Hack (12 page)

She dropped her fork.

“Who have you been talking to?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nobody. Just a guess. You mentioned your dad, your brothers but no mom or sister.”

“And you think I’m not feminine? Now you’re a shrink?”

“No. And I think you’re very feminine. And sexy. Big time.”

She stared and said nothing for a moment.

“I was young when she died,” she admitted after a while. “How about your parents?”

“No, they’re alive and well.”

“But?”

“But they don’t talk to me much. Long story. Another time.”

She seemed comforted by my admission and we eased back into small talk. The dessert, a chocolate mousse devil’s food cake with amaretto whipped cream, was outrageous. Murray sent over snifters of Calvados, apparently some kind of fancy French brandy. I insisted on paying and Ginny did not argue. Heather brought me a large, heavy doggie bag and left it on my side of the table with another wink, as a busboy cleared. Murray stopped at the table and we complimented his food and thanked him for the Calvados. He asked what was new in the case and we each said nothing was new. We strolled outside, me carrying my white paper bag with the heavy plate hidden inside, and got into a cab without a word.

“Where to?” I asked.

“Your place, obviously,” she said, kissing me.

The cab shoved us together as we kissed. I put my doggie bag behind me, out of her reach. Obviously, cabbies in New York were used to people making out in the back seat. I had never made out, drunk, in a New York cab. It was fun. Once again, the cabbie took me to the wrong front door on Broome Street. Maybe the GPS database was off a bit. We disengaged and, as I was paying the cab driver, Ginny’s phone went off with a Looney Tunes ringtone.

“Yeah?” Ginny said into her phone, as we got out onto the sidewalk. “In the
Mail
? No. What are you talking about?”

She began cursing and fiddling with the phone, reading something, her call now on speakerphone.

“Yeah, here it is. Son of a bitch! I see it. ‘FATSO FLEES?’”

She ended the call. Her language got a lot worse and it was directed at me.

“You bastard. You were just babysitting me until deadline,” she spat.

“I thought that’s what you were doing to me.”

“Screw you!” she screamed.

“Not coming up?”

She swung at me with her phone hand and I reflexively pulled my chin out of the way. She cursed again. I didn’t try to explain that it would have hurt her hand more to hit my jawbone. She got back in the cab and slammed the door. In seconds, I was on the street watching the taxi speed away.

* * *

I debated my next move as I walked to my building two doors down. I couldn’t face a bus or the subway or a bicycle in my condition. I hailed another taxi at the corner. I got out at Aubrey’s townhouse and spoke to the cop at the door. I was pleased to see it was my friend from the day of the murder.

“Evening, Officer Gumbs. Long day?”

“Rotating night tour, Lieutenant said you might stop by,” he said, opening the front door. “I hear you’ve got something for him.”

“What’s your first name?” I asked him.

“August, like the month.”

“But they call you Augie?”

“You got it.”

We went into the kitchen. I opened my Bistro du Bois doggie bag and took out the plate, using one of the paper napkins in the bag. The china was off-white, thin and delicate, and had a fine line of gold around the edge, obviously more expensive than the thicker plain white plates at the restaurant. I left it on the counter and opened the cabinet, where there were two stacks of plates. They matched the one I had taken from the restaurant. The left stack was one plate lower and there was a small dent in the wood of the inside rear of the cabinet, just above the top plate in the pile. I put my plate on top of the stack and the thin edge fit exactly into the groove. Now both stacks were even. I took two pictures on my iPhone, one of the plate in the stack and another of it on the counter, where I left it for Izzy.

“Probably been washed, scrubbed and sterilized a dozen times since it held Neil Parmesan,” I said.

“Yeah. No prints, nothing. The killer knew that. I’ll tell the lieutenant in the morning,” Augie said.

“You know where Aubrey put Skippy?” I asked. “Which kennel?”

“The dog? No clue. Maybe he took the pooch with him.”

“Doubt it. Would you take a dog if you were going underground?”

“Not unless he was a devil dog,” he smirked. “So, you weren’t on the job?”

“Not your job. Different job. Night, Augie,” I said.

“Keep it up, pal,” Augie said.

“Not tonight,” I told him. “She ditched me.”

Aubrey did not show up for his court date the next day but every reporter and photographer in New York did, jostling each other, on the lookout for an Aubrey sighting outside the courthouse in the cool morning sunshine. There were more in the lobby and hallway but cameras were barred from the courtroom itself.

