasons you became a cop?”