Jesse and I had met in college, and we’d bonded instantly over our shared love of movies from the thirties, forties, and fifties. I was thirteen when my father died, and his death sent my mother into a tailspin. She had moved Claudia and me to one upstate New York town after another, and I gave up on making real friends and spent so much time watching Rita Hayworth, Lauren Bacall, and the gorgeous Ava Gardner that I was convinced I really knew them. I’d never met anyone who shared my fascination for old-time cinema goddesses until Jesse, who’d grown up in a conservative Southern Baptist family baffled by his love of retro glamour. We’d stayed up till sunrise in a friend’s dorm watching The Sun Also Rises just after we met. The movie starred Ava Gardner and Tyrone Power. Afterwards I’d admitted that Tyrone was my first crush, and Jesse had confessed that he was his, too.

By the time a bald, jowly cop showed up at Jesse’s door, I’d convinced myself I could face the day. “You the husband?” the cop asked Jesse, before informing us that he was only escorting immediate family. Jesse protested but I was relieved. It was one thing to camp out in his apartment, another to drag him to the morgue.

“Where’s Detective Renfrew?” I asked as we got in the car.

“She had a shooting early this morning.” The officer made it sound like it had been scheduled on her desk calendar. “Stanton and… Suffolk? Norfolk? Got everyone tied up in knots. Everybody hates it when tourists get shot.” In his offhand tone, he could have just as easily been discussing bad weather. My old neighborhood, nostalgia central for the gritty New York of years past. You could clean her up but still the dirt clung under her nails.

“You look familiar,” the cop said as he steered us away from Jesse’s building in Greenwich Village. “I think I’ve seen your picture somewhere.”

“I doubt it,” I answered. “I’m a travel writer. Maybe you’ve seen my byline before?”

“Nah, I don’t read that stuff. Don’t leave the city, ’cept to go fishing upstate. Nah, I’ve seen you somewhere.” He was silent as we soared up First Avenue. We finally screeched to a halt in front of a turquoise brick building at East Thirtieth Street. The color bled out into a dull gray on the upper stories, which were pockmarked with air-conditioners hanging out of the windows. Office of the New York City Medical Examiner read the letters on the face of the building.

“I know who you look like.” He snapped his fingers. “Dita von Teese.”

“Is she an actress?” As much as I loved old movies, I was out of touch with new ones.

“Nah, she’s a stripper. Real class act.” He gave me a laconic wave and sped off.