“Where is your client, Mr. Arbusto?” a stern Judge Bean asked inside the packed courtroom.

“I have not heard from him in several days, Your Honor. I am concerned for his safety and have filed a missing persons report with the police department.”

Arbusto was clever. His client was again a victim—not a fleeing felon.

“You do not believe your client has fled the jurisdiction?” the judge asked, his voice soaked in sarcasm.

“No, of course not, Your Honor. I can’t imagine Mr. Forsythe doing such a thing. He is an innocent man.”

“In that case, I will do everything I can to assist the police in their search. I hereby revoke Mr. Forsythe’s bail and I am signing a bench warrant for his arrest. Does the District Attorney have anything to add?”

“Without the facts? No, Your Honor, but we cannot dismiss the possibility that the defendant has a consciousness of his own guilt and is trying to avoid justice and we will so argue at trial. Disturbing reports that the defendant fled with a substantial sum of money have reached our office and we are investigating.”

She did not mention the reports had reached her office through a copy of the
New York Mail.

“The warrant is signed. The case is adjourned until the defendant can be produced.”

“All rise!” an officer shouted, as the judge left the bench.

I called the paper and filed the court session and my plate discovery from the night before and sent my phone pictures. Badger came on the line to tell me that Aubrey wasn’t using his cell phone or email yet.

“How do you know he isn’t using them?” I asked.

“A little bird told me,” he cackled. “The same one that told me you have been leaving a lot of voice messages on his phone. The plate thing isn’t bad for tomorrow—‘The
Mail
Uncovers Neil Parmesan Plate,’ but, mate, next time, let Photo shoot the bloody plate. We could have done a simulation, spiced it up a bit. With a lot more pixels than your flipping phone. No more flying solo.”

“Okay, I’m going to nose around the neighborhood,” I said, ignoring him. “I’ll let you know.”

* * *

I went to the Upper East Side townhouse and watched the media mob long enough to see they were getting nothing. Unless Aubrey showed up, of course. I used my iPhone to search for kennels in the area and came up with more than a dozen. I should not have been surprised. The Upper East Side had hundreds of luxury apartment buildings filled with hundreds of thousands of rich people—many with dogs and other pets. City dwellers seemed to think a dog would protect them because they could sense prowlers and could bark. Bad guys would simply rob someone with a cat.

I had almost given up when I spotted a familiar name in the Google listings. “Arthur Animal Hospital and Pet Boarding, Dr. Jane Arthur, DVM.” I decided to start with a familiar face. Maybe she could help me find Skippy. Besides, she was hot.

The hospital was only three blocks away. Parked in front was a black van rigged with fake ears over the cab, painted with a faux tail and labeled
CATMOBILE
. It also had Jane’s name on it and advertised house calls, grooming and emergency surgery on wheels. Her lobby was filled with anxious owners and their dogs and cats, the air filled with animal tension and animal smells.

Behind the counter I found Pippi Longstocking with huge boobs in a white lab coat. She had long, high, jet-black pigtails, like fluffy horns on either side of her head. She was young, slim-waisted, probably college age, with the heavy gothic eyeliner and shadow that young girls think makes them look mature. Her fingernails were glossy black. Everything she had was pierced. Her nose, lips, eyebrows, and her earlobes, which were sparkly stud farms. Her hair was so black it was obviously dyed. Under her white smock I could see a colorful
MEAT IS MURDER
t-shirt. Over the lab coat pocket was a nametag that said
XANA
.

I introduced myself and Xana gave me a nice smile after I pronounced her name correctly, as “Zana.”

“You’re looking for Dr. Jane,” Xana said in a gentle vegetarian voice.

In a few minutes, Jane, dressed in a pink lab coat, emerged from the back with a big smile. I got a kiss on the cheek, so maybe she
had
been hitting on me at the funeral. On her coat pocket, she had a name tag,
DR. JANE
, flanked by a happy little dog and cat. She had a stethoscope around her neck and her pockets bulged, no doubt with lumpy animal treats. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, with a lacy pink scrunchie.

“So, Shepherd, what are you doing here? Worms? Tell me my prayer was answered and you’re single.”

“No and yes,” I answered. “I thought you might help me. I’m trying to find out where Aubrey Forsythe kenneled Skippy before he took off.”

