Hack (3 page)

“Scratches,” I said.

“You got it,” Phil said to me, and then realized his mistake.

“Right,” Izzy said, glaring at Phil. “I’ll be right there.”

Skippy was scratching on the other side of the pantry door. Phil ducked out and Izzy studied me with hard, dark eyes, examining my face, my scars, my hands, my jeans, my dress shirt and sneakers. It was an uncomfortable feeling, like being measured for handcuffs or a casket. He offered his gloved hand and I shook it.

“Thanks for your help,” Izzy said, like a man who detested help. “Who are you again?”

I considered giving him the same answer as Gumbs but I told him the truth.

“Shepherd. F.X. Shepherd from the
Mail.
They sent me here to get the story on the dog.”

His eyes flared in anger, then narrowed. He smiled and then barked a single laugh.

“The dog? You’re not Frank Shepherd. He’s their police reporter. I’ve known him for years. Fat slob, beer sponge. A real dork.”

“Well that’s my name, too. I think that’s what happened. Francis Xavier Shepherd. I’m new. I began my ‘Dog’s Breakfast’ pet column this week. He and I have similar names. That would explain it. I wondered why they sent a pet columnist to cover a murder.”

I laughed and Izzy joined in but stopped abruptly. A look of horror spread over his face, replaced by anger, as he realized I was telling the truth. The shouting from the hallway got closer and louder and Aubrey Forsythe burst in.

The famous foodie was six feet tall and half as wide, and he was angry and scared. Aubrey Forsythe’s round face was bright red. Three scarlet scratches striped his left cheek, much like mine, but his were vertical and fresh. His jowls bounced and his eyes flashed with panic as he struggled to free himself from two cops trying unsuccessfully to prevent him from entering the crime scene. He was very strong. And important. Behind the pantry door, Skippy was wailing and clawing.

“Where’s Neil?” Aubrey sputtered over and over, alcohol on his breath. “I’ve got to talk to Neil!”

He knew. Because he did it or just because he wasn’t stupid? Izzy and Phil stepped between Aubrey and the body but not before he got a glimpse.

“Mr. Forsythe, I’m very sorry for your loss,” Izzy began. “Could you please tell me—”

The
New York Tribune
restaurant critic let out an anguished wail that sounded like one of Skippy’s howls. He gasped for breath and stopped struggling with the officers. His legs folded under him and he crumpled like one of those buildings they rig with explosives to implode. He was consumed with wracking sobs and then rolled on his huge belly and vomited.

Skippy threw himself at the pantry door and exploded into the kitchen. He was at his master’s side, yelping and licking his face, as the man hugged the dog and dripped tears onto the marble floor. Izzy was cursing under his breath in what sounded like two foreign languages and giving the stink eye to the two cops who couldn’t handle the fat gourmet who was messing up his crime scene.

After Aubrey and Skippy quieted down somewhat, I found a leash for Skippy and followed Aubrey and the cops into the dining room down the hall. They sat the blubbering Aubrey down in a chair and I tied the leash to the chair leg. Skippy curled up at Aubrey’s feet and I went back to the kitchen. Izzy was talking to the dead guy again but stopped when I came in.

“Please tell me you were joking when you said you were a
Mail
reporter,” Izzy said.

“I’m not a reporter. I told you. I write the pet column.”

“What the fuck?” Izzy said. “You came to interview the dog?”

“Actually, I think he did that,” Phil interjected.

“I’m not your big problem,” I told them.

They both stared at me. I looked down at the body. “Look at it. The floor is as white as a plate. The puddle of blood like raspberry sauce, the meat and the garnish on top. Like in a restaurant.”

They stared at the small sprigs of green parsley scattered on the victim’s pale back and then at each other.

“Fuck me,” Izzy said.

“Fuck us,” Phil agreed.

“And Aubrey didn’t do it,” I told them.

“Fuck you know that?” Izzy demanded. “You see those scratches? Victim has skin under his fingernails. It’s going to be Aubrey’s.”

“Maybe, but you saw him, the way his knees went. If he faked that, it was great. Besides, Skippy wasn’t afraid of him,” I added.

“He is on TV,” Izzy noted. “That reality food show. They shoot it here. He’s an actor. And the dog does not enter into it.”

“What we have here is Ace Ventura,” Phil sneered.

“Pet Detective,” chuckled Izzy.

