Gladyss of the Hunt (5 page)

He had a point.

“Would you mind if I asked you some professional questions?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Like why were you having lunch at DiCarlo's at nine this morning?”

“It was closer to ten, and I was hungry.”

“It looked like you were finishing a dinner.”

“You know, as a movie actor I can have all the sex, drugs, and rock & roll that I want, but I can't eat a thing. I basically have to starve myself. But every so often I lose it and go on a binge.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. And this morning I totally lost it.”

“Something to share at your Overeaters Anonymous meeting.”

“No, all the food comes out of the same hole it goes in, usually within the hour.”

“Oh God, really?”

“If you repeat that, I'll deny it.”

“What sets off your binges?” I asked.

“Guilt,” he said earnestly. “Profound guilt . . . but also they have great food there.”

“Guilt over what?”

“Only my priest will ever know that.”

“What were you doing across the street just now?”

“Now?”

“Yeah, a few minutes ago, when you saw me. What were you doing there?”

“I just withdrew some money from the ATM on the corner.”

“You don't still have the receipt, do you?”

He pulled off a glove and started rummaging through the pockets of his overcoat. Although I was suspicious of him, I was also curious to see how far I could push him before he'd tell me to fuck off. To my surprise he produced the ATM receipt. It was for a two hundred dollar withdrawal, timed about a minute before we met.

“Where were you last night?” I asked, figuring that had to be when the murderer had completed his bloody sculpture.

“On an airplane over the Atlantic, coming back from a shoot in Barcelona.”

“What airline? And can you tell me the flight number?” I asked calmly.

“Wow!” he finally burst out laughing. “Am I really a suspect?”

“At this point everyone is,” I replied, doing my best Jack Webb.

He smiled, took out his cell phone, and read off all the travel information I asked for while I busily scribbled it all down.

“Now it's my turn,” he said. “What crime were you investigating?”

“There was a murder in that hotel you saw me leaving.” I said, giving him the bare outline.

“I didn't even know it was a hotel.”

A chirping sound indicated someone was trying to call him. Taking out his cell phone, he stepped toward the streetlight and told the caller exactly where he was. Now his face was brightly lit, I could see a faint scratch on his chin. It might have happened during his tussle with O'Ryan this morning—or maybe it had been inflicted by the victim? He chatted softly for a minute then flipped his phone closed.

“I know this sounds awful,” he said, “but Crispin and Venezia are right around the corner, and we're supposed to go to the North Pole.”

“Where's that?” I asked.

When he pointed uptown, I realized he was referring to
the
North Pole.

“I thought you were talking about some new dance club.”

“It's a good name for one. I'll have to tell my club promoter friend.”

“Why are you going there?”

“Advance publicity shots for
Fashion Dogs
.”

“The North Pole?”

“Yeah, and then about half a dozen cities in Europe. I get back next Monday for a big pre-premiere party that the E.P. is throwing. Would you accompany me?”

“Aren't you dating Venezia Ramada?”

“Not really.”

“I 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 each of us,” he said intensely. “Most people die without ever even knowing about it. We teach you techniques—exercise, breathing,
mantras—to unleash and direct that untapped power.”

“What kind of power?”

“The Kundalini is a snake of psychic energy that is coiled at the base of your spine, in your
Abadabado
. When awakened it soars up your body and into your crown chakra.”

“So you become like a superman?”

“It's psychic power.”

“What do you mean by psychic?” To me the word evoked fortune tellers and con men.

“I can introduce you to people who will gladly testify that after following our practice they've developed enhanced powers in everything from clairvoyance to telekinesis.”

“But if I do your yoga, will I work up a good sweat?”

“Absolutely. And our first class is free.”

“As long as it keeps me fit,” I thought. And after the first, strenuous class, I got a discount for ten more sessions.

To the usual yoga poses and moves my new teacher added a whole regimen of stomach rolls, breathing moves, and strange sways that were intended to awaken my sleeping serpent. During the class, he also gave lengthy instructions on how to direct my consciousness. Since he frequently spoke in broken Sanskrit, I never knew exactly what he was talking about, but as long as I was staying fit I didn't mind.

The guy had some crazy-ass name I could never hope to pronounce, though it sounded like
Oogabooga
. Under a lot of long, twisted hair, he was actually a handsome guy in his late thirties who, I discovered, had one day given up his law practice and his family and devoted himself entirely to eating wilted celery stalks and teaching yoga. Since he truly seemed to have renounced all worldly belongings for the sake of inner peace, I simply thought of him as the Renunciate.

Over the following months, as others joined and left his classes, the Renunciate started focusing on me.