Gladyss of the Hunt. Arthur Nersesian
read you that two were a hot item.”
“She’ll be here in a moment,” he said. “You can ask her yourself. Bear in mind that most of my life is little more than a publicity stunt. But here’s a scoop”—he spoke very slowly as though to underscore that this was reality—“Movie star Noel Holden is asking you on a date.”
“How very Notting Hill.”
“Come on,” he pleaded. “You can keep trying to figure out if I killed that lady.”
“Who said the vic was a woman?”
“You got me!” he said, putting his wrists together as though I were going to cuff him, “And I’m glad you did, otherwise I never would’ve met you.”
Two beautiful teenage girls who’d just walked past us suddenly stopped, conferred, then raced back to Noel, asking for a photo with him. One of them had a cellphone with a camera built into it—the first I had seen.
What made me finally relent and agree to see him again was the strange, admittedly remote notion that I might actually be talking to another in a growing group of celebrity killers. He had been in the area of the murder today; he might have had the opportunity, depending on how his flight details checked out, the time of death, and so on; and he seemed to have a fetishistic knowledge of serial murders.
It wasn’t always that easy to verify a suspect’s alibi; prints and DNA were much more reliable. Somehow I needed to get a sample of Noel’s gorgeous hair and his fingerprints, or until we caught this guy I’d keep wondering if the matinee idol was our man.
“It’s going to be a blast,” he said, referring to the “pre-premiere” party he’d just invited me to.
“Okay, but I have to be in bed by eleven—alone.”
“In that case I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Fine.”
A bright red Lincoln Town Sedan pulled up at the corner of Thirty-sixth and Ninth and started honking. We walked over to it. A smaller, uglier version of Noel was sitting in the back seat. Crispin Marachino.
“And there they are,” Noel said. “Can we drop you off somewhere?”
“I’m already there,” I said, pointing down the block. Abruptly a shaggy blond creature stuck her large bright head out the car window. Just as Noel had said, it was the shameless heiress Venezia Ramada.
“So where exactly do you live?” he asked, “Can I pick you up for the party?”
Instead of giving him my address, I said I’d meet him on the southwest corner of 16th Street and Sixth Avenue.
“You’ll be picked up in one of these silly cars,” he said pointing to the Lincoln.
“Who’s the dominatrix?” asked the unattractive director from the back seat.
“This is Police Detective Gladyss. She’s coming as my date to Miriam’s party,” Noel said.
“You’re a stunner,” Crispin shot back. “Want to be in my next film?”
“No, but I have a neighbor . . .”
“Where’d you get that get-up?” Venezia interrupted.
“I wear it for work.”
“Shit, you’re a real cop?”
“Have you ever had to draw your gun?” Crispin asked earnestly.
“No, but I sketched a knife once,” I trotted out the old joke. He looked at me severely, so I gave him a smaller lie. “I just got assigned to homicide and I’m working on my first murder case.”
“Who was murdered?” he asked.
“A hooker.”
“She was murdered last night at a hotel on Forty-second,” Noel pitched in. “Just a few blocks from here.”
Crispin’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped slightly. “Oh my God! I was just reading about two blonde hookers who were strangled around here over the past month.”
“Where’d you read that?” It reminded me of my fear that the fake detective had in fact been a reporter.
“I forget which paper.”
“ I’ll see you next week at Miriam’s party,” Noel said, trying to wrap things up.
“Wait, you’re taking her to Miriam’s investors party?” Venezia asked in a little girl voice.
“Unless you’re still dating him?” I spoke up, since he’d said I could ask.
“Tell her it’s only for appearances,” Noel shot back to Venezia.
“I’m carrying his baby,” the heiress instantly responded.
Crispin focused an expensive-looking camera on me and quickly snapped a flurry of photos. Noel finally got in the back of the car, said he was looking forward to our date next week, and the whole loony crew sailed away.
I had walked about ten steps when I saw Eddie O’Ryan standing in front of Midtown South, dressed in street clothes, staring at me.
“Did I mention that any man named Noel has got to be a fag?”
“Did you just see me with him?” I asked, happy that someone had witnessed it.
“I was waiting to tell you that I’m sorry,” he said. I saw that he was holding a wilted rose.
“You should apologize to him.”
“Actually I was talking about the whole New Year’s Eve fiasco.” It was the first time he had brought it up, but it was a month too late.
“I just don’t know why you never called me back.”
“Because I felt like an idiot, and I figured a little break wasn’t so bad. I was trying to be cautious.”
“Well, we still have time,” I replied. He was a little awkward, it was true, and every cop I had ever gotten to know seemed to have serious intimacy issues—but O’Ryan was still hot compared to most of them.
“You’re not really going on a date with him, are you?” he said, absently handing me the rose.
“Actually, I have reason to suspect he might be the murderer,” I explained, as he walked with me toward the precinct.
“Give me a break,” O’Ryan said, pausing at the door.
“CSI got prints and hair follicles from the first two crime scenes. I’ll just collect some samples and run them. Make sure he wasn’t there.”
“You should clear it with command first.”
“How do you know I haven’t already?” I was tired of his authority crap.
He walked away without another word, so I went inside. There I vouchered the key to the hotel room, and the desk sergeant had me fill out an overtime form. Then I changed and headed to the last yoga class of the day.
I had first taken yoga in college and immediately got hooked. Though the practice was thousands of years old, and had been developed by holy men who could never have imagined my crazed existence on the other side of the world, it was perfectly designed to help with the stresses of modern life.
The studio I frequented now was a cozy little hole-in-the-wall place directly across the street from my house, which specialized in an ancient variety of yoga called Kundalini. I had chosen it because of its convenience, but I was a little skeptical about it at first. The guy who ran the place was more like a mystic—a strange, hairy, barefoot creature who looked like he’d escaped from the pages of a Maurice Sendak book. The first time I stepped into his tiny studio, I asked him what Kundalini meant.
“There is an immense reservoir of energy that lies dormant inside