Hack (9 page)

“No. She… she was mad at me anyway.”

“Who’s Al?” Ginny asked.

“Old friend. Somebody I used to work with. Nobody you know,” I answered.

I excused myself and took another shower. When I got out, Ginny was gone. So was my copy of the Aubrey/McDonald’s DVD and several notebooks. All the drawers in my bedroom, kitchen and desk were open, ransacked. I laughed.

“Cooked,” I said out loud to no one. “Twice.”

The cathedral of soiled sandstone soared above Fifth Avenue but was literally overshadowed by newer, taller sectarian skyscrapers. Inside, the hiss of many voices rose in the cool echoing space between the giant marble columns and glowing stained glass, as relaxing as a fountain. It would be nice to again believe the comforting tales of my Catholic childhood; the bearded guy in the clouds and the story of immortality inside a simple cosmos centered upon me. But, after a little reading and a lot of reality, I suspected that the actual universe was vastly more complicated, mysterious and astounding.

Neil Leonardi’s casket was at the end of the center aisle, in front of the altar, illuminated by the lights of the TV crews who were filming the coffin and the rich and famous mourners who sat resplendent in the rows of dark wooden pews. I found a seat and did some gawking myself. There were no politicians. The bizarre crime and Aubrey’s arrest had scared away the elected officials on Aubrey’s vanity wall. But the funeral for a horribly murdered man was still a wonderful photo opportunity for the power set, who may or may not have known the deceased.

I was surprised how many faces I recognized, given how out of touch with popular culture I had become. There was the loudmouthed billionaire with a bulbous red nose and the most ridiculous, gravity-defying comb-over on the planet. Nolan Cushing’s dyed blond hair was hair-sprayed into a frozen flying saucer that seemed poised for blast off. He preened pompously for the cameras, clearly unaware of how idiotic he looked. When he turned at the right angle, Cushing’s pompadour looked distinctly like the tip of a dick. He probably looked in the mirror before leaving his gold-plated mansion this morning and decided he looked just marvelous. On being asked for his opinion on Neil Leonardi’s death by one of the reporters, Cushing affected a serious tone.

“I’m sad to say that this is the kind of thing that happens when you slap God in the face with a degenerate lifestyle.”

For a lack of something better to do, I googled Cushing on my iPhone. “Cash” Cushing was infamous for making a fortune giving blue-collar people mortgages they could not afford and somehow selling that bad debt to banks in Iceland, thereby racking up a second fortune. His third fortune was made foreclosing on the same homes, on behalf of the European banks he had cheated. When a dying woman he evicted in Queens committed suicide,
Newsweek
quoted him as saying “Losers lose. Winners win,” the title of one of his ghostwritten books. He had a TV show called
You’re Foreclosed
. No prizes for guessing what that was about. Next to Cushing was Julie Temple, his latest supermodel girlfriend, the best money could buy; hollow-cheeked, bored and voluptuous in a Viagra-blue dress.

A few seats from Cushing sat right-wing TV and radio commentator Harley Himmler. I googled him as well because I could not think of a reason an arch-conservative Christian would attend the funeral of a semi-famous gay man. Google found TV and radio clips in which Harley used Aubrey and Neil as signs of the decline and fall of western civilization. In the most recent, Harley gloated that perhaps some patriotic red-blooded American male had taken it upon himself “to rid the world of these simpering fags that God hates as a public service.” So, Harley was here to celebrate, not to mourn.

Cameras were also swarming around a short, plump girl whose large breasts were bouncing inside a rhinestone tank top. Didn’t anyone dress for funerals anymore? Some Internet stalking later I had discovered that Maria “Pookie” Piccarelli was the star of a hit reality show called
Bitch Blanket Bimbos
, airing on the Drinking Channel. Her fame seemed to revolve around her breasts, beer bongs, and blow jobs. Google found no connection between either Neil or Aubrey and this young lady.

