She had the view of views. 

Two-story windows in what used to be a big artist loft overlooking Central Park.  

The building was called Sebastian Studios, on Central Park South facing north. It had been built in the early 1900s to house artists, which, of course, Gaga was (not that it was a requirement anymore, bankers and hedge fund guys having discovered the place, driving prices for the roomy units into the millions). 

The bedrooms were off the wraparound balcony we were standing on, that curved above the living space and looked out over the park. The walls and trim had just been painted, the construction guys had finished their renovation work, had cleaned up after themselves and were gone. 

"You can put your stuff in there later," she said, pointing to a room where I could camp in my new role as protector. The two detectives detailed to her had followed our SUV when we moved her things down here from the lawyer's, and were parked across the street where we could see them. It struck me now that if Sickblade wanted, he could hide over there in the park with a telescope and have a pretty good view of us. Something I'd mention to the cops.    

"I have some calls to make," Gaga said, "so make yourself at home. Esperanza can get whatever you need when she gets back." 

Esperanza was the maid who'd helped us bring Gaga's stuff upstairs from the SUV and was out now getting groceries. 

I called to Gaga's back, "You want Curley's number?" 

"It's still in my phone, thanks." 

She was going to ask Curley Sasso to have his undertaker friend handle the arrangements for shipping murdered Simone's body to her family in the Dominican Republic. It had to be an official funeral director that claimed the body from the morgue. Gaga had already spoken to the family, Esperanza helping to translate, had been the one to break the news to them. With any luck, they'd want their daughter cremated. 

"You gonna ask Curley to come tonight?" I called. 

"Good idea," she said from the bedroom. 

A friend of hers, a struggling jazz singer named Fran Terry, was performing at a little club in the Village called Magenta. Gaga had promised she'd round up some people to take there and help fill the room. This was before Simone had been killed, not great timing now, but Gaga didn't want to cancel on her friend. 

She stepped back out of the bedroom. "What about if I ask Detective Dempsey?" 

I looked at her. "You like the guy?" 

She shrugged. "He's not bad. And he'd look good at a table." 

I wasn't sure yet what my new boundaries were here, or where her and Dempsey actually stood with each other. 

I said fine and kept my mouth shut. 

                                                #          #          # 

Fran Terry was a jazz singer from the stay-with-the-melody school – Natalie Cole, Diana Krall, Norah Jones... Had a smooth voice and a nice little trio, her on piano, couple old-timers on bass and drums. She was finishing up her first set with an easy-tempo version of Speak Low. I could tell Big Curley Sasso was into it, him smiling and nodding to the laid-back beat. I'd been a little uptight when I realized that him and Dempsey would be at the same table, but Gaga told me that a club like Magenta was neutral territory as far as cops and their opposites were concerned.  

It was Curley who got me into this kind of music, him having a brother who played alto sax with a group that hit the jazz charts now and then.  

Dempsey seemed to be enjoying himself sitting next to Gaga, her and him talking in a relaxed way between songs, him doing the same with her other friends she'd invited to come hear Fran. Every now and then, though, he'd glance across the table at me, like we had something in common that wasn't all good. Like maybe a fetus? The Tanya connection? I hadn't mentioned anything about the fetus to Gaga, so it couldn't have come from her (not that it would have). It was probably just some conscience thing on my part. He was more likely sizing up my bodyguard abilities, which he couldn't have been too impressed with. 

Fran finished her song and everyone gave her a nice hand. She stood up from the piano and looked over at our table, smiling at Gaga. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "I have a most special friend here with us tonight, going back to our music school days. I'm hoping that with a little encouragement she'll come up here and give us a special treat." She held out her hand. "Gaga?" 

Some of the folks at the other tables had recognized her, even in the low light, and the applause came quick and loud. Then the Ga-ga, Ga-ga chant started. Finally, after some insisting from me and Curley and nudging from Dempsey, she pushed back from the table and went up to the piano. Sat down at the keyboard and spoke into the mike. 

"This wasn't supposed to happen," she said, giving Fran a pretend bad look. 

"Do it!" someone yelled from the bar. 

"OK," Gaga said, and rippled the keys. "I've got a song I'd like to do that I hope I can remember the words to. It's from World War Two, and even I don't go back that far." 

The audience laughed and she started playing the introduction. The bass guy caught the rhythm and the drummer came in with the brushes. 

"This is for someone I had a thing with," she said, "in case he's listening." 

Then she sang: 

We'll meet again,

Don't know where, don't know when,

But I know we'll meet again

Some sunny day. 

The audience loved it, started moving their heads back and forth in time to it. If only they knew... 

Keep smiling through,

Just like you always do,

Till the blue skies drive

The dark clouds away. 

I glanced over at Dempsey, wondering if he caught that the someone she was singing to was Sickblade. Christ, the guy could be here, for all we knew, sitting at the bar or right outside waiting. 

So will you please say hello

To the folks that I know,

Tell them I won't be long.

They'll be happy to... 

Suddenly Gaga stopped playing. 

Cried out "Esperanza!" 

She jumped up and came running back to the table. 

Dempsey got up. "What is it?" 

"He's at my apartment," she said. "You have to get someone there. He's going to kill her." 

"Who?" 

"Esperanza. My maid." 

She grabbed her purse and wove fast between the tables to the door. Dempsey pulled out his cell, hit a speed-dial number and ran after her. I was right behind. 

Outside, Dempsey's driver was catching a snooze in the unmarked parked across the street. Dempsey took Gaga's elbow and ran her over to it. Got her into the back and slid in beside her, yelled to the driver and pulled the door shut. The car peeled out and I watched it fishtail down the street. 

