Gladyss of the Hunt (42 page)

“Look at his record. Over the past few years, Holden's roles have
gotten increasingly mainstream. He's been cultivating a more wholesome image. You probably know more than I do, but I'm guessing he met Venezia a while ago at one of those booze-fueled Hollywood parties. He beds this nutjob, and I'm guessing she'd set up a webcam and filmed the two of them bumping uglies.”

I was too embarrassed to tell Bernie the whole weird truth—that Noel had actually slept with Venezia as an act of revenge against Crispin, who had previously slept with
his
girl.

“. . . Next thing he knows,” Bernie continued, “he can't get rid of her. She's now his best friend's girlfriend.” Again Bernie had the chronology wrong, but I guess it didn't matter.

“If she was one of the little people, he could probably ignore her, but she's an heiress, if a disinherited one, and she becomes this low-grade celebrity, she's in movies now, and Crispin is getting her through all the same velvet ropes and into the celebrity bashes he attends. I mean, he's got to be thinking, this is worse than extortion. Not only can I not pay off this bitch, but she's nailing my buddy. Next thing he knows, she's uploaded her little fuck tape of the two of them going at it. I mean, this is the kind of shit that can cost a mainstream star his career, Remember Fatty Arbuckle!”

“So you think the sex tape was his trigger?” I asked, cutting to the chase.

“I think he didn't know how to get rid of her. He'd probably known she had the footage for some time, but he didn't know what she was going do with it.”

“But why wouldn't he have killed her
before
she brought the tape out?” I asked. “I mean, you've got a point—if that is him in the film and he didn't want the tape to come out. But now the damage has been done and the reason is clear.”

“I think he stumbled over you, Gladyss. He found out about these pre-existing murders, and that's when he planned it. Tossed down a couple of girls to lay the groundwork—girls with similar, uh, physical attributes to Venezia, of not quite on the same scale. Then, before he can off Venezia as well, the fucking tape comes out! Nevertheless, he sticks with his plan . . .”

“It's too farfetched,” I said. “I mean, who's going to go through all this just to kill that bimbo? He could've done it a lot quicker and easier out west a month ago.”

“Still, he had opportunity, motive—”

“You really think this sex tape is sufficient motive for three violent murders? Look at all the actors today who have survived crazy sex scandals, not to mention those who've appeared buck naked on film. Even if they could ID his dick, that tape on its own would hardly cause a ripple in his career.”

“Thank you, rookie,” he said, reverting to his old condescending self.

“Look, you're forgetting that I do have access to him. I was with him the day after the sex tape hit the Internet. He was genuinely amused by it all. In fact, he spent the evening consoling Venezia, who appeared to be truly upset.”

“Which would be the smart thing to do if you hated someone and didn't want to draw attention to the fact that you're about to cut them into little pieces.”

“But why would he kill Venezia
after
we caught O'Flaherty? And if he was trying to blend into the O'Flaherty MO, why would he introduce the whole Marilyn thing?”

“We're still filling in some of the blanks, but the main thing is: he left Venezia's hotel room just
before
she was found murdered.”

“You better have a strong case,” I said, “because you can bet that he's going to assemble a team of lawyers that will rival O.J.'s.”

“Oh, one more thing! Forensic went back to the evidence collected at the Jane Hansen crime scene, and they found a hair that matched Holden's.”

I didn't say anything. I had gone to that crime scene directly from my date with Noel. Even if he'd left the hair behind after committing the murder, a crack defense team would spot that connection and claim I had inadvertently brought it with me on my clothes. I took a deep breath as I could already see how this was going to have a serious backlash on my career.

“He's a big celebrity! Wouldn't he have been spotted going into the hotel?” I argued.

“He's an actor,” Bernie replied.” He knows about costume, makeup. He knows how to take on a role. Is acting like an innocent man so difficult?”

“I could see him committing a crime of impulse, maybe. But you're saying he researched O'Flaherty's case and then elaborately,
patiently built on it?”

“Maybe that's why he was getting close to you, so he could milk you for inside information on the killings. Ever think of that?”

Instead of trying to convey to Bernie how insulting that insinuation was, I asked if Noel had confessed to anything.

“Other than seeing her dead body and running away, no.”

“So what happens now?”

“He's in Central Booking, awaiting a bail hearing. The DA is trying to hold him in custody, but he's got lawyers working to get him released.”

“This is crazy.”

“We've checked his alibis, Gladyss. It's tight, but he was actually in town for the first two murders. Oh, also Alex traced a call that Holden placed around the time that the Jane Hansen photos were uploaded at the Midtown Manhattan library. It was made only blocks away from there, at his publicist's office.”

“I can't believe all this is happening.”

“Hey, you were the first to suspect him, remember?”

“Yeah and I ruled him out.”

“Yeah, for O'Flaherty's murders. This is why I've got over twenty years in this job, you had just over twenty days.”

He was right—it had been incredibly cocky of me to presume that Eddie and I could handle that by ourselves. Bernie could probably see me blushing, because he added, “Hey, you'd feel a lot more foolish if you'd woken up with him strangling you.”

When I walked out of Bernie's office, I could feel the stares of all the other cops pressing against me. At that moment I felt responsible for the brutal deaths of three women. How could I ever have hoped to be a homicide detective? There was no way I'd be able to live this down.

Looking at the wall clock, I realized that it was later than I'd thought. To have any chance of making it on time for my eye surgery I had to leave right now. When I reached the front door I saw there was a mob of reporters outside. I tried exiting through the back door, but the gatekeeper had locked down the metal gate and vanished. So I buttoned up my coat, pulled my scarf up over my face, and yanked my little knit cap down over my hair. A trio of suits who were listening to a fourth were just leaving, so I tagged close behind. I stayed
right on their heels and listened in as their leader talked about dollars and cents.

