Hack (28 page)

She looked at me and licked her lips, thinking.

“Not sure. It was around that time,” she said. “We didn’t find out about Bobby until later, you know. Jane told us. Ask her. She might know.”

I thanked her and turned to leave.

“You going?” Xana asked in a flirtatious mock-hurt tone. “Doctor Jane will be out in, like, three minutes.”

“Tell her I just realized I have to go to the office and I’ll call her later,” I said, rushing out.

* * *

I went home, grabbed a snack, fed Skippy and took him for a walk. I found a friendly cabbie who took an extra ten bucks to let Skippy ride with me. It was a big deal to get Skippy into the
Daily Press
building. Security acted like I was bringing in a lion. Skippy was the center of attention. Everybody had to pet him and tell me how beautiful he was, like he was my kid. Skippy loved it, puffing out his white chest proudly. Even Ginny loved him. He seemed to like her too. Go figure. When Ginny asked me what I had for the paper, I said nothing yet.

I sat at my new cubicle and began thinking thoughts I did not want to think. I started at the beginning, before Neil’s murder and tried to figure it out. Guessing did not count. Who. Why. How. I called Izzy and asked him about the drugs in Neil’s body.

“Hold on,” Izzy said. “Why?”

“I’m trying to reconstruct the killings in chronological order in my mind.”

“More Sherlock stuff? Okay,
bubbulah
. Here it is. Autopsy on Leonardi says he had THC, grass, and halothane. I won’t bore you with the associated metabolic breakdown by-products.”

I asked him to spell it. Halothane.

“What the hell is it?”

“The M.E. says it’s a general anesthetic.”

“And the same shit was in Cash Cushing’s system?”

“Yup.”

“So Neil Leonardi and Mr. Foreclosure took or were given it before they were killed? Think it was at parties? Aubrey and Cash moved in the same social circles.”

“Really? The M.E. says halothane can be inhaled, injected or taken in liquid form. He says it wasn’t administered in a liquid form because it wasn’t in the stomach, so I guess it was either injected or inhaled. Why?”

“Pookie had no halothane in her blood, right?”

“Um… Right.”

“Same for Badger—no halothane?”

“Correct.”

“Okay, thanks, Izzy.”

“Wait, Shepherd, amigo. What are you up to? Please don’t let me read something in the paper first.”

“It’s just me trying to work it out. I promise you I will tell you before I put anything in the paper.”

“Okay.”

I surfed the web, my stomach churning, as Skippy napped at my feet. I googled halothane. It was an anesthetic, as Izzy said. But not for people. Newer drugs with fewer side effects meant that doctors rarely used halothane, except in developing countries. But veterinarians used halothane. A lot. On animals. There were even portable gas delivery systems for vets to knock out animals, large and small, while making house calls. Vets also performed surgery. I thought back to what Jane had said just before she drifted off to sleep on Sunday. Maybe Neil and Cushing deserved it.

I thought back to the footage of Bobby, flinching back from Neil’s touch. Abuse? Surely that might have been enough to turn a good kid into a self-destructive junkie. If Jane knew about the abuse, why didn’t she tell the cops? Bobby walked Aubrey’s dog and also Cash Cushing’s. Her office had keys and alarm codes to the first two murder scenes. Why would she not tell anyone that? Was she seeking revenge on Neil? Did she serve up Neil Parmesan and try to pin it on Aubrey?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

No.

Okay, Neil had a prior arrest for child molestation.

Maybe he molested Bobby. Let’s assume that. The boy went on a suicidal drug binge and ended up brain-dead. Maybe Neil deserved to die, even if New York State law says he only deserved twelve to fifteen years behind bars. But Neil also kicked Skippy. The bastard was asking for it. What about Cash Cushing? He was also a slime who caused the death of another but who also faced no criminal consequences. I’m also cool with that. Fuck Cushing. He’s foreclosed. Is Jane a serial killer? What if she is? So am I. I can forgive her, let it go. Mary Catherine and I can use her skills on our team. We could still be happy.

