Hildegard Elena Krieger von Boehm leaned over and scrutinized her makeup in the beveled mirror over the antique mahogany vanity. The dressing table, imported from Hamburg, was a birthday gift from her father. Squinting, she rubbed a stray smear of mascara from her smooth pink cheekbone and brushed on some rouge ("Afterglow" by Max Factor, a good Polish Jew, as her Vati would say). Turning her head this way and that, she flipped her thick red hair from her muscular shoulders and shook her head to make it appear fuller and a bit disheveled. She knew that men liked the tousled, just-from-the-bedroom look. Though she hated having a single hair out of place, she was willing to do whatever the job required. That was one of the secrets to her rapid rise within the ranks of the NYPD.
Hildegard Elena Krieger von Boehm-or Elena Krieger, as she was known-was not as hard as she appeared on the outside. For instance, she had made the decision upon entering the New York City police force to use her middle name instead of her Wagnerian-sounding first name. She also dropped the "von Boehm," an indication in Germany of her family's noble blood (Beethoven, for instance, hoped the
"van" in his name would give the appearance of nobility). It was all well and fine to have a "von" in front of your name when you were in Dusseldorf, but in America, she feared, it would simply conjure up images of Nazi storm troopers. Krieger was her mother's maiden name, whereas "von Boehm"-her paternal family name-meant "from Bohemia."
She regarded most Americans as pitifully unaware of their heritage. Germanic blood still ranked as their most common ancestral lineage-more ubiquitous than English or Dutch. A large number of Hessian mercenaries settled in states such as Pennsylvania after the Revolution and were given land in exchange for their promise to never take up arms against the United States again. This fact troubled Hildegard Krieger not a bit. She regarded practicality-which might manifest on occasion as discreet opportunism-as a virtue. Though the irony of the situation was not lost on her, she thought her ancestral cousins had made a good investment. Why travel back across a treacherous sea to a crowded, contentious continent scarred by centuries of squabbling when you could start afresh in a new, relatively unsettled land of unrivaled abundance and beauty?
She lifted the crimson feather boa from its box, peeling away layers of crumbling tissue paper, and wound it around her neck. She had worn it only once before, in a cabaret show back in Germany, where her talent and taste for acting were already apparent. She wasn't sure why she had saved it, but now she thought it was the perfect touch to her costume: over the top but classy, made of the finest peacock feathers Deutsche Marks could buy.
She puckered her lips and swiveled her hips back and forth, tilting her chin forward in a come-hither look. She opened her mouth in a wide smile, trying to imitate the famous portrait of Marilyn Monroe in which the actress looks as if she is about to gobble up the camera in one ravenous bite. Regarding her reflection in the mirror, Hildegard heaved a sigh and plopped down on the green satin cushioned chair. There was no denying it-she was more Dietrich than Monroe, with an aggressive masculine edge no amount of makeup or feather boas could disguise. Maybe that accounted for her talent at undercover work. She seemed to be born with an urge to slip into another persona, something more socially acceptable.
Not that Elena Krieger felt any shame or guilt over her heritage-she was proud of her background, and identified closely with her Germanic forefathers, who included (on her mother's side) Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the great poet and playwright.
She plucked a tissue from the box on her vanity and dabbed at her lips, blotting the thick layer of lipstick. Why, she had even read Goethe-in German, of course-at school, and rather enjoyed his play Faust. What a great story, what an archetypal struggle! She certainly possessed the Germanic passion for heroic stories-she also admired the Ring cycle, even though she found operatic singing distasteful. She loved the staging and was always thrilled by the entrance of the Rhinemaidens and their Ho-jo-to-hos.
Hildegard Krieger was a something of a Rhinemaiden herself. A woman with energy, flair, and ambition in a world still largely populated and controlled by men, she sometimes had the urge to mount a white steed and soar over the wild, mountainous landscape of her ancestors-all the while quite conscious of the ridiculousness of her taste for self-dramatization.
Still, life at the NYPD had never been easy for her, so she donned a hard, brittle shell that was only part acting. As a woman, a German, and a lesbian, she knew what it was to be an outsider. To her delight-if hardly her surprise-she found the ranks of lesbians within the force were strong.
Some of them were mannish like her, while others were softer and more "femme." She had a certain cachet and popularity among the other dykes, because of her exotic looks and accent. Some women found that alluring, especially if they were into sadomasochistic role playing.
But Hildegard had no wish to squander her time and energy on sexual peccadilloes. There would be time for that later. What she wanted more than anything was to rise within the ranks-she longed someday to be a station commander. She watched very carefully every move Chuck Morton made. She knew that as head of the Bronx Major Case Unit he was one of the most respected and successful members of the NYPD brass.
She looked into the mirror, drew the wine-colored feather boa across her bare shoulders, and shivered. Captain Morton was quite attractive, too, she had to admit-those bluer-than-blue eyes and tight, muscular body. A smile crept across her face as she thought about what it would be like to throw him across that big oak desk and… What was she thinking? First of all, he was her boss. Second, he was married, and third, she was a lesbian.
Actually, her sexual identity was not that clear cut. The truth was that sometimes she liked women, and sometimes she liked men. She had had both, and was aware of the advantages of each. Men were exciting, primal, commanding-and, like a lot of strong women, Hildegard Krieger enjoyed being dominated sexually. She liked the way they smelled, of aftershave and cigars and saltwater. On the other hand, women were beautiful and soft and took their time. In general she found them to be more considerate lovers. She was attracted to quite feminine lesbians, women whose "secret" was not readily apparent-that was part of their allure. Men could undress them with their eyes as they walked across a room, but she was the one they went home with at the end of the night.
She picked up her tiny leather purse and took one final look in the mirror. She liked what she saw. Her lanky body was clad in a short black leather miniskirt that hugged her narrow hips. Over that she wore a red silk bodice drawn tightly in to slim her waist, which she thought was too thick. Over it she wore a short black leather jacket, and around her neck she had flung the red boa. Her heels were at least three inches high, and her slender legs looked even longer in black fishnet stockings.
Still, it wasn't quite right-something was missing. On impulse, she jabbed a long red fingernail at the fabric and tugged, ripping a small, ragged hole in the diamond-patterned weave. She surveyed the results with satisfaction. That was it, she thought: now she looked like a proper slut. She felt the familiar shiver of pleasure in her intestines in the presence of danger. The fact that she had told no one about her plan heightened the excitement.
The hunt was on, and she was the bait. It was time to go trap a murderer.