I got back to my apartment roughly fifteen minutes later, and before I even had time to take off the Cinderella dress my cell started chirping. I answered without checking, assuming it was Noel asking what was wrong.
“Is this Officer Gladyss Chronou?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m a reporter for the Daily News. I’m calling to get confirmation that you and Noel Holden have officially split up.”
“How did you get my fucking number?”
“I don’t mean to be a pest. I just thought perhaps you’d want the opportunity to tell your side of the story.”
“Sure, here’s my side of the story.” I turned off my phone.
I stripped, lay down, and turned off the lights. I wanted to go to sleep, but I couldn’t get off that easily. I lay in bed alternately feeling used by a lying scumbag, and stupid for letting the most handsome and perfect man in the world slip away. Finally I tried watching TV, but I couldn’t get off this awful roller coaster of uncertainty. First I’d think that he really hadn’t done anything wrong, and whenever I envisioned his perfect face and sexy body, I’d feel myself go soft all over. The goddess Diana wasn’t weakened by frail human urges, but it shook the very core of my being to imagine life without him.
At nine the next morning, after only a few hours of shallow sleep, I heard frantic knocking at my front door. Before I could say anything, I heard Maggie call out, “Are you in there, Gladyss!”
She must have heard about my breakup with Noel. After a minute or so she stopped banging, and I tried to sleep some more. My eye surgery wasn’t until the afternoon. After about an hour of floating face up in a small pool of misery, I heard my doorbell buzz. My first thought—perhaps hope—was that it was Noel wanting to apologize. Then I realized it would just be another fucking reporter. Again I decided to wait it out. It would be just a matter of time before they left me alone. After five minutes of repeated buzzing, though, I finally looked out the window.
A RMP was parked out front.
“Hello?” I said into the intercom.
“Officer Chronou?”
I buzzed the patrolman in, but he buzzed back.
“Yes,” I said into the intercom.
“Detective Sergeant Farrell asked us to remain here until you got him on the phone. He’s at the precinct.”
“One second.” I turned my phone back on and called his direct line.
“Bernie?”
“Ah, Officer Sleeping Beauty,”
“Hold on.” Then I yelled into the intercom, “Okay, I’m on the phone with him. Thank you.”
“So why was I awakened by two uniforms on my day off? I’m all done with Homicide, remember?”
Suddenly my call waiting beeped.
“Get down here immediately,” he said.
“Am I in trouble?” I asked, half-fearing that someone in IAD was finally on to me—and only me.
“We arrested your boyfriend last night.”
“Who? What?”
“Noel Holden is in Central Booking.”
“What!’
“He killed Venezia Ramada and those others.”
“Venezia? And what others?”
“He’s our second killer, Gladyss.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Just get down here immediately. Oh, but you might want to disguise yourself. The entire Mickey Mouse fan club is camped out in front of the precinct and they’re asking for you.”
He hung up.
I couldn’t believe what he’d told me. Venezia dead? And Noel had killed her, as well as Jane Hansen and Caty Duffy? It was impossible. But obviously they’d arrested him. That explained the massive number of messages I now saw had accumulated in my voicemail. My next thought was that I didn’t want to miss my eye appointment, but it wasn’t until later in the day, so I got ready to leave for the precinct.
It was about five degrees outside, a good excuse for overdressing. Twenty minutes later, buried under layers of clothes with my hair piled under a knit cap, I saw for myself the three-ring circus parked outside the precinct and knew that someone would undoubtedly spot me, despite my disguise. I headed around the corner. On Thirty-sixth Street, the rear of the precinct was surrounded by blue wooden barricades. I passed the patrol cars and scooters parked in the driveway and went in through the garage. Some hard ass from the 1-9 stopped me. I showed him my badge, but he shook his head.
“Enter on Thirty-fifth,” he commanded.
“I can’t, it’s mobbed.”
“Well this ain’t the Bat Cave,” said the little shit.
“Do me a favor and call homicide. They’ll confirm that this is an extraordinary situation.”
He got on the phone and called Annie, describing me in unflattering terms. She told him to let me up pronto.