Bullshit.

Who would kill someone instead of calling the cops, cut off his ass, lightly sauté it in the fires of insanity and then slip the tasty dish to his husband, the food critic? Someone who was around the bend. A psycho-fucking-path, that’s who. Last I checked, there was no cure. No psychopath pill, no operation. What would happily-ever-after look like with Jane? I would have to do all the cooking. I was thinking it all out, all the possibilities, the maybes and definites but I was interrupted.

“What’s up, Brainiac?” Ginny asked, plopping down in the seat next to me. I quickly cleared my screen.

“Nothing,” I lied.

“Bullshit. You’ve got that look,” she said.

“What look?” I asked innocently.

“Like you’re about to pull somebody’s pants down,” she laughed. “C’mon. We’re on the same side now.”

“Are we, Ginny? I thought you were only on your own side.”

“Look, I’m sorry about…
some
stuff I did. I want to be friends like we were before, you know? That time I stayed at your place? I like you, Shepherd.”

“Okay, Ginny. I like you too. I’ve got nothing solid yet. If I come up with something for the paper, I promise I will include you. Really.”

“Okay, thanks, Shepherd. Want to grab some Thai food?”

“Maybe tomorrow. Got a date tonight.”

“With that slinky vet?” she asked, on her way back to her desk.

“Yup.”

“Too bad.”

I called and made a reservation for two for dinner at Bistro du Bois. Then I called Jane. Dinner at our favorite place and then a quiet night at home? She said she was still working and suggested I pick her up there.

I needed to think. Skippy and I headed out, two bachelors on the town. As we walked uptown, Skippy spotted a bitch on another leash and was drawn to her like a furry magnet.

“No, Skippy,” I warned him, pulling him back. “You don’t know her. She may bite.”

I looked at my meal carefully.

“What’s wrong with your Cherry Duck?”

“Nothing. Not a thing. It’s yummy.”

I decided I would not be like every amateur detective in a mystery novel and confront her with my suspicions. As soon as they did that they ended up shot or strapped to the railroad tracks, at the mercy of the fiend.

My fiend looked adorable in a clingy purple top and black tennis shorts.

I asked her if she played tennis. Of course she did. I decided to casually tell her what I had been doing. I started by recounting my marathon reality TV film festival, which she already knew about. Then I mentioned the sweet-looking teenaged boy who was walking Skippy. Funny thing, I said, gnawing on my duck drumstick. Neil tousled the kid’s hair and the kid acted oddly. I told her I found out the kid’s name. I said his name. I mentioned I had spoken to his grandma and that the poor kid had apparently suffered some kind of brain damage. Drugs. Around the time of Neil’s murder. She did not react. Not at all. I asked her what she thought.

“About what?” she asked, sipping more wine.

“About this kid.”

“Shame,” she said.

I waited for her to tell me she knew Bobby and that he had walked the dogs of the first two murder victims. Nothing. She changed the subject, told me about her day. I changed the subject back.

“I think Aubrey is dead.”

“Really?” she asked. “So somebody else texted you that night and sent us to find Cushing’s body?” Now she seemed more interested.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But if Aubrey was already dead, it was the person who really killed Cushing. Probably Neil Leonardi, too.”

“Wow. Have you told your friend Izzy about this yet?”

“No, I haven’t told Izzy. I don’t have any proof. Just speculation, possibilities.”

“But I thought your crazy co-workers at the
Mail
were doing the killings to boost newspaper sales?”

“I think they just killed Pookie Piccarelli. That was why it was so different from the first two murders,” I said. “But there’s no way to prove any of this.”

“That’s a shame,” Jane said.

She seemed lost in thought. At one point, she seemed about to speak but changed her mind and faked a cough.

“What?” I asked her.

“Nothing,” Jane said.

Jane abruptly said she had to run back to the Arthur Animal Hospital after dinner and would talk to me later. I didn’t ask why. During coffee and dessert, Jane became animated, chatting about her tennis team in college and then her veterinary internship, including a stint at the Central Park Zoo.

