The Chelsea Girl Murders by Sparkle Hayter Read Free Book Online

body outside the door in the hallway. Another cop was trying to keep the neighbors away from it. A couple of the pastel-suited Mary Sue women came out of their room, skirting around the neighbors and the cops.
    Pushing past them came the man who worked the front desk at night.
    â€œMr. Bard is going to hate to hear this!” he said, referring to the eccentric businessman and art lover who runs the hotel. “We haven’t had a speck of trouble in years. We haven’t had a murder here in two decades.”
    Another detective arrived, pushing his way through the spectators and stepping carefully over the corpse.
    â€œYou must be the good cop,” I said to him hopefully.
    But I was wrong. Instead of getting your standard good cop-bad cop team, I got bad cop-worse cop, though they were both observing the city’s new politeness guidelines for police, adding please and thank you every now and then. Maybe I was being too sensitive, but there seemed to be some sarcasm in their pleases and thank-yous.
    Burns gave the second detective, Corcoran, a synopsis of my explanation, and went to consult with a cop out in the hallway.
    â€œA curse, huh?” said Corcoran. “Do you hear voices? Please, tell me, did a voice tell you to kill this guy?”
    â€œI didn’t kill him and I don’t hear voices. I just have bad luck.”
    â€œThis guy break your heart or something?”
    â€œI don’t even know this guy. I met him for five minutes in the elevator today. That’s it.”
    â€œPLEASE tell me, why did you open the door then? You open your door to strangers as a rule?” Corcoran asked. He pulled a piece of nicotine gum out of his pocket, peeled off the foiled backing, and put it in his mouth.
    â€œI thought it might be the other houseguest, or her boyfriend …”
    â€œWhere are they now?”
    â€œI don’t know.” I looked around and realized Nadia’s stuff was gone. “I guess they hooked up and went off to elope.”
    â€œWhat is her name?”
    â€œNadia something.”
    â€œShe was staying here, but you don’t know her name?”
    â€œNadia didn’t tell me her last name. I don’t know anything about her except she came to New York to elope with her boyfriend and she’s from a country with no Benettons and no bagels,” I said. “I don’t live here, I’m a guest of the woman who rents this apartment. She’s traveling around the world. You see, my apartment burned down …”
    â€œYeah? How did that happen?” Corcoran asked.
    â€œI don’t know. I didn’t cause the fire,” I said.
    â€œAnd you didn’t kill anyone.”
    â€œExactly!”
    â€œWhat about the gun you had? Please, tell me about it,” said Corcoran.
    â€œForensics will find it hasn’t been fired. I don’t even have bullets for it. I just keep it around because it’s scary looking and has sentimental value,” I said. “You won’t find the gun that killed him around here.”
    â€œDid an accomplice take it away?”
    â€œLook, I don’t even know the dead guy. If I killed him, would I have signed that consent form to let you search the place? If you don’t believe me, call June Fairchild in the NYPD public affairs department, she’ll vouch for me. I’ve helped solve a few homicides.”
    There’s nothing a hardened New York cop likes more than amateur crime fighter such as me. My situation wouldn’t be helped once the head of homicide, Richard Bigger, got wind of this. Bigger thought I was a very clever serial killer who had somehow committed all these murders myself and had constructed elaborate frame-ups to conceal my crimes.
    Around us, two cops wearing surgical gloves were dusting for prints, picking up bits of lint and things with tweezers and putting them into little plastic evidence bags. Another took photographs of the scene from the