“Oh yes, I heard he took off. Well you’ve come to the right place, Shepherd.”

“Great. Any idea where I might find him?”

“You bet. Skippy is two blocks away. Aubrey has
always
used us. He asked us to pick up his dog on Friday night. Said he was off to hide from the media. We had to lodge Skippy at a pet hotel we use nearby. Why do you want to find him?”

I paused.

“Well, actually, I was going to find the kennel and try to B.S. them but I can’t do that with you. You already know who I am.”

“B.S. them to do what?” she asked.

“To get Skippy, of course. He shouldn’t be in a cage.”

“Hey! We are the best and so is the place we put him. That’s why that jerk Aubrey used us. Skippy is fine. Go see for yourself. I’m in the middle of hydrating a cat but Xana can give you the address and a note,” Jane said, gesturing to Xana.

“Actually, I wanted to ask if I could take Skippy home, you know, like foster care, until Aubrey can take him back?”

“Why?”

“Because I think Aubrey took off and if the cops find him he won’t get out of jail for at least a year. He shouldn’t be in a cage for a year.”

“Aubrey or Skippy?” Jane asked.

“Skippy,” I answered.

“He wouldn’t be,” she said. “If that happened, we would place Skippy, find him a new home.”

“How about me? Now. Why wait?”

She looked at me, amused.

“Okay.”

“Okay? That’s it?”

“I think you’re right. I think it would be the best thing for Skippy. If that creep Forsythe shows up, I’ll just say I put his dog in temporary foster care. Can you take him now?”

“Uh… yeah. Sure.”

“Okay, Xana will set you up with a collar and leash and some food and send you over with a note. You know how to take care of a dog, I suppose?”

“Yeah, I used to have one. She died.”

“Okay,” grinned Jane. “One condition.”

“You got it.”

“Dinner. Tonight. My treat. How about the Bistro du Bois at eight?”

“I just ate there last night,” I explained.

“Oh. Too bad, another time,” she said. “How about Kassim’s, the fancy shish kabob place across the street from there? Their food is great.”

“Okay. It’s a deal, Doc.”

“Call me Jane. See you then. Just go in the back and Xana will set you up. I have to hydrate that cat and then deal with a dachshund with a bad back.”

“Okay, Jane.”

Xana stepped forward. Her eyes were violet. Probably tinted contacts. I glanced at her chest and she caught me, so I tried to cover by pointing at her t-shirt.

“Tell that to dogs and cats,” I told her.

“What?” Xana asked, confused.

“Tell cats and dogs that meat is murder,” I said. “They eat beef, fish, all that.”

“What? Oh, right, haha. You’re the reporter, right? In the
Mail
? I love your stuff. Your headlines are so cool. ‘Neil Parmesan,’ man that is sick,” she giggled. “C’mon. I’ll write down the address. It’s called Park Pet Services.”

* * *

Park Pet Services looked like a small, exclusive hotel, but for pets. Skippy had his own room. He looked sleepy but soon perked up, sniffed me and waggled his tail. I scratched his head and he nuzzled me.

“Hi, Skippy,” I said. “Remember me?”

“Wawf,” he replied.

“Good.”

Skippy bounced down the street, dragging me and a heavy bag containing food, bowls and dog toys. At first, he dragged me toward Aubrey’s townhouse but I realized we couldn’t go there. I tried three cabs but none of them would accept Skippy as a passenger unless he was in a dog carrier cage. Skippy took me to Central Park for a run instead, a real workout given how much I was carrying.

I had a brainstorm when I spotted a bike rental kiosk. In minutes, Skippy and I were breezing downtown, a white husky and a blue bike, connected by a leash. I rode to the West Side and then downtown. I was waiting for Skippy to get tired but it never happened. In my neighborhood, Skippy pulled me toward the water, and into Hudson River Park. We went out onto a long pier with a view of New Jersey—I think—and finally home. In my place, Skippy sniffed and investigated. In the bathroom, he barked at my toilet brush until I showed him it wasn’t lurking vermin. His inspection done, he lapped up a bowl of cold water and some dry food. He settled down on my new couch, like he was home. It was amazing how animals could go through major trauma and bounce back. I collapsed next to Skippy and scratched his head. He fell asleep. Despite the fact that there was no one to scratch my head, I also nodded off.