“How do you treat animals that are too big to bring into an animal hospital? Like tigers?”

“House calls,” Jane smiled. “Den calls, burrow calls, pit stops.”

“You really love animals,” I observed.

“More than some people, sometimes,” she agreed. That seemed to set her thinking again. Me too. I took a small red metal tin out of my pocket, opened the lid and offered it to Jane.

“Ah, my favorite,” Jane said, reaching for an Altoid—but her hand froze mid-reach.

She gave me a puzzled look and took a peppermint. I had promised myself I would not try to confront her, or insult her, with suspicious questions.

“These are the same ones left by the killer, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. I bought a box for fun,” I replied, trying very hard to sound friendly.

“Maybe you’re the killer,” she said, grinning a friendly grin.

“I’m
a
killer but not
the
killer,” I said.

“What about me?” Jane asked. “Could I be the killer?”

“You don’t have any motive,” I answered. “Do you?”

“No. I don’t. But I do like Altoids.”

“That’s no crime,” I said.

I told Jane I also had work to do and I kissed her goodbye on the sidewalk and said I would call her later. She stood there as I untied Skippy from the lamppost where he’d been hanging out and watched us walk away.

After Skippy took care of his business, we just kept walking and thinking. At least
I
was. I began talking to Skippy.

“Why do I suspect Jane might be involved? There are thousands of vets out there who would have access to halothane and scalpels. Why her?”

Skippy did not reply.

“Because Jane had keys to two of the properties. And because she never admitted knowing Bobby, much less that Neil might have been abusing him,” I answered myself. “She should have come clean with the dirty little secret. But she pretended as if she had never heard of the boy. I went too far with the Altoid. But she was laughing about it, so maybe she doesn’t suspect I suspect. Or maybe she does. She got a funny look and her internal gears were obviously spinning, although she said zip. Should I tell Izzy?”

Skippy sniffed a hydrant.

“Yes. But if there’s no proof, he won’t be able to arrest her. And there’s no proof. And of course ratting out my new girlfriend as a possible serial killer might create some tension between us.”

I thought back to the first killing. I didn’t know Jane when Neil was killed. She sat next to me at the funeral. Was that a coincidence or did she choose to sit next to me? We found Cushing’s body together. It couldn’t have been her. But he was actually killed earlier. How much earlier? That was key. I had to ask Izzy the time of death. And she was with me when Pookie died. Actually she was with me hours earlier but we already know Jack Leslie and Matt Molloy did the murder. The timing on Cash Cushing’s murder was it. Jane and I had dinner at that Asian restaurant. She wore that hot little black dress and diamonds and almost nothing else. What time was that? I had to nail it down. Two numbers. When Jane met me at the restaurant and when Cushing was hacked. Then I would know if Jane had time to kill Cushing and arrive for dinner. Two numbers, one answer. But, even if she had plenty of time to gas him into unconsciousness and open his throat, it would only be circumstantial. Not enough evidence to bust her.

“There has to be something else,” I told Skippy, who turned to me expectantly.

My iPhone chirped twice. A text. I opened it. It was from Jane.

Interesting. This is the part where I blunder into the animal hospital and she kills me. I don’t think so. Looks like the Altoid thing tipped her. Or just me mentioning that I knew about Bobby and had spoken to his grandma. She did ask if I had told Izzy about it and I said no. Perfect. This proves she did it. She’s desperate to take me out before I tell Izzy. Maybe.

I could call Izzy but what could he do? I’ll go. The hospital is on a busy corner but I won’t go in if she’s there alone. I will recon the place and call her out of her ambush, not walk into it. Yes. If she’s the one, she has already gotten the better of two men who are now dead. Three, if Aubrey is among the departed. But they were soft civilians, not tough guys like me, and none of them knew it was coming. We will not be alone. And I have Skippy. Yeah.

What was it Izzy said, his Spanish expression? “Never get caught in a tight spot with a crazy person?”