“Easy to prove,” I told them, pointing to the vomit left by Aubrey. “Or disprove.”

“Oy,” Izzy sighed.

He nodded at Phil, who left the room and returned with one of the CSI guys, an older detective, who collected the upchuck into a plastic bag.

“I need to know what Forsythe had in his stomach,” said Izzy. “As soon as possible.”

“Stomach contents of the boyfriend? Not the victim?” the CSI detective asked, confused.

“Yeah,” said Izzy. “Isn’t there a test to determine whether something is human or animal tissue? I mean a fast one? The M.E. will do stomach contents on the vic, as usual.”

“There’s the instant antibody test. That takes about ten minutes and is presumptive on that and you get a profile that’s supposed to be almost as accurate as a PCR DNA test. But not on stomach contents. And it’s not admissible in court yet.”

“I don’t care about admissible,” Izzy told him. “This is just us talking. I just want human, animal, vegetable or mineral. Now. Why not stomach contents?”

“Stomach acids fuck it up,” the CSI guy explained.

“Okay, if you do it on stomach contents can you still find out if it’s human or animal?”

“Yeah, sure. Right away. All I need is a little pinch. How will that help?”

“We’ll see. Do it.”

“On the vomit. The… the meat in the vomit,” Phil said.

The CSI man looked green. “Okay. You think what the big guy threw up might be… holy shit. The post-mortem slice out of the ass? Are you friggin’ serious?”

“I don’t know,” Izzy admitted. “I’m just asking. We gotta check.”

“So you’re saying the food critic, chef guy—”

“I’m not saying anything,” Izzy interrupted before the guy could say the word. “I’m asking the question. You tell me.”

“Holy shit.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Izzy.

While the CSI guys did their thing, I slipped into the dining room, where Aubrey was recovering. Izzy came in a minute later and began questioning him. Apparently, Izzy also questioned the living. A red-eyed Aubrey said he had lunch at a Midtown restaurant named Bistro du Bois on the Upper East Side, which he was going to review in the
New York Tribune
for next Sunday’s edition. He admitted that he and Neil had an argument before he left but denied it became overly physical. He seemed confused and claimed not to remember the reason for the argument. He agreed that a stainless-steel meat cleaver seemed to be missing from the kitchen.

Izzy politely and casually locked Aubrey into specific times that he left the apartment, had lunch, left the restaurant and returned home. He wrote it all down.

“Are you absolutely sure you didn’t go somewhere else, Mr. Forsythe?” Izzy asked.

He hesitated and averted his eyes. It was obvious he was lying.

“Yes, I’m sure. You’re wrong about the time. Obviously some bastards broke in and… killed Neil,” Aubrey blurted. “Get off your asses and go find them.”

“So the folks at this restaurant can confirm you were there and when?” Izzy asked.

“Of course,” Aubrey huffed, recovering his ego. “I’m rather well known. Besides, my film crew was with me.”

Izzy looked up from his notebook.

“Film crew? Was your film crew here with you before you went out?” Izzy asked.

Aubrey froze. Izzy asked the question again.

“I… don’t remember,” he said, another lie.

“The crew is outside,” Officer Gumbs told Izzy.

“We wouldn’t let them in. They’re outside moaning and bitching, saying they have a contract, threatening a lawsuit.”

Izzy grinned and left the room with Phil. Aubrey fidgeted and demanded to use his cell phone, which the cops had taken. A uniformed sergeant said no and would not let him use the house phone either.

“Am I under arrest?” Aubrey demanded.

“No, sir. You are being questioned and we need your cooperation. Is there something you want to tell me? Maybe you remember something?”

“No.”

I left the dining room and walked into the den, toward the sound of arguing. Izzy had brought the film crew inside and was ordering them to replay their film from earlier in the day. They refused in haughty tones. Izzy and Phil handcuffed the male cameraman and female producer and told them they were under arrest for concealing evidence in a homicide. Phil recited their rights. That led to a quick improvement in attitude and an impromptu screening in the living room on the crew’s small portable TV monitor. It showed a clothed, cursing Neil in the kitchen kicking Skippy, who wouldn’t stop barking. The counters were clean, no cooking mess in sight when Aubrey backhanded Neil, who fell to the floor, got up and scratched his husband’s face.

“If you hurt Skippy again, I’ll fucking kill you,” Aubrey said clearly, shoving Neil away.

