Gladyss of the Hunt. Arthur Nersesian

is that we grab a quick coffee.”

      If I hadn’t spent the whole day looking forward to a late night yoga class, I would’ve agreed. As a compromise, I said, “I’m walking back to my precinct. Instead of getting coffee, why don’t you walk with me and we can talk.”

      “Sounds good,” he replied.

      Aside from the novel sensation of being with a celebrity, it struck me as odd that Holden just happened to be lingering outside a murder scene. As Detective Farrell had reminded me, it was something that murderers have been known to do.

      As we carefully walked the dark and icy streets to the precinct, he asked me a slew of questions: Where was I born . . . and raised . . . and educated. Did I have a boyfriend . . . a girlfriend? Had I ever dated another girl?

      “Why don’t we talk about you for a while?” I finally interrupted.

      “Sure,” he said, and without any further prompting gave a quick rundown of his film and TV work. He didn’t say anything about his high-profile romances that were eternally being gossiped about, but I was aware for the first time that juicy tidbits of his life had been slipped into my memory anyway, almost against my will, thanks to the media machine.

      And I now had some insight into my neighbor’s skittish mind, and even an inkling about how Maggie could be deluded into thinking that just because she had learned intimate details of some celebrities’ lives, a sentimental osmosis had mysteriously occurred: She must’ve thought that they had come to know, and more specifically care, about her.

      Finally Noel got to his current endeavor, a crime flick called Fashion Dogs. It was his twelfth starring film, he told me; it costarred Venezia Ramada and was directed by Crispin Marachino. He told me he was meeting the two of them shortly, then talked about his role in the new film.

      “Let me get this straight,” I said, after listening to his summary of the plot. “You play a male fashion model who is also an undercover cop?”

      “He’s only an amateur model,” Noel said earnestly.

      “Oh, that sounds likely,” I said. Cops were notoriously unfashionable.

      “Actually, Crispin has got me doing the catwalk for Anton Rocmarni during Fashion Week to publicize the movie.”

      “Wow.”

      “I just read in the newspaper that they finally convicted the Green River Killer after all these years,” he said out of the blue.

      “Yeah, I read about that too.”

      “He killed forty-eight hookers in the 80s and only just got caught ’cause of DNA testing.”

      “I heard he pled to forty-nine murders. Did he get sentenced yet?”

      “Yeah, it was a plea bargain, life imprisonment.” He sounded almost gleeful. “Forty-nine murdered girls and not even the death penalty.”

      “That is unbelievable.” Sentencing in America did frequently seem arbitrary.

      “The thing is: forty-nine murders and suddenly he just stops? I mean he hasn’t murdered anyone in nearly twenty years.” Noel said blithely. “God, he must have been attending Murderers Anonymous meetings to keep from making it a round fifty.”

      I could’ve pointed out that the killer actually claimed he’d killed many more than fifty women. Instead I said, “I find it a little distressing that you find that so amusing.”

      “Come on, this country is obsessed with crime. It’s entertainment. Law & Order and all those shows are huge. Isn’t that one of the reasons you became a cop?”

      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,