When I walked into the squad room, Alex silently held up a page from the Daily News that I hadn’t seen. It bore a photo of me walking out angry and dejected from Cithaeron’s last night. A few seconds of flashbulb fame seemed to cast twenty-four hour shadow. I smiled thinly and went into Bernie’s office.
“So what happened?”
“I got a personal call from the police commissioner this morning, asking about this.” He held up a New York Post story with the headline: NYPD ROOKIE DATING SERIAL MURDER STAR! Alongside it was a photo of Noel and me kissing on the steps of Bryant Park.
I couldn’t believe it. “What the fuck is going on?”
“You didn’t want to break up with him—okay, fine. But you told me you had checked the son of a bitch out, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well what the fuck did you do exactly?”
“Myself and another officer went to the airline that he took from Spain and confirmed that he was on the plane when the third murder happened.”
“So you checked out his alibi for one of O’Flaherty’s kills?”
“Yeah, but I also ran his prints against all—” I said, as I suddenly recalled that we were never able to actually check his alibi.
“Last night when I got home, you know what I did?” he replied with an angry smile. “I wasn’t completely shitfaced for once, so I sat at my computer and thought, Gee whiz, I wonder what would happen if I plugged Noel Holden’s name and Marilyn Monroe’s name into Google at the same exact time—and guess what came up?”
“What?”
“After a little surfing in the archives of some internet magazine called Suicidal Pearls, I located a long interview with Noel Holden. Apparently he played Joe DiMaggio in a TV movie of Marilyn Monroe in 1993. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“There’s nothing suspicious in that in itself, of course. He’s an actor. Actors get picked for roles. It just struck me as an odd coincidence.”
“Good, because I’m sure that’s all it was.”
Noel couldn’t butcher two women, I was convinced of that. Not because of any feelings on my part, I just couldn’t see him dealing with the huge mess.
“Then I noticed another odd coincidence. The producer credit on the biopic read Miriam Williams.”
“Well, that’s probably how they met.”
“Then I took the time to read the interview. In it Noel Holden said,” Bernie picked up a printout from his desk: “‘I used to believe Marilyn Monroe was my mother and that she gave me away. Not just because I was adopted, but because I was born at Los Angeles County Hospital’”—Bernie stressed the final words—“‘on the very day she was there to have her spleen removed.’ ”
“Holy shit!”
“Holy shit is fucking right. In fact, in one of the killer’s poems he referred to himself as a spleen.”
“So what are you saying? That he killed these women to get back at his phantom mother?” The whole thing sounded ridiculous.
“No, I think all the crazy shit was just to mislead us. He had other reasons to kill.”
“Like what?”
“Actually, that brings me back to what I read last night on the internet. Being a voyeuristic creep, I decided to have a gander at this Venezia sex flick. Have you seen it?”
“I was told you can’t see who the man is,” I said nervously.
“True, but you can see his penis. And it occurred to me that we’ve got someone right here on the force who might be able to ID the prick in a lineup.”
“Suppose it is Noel in the video? What would that prove?” I didn’t want to confess to having seen the tape, or admit that I hadn’t a clue as to the erection’s owner.
“Motive,” he said simply.
“Motive for what?”
“This morning all three desk clerks at the Times Square Hyatt saw Noel Holden exiting the lobby. Half an hour later, the cleaning lady knocked on the door of Venezia Ramada’s room, walked in without noticing the Do Not Disturb sign, and found her mutilated body.”
Taking a pause he held a terrifying crime photo.
“If the tabloids had any doubt, I can vouch for the fact that she had implants, ’cause they were surgically removed by the killer.”
All the air was suddenly sucked out of the room. I looked at the vivisected and duct-taped remains of the starlet who until now had only made me angry and jealous.
“Are they sure Holden was in the room?”
“Hell, yeah. He admitted it. He says he freaked out when he saw her body, and instead of calling the police he ran.”
“I just can’t believe he’d . . . I mean, why?” I felt myself trembling.
“Did you know that a couple of days ago he lost the voice role of Kangaroo Lou in an upcoming Pixar project? Because of that porn flick with Venezia.”
“So what do you think? That he killed Jane Hansen and Caty Duffy just to hide the fact that he was going to kill Venezia—and he did all this because of losing a single film role that he hadn’t even lost back then?”
“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.