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.
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