As the quartet pushed through the cluster of photographers and reporters, I saw him standing along the outer fringe, the cub reporter Bernie had given the frigid timeout. Before my little group had made it halfway down the block, I heard the kid scream, “That's her! The sex cop!” Turning around, I saw a small platoon of reporters charging forward like a disorganized swat team, wielding video cameras and boom mics.

As we reached Ninth Avenue, I pulled open the door of a cab as it was still moving, and we sped down Thirty-fourth and up Eighth to the eye clinic. As the taxi headed uptown, I couldn't help but think that my plainclothes days were over. Regardless of any disciplinary action that might follow, the worst thing for me was that every detective on the force would undoubtedly hear about the bimbo rookie who had an affair with the serial murderer she was supposed to be investigating. I'd be stuck directing traffic at the Holland Tunnel for the rest of my working life.

And even if none of this happened, I'd still be back in my uniform blues next week, pounding the icy pavement with O'Ryan, who in his quiet, dysfunctional way would never let me live this down.

When I arrived at the clinic, the receptionist asked if I had an escort to take me home after the procedure. Yesterday, at the fashion show, it had actually crossed my mind to ask Noel if he'd do it, because it seemed like a boyfriendly thing to do. Now I lied and said my mother was going to pick me up downstairs.

The nurse gave me a Valium and a cup of water and told me to relax. Because I knew I'd have to get home on my own, I bit it in two and swallowed one half, discreetly slipping the other into my pocket. My thoughts immediately began to drift. No matter how hard I tried to imagine the gruesome details, I could not envision Noel strangling and mutilating those women.

Some time later I was brought into the operating room, placed in a big chair that folded down flat, and slipped under a large machine. The nurse fitted a brace around my chin, and then the eye doctor slipped a cold metal suction cup over my right eyeball. It was unbelievably uncomfortable. He fiddled around with some controls, then he pushed a button and zapped my eye. Then he repeated the
procedure on my left eye. Immediately I realized I could still see to some extent, but that didn't stop the nurse from slapping large bandages over my eyes.

“Go home and rest,” he said. “Just take it easy for the next seventy-two hours, and no physical activity for a while until your eyes fully heal and your vision is clear.”

I was escorted to the reception area out front to wait for my fake ride. When the receptionist was occupied answering the phone, I discreetly peeled off the adhesive bandages and slipped on my welder's glasses. Through the window, the street looked streaked and blurry. When I saw a large, jellyfish-like person passing out front, I said “There's my Mom!” and dashed for the door.

I walked until I was out of view and waved my hands wildly until a cab stopped. When he'd driven me down to my place on Sixteenth Street. I handed him a twenty and, since I was unable to read the meter, told him to keep the change. I opened my front door, and instead of chancing the elevator, I grabbed the banister tightly and walked up the stairs to my apartment. Once I was safely inside and all alone, I locked my door, put on the little security chain, and stripped. Although it was still early, I felt woozy and just wanted to sleep. Tomorrow I would start thinking about the possibility of finding a new career. I lay down and quickly dozed off, only to be awakened some time later by a sharp knocking on my neighbor's apartment door.

“Maggie, it's me.” I recognized Crispin's voice in the hallway. “You okay in there?”

I heard her door open, and instantly there was a short scuffle, followed by a cry, then
boom!
The next thing I heard was her front door opening and slamming shut again. As I pulled on my clothes, I envisioned Crispin attacking Maggie. Feeling absurdly confident because I'd been able to make it home unassisted, I fumbled for my Clock then went and tried Maggie's door. Locked. I went back into my apartment and called 911. I told them I was a police officer, gave my address, and asked for immediate backup.

I planned to wait for them, because my vision was still foggy, but then I heard a muffled scream. Fearing Maggie was in danger, I located the spare key she'd given me, and used it to safely unlock her door. When I pushed it open, I saw a blurry form that had to be
her lying slumped on the floor. The TV was on, but the volume was turned way down.

“Maggie!” I yelled at her. She didn't budge. I knelt and tried to find a pulse in her neck with one hand, while holding my pistol in the other. I couldn't quite figure it out, but she seemed to be in an odd position, and was wet; it smelled like fruit juice. On the floor was an empty plastic jug and lying next to Maggie was a large, black book, face open. When I stooped to peer at it closely I saw that it was her Bible. Even with my limited vision, I could see that a cavity had been carved into the pages. I was trying to figure out what could have been hidden inside when a heavy blow from behind sent me sprawling, and I blacked out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Gladyss!”

I came around slowly . . . to complete and total darkness! When I finally pulled myself off the floor I saw absolutely nothing. I was totally blind.

“My fucking eyes!”

I heard a tense male voice say “Gladyss, talk to me. What's the situation?”

It was O'Ryan, somewhere behind me.

“Eddie!”

“Where is he?” O'Ryan asked softly.

“I can't see!”

“What do you mean?”

“I just had an eye operation . . .”

I tried not to panic.

“. . . and he hit me . . . and now I'm . . . I'M FUCKING BLIND!”

“Fuck! Let me see!”

I felt his hands nervously hold my head and tilt it back. He must've been staring into my eyes.

“Did you call for backup?”

“Before I came in.”

“Your eyes look fine. Just stay calm. Backup should be here in a minute, along with an ambulance.” He ran his fingers across the back of my head.

“Ow! What the fuck!”

“You have a bloody contusion.” I had my hands cupped over my eyes, hoping and praying that my sight would flip back on, like a light switch being thrown.