Hack (7 page)

The CSI technicians were hard at work in the mansion and ignored me. Skippy was glad to see me but was obviously still traumatized. I petted him in the hallway and told him he was a good boy. It would be nice if people were this easy. Obviously no one had walked him because there was liquid and solid proof in a corner. His bowls had not been refilled. I gave him some food and fresh water, which he inhaled. After a while, he plopped down and expressed his sadness again.

“Foof,” he explained.

“I know. How about a walk, Skippy?”

The answer was an enthusiastic yes. He knew the word. I found a plastic bag and his leash and we were quickly out of the front door, Skippy pulling me down the block. He wanted to go toward the noise of the media clusterfuck at one end of the street. Some of my esteemed colleagues were actually whistling and making enticing smooching noises to lure Skippy but I was able to resist them and led him the other way. As he took care of his business, I could see they were filming me with their long lenses.

Gumbs came over. He cocked his head at the press.

“There’s a back way out, through the house, if you want to avoid all that. You know. After’s finished.”

“Thanks.”

As I stood there, a wiry woman approached me. She was sucking on a cigarette, a fuzzy little terrier by her side. The dog made a beeline for Skippy; clearly they were more than passing acquaintances.

“You’re not a detective, are you?” the woman asked me.

“No. I’m just walking Skippy.”

“Aubrey still in jail?” she asked.

My expression must have signaled my confusion. She cocked her head in the direction of a townhouse three doors down. “We’re neighbors.”

“He’s being held without bail.”

“Doesn’t make any sense,” she said, puffing away as the dogs played, faking each other out and dodging around at the ends of their leashes.

“I agree but the cops don’t.”

“I was walking Buster here when Aubrey left home yesterday. He didn’t look like a fellow who’d just hacked up his husband.” She raised an eyebrow. “What restaurant did he go to?”

I told her.

“I know that place but that’s not the direction he went,” she said.

“Then where?”

She explained that she had seen Aubrey get a cab but that he did not go uptown on the one-way Madison Avenue, but walked over to one-way downtown Fifth Avenue and took a cab south.

“Maybe the cab went around the block and
then
went uptown,” I suggested.

She looked at me like I was a moron.

“He told the guy Times Square.”

“You heard him?”

“Sure, I was right there. He waved, asked about my hip; always a gentleman, not like some jerks.”

“Are you sure he said Times Square?”

Again the look.

“What am I deaf? I told you. Broadway and 43rd. Clear as a bell.”

“Did you tell the cops this?”

“I don’t get involved,” she croaked.

She had had enough of me and jerked her nippy pet away and went down the block, trailing smoke. Skippy wanted to run, so we sprinted up and down until the media got bored and stopped filming us. Maybe they were hoping I was also going to relieve myself.

Winded, I took Skippy back inside and was about to escape through the rear exit, when Izzy and Phil arrived.

“Oh Christ,” Izzy groaned, when he spotted me. “Call the pound.”

“Ace,” was all Phil said.

I explained that I just stopped by to take care of Skippy, which no one had done. Izzy was annoyed and sent Phil off to see why the animal had been neglected. Then he thanked me.

“Did you tell the press that I’m a family friend of Aubrey’s?” I asked.

“Not me,” said Izzy. “A ‘source’ told them that. It lets us off the hook and makes the beast not so mad at us. If you don’t feed the beast, it bites.”

“Okay. Got anything for me to eat? I thought it was a one-day thing but my bosses expect me to stay on this story. If not, I understand.”

He sighed and thought about it. “The full testing confirmed it all—Forsythe ingested and then regurgitated some of his husband’s flesh. Also, the vic thought he was Elvis. Leonardi was high as a kite when he died. He had multiple drugs in his system. Marijuana, alcohol, some prescription meds, including oxycodone and even animal tranquilizer. We found some grass in the bedroom with the sex toys but we have to go through the medicine cabinets to match up the other drugs. Forsythe has at least ninety minutes unaccounted for, during which he could have sliced, diced and dined. He lied about assaulting Leonardi, he lied about where he was and he had plenty of time to dispose of the meat cleaver. We haven’t found it yet. The blade is an official Aubrey Forsythe stainless-steel cleaver with a nine-inch blade that sells for almost four hundred bucks. Forsythe uses this stuff on the show to push the merchandise. That schmuck can really pack it away. He ate a chunk of Leonardi and then went out, happy-as-a-clam, and chowed down on no less than thirteen different dishes at the Bistro du Bois. The guy is a black hole.”

