Hack (13 page)

I got to the restaurant before Jane, and discovered it was a reasonably fancy place, with a well-dressed clientele, which didn’t include me. I was wearing black pants and a black long-sleeved shirt, my all-purpose evening outfit, which covered every venue from Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs to the Four Seasons. The only necktie I owned was on my desk at the
Mail.

It was a bit cool to eat outside. Only in New York could they take Asian peasant food, pile it on a plate like a modern sculpture and charge a fortune. Jane made a big entrance while I was chatting with a gnarly old waiter in a tux.

“Wow,” I said, checking her out.

The waiter was also staring in awe. Her blond hair was feathery and straight to her naked shoulders. She had shed the lab coat and was wearing a clingy short black dress with almost invisible spaghetti straps. The V-neck of the dress revealed a lot of cleavage. Her eyes sparkled, as did dangling diamond earrings and a matching sparkler between her full breasts, which gave me an excuse to keep looking there. I could see the outline of her slinky hips through the tight velvety material. Her legs were killers; toned under smoky hose and ending in black leather pixie boots. She had just enough makeup on to draw attention to the fact that she was gorgeous.

“Nice necklace,” I told her.

“It’s a pendant,” she smiled. “And I can tell you’re not looking there.”

“Typical woman. You dress like a star at the Academy Awards and then scold me for looking.”

“I am not a typical woman,” Jane said, sitting down, as the waiter pushed in her chair.

“You’re right. I take that back,” I said. “It’s obvious you are something very special.”

“What language were you and the waiter speaking when I came in?” she asked.

I hesitated, adopting a confused expression. “Sorry?”

“You were speaking a foreign language to him. You speak Arabic?”

“I wasn’t speaking Arabic, no.”

“Turkish?”

She waited me out.

“He’s not Turkish,” I said.

“You’re cute but you’re as slippery as an eel, Shepherd,” she said with a smile.

“I love it when you talk dirty. Have you ever had an eel as a patient?”

“Yes. An electric one. You’re doing it again. You did not answer my question. Is there some reason you don’t want me to know you speak a specific foreign language?”

“The waiter and I were speaking Pashto,” I told her, honestly.

“Which is what?”

“A language spoken in Eastern Afghanistan.”

She looked at me, at my face, and nodded. She thought for a bit before she said anything else.

“Berlitz?” she asked casually.

“Something like that, at first.”

“Nothing like immersion in the culture to pick up a language quickly.”

“True.”

“Want to talk about your travels? Or about your scars… lieutenant?”

“Sergeant. Not yet. Later, maybe. If that’s okay?”

“Okay. Fair enough. What shall we talk about?”

“What you have on under that dress?”

“You want to talk about nothing?” she grinned.

“Definitely.”

Jane ordered red wine and our waiter disappeared. “He didn’t take your drink order,” Jane said.

“I already ordered.”

Our drinks arrived, along with an appetizer. We ripped hot pita bread and dipped it into fresh hummus and cool yogurt sauce with cucumber and dill.

“What are you drinking?” Jane asked, looking at my small glass filled with clear liquid. “Is that water?”

“It’s arak,” I told her. “You might not like it. It’s strong.”

“May I try it?”

“Do you like licorice? You know, anise?”

“When I was seven years old, yes.”

“Imagine 200 proof licorice with no sugar.”

She insisted on a sip and gasped.

“Oh my god! It tastes like candy-flavored gasoline.”

“Pretty much. In a pinch we used it in small motors. It’s very flammable. Very efficient, in terms of volume.”

“You may be a strange guy,” she smiled.

“I didn’t start out that way.”

We talked about nothing: Skippy, her practice, Aubrey, cannibalism, rabies, food, global warming, great Coen brothers movies, especially
Raising Arizona, Fargo
and
Miller’s Crossing
. During the flaming lamb and chicken kabob entrées, we discussed electric eels, dachshund spinal columns, sex, the mayoral race, zither music in the film
The
Third Man
, how dating sucked, how we felt guilty eating animals but did it anyway, and also bad Coen brothers movies. At the end of the meal we each knew a lot about what the other person loved and hated but very little about our personal lives.

