Gladyss of the Hunt. Arthur Nersesian

a witness who puts him on that plane,” O’Ryan said. “Perhaps you can call someone in Spain who was involved in the production.”

      “No,” I replied. “We’re already pushing it. If just one of those airline people calls the precinct, we’ll both be in hot water. And I’ll completely blow any chance of getting the homicide assignment.”

      “Do you know what the odds are you’ll even get a thirty-day spot?” he said, needling me.

      “I’m a tall blonde,” I explained, “just like the three vics.”

      “Oh, right—and it would never occur to them to get a seasoned female detective and put a blonde wig on her.”

      “Yeah, but they don’t have anyone who is already dating a decent suspect,” I taunted him. O’Ryan nodded his head.

      “There really is absolutely no reason he should be a suspect in this case,” he said.

      “I’m telling you he was there, right when I—” I had been about to reveal my Kundalini moment.

      “What’s his motive? Where is anything to tie him to the killing?” he said. “You’re just like your idiot brother, you see only what you want to see.”

      “Don’t talk about my brother that way!”

      He apologized immediately, so after a moment I added, “How about the fact that Holden likes tall blondes, and that’s the profile of all three victims?”

      “What tall blondes does he like?”

      “Me,” I pointed out. “He asked me on a date.”

      “And that explains motive too,” he added. “’Cause if all the victims were half as annoying as you—”

      “Call me obsessive,” I interrupted, “but I’m going to a party with Holden when he gets back to town. I’ll get his prints and then we’ll know for sure.”

      “What is this date anyhow?”

      “A big investors party thrown by one of his producers.”

      “This all sounds really dumb.”

      “I’m doing it.”

      “The man definitely has a history of scumbaggery, and that director he hangs with, that Crispin character, is by all accounts even worse,” O’Ryan said emphatically. “And you’re doing it as part of an unofficial murder investigation, which means it’s not only potentially dangerous, it’s grounds for disciplinary action.”

      “Hey, you helped me, so you’d be up on charges too,” I pointed out.

      “And I was wrong to do it,” he declared. “But it ends here.”

      “What?”

      “Just suppose he is the murderer?”

      “We’ll know once I get his prints.”

      “Then I’ll go with you as back-up.”

      “Back-up?” I asked. “I’m supposed to be his date. We’re going to a party at his friend’s house. And he knows what you look like. And he hates you.”

      “Just keep your cell phone on, and I’ll be in a car downstairs. If there are any problems, I’ll come up.”

      “No way!”

      “Well I’m sorry, but I’m not letting you do this alone,” he replied.

      “You’re not letting me?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “What exactly do you think you’re going to do?”

      “I’ll report you. I’ll call Farrell and tell him what you’re doing.” Typical macho control shit.

      “I can’t believe you’d even consider . . .” My anger paralyzed me, and I couldn’t say another word.

      “Look, I care about you, as your friend as well as your partner. You can date whoever you want. I fully respect your private life. But you’re playing detective now, going undercover on a date with a murder suspect without back-up . . . If I did something like that, I like to think you’d care this much about me.”

      It was difficult to be angry with him when he put it that way.

      “Tell you what,” I compromised. “I’ll call you before I go on the date, and then after I get home to let you know I’m okay. How’s that?”

      “You’re not going to sleep with him for his DNA sample or something crazy like that?”

      “Hell no! How can you ask me that?” He knew I was a virgin, and now he had the gall to imply I was a slut?

      “Frankly, since New Year’s I’ve realized I don’t know you at all,” he said coolly.

      “I’ll call you before and after,” I said, which was more than he had done. “We’ll let it go at that.”

      That evening, after my yoga class, I had intended to ask the Renunciate about my mini-Kundalini moment outside the hotel. I specifically wanted to know if wishing for something positive, something selfless, could actually facilitate realizing that thing. Then I realized I’d never even told him I was a cop, and that it could turn into a much longer, messier talk. I went home and at some point during the fifteen minutes that I listened to Maggie while she ate my salad, I idly asked her what she knew about Crispin Marachino.

      “His real name is Chris Maron,” she began and proceeded to download his bio from the web site in her brain: “He was a high school dropout who worked as a video store clerk by day and wrote scripts at night. When his mother, who was in the production department at Paramount Pictures, showed one of his scripts to an actor who was big in the 70s, the guy loved it. Marachino agreed to let it go for peanuts, provided he was allowed to direct it. Crime Noir was a big hit. Thirty million opening weekend. His second film, Slim Jim, broke even; his third film, Killers In Love, bombed. Noel Holden had small roles in all three films. Now he’s starring in Fashion Dogs, which premieres in a few weeks.”

      “What do you know about Venezia Ramada?”

      “Silicone D-cup bimbo. Born Vanessa Ramone. Granddaughter of Ronnie Ramone, the founder of the multinational candy manufacturer. She met Crispin at the Hollywood nightclub Vespers. He proposed to her on the dance floor and decided to make her his next big discovery. Then a month later, on the set of Fashion Dogs, she went crazy for Noel Holden.”

      “Which is probably why she was such a bitch to me.”

      “Oh God,” she said. “You didn’t fall in love with Noel, did you? Tell me you didn’t!”

      “I know this sounds bizarre, but considering O.J. Simpson and Robert Blake . . .”

      “Neither of them were found guilty,” she shot back before I could finish my thought. Maggie must’ve been the last kid in class who believed in Santa and the freakin’ Easter Bunny. She swore Michael Jackson was repeatedly being framed.

      “I’m supposed to go to some party with Noel.”

      “You what?”

      “He invited me to the pre-premiere party.”

      “But he’s dating Venezia!”

      “It’s all just show.”

      “He asked you on a date?”

      Her right eyebrow twitched and her mouth dropped open, but nothing came out. Celebrity news came from dubious web sites or TV shows. Certainly not from the cynical virgin who lived next door.

      “It’s not what you think,” I said, slightly fearful of her reaction. “I’m really not interested in him.”

      “Exactly which party are you going to . . .?”

      “Miriam someone is throwing it.”