Bored of watching Pookie hoist her impressive chest at the cameras, I scanned the other “mourners.” I noticed several celebrity newspeople who hosted various talk shows and gossip websites and other once-famous faces I could not place. Amid the media elite, I spotted Don Badger and our boss, Lucky Tal Edgar. I googled Edgar again. Born in London, he had moved to New Zealand to work for the billionaire media mogul, Trevor Todd. Lucky single-handedly sensationalized the sleepy Kiwi press by covering stories that had been ignored for generations. He splashed lurid sex scandals, some of which were later revealed to be exaggerated, and gory auto accidents all over the front pages. Todd had then sent his golden boy back to the UK, and it was in London that Edgar came into his own. His formula required a constant stream of shamed celebrities to fill the paper with gossip and hijinks but there weren’t enough to do the job. His brilliant solution, at least according to one website, was to simply
create
celebrities, no matter how insignificant or untalented the individuals were. He expanded the ranks of the famous by treating all TV, radio and media people, along with all rich people, public officials, models, corporate execs, and sports figures as if they were superstars. When that wasn’t enough, he included their relatives, too. He also generated endless royal scandals by bribing palace servants and giving extensive coverage to the huge pool of useless aristocrats clogging the island.

I shut down the web browser. This was depressing, even for a funeral.

A group crowded into my row, jostling my elbow. I stood to let them pass, while keeping my aisle seat, and recognized Murray Glassberg, the chef from the Bistro du Bois, along with his bartender, Heather, and several other members of the restaurant staff. More people treating Neil’s funeral like a party. We all shook hands. Murray introduced me to a strikingly good-looking woman in a black pants suit, with a lacy camisole just visible under the jacket, calling her “Doc.” She ended up sitting next to me. I didn’t mind. Her perfect oval face was framed by a curtain of blond hair that fell in gentle waves to her shoulders.

“Hi. I’m Jane. Jane Arthur.”

“Shepherd.” We shook. “What do you do at Bistro du Bois?”

“Eat. I live nearby, so I’m a regular customer. And a friend of Murray’s. He wants to go out after this to celebrate.” She raised an eyebrow. “You must be the reporter he mentioned, from the
Mail
. I’ve been reading your articles.”

“That’s me. Although they rewrote a lot of that stuff…” I paused. “I’m sort of helping the police. Were you there that day? When Aubrey Forsythe had lunch?”

“No. Well, yes, I was there earlier but I was gone by the time he arrived.”

I looked along the row. Murray was deep in conversation with Heather. I kept my voice low. “Did Murray or anybody else leave and then come back?”

“I don’t know,” she answered in hushed tones. “Don’t think so. Why? I thought Forsythe had been charged with the murder. Is Murray a suspect?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. The McDonald’s video shows Aubrey may not have done it, but somebody sure did.”

“This is interesting,” she said. “Sounds like a mystery. I love mysteries. I’m very nosy. You got those scars on your face one or two years ago?”

She was curious but in a professional way.

“A year ago. Murray called you ‘Doc.’”

“I’m a vet.”

I told her about my column and how I had stumbled on the murder. She was very easy to talk to.

“You’re the new pet columnist? I love it! Your pooper scooper column was hilarious.”

I was captivated by her blue eyes, crystalline and sparkling.

“So you’re saying Aubrey Forsythe may be innocent?”

“Maybe.”

We both turned at the sound of a disturbance at the entrance of the cathedral.

A wedge of cops came in, followed by Aubrey Forsythe and his lawyer, who took seats in the front row. I emailed the fact of Aubrey’s arrival to the
Mail
and they kicked back, saying Aubrey’s lawyer had gotten the appellate court to order bail, which was set at $1million and immediately posted in cash. Chicken feed. All the cameras swooped in on Aubrey, who remained mum, despite an avalanche of questions.

“Speak of the devil,” Murray said.

“How can they just let him out?” Jane asked, in a disgusted tone.

Organ music began and several men in ornate religious gowns converged on the altar. The service was pretty routine, considering the sensational nature of the case. The priest did not use the words “cannibalism” or “homosexual” in his eulogy, which was of the one-size-fits-all variety. Aubrey’s name was conspicuous by its absence, despite his presence. Neil, according to the priest, was devoted to God and was a wonderful man who died before his time. Pookie pretended to cry for the cameras but ruined it with a burp. Aubrey cried what seemed to be genuine tears, and the TV crews went live. The priest proceeded with the solemn service, during which they drank blood and ate flesh, at least symbolically. Food for thought.

I managed to get through the crowd of mourners and out onto the steps of the cathedral in time to see Aubrey and his lawyer, Roland Arbusto, struggling through a crowd of reporters toward a black limousine at the curb.

