Death of a Blue Movie Star

When Nicole D'Orleans opened her eyes-gasping, gulping in air, mouth wide-when she came to, she was naked. Her arms were over her head, her wrists tied to the ends of the pot and pan rack. Her feet just touched the ground.

Good. He was worried that he'd hit her too hard.

He looked at the knots. Tied expertly, not cutting off circulation, but no way could she pull free from the binding.

"No! What're you doing?" She was crying.

Tommy was wearing a black ski mask. He was naked to the waist, bending down under her, tying her feet the same way-with precision, care, devotion. He tied one ankle to a chromium rack on the bottom of the island.

"Noooo!" A long wail, rising at the end. She kicked at him with her free foot. He dodged away easily.

"Why are you doing this, Tommy? Why?…" The camcorder was trained on her and was running.

The camera lights were hot and she was sweating from the heat as well as the fear.

Patiently he bound her other foot. He was irritated, though, that there was nothing to tie it to. He had to wrap it around a cabinet hinge. "Doesn't look right." He stepped back and adjusted the camera upward, to avoid shooting the clumsy jerry-rigged job. "What are you going to do?"

He had his hands on his hips. With his chest naked, his tight blue jeans, the mask, he was a medieval executioner.

"What do you want?" she squealed. "Leave me alone." It often got him how stupid some people were. What did he want?

It was pretty fucking obvious to him. He told her, "Just making a film, honey. Just what you do all day long. Only there's one difference: You tease. This is for real. This film's going to show your soul."

"You're…" Her voice was soft, shook with sickening terror. "This is a snuff film, isn't it? Oh, God…"

He pulled more rope out of his bag. He paused for a moment, studying her. Nicole began to scream.

Tommy took an S amp; M gag-a lather strap with a red ball attached to it-and shoved it into her mouth. He tied it tight behind her head.

"They sell so much garbage. You know, leather panties. Face masks, jockstraps out of latex. You ask me it's too complicated. I go for the simple stuff myself. You got to get it just right. It's sort of a ritual. You do it wrong, they don't pay. This customer of mine-I'm making twenty-five thousand for this, by the way-he likes the knots to be just right. They're very important, the knots. One time, this guy wanted redheads only. Man, that's not easy. So I cruised two, three days along Highway 101.

Finally found this student from some community college. Get her into this shack and made the film. I thought it was pretty good. But the customer was pissed. Know why? She wasn't a natural redhead. Her pussy hair was black. I only got five thousand. And what'm I gonna do? Sue?"

He finished the elaborate knotting, then rummaged through his bag. He found a whip, a leather handle with a dozen leather strips hanging from it. He took a long pull of vodka from the bottle. He checked the time. The customer was paying for a two-hour tape. Tommy'd make it last for two hours. He believed in the adage that the customer is always right.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Sam Healy and Rune lay in bed, watching the lights on the ceiling, reflecting off the Hudson River.

Healy was feeling pretty good. He wanted to say, Not bad for an old guy. Or something like that. But he was remembering about times like this-and that was one thing he remembered clearly: You didn't talk about yourself.

Now, for this moment, maybeonly for this moment, there were two of them and that was all that mattered. He could talk about her or about both of them… But then he remembered something else: Sometimes it's best not to say anything at all.

Rune was curled against him, twirling his chest hair into piggy tails. "Ouch," he said.

"Do you think people live happily ever after?" "No." She didn't react to that and he continued. "I think it's like a cycle. You know, happy sometimes, unhappy others."

She said, "I think they can." A tug went by. Healy pulled the sheet over him.

"They can't see in…" She pulled the sheet down and kept twisting hair. "Why do you disarm bombs?"

"I'm good at it."

She grinned and rubbed her head against his chest. "You're good at other things too but I hope not professionally."

There. She was talking abouthim. That was okay.

"It sets you apart. Not many people want to disarm bombs."

"IEDs," Rune corrected. "Why'd you become a cop in the first place?"

"Gotta make a living doing something."

Rune disappeared for a moment and came back with two beers. The icy condensation dripped on him.

"Hey."

She kissed him.

He said, "You want a present?"

"I like Herkimer crystals and blue topaz. Gold is always good. Silver if it's thick."

"How about information?"

Rune sat up. "You found a suspect in a red wind-breaker?"

"Nope."

"You found fingerprints on one of the Angel letters?"

"Nope. But I did find out something about the explosives in the second bombing."

"And you're going to tell me?"

"Yep."

"Why?" she asked, smiling.