Nikki recycled the First Press and re-gifted the booze at a party that night for Detective Ulett who was taking advantage of the early retirement buyout to trailer his boat to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, and start drowning worms. While everyone got lit on tequila shooters, Nikki stuck to beer.

It was to be the last night of her anonymity. She had hoped that, as Mr. Warhol predicted, her fame would only last fifteen minutes and be done, but for the past two weeks, everywhere she went, it was the same. Sometimes stares, sometimes comments, always a pain. Not only was the recognition aspect unpleasant for her, but each sighting, each comment, each cell phone picture, became another reminder of Jameson Rook and the busted romance she wanted to put behind her.

Temptation had gotten the better of a giant schnauzer, who started licking milk and sugar from Nikki's hem. She smoothed its forehead and attempted to steer T. Michael Dove back to the mundane. "You walk the dogs around this neighborhood every morning?"

"That's right, six mornings a week."

"And have you ever seen the victim around here before?"

He paused dramatically. She hoped he was just beginning his Juilliard drama work, because his acting was all dinner theater.

"No," he said.

"And in your statement you said he was being attacked by a dog when you arrived. Can you describe the dog?"

"It was freaky, Detective. Like a little shepherd but sort of wild, you know?"

"Like a coyote?" asked Nikki.

"Well, yeah, I guess. But come on. This is New York City last time I looked."