“I know. I got a list from the restaurant last night, a dozen dim sum dishes,” I said.

Phil returned from his animal-rights mission.

“Then you know it’s an open mouth and an open-and-shut case.”

“May I quote you on that?”

“You may not,” said Izzy. “At least, not with any name attached.”

“So, ‘Izzy.’ Is that short for Isadore or what?” I asked.

“No. Israel. Israel Negron. Puerto Rican and Jewish.”

“That’s so…”

“So what?”

“That’s so New York,” I answered.

“So are the jokes,” Phil said.

“Sergeant D’Amico, don’t you have medicine cabinets to search?” Izzy asked him, before turning to me. “What’s your pedigree, Shepherd?”

“Mutt. My mum and dad are college professors. Actually, they met at Woodstock. I came along much later.”

“Okay. I got work to do. Go out the back way before my boss shows up. The fucking commissioner was here last night. The mayor is hiding under his desk.”

I did as I was told and met the lady who lived behind Aubrey in a similar townhouse. She had a British accent, a sweet face, perfect puffy white hair, and she actually offered me tea, which I politely declined. She resembled Miss Marple the TV detective, so I asked her opinion.

“In mystery movies, when the hero gets a hot tip the police do not have, he or she keeps it a secret from the detectives and they run the clue down on their own, you know, to solve the case. What do you think about that?”

“I thought you were the police,” she replied. “Well, I think that would be a bad idea. It could be dangerous. These things are best left to the professionals, young man.”

To hell with Miss Marple.

Outside Miss Marple’s house two burly guys from the same mold blocked the sidewalk. One was big and the other was bigger. I am six foot tall and two-twenty. They were taller and looked twice as heavy. They were wearing steel-toed work boots and coveralls caked with what looked like years of black ink. Each wore a silly, small square hat made out of folded newspaper on top of their fat pink heads. The bigger guy was looking back and forth between me and a sheet of paper. I craned my neck and saw that it had a photograph printed on it. My photograph. He stuffed it into his coverall pocket.

“You Shepherd?” asked the big one in front of me, fists ready.

“Who?” I asked, trying to walk around them.

“It’s him!” the bigger one on my right said, throwing his heavy left arm around my shoulder and gripping my shirt collar with his sweaty fist.

Oh man. I took a deep breath, set my feet and bent my knees. At the same time I cracked a big smile, brought my left arm up in front of me, bent at the elbow, and windmilled my right arm behind me and up between me and Bigger.

“Peace,” I grinned, making the V-sign with my left fingers, which I quickly poked firmly into Big’s eyes.

I hooked my right elbow onto Bigger’s arm just above his elbow and grabbed my right wrist with my left hand, as Big wailed and put his hands to his eyes. Bigger pulled on my collar, trying to lift me, which was perfect. I pulled my right arm with my left, as I jumped off the ground and twisted violently down and to the left, putting my entire weight into the move. His elbow joint gave with a pop. Bigger groaned and went down, first on his knees, then onto his right side. I followed him down and aimed my right knee and all my weight deep into his gut, letting gravity do the work. He groaned again as I rolled onto my back. A foot glanced off my foot and I saw Big above me, blinking in pain, trying to see where to punch me. I lay flat on my back, both legs out, and let him come. When he stopped at my feet, I hooked my right foot behind his left ankle and kicked him high on the same shin with my left, just under the knee, pushing through with all my strength, which whipped him backwards onto the cement with a nice thump.

I stood up, soreness beginning in my knees and elbows, and my hands had pavement scrapes on them. Big and Bigger were doing a lot worse. Big couldn’t decide which to hold, his bleeding head or his eyes, as he whined on his back. Bigger was in the fetal position, cradling his dislocated elbow and muttering. I took another breath to calm down. Their paper hats had come off. They had bald spots.

I squatted next to Bigger and took his left wrist. He winced and tried to pull away but I told him to stay still. I found a good pulse in the wrist and his fingernails re-colored when I squeezed them.

“It’s just dislocated. You’ll be fine,” I told him. “Okay, I lied. I’m Shepherd. Who are you guys?”