“I am innocent. I didn’t kill anyone,” Aubrey protested. “A court let me out on bail because there is video proof that the case against me is falling apart.”

“What’s a big gourmet like you doing eating Big Macs?” one reporter asked.

He ignored the question.

“What do you think about Nolan Cushing saying that Neil’s death was caused by his degenerate lifestyle?”

That made Aubrey stop, one hand on the limo’s door. He turned.

“That bigot came to dance on Neil’s grave and I hope he gets what he deserves,” Aubrey said, as he hurried into the back seat. “Someone should hack him up, and that goes for those other media whores like Harley Himmler as well.”

The door slammed shut but the limo did not move. I noticed that one of the TV crews was Aubrey’s team from
Food Fight
. After a minute, the limo’s tinted window slid down and Arbusto’s face appeared.

“Is F.X. Shepherd from the
Mail
here?”

I walked over and Arbusto put the tinted window up.

The door opened and I got in. As the limo took off, I could see Ginny McElhone and a dozen other reporters running toward the press parking area.

“I understand you were the one who uncovered the McDonald’s footage,” Aubrey said to me.

“The police found it. I just covered it,” I said.

“I was an idiot,” Aubrey said. “I tried to keep it secret, so it wouldn’t damage my reputation. Rolly here tells me the cops would never have given you that video unless you had it first. He thinks you are a smooth operator.”

I said nothing. Aubrey was all business. No more emotion. As long as he seemed to be grateful, I told Aubrey I needed an exclusive interview to keep my paper happy and wanted his cell phone number. He shrugged and agreed. I pulled out my notebook.

“Rolly tells me you stopped the cops from shooting Skippy. Is that true?”

“Sort of. He was scared. He was protecting Neil.”

“You also came back and fed him and took him for a walk while I was in jail I hear?”

I nodded, waiting for the thank-you.

“Why?”

“Because nobody was doing it and Skippy can’t do it for himself.”

“Well, you don’t need to do that anymore. The TV people should have taken care of that. He was their idea anyway.”

I didn’t hear any thank-you.

“Skippy was their idea?”

“Of course. I’m not a dog person and, as you saw on the footage, Neil absolutely detested them.”

“You got a stylish dog so it would look good on TV?” I asked.

“He matched the kitchen. Obviously it was a bad idea, considering Neil’s behavior toward Skippy.”

“And your behavior toward Neil. Why did you slap Neil for kicking Skippy if you don’t even like Skippy?”

“Don’t be so naïve, Mr. Shepherd. Reality producers encourage conflict. Good for ratings. Besides, Neil was defying me and it looked bad on film.”

“As bad as you slapping
him
? So you don’t abuse animals. Only people?”

“I think we’ve covered this, Mr. Shepherd. Your dog-walking services are no longer required. I’m going to put the dog in a kennel for a few weeks, while I hide out from the press. Bastards are camped outside my house.”

“You’re putting Skippy in a shelter?”

“Not a shelter. A high-end kennel and vet right in my neighborhood. I can’t stay at home. Hotels won’t let me bring Skippy and I don’t have time to take care of him. That was Neil’s job. Actually, after we’re done taping this season, I may make other plans, especially now that Neil is… gone. By the way, your ‘Neil Parmesan’ headline was cheap, offensive, and disgusting.”

“It was,” I agreed. “Also accurate. I found out reporters don’t write headlines.”

“Have it your way,” said Aubrey. “They’re not dropping the case against me yet but Rolly tells me I have you to thank for getting out on bail. Of course, on the other hand, you’re just a cheap, low-paid hack from a yellow rag who also wrote all those horrible things about me and Neil.”

“You’re welcome,” I replied. “I wasn’t trying to help or harm you. Just trying to get the truth. Did you kill Neil?”

“Don’t answer that,” Arbusto ordered.

“Of course I’ll answer that,” Aubrey said. “No. Of course not. I would never hurt… I could never kill Neil. I loved him, whatever his faults.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Why do you believe me?” Aubrey asked.

“Your reaction. It looked real. Unless you’re a great actor.”

“I’m not.”

“You still could have done it fast, cleaned up, run to Mickey D’s, then gone to Bistro du Bois.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Okay, so who did?”

“That is not for Mr. Forsythe to discover,” Arbusto objected. “That’s the job of the police and prosecutors.”