Gladyss of the Hunt (31 page)

“Bernie, the knife in the jpeg photo of the Hansen murder is not the one we found at O'Flaherty's place. It has a completely different kind of handle.”

He sighed.

“Also: it's a poor man's facelift.”

“What is?”

“The adhesive residue on Caty's Duffy's face.”

I showed him the emailed image. “See, she looks younger in the jpeg than in the autopsy photos. That's 'cause he taped her face back.” I held up the two photos for him to compare.”

“Holy shit! But why?”

I felt slightly vindicated, since he had spotted (and I had initially missed) the differences between the jpegs we'd been sent of Jane Hansen's murder scene and the crime scene as we found it. I had no answer for his question. Solving the other killings would have to wait for another day.

I wished him a good night, put on my hat, scarf, and coat, and walked outside. A crowd of reporters and cameramen filled the street like a hostile surprise party, starving for any further news on the Blonde Hooker Killer. I retreated back in and went out the rear exit and walked east to Eighth Avenue. I was still too frazzled to deal with yoga and meditation. As I walked down street after street, I couldn't turn off that perpetual loop of film in my head, reliving being beaten and terrorized in that filthy fucking elevator.

I kept recalling the sensation of O'Flaherty's knobbly hand shoving its way down the front of my pants and his grimy fingernails ripping into my crotch. The only memory that could push it out was that of the moment when I felt my gun's muzzle pressed to my skull and that bladder-releasing click that I was sure would be the last sound I'd ever hear.

A van turned sharply in front of me, nearly running over my toes. I punched the side of it and screamed, “FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!” If the driver had stopped to argue, I'm sure I would've pulled my Glock. When I reached the next corner I stopped and took some deep, steady breaths, telling myself,
You are above this
.

When I arrived home, I started surfing the Internet looking for more stuff about Greek mythology, something that might explain the coincidences I'd spotted between the Nessus/Hercules myth and what I'd just learned about Nessun O'Flaherty and Bert Kelly. The closest I could come up with was something about a theory of archetypes developed by the psychoanalyst Carl Jung. Apparently he believed that different types of personality recurred through the ages, and he used certain myths to categorize these character types. But none of them really shed much light on my concerns.

As I was reading further, I heard rapping on the wall and Maggie shouting, “Gladyss! Turn to Channel Two!” When I turned the TV on, Leeza Gibbons of
Entertainment Tonight
was beginning her news piece:

“A scandal of epic Hollywood proportions spilled onto the red carpet today during the premiere of
Fashion Dogs
. It had begun earlier this week when movie starlet and disinherited heiress Venezia Ramada turned up in a sex video that has gone viral on the Internet.
But scandal turned to scuffle when her co-star Noel Holden and her fiancé, the film's director Crispin Marachino, exchanged blows when the two met at the grand opening.”

The onscreen footage showed a reporter approaching some young starlet who was strutting between velvet ropes. The garbled sound of two men yelling could be heard in the background. The camera swung around and slowly focused on Crispin, who was squaring off against Noel. The taller, more muscular leading man gave his director a poke in the belly, which sent him to the ground. Others raced over to separate the celebrity pugilists.

“Oh shit!” Maggie said, entering my apartment and seeing my checkered face. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Shush!” I said, swept up in the story.

“Although neither party explained why punches were thrown, rumors flew back and forth about whether Venezia's unidentified partner in the sex video was either Noel Holden or Crispin Marachino. However, such reports were quickly denied by spokesmen for both camps. After the premiere, a red-eyed Venezia was seen getting into Holden's limo.” As Leeza said this, they showed footage of Noel and Venezia kissing passionately in the back of a shiny white vehicle.

As the show headed to commercial, Maggie asked again, “So who the hell hit you?”

“I got into a fight with the murderer.”

“Wow, are you okay?”

“Yeah, but that's the least of it,” I began.

Before I could say another word, she ran to my desk and sat at my laptop. “Let's see which one's nailing Venezia.” She was Googling the sex tape.

“They've both dated her,” I replied, closing the lid. “So why does it matter?”

“Crispin would've told me if he'd done it,” she said.

I remembered being woken up a few nights ago and hearing the director's grating voice accompanied by her shouts coming through her wall. Since this was the first time she had confessed to their being together, I asked, “So when did you two start seeing each other?”

“After that party at Miriam's house, he escorted me home. We've dated a couple of times since.”

Though the guy struck me as kind of sleazy, I really didn't mind.
But I was pissed at myself for feeling jealous at the sight of Noel kissing Venezia. I'd only agreed to see him in the first place because I thought he might be the murderer, and it was clearly dumb of me to have gotten involved any deeper. Oddly, it was all because of Tinkerman. If the old animal doctor hadn't hung himself, leaving me feeling guilty and vulnerable on that particular night, I would never have let my defenses down and gone to Noel's apartment. Right then and there, I decided to end things with the flaky movie star.

Maggie said she had to see the Venezia tape for herself and went back to her apartment.

The effect of the painkillers I'd been given at the hospital the previous night had thinned out sufficiently that my facial bruises were starting to throb. Stupidly I hadn't bothered to fill the scripts the doctor had given me, and I couldn't face going out again tonight. I took a big swig of vodka and lay down in bed. But the alcohol only sped up my system and made me flush. Unable to watch TV, or call Noel, the asshole, I broke down and got my laptop. Unable to resist, I found a web site offering Venezia's pornographic performance, and after paying with my VISA card, I watched the brief, poorly lit footage of a faceless male having frantic sex with the brainless starlet. It might've been Noel but I couldn't be sure.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“You are legally required to take a few days off.”

