their bodies to someone who might’ve loved them. After us, it’s usually Potter’s Field.”
Back at the precinct, Bernie had us divvy up a comprehensive list of all Manhattan escort services. Stationed next to a phone, each of us worked our way down our part of the list. Speaking to the madam, or the manager, we explained that a serial murderer was on the loose. If any new johns asked for a tall, blonde-haired gal, we needed to be notified immediately, while the john was still waiting. Grateful that we weren’t going after them, the purveyors of women were usually pleased to oblige.
“Bring some kind of sexy outfit with you on Monday,” Bernie said to me as I was leaving for the weekend.
“Is that a joke?”
“That’s why we got you, remember? Just keep the outfit in your locker, so if the killer calls you can throw it on.”
As I was walking out of the building, looking forward to a seven o’clock yoga class, I heard, “So how’s your big case coming?”
O’Ryan had just finished his shift as well. I told him we’d had no breakthroughs and asked how he was coping without me.
“They got me paired up with Lenny Lobotomy,” he said as we walked south together. I didn’t mention that I had seen them on patrol earlier.
“Are you getting along with him?”
“Oh yeah, he’s great. He’s offered to set me up on a date with his neighbor.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, but I am kind of seeing someone.”
“Really? Who?”
“A girl.” He obviously didn’t want to be more specific. “But it’s all still up in the air. Anyway what’s up with your case?”
“Well,” I said trying not to sound distressed, “We’re setting some traps.”
“That’s right, you’re blond pross bait,” he said. “Nervous?”
“Not really.” Then remembering my homework that night as we approached my building, I figured I might have another shot with O’Ryan. “Actually I have to find something sexy to wear for the stakeout.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Wanna help?” I asked trying to sound seductive.
“How?”
I simply pointed into my apartment and opening the door, he followed me inside. As we headed up the stairs, I was shaking my ass in front of him, but instead of trying anything, he was busy recounting Bernard Kerik’s meteoric rise to police commissioner.
“In 1994, he totally lucked out by getting posted to Giuliani’s protective detail . . .” On and on he went. Little could O’Ryan guess at the time that in just a few short years, Kerik’s stunning career would end with him being sentenced to four years in federal prison.
When we reached my landing, Maggie’s door abruptly flew open. I could see her eyes widen instantly at the dimwitted hulk following me.
“Eddie, this is Maggie,” I introduced them.
He nodded coolly. Maggie batted her long lashes and continued downstairs, probably to meet her non-boyfriend/bartender Rick. In a moment we were alone inside my place. I grabbed some clothes and dashed into the bathroom.
“So your neighbor’s a little hottie,” he said from the bedroom as I slipped into a corduroy miniskirt and skimpy halter top I’d bought but never had the nerve to wear.
“How does this look?” I asked, standing before him, revealing far more than I ever recalled doing before.
“Where are you going to hide your wire?”
“Thanks Eddie, you’re a real confidence builder.” The man was one frozen fish stick.
“Sorry,” he said, then looked awkwardly to the floor. “I think you’re beautiful. But my head’s still on the job.”
“Was your head on the job on New Year’s Eve, ’cause you made me feel like crap then too.”
“That was different,” he said.
“Not to me.”
“Can I make a confession?” he asked. “It might sound strange . . .”
As he usually was so guarded, I nervously nodded yes.
“That night something weird happened to me.”
“What night?”
“You know. . . New Year’s Eve.”
“What happened?”
“Well . . . this is really embarrassing, so I don’t want you to freak out or nothing.”
“I won’t freak.”
“After you mentioned your . . . circumstances”—he was awkwardly referring to my virginity—“I was trying to go slow, and then your brother called.”
“I remember.”
“And I thought it was odd that you chose the call over me.”
“I’m sorry, he hasn’t been doing well lately . . .”
“No, that’s okay. It when you showed me that photo of you and him, your twin . . .”
“Carl?”
“Yeah, it just kind of took the wind out of my sails, if you get my meaning.”
“What took the wind out of your sails?”
“Seeing that photo of the two of you side by side . . .”
“What about it?”
“Well, first telling me you were a virgin sort of knocked me out, but then afterwards, when he called and you showed me that photo. How can I explain, it was like seeing you as a . . . as a man.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“What, are you . . .”—I wasn’t even sure what to call it—“twinophobic?”
“No . . . I mean, if you had a twin sister it’d be hot.”
“So you’re homotwinphobic?”
“I don’t think so. I have gay friends. I just didn’t expect it. It kind of hit me out of left field.”
“But I already told you I was a twin.”
“I know you did. It was a spontaneous, visceral reaction and I’m truly sorry.”
What could I say?
“The
