Gladyss of the Hunt Read Online Free PDF Page B

had to be when the murderer had completed his bloody sculpture.
    â€œOn an airplane over the Atlantic, coming back from a shoot in Barcelona.”
    â€œWhat airline? And can you tell me the flight number?” I asked calmly.
    â€œWow!” he finally burst out laughing. “Am I really a suspect?”
    â€œAt 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.
    â€œNow it’s my turn,” he said. “What crime were you investigating?”
    â€œThere was a murder in that hotel you saw me leaving.” I said, giving him the bare outline.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWhere’s that?” I asked.
    When he pointed uptown, I realized he was referring to the North Pole.
    â€œI thought you were talking about some new dance club.”
    â€œIt’s a good name for one. I’ll have to tell my club promoter friend.”
    â€œWhy are you going there?”
    â€œAdvance publicity shots for Fashion Dogs .”
    â€œThe North Pole?”
    â€œYeah, 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?”
    â€œAren’t you dating Venezia Ramada?”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œI read you that two were a hot item.”
    â€œShe’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.”
    â€œHow very Notting Hill .”
    â€œCome on,” he pleaded. “You can keep trying to figure out if I killed that lady.”
    â€œWho said the vic was a woman?”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œIt’s going to be a blast,” he said, referring to the “pre-premiere” party he’d just invited me to.
    â€œOkay, but I have to be in bed by eleven—alone.”
    â€œIn that case I’ll pick you up at seven.”
    â€œFine.”
    A bright red Lincoln Town Sedan pulled up at the corner of Thirty-sixth and Ninth and