They just kept moaning. I noticed a lump on Bigger’s butt, pulled out his dirty leather wallet and found his driver’s license.

“Mickey McElhone? Are you kidding me? Ginny’s your sister?”

He didn’t answer until I poked his tender gut. “Uh-hunh.”

“How about you?” I asked Big, dropping Mickey’s wallet. “You another brother?”

“Sean,” he whined.

“Mickey and Sean. Pleased to meet you guys. I gotta run. Say hi to Ginny for me. Or was there something you wanted to say to me?”

There wasn’t.

I walked to the end of the block but it took me a while to find a cab. As a new New Yorker, I was still figuring out how to tell which ones were available. What was clear was that whenever I needed a cab, so did everyone else. The trick was apparently to need a cab when no one else did. While I was waiting, I called my new stuff into the
Mail
, including the testing and the drugs in Neil’s system, which made Nigel happy. Just as I snagged an empty yellow cab, I noticed two silhouettes sitting in a blue Honda parked down the block, looking at me. As my cab left, the car pulled away from the curb and followed. At the first traffic light I noticed the Honda had NYP plates, the same as the staff at the
Mail.
There were special free parking zones for them around Manhattan. The passenger tried to sink low in her seat but I caught the flashing eyes, the floating red hair. Beware, beware. Ginny McElhone, my favorite
Daily Press
reporter was on my tail.

Again, I recognized the Baluchistani pop music in the cab, even though it was a different cabbie. I spoke to him in a language he understood but he replied in English, suddenly nervous.

“You want me to evade someone? Where can I go that he cannot in this traffic, sir? Who is following you, please? I want no police, no trouble, boss.”

Just when it was getting to be fun. In the movies, cabbies lived to lose tails and were rewarded with big tips. Of course, an immigrant Muslim cabbie would want no trouble in post-9/11 New York. I told him to pull over and gave him a nice tip for a short trip. Behind me, I saw the Honda had also pulled over and was waiting behind an SUV. I ignored them, pretending I didn’t know they were following me. I spun and walked quickly down the sidewalk toward them. When I passed, they slid down in the seats. I kept walking briskly. By the time I reached the next corner, I saw their car had done a U-turn and was heading back down the block, still on my ass. I should have done it on a one-way street. I was a new guy on their turf. This might not be so easy.

I kept walking, aware of them shadowing me at a discreet distance. I thought as I walked. Different turf but it wasn’t like I didn’t have experience with this. The only problem was I had no backup. No resources, no team. And no car to race away from the bad guys. There were two of them, so if I took a bus or subway, one could follow. Three blocks later, the solution presented itself.

I read the sign and took out my wallet. The price of $9.99 was a good deal for a getaway car. Well, not an actual getaway car. A bicycle. A big, blue, clunky girl’s bike in fact. They were called Citi Bikes rentals and they were all over town. I swiped my new credit card and in a minute, I was off. I could see Ginny and her driver arguing. Should she rent one too or stay with the car? I spotted Ginny trying to get her own wheels but she was having trouble with the machine and gave up. I was a block away when they followed, both still in the car. Wrong move.

I let them follow me for a while as I pedaled leisurely, a slow-speed chase. I waited until I reached a block without any bike kiosk and decided to make my move. While the light was still red but cross-traffic on the avenue had thinned out, I scanned for cops. None. I floored it, sort of, through the red light. I went outlaw, weaving through the stopped traffic at the next light. A quick glance back and I saw Ginny running through the intersection, while her driver honked and tried to get through the stalled traffic. I could hear distant cursing as I cycled east. Three blocks later, no Ginny, no
Daily Press
in sight. I hung a right to the south, downtown. The sun was shining and I was enjoying my bulky blue bike in the big city. It was hard to concentrate on traffic and lights because of the distraction of the fascinating variety pack of humanity surging everywhere. It was like a zoo for every age, race, color, face and body ever invented.

When I was in the East Forties, I turned my girly bike right, towards Times Square. Half an hour later, I found another Citi Bike station near Broadway and 43rd to return my trusty wheels. I was at the Crossroads of the World, which was like being inside a giant video game, with all its lights, giant screen displays and electronic ads. I stood on the sidewalk on the east side of Broadway. Across the street was the open pedestrian area, with huge bleachers. On my side of the street were giant flashing billboards for Broadway musicals.