The two detectives on Gaga detail had been at the bar and came running out. Jumped into their car that was parked right in front. I jumped into the back. 

"Follow them," I said. 

"What the hell's happening?" 

"Just go."  

We caught up to them at Eighth Avenue, made a screeching turn and shot north, siren blasting, red grill lights flashing. We dodged and wove, clipped a truck when we ran the light at Thirty-Fourth, kept going, managed to get ourselves up to Central Park South. 

When we pulled up to Gaga's building, two patrol cars were already there, nosed into the curb, bar lights bouncing off the beginnings of a crowd. 

I jumped out and ran over to Gaga, followed her and Dempsey inside to the elevator, got on with the two detail guys and one of the patrolmen who'd responded.  

He said to Dempsey, "We've got two people up there." 

There hadn't been time to get the SWATs here.

We could hear activity on the patrolman's lapel unit, scuffling and grunts and a woman screaming. 

"That's Esperanza," Gaga said, trying to keep it together. 

A man's voice on the unit said, "Hold off, that's enough." 

The groans of a man in pain came through. 

"It sounds like they got him," Dempsey said. 

Gaga looked at the ceiling, trying to make us go faster. 

Finally, the elevator doors opened into Gaga's entryway. The door to the loft had been busted off the lock, the cops probably told not to bother knocking. We went in quick, Dempsey first with his gun out, following the sound of voices back by the kitchen area, Esperanza's room just off it. 

When we got there she was hysterical. 

One of the cops was trying to calm her, hold her back. The other cop stood over a man on the floor, wiping blood off his nightstick. 

"What happened?" Dempsey said. 

"He came at us," the cop said. 

"Why didn't you shoot?" Dempsey sounding pissed. 

"He wasn't armed." 

There had been a lot of bad press about cops shooting unarmed non-whites. From what I could see through the blood on his face, the man on the floor was Hispanic. 

Gaga shook her head. "That's not him." 

Dempsey whipped around. "What?" 

"It's not Sickblade." 

"You sure?" 

"I am. But I swear he was here. I saw him in the song." 

The man on the floor turned out to be Esperanza's boyfriend. He had a prison record, liked to play tough. Had been coming out of the bathroom when the cops broke in. Lucky he wasn't being taken away in a hearse.   

I left it for Dempsey to handle the shitstorm, told Gaga I was here if she needed me, and walked out to the living area. Went over to the big two-story windows that were dark with the overcastnight. I stared down at the park, at the specs of light along the paths, car lights winding along the perimeter road. Thought about how Simone was the first one he killed who wasn't a hooker. And now this thing with Esperanza. Both of them attached to Gaga.  

I glanced at the sky, couple stars up there through the midtown haze. Looked back at the park, the dark patches of trees. 

"You're there, aren't you?" I said, feeling him, his eyes looking up here, his mind on how to do his knife number. Maybe some of Gaga's radar thing was rubbing off on me. 

"We'll meet," I said. "We'll definitely meet."    

                                                            #          #          # 

News of the fiasco at Gaga's reached New York's Police Commissioner just minutes after it happened. It wasn't long afterward that Dempsey's car pulled up in front of the commissioner's townhouse on East Sixty-Sixth, just off Park, and the detective got out. 

Upstairs in his den, with its big-game paintings and leather-bound books, the commissioner, Stuart Sherner, stood in front of the fireplace in one of his signature dark suits, waiting for Dempsey to get here. People in the department and in the media were almost all of the opinion that this post was a stepping stone for him to go on to bigger things. Sherner, whose New York roots went deep into rich Upper East Side soil, and whose wife's went even deeper, neither confirmed nor denied it. 

He turned toward a knock at the door. "Come in."  

The heavy walnut door opened and Detective Dempsey stepped in. Came over and stood uneasily under Sherner's hard gaze. 

"What in Christ's name happened?" Sherner demanded. 

"It wasn't him." 

"I know that." 

"We'll make sure it's cleaned up." 

"Jesus." 

"We squashed it before it got out of hand." 

"Who else is involved?" 

Dempsey hesitated to answer.

"Who?" Sherner said.

"You're not going to like it."

"Will you..."

"Tanya's brother."

"What?"

"Gaga wanted him as her bodyguard."

Sherner stared at him. "Her bodyguard?"

"I'm not sure myself how it happened."

"You've got to be kidding."

Dempsey went on to explain the chain of events as best he could, and where things stood now.

After he finished Sherner pointed a finger in his face. "This is a royal fuckup. Any comebacks are yours. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir."

Sherner swore under his breath and shook his head. He stepped over to a small bar built into the bookshelves. "What about this hocus-pocus with Gaga?"

"She swears she saw Sickblade tonight when she was singing, just like she did last time. Said the song put her on his wavelength."

"And you believe that."

"I was the one got the call last time. And we saw it turned out to be real."

Sherner grunted. He picked up a crystal decanter and poured two snifters of cognac. "How much does she know?"

"I've been playing it vague. Like the name Rausch, I was foggy how it connected. No ties between me and the Tanya case."

"The one thing people agree on is your star is no dummy."

"She's not."

"You kill this Sickblade and end it there." He handed one of the snifters to Dempsey. "The man is seen as a menace. However you have to take him out, the public won't care. They want him dead as much as we do. Your Gaga seems to be his current interest." 

"I understand."  

Sherner raised his snifter and took a sip. "Are you positive about that fetus?" 

"It was taken care of," Dempsey said, swirling his glass and sipping. 

"Destroyed." 

"Absolutely." 

"I don't have to remind you the disaster it could have been." 

"No you don't." 

"For both of us." 

The two men held each other's eyes. Dempsey took a large swallow.   

        (To be continued...)