“What was her name?” Jane asked. “And don’t say who. The one who burned you so bad. It takes one to know one, Shepherd.”

“Fatimah,” I answered after a while.

“Oh God.”

“What?”

“She’s dead, isn’t she? I can tell by your tone.”

“Yes. She is. A year ago.”

“Do you want to talk about her?”

“No. Yes. Maybe sometime. Sorry.”

“Damn. I like you, Shepherd.”

“I like you, too, Jane. You don’t have to sound so sad about it.”

“No, of course not. It’s just that every time I… forget it. Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

As Jane returned from the bathroom, my iPhone vibrated on my hip and a little musical ring tone told me I had a text message. I was reading it as she sat back down and suggested a dessert.

“I may have to skip dessert,” I told her.

“Please don’t let me scare you away, Shepherd. I’m sorry I asked about Fatimah. None of my business.”

“No, it’s not about that. I got a text. Here, read it yourself,” I said, handing her my phone.

“Whose phone number is it?”

“Aubrey Forsythe. I haven’t added him to my contacts yet.”

“I thought he took off and the cops were looking for him?” she asked, handing the phone back.

“He did. They are.”

“Shouldn’t you call the police?”

“Are you kidding?”

I called the
Mail
, told Badger where I was meeting Aubrey so he could send a photographer, and hung up.

“Don’t the police think he’s the killer, this Hacker? It sounds very dangerous. Maybe I could come along and talk to him.”

“You want to come along?”

“You’d let me?” she beamed.

“You know him. Why not? Give you a chance to catch up. Sounds more interesting than dessert. You scared?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Jane paid the bill and we grabbed a cab. On the way I asked if she recognized the address but she said she didn’t think so. I pulled out my phone and plugged in the street and number. Google zoomed in on a townhouse in a row of brownstones.

“It figures he would hide out in an expensive townhouse. No cheap motels for Aubrey,” I said, as we pulled up. “The cops aren’t going door-to-door up here.”

“Shepherd, I hate to interfere with your big scoop but what if Forsythe has asked you here to kill you?”

“Then you should stand behind me.”

“You’re not scared?”

“He’s mad at me but I don’t think he wants me dead. I don’t think he’s the killer. Either way, I’m not worried.”

She stared at me with an odd expression.

“What?”

“I can’t decide whether you’re stupid or crazy or brave or dangerous,” she explained.

“Why not all four?”

The huge five-story brownstone mansion was dark, lit only by pale street lights filtered through the trees. It was enclosed by a black wrought-iron fence and a gate that creaked like a haunted-house movie. The main steps led up to the first floor, half a story up from the street. A large shadow emerged from the basement entrance under the stairs and Jane gasped and grabbed my arm. It looked like a bear with cameras.

“Shepherd?” the bear whispered in a husky ursine voice. “Yeah.”

The shape stepped into the light, festooned with photography equipment, a tall, bulky guy with shiny dark skin, broken only by short black hair, beard and mustache.

“I’m Ernie,” he said. “Badger sent me.”

“You’re my photographer?”

“No, pal. You’re my reporter. What’s the deal?”

“I got a message from Aubrey Forsythe to meet him here.”

“Fuck yes!” Ernie hissed. “Does he know I’m coming?”

“No. Why are you so happy, Ernie?”

“You shittin’ me? This is national. Hell, international. I’ll make a fuckin’ fortune on the resale pictures. I get half. I need a new car.”

We mounted the steps and Ernie elbowed us aside, until he was right next to me, ready to shoot, camera up.

“I got orders to bang away so ring the bell,” he said.

“No,” I told him. “No bell.” I turned the heavy brass door knob.