I got up the next morning to find Bernie had left a message on my voice mail. It went on: “You're listed as injured. If O'Flaherty finds out you were back at work the next morning, he can use it in court to argue that he never really assaulted you.”

He was right. I needed to calm down and heal. Recalling the Renunciate's advice, I went through my wardrobe in search of red clothing. My root chakra desperately needed grounding. Before I'd located more than a pair of crimson socks, my cell chimed. It was the great star of stage, screen and credit-card-accessible Internet, calling from an eastbound plane to ask if I'd heard about the runway fiasco at the premiere of
Fashion Dogs
.

“Yeah,” I said trying not to sound like I cared too much. “So whose prick is starring in the Venezia video?”

“Oh, you don't think—”

“I'm just asking. I mean, I saw you get into a fistfight with Crispin.”

“It was totally bogus,” he said in a whisper. “The son of a bitch orchestrated the whole thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don't think it's a coincidence that the sex tape happened to hit the Internet just before the film premiered, do you? It was all a publicity stunt.”

“You're kidding.”

“What I don't know is whether Venezia's career will survive this. If anything, she was the injured party. I mean, I found the whole thing vulgar. But she's always so out of it, she doesn't seem to know or care.”

“So you didn't sleep with her?”

“Of course I slept with her. I told you about it.”

“But you weren't in the video?”

“Hell no.”

“Did you sleep with her this weekend?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I don't understand how getting into a fight with your director makes good publicity.”

“Well
you
heard about it. It got top billing in all the tabloids. And after all, the plot of
Fashion Dogs
is about a love triangle between the three of us. It's all about trying to make people believe that whatever happens up on the screen is really happening on the street.”

“Why did you have to make out with Venezia in the car?” That had looked incredibly genuine to me.

“We didn't make out. She was crying and I was consoling her. I told you, we still have to appear to be together for the movie. Remember?”

Of course I remembered, but I was still jealous.

“But I also have to show that I'm still best buddies with Crispin tonight, when we're all at this ridiculous fashion thing, the Rocmarni show. Both Venezia and I will be on the catwalk. Why don't you come by? We can hook up afterwards.”

“I don't know if you'd want to be seen with me. I got a little bruised up yesterday,” I said.

“What happened?”

“If you'd flipped from the gossip page you would've read that we caught the Blonde Hooker Killer two days ago.”

“I didn't have time to read anything. Tell me what happened.”

“We were on a stakeout. The place was freezing so I went out to get coffee and as I was coming back the asshole jumped me from behind.”

“You're kidding me!”

“He knocked me down just as the elevator door closed. I was stuck fighting him alone in there for like ten minutes, and—”

“Oh my God! Are you okay?”

“I got punched a couple times and scalded with coffee, and then he put my pistol to my head and pulled the trigger.”

“
You are fucking kidding!
”

“He missed, but the long and short of it is, I don't think I'm ready for any public appearances.”

“Come on, you
have
to be there.” He really sounded as though he wanted to see me. “Maggie will help you, won't she.”

“Maggie?”

“Yeah, Crispin said he invited her.”

I sighed. “What time is the show?”

“Eight o'clock.” It's at Bryant Park. I'll make sure there's a ticket waiting for you at the door.” Even as I wrote down the details, I wondered what the hell I was doing.

I spent the entire morning sitting at home, trying to relax. Shallow breaths, calm visualizations, soothing teas, red (well, off-red) clothing—nothing was helping. When I wasn't reliving my near execution, or fingernail rape, I found myself obsessing about whether Noel had actually cheated on me with that silicone-upholstered tramp.

At 2 p.m. I got dressed and again went to the precinct. When I walked into Bernie's office he was talking to Barry.

“Are you deaf, girl! Bernie shouted. “I told you,
you have the fucking day off!
Get the hell out of here!” He started coughing.

“Relax, no one will know. I'm going batty just sitting at home.”

“Shit!” He took a hit from his Ventolin inhaler. He needed a break much more than I did. The stakeout that night in O'Flaherty's meat-locker must've given him pneumonia.

“Okay, you're here cause you left something at work,” Bernie said, giving me an instant alibi. “But think of something specific just in case he finds out, 'cause I guarantee he'll ask you that in court.”

With that technicality covered, Bernie confirmed what we already knew. The prelims had come back, and although we had no fiber, hair, or prints that connected him to any of the crime scenes, the blood on his knife was enough to pin four of the six murders on him. As I expected, neither Jane's nor Caty's DNA was on the blade. What's more, O'Flaherty had solid alibis for the nights of those two murders.

Bernie took yet another squirt from his inhaler, then continued. “O'Flaherty claimed that when he first realized someone else was mimicking his M.O., he tried to quit his little murder spree and let the new guy take the fall. Ultimately though, he just couldn't stop himself. They never can.”

“That's probably why he started binge drinking,” Barry threw in.

“The thing that's weird is that our new killer has put his own spin on the murders,” Bernie said. “He's taping up their arms and legs, and carving the old numbers on them, but he's getting girls with bigger boobies, he's taking them to more upscale hotels, and he's leaving their heads
on
while slicing their tits
off
.”

“And he's posting pictures of what he's doing,” I added.

“Yeah. See, that's what I was talking about. O'Flaherty is old school, he wouldn't do any bullshit like that.”