I couldn’t decide if Aubrey was actually upset at Neil’s cruelty or was just making a show for the crew. Izzy confiscated the video camera and the producer weakly demanded a copy. They didn’t get it. The TV team admitted they had filmed the domestic spat and left the townhouse before Aubrey to set up lighting at the restaurant, and the critic had arrived ten minutes before filming there began. From the timestamp on the bottom of the video it looked like Aubrey did not arrive at the Bistro du Bois until an hour after he said he left home. The crew also screened the footage from the restaurant, which was boring. It showed an imperious Aubrey holding court in the dim, crowded eatery, as waiters brought him dish after dish after dish. He would nibble at some, take notes, gobble up others, and take more notes. If he had just killed his lover, he was one cold, hungry dude. At one point, a chef, a guy with tattoos and red burn scars up and down his arms, came to Aubrey’s table and just stood there, glaring at him. They looked at each other for about thirty seconds and the chef went back to the kitchen. The cameraman fast-forwarded and all we saw was Aubrey eating. He made a show of smacking his lips and inhaling aromas but he really packed it away.

The CSI detective came in, holding a small plastic kit with a colored tube. He nodded his head to Izzy, who moved him into the hallway, away from the film crew.

“Positive?” Izzy asked, his voice low.

“Yeah. It’s probably the victim’s muscle tissue but I won’t go on the record on an ID match until we can get DNA.”

“
Chingar tu madre
,” Izzy moaned. “Okay, do the frying pan, the knives, everything.”

“I already did. You’re right. It was done there. Cut up, cooked and, obviously, then he… the sick fuck.”

“Yeah. But he made it easy for us. Slam-fucking-dunk.”

I kept my mouth shut. Izzy told the CSI detective to search for a meat cleaver inside or outside the house and then returned to the dining room to confront Aubrey. I followed. Izzy read the critic his rights.

“Okay, we had a fight,” Aubrey said. “Obviously you saw the film. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it but I did not… do that to Neil. I could never…” he trailed off.

“Mr. Forsythe, you attacked your husband. On film, you threatened to kill him. Then you lied to us about it. I can understand your anger, him hurting a helpless animal like that. Did you kill him?”

“No!”

“Hey, I can understand, in the heat of the moment, things happen, maybe accidentally,” Phil said. “But why would you cook him and eat him, man?”

Aubrey’s eyes popped wide, his mouth slack.

“What? What the fuck are you talking about? Are you crazy?”

“Am
I
crazy?” Phil shot back. “You kidding?”

“I want a lawyer,” Aubrey sniffed. “You people are trying to railroad me.”

“You don’t want to brag about it?” Izzy asked. “Like, maybe it was the ultimate cuisine? Did it taste like chicken?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Aubrey protested. “Are you saying someone… dear God, no. Who would do that? No. This is not happening.”

“You said on video you would kill him if he hurt the dog again. Out of your own mouth, pal.” Izzy looked grim. “Out of your own mouth.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I want a lawyer. I want my phone call.”

“Here’s how it works. You can be a mensch and tell us what you did and we can talk to the District Attorney, who is on her way. You’ve got the whole night to make believers out of us. Insanity would probably fly as a defense on this one. Or, you can deny everything and get a lawyer. In that case, I will arrest you for murder. After you’re booked, you will get your phone call. The judge usually lets you have two. You will see your lawyer at your arraignment downtown in the morning. Which is it?”

Aubrey thought it out, anger and confusion flashing across his face.

“This is insane. I don’t understand. Lies. I don’t believe any of this. You’re trying to trick me… Lawyer. I want a lawyer.”

“Okay. Aubrey Forsythe I arrest you for the murder of Neil Leonardi.”

The famous man sputtered and cried like a big pink baby.

The sergeant searched Aubrey and had him sign a small, white Miranda warning acknowledgement card, which could be shown at trial to prove he had been read his rights. He had to use two pairs of linked handcuffs to manacle the celebrity’s pudgy hands behind his wide ass. They took him out through the rear garden and snuck him through another townhouse to the next block, to avoid the cameras out front. They also took the film crew “witnesses” by the same route, with them complaining about the First Amendment all the way. Izzy said they would question the crew all night before releasing them, while they processed the scene. After finding some S&M bondage gear and kinky photos in the master bedroom, but no meat cleaver, Izzy, Phil and I watched the video again.