The front door was unlocked, just as Aubrey had promised. I pushed the door open. The narrow, carpeted hallway was very dark and I clipped a thin table standing against the left wall, rattling something. I went toward a door on the right, light leaking from under it. My breath became stronger, my gut and muscles tensed as I advanced. I felt unarmed. I heard faint barking from the rear of the building; maybe a neighbor’s dog? Suddenly, a dim red light from behind me lit the way. Ernie was doing something with his camera, holding it over my head, pointing where I was going, lighting my way with a red beam.

I opened the door and blinked in the bright light.

He was on his back on a rug, his silent throat and mouth open wide like he had been interrupted mid-rant. Ernie was shooting frantically, his camera flashing and whirring. He was humming as he photographed the slashed throat, hacked open, echoed by the astonished rictus of the mouth. Billionaire Nolan Cushing had tears in his eyes, which had run down either cheek. Perhaps he had cried because someone had pulled his famous helmet hair comb-over aside, where it lay stiff next to his bald scalp like a dead pet. On his other side, there was a pool of sticky red blood, with silver coins and green bills congealed in the mess.

“Fuckin’ great, man,” Ernie muttered.

“Wait,” Jane said. “Isn’t that…?”

“Nolan Fucking ‘Cash’ Cushing,” Ernie answered. “The money guy with the silly comb-over. The one Forsythe publically threatened at the funeral. Yes!”

Jane kneeled next to the body and felt for a pulse. I told her not to touch anything but she ignored me. She began compressing Cushing’s chest and ordered me to call the police. She found a fancy pen inside Cushing’s suit and took it apart. She took the hollow bottom half and jammed it into the bottom of the throat wound, leaving part of it sticking out. She puffed into it and Cushing’s chest rose a bit. Then she returned to the chest, pressing rhythmically.

“He’s fuckin’ dead, lady,” Ernie told her, to no avail.

“I have to try,” Jane answered.

I dialed Izzy’s cell phone.

“What?” Izzy said, obviously emerging from sleep.

I told him. He cursed in Spanish.

“Cushing? Like Neil?”

“Yeah, same throat wound, more posing. Scalped. This time with money all over the place. Oh, I get it. It’s a sight gag, a pun. Blood money.”

“Blood money?”

“You’ll see.”

“What do you mean
scalped
?” Izzy asked.

“Well not technically ‘scalped.’ They took off his wig. Or, his comb-over.”

“Oh. I’ll be right over. Don’t touch anything.”

I hung up and looked at Jane, still valiantly performing CPR. She stopped, winded, and found a tiny flashlight on her keychain, which she pointed into Nolan’s glazed, lifeless eyes.

“Fixed and dilated. Okay, he’s gone,” Jane said, stopping.

She was smeared in blood. After hearing my “blood money” comment, Ernie worked his way around the sofa and shot the body with the currency in the foreground. Then he shot the whole room, flashing in a circle, documenting it all.

I looked around. We were in a fancy leather den with a gigantic vanity wall of Cushing posing for photographs with people more famous than he was. We were obviously in his home. One of them. I noted that the only photographs that didn’t show Cushing with celebrities had him embracing a corgi with a suicidal expression. Even the dog knew he was a shit.

“Good idea calling the cops before the competition sniffs this out,” Ernie said. “You need me for anything else before I go? I gotta get outta here before the boys in blue show up.”

“Why?” Jane asked.

“You kiddin’? They’ll take my camera. That ain’t gonna happen. Besides, I gotta make the late edition. Hey, Shepherd, anytime you need a shooter, call me direct,” he said, handing me his card. “Thanks, pal. With these shots, I’m gonna get me a Jag, baby.”

“Take a shot of that Altoid mint on the coffee table near the body but don’t give it to the office yet,” I told him. “Hold it back, okay?”

He did so without question, shooting the single white mint from both sides and then he was gone. I took a quick look around the empty townhouse, looking for other surprises. I found none, returned to Jane and called the paper. When I told Badger what I had found, he seemed peeved.

“No Forsythe?”

“He’s not here and won’t answer his phone.”

“I already wrote the bloody headline, mate.”

“Bloody is right. Write another one, mate.”