Hack (17 page)

“You girls are all alike,” I said.

“Not like me,” she insisted. “I don’t think there are too many of you, either, Shepherd.”

“Good thing.”

“Could you walk faster?” she asked. “We’ll never get to my place at this rate.”

Jane opened up her townhouse, shut off the alarm and turned on the lights. My cell vibrated on my belt, making a double ding of a text message but I ignored it. I spotted a wedding photo on the mantelpiece in her living room. She was all in white, radiant, next to a handsome dark-haired guy. I stared.

“I thought you weren’t married?” I said lightly.

“I used to be,” she said.

I suppressed an urge to ask why her ex still held a place of honor but I didn’t really care.

“Bedroom’s this way,” she said, gliding ahead of me.

The only way I wasn’t going to follow her was if the guy in the picture was actually in the bedroom. He wasn’t. Neither was his picture. Smiling, she pulled me onto the bed.

We began slowly, gently, quietly, like terrified high school kids afraid to wake the parents. But the kissing and caressing built a warm glow in my chest that spread to my throat and face. I wondered what the strange feeling was, different from the muscular lust with Ginny Mac. Jane and I pulled off our clothes and looked at every inch of one another, how we moved, how our flesh responded. She was slim, with breasts so round and perfect I wondered if they were silicone. One touch told me they were real; soft with rosy dimpled nipples. She shivered when I licked one of them. Wow. When I did it again she shook again. We locked eyes and our bodies joined and moved together. Now it was my turn.

When we were done, a warm feeling of well-being began in my chest and emanated, tingling throughout my entire body. I felt like a visitor in a strange country. Joy, I realized. This must be joy.

At last, we closed our eyes and held each other. I felt Jane shiver yet again but this time she was crying. I tried to ignore it but it built until she was sobbing against me, her tears smeared against my chest. We held tight onto each other. Fortunately, she opened her eyes first and spoke.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t say this but I haven’t had sex in two years,” she said, wiping her salty eyes and starting to laugh. “Not since my husband died. It hurts like hell but it’s wonderful.”

“I’m sorry but I haven’t had sex for two days,” I said.

She swatted me.

“Mary Catherine?”

“No. She’s married. We’re friends.”

My phone dinged again.

“That’s yours,” she said.

“What?”

“I know you heard that.”

“I don’t care what it is,” I said, kissing her. “Sorry I forgot to turn it off.”

She kissed me back. The glow was still there. Weird. She kissed my shoulder and I suppressed an urge to ask her why. Then she sniffed my shoulder.

“Do I stink?”

“No, jerk. I’m just smelling you. Sorry.”

“What do I smell like?”

“Lime.”

“Like the stuff they throw in graves?”

“What? No. Like the fruit.”

“So, I’m fruity?”

“Not limes, really. Something like that, sunshine, spring. I can’t explain it. Are all these scars from the IED?”

“Most of them.”

My phone made a noise again. Jane kissed me, got up and walked to the bathroom. I watched her. The light went on but the door did not close. My phone dinged again.

“Get it,” she yelled from the bathroom.

There was a text.

“Oh shit.”

“What?” Jane asked over the running water.

I looked at the screen. There were five identical messages. The headers did not identify the phone as belonging to Aubrey Forsythe. It was a different, unfamiliar phone number.

I texted back.

He told me.

Jane emerged from the bathroom, naked, spectacular. “What did you say, Shepherd?”

“Remember when you said no more dead bodies this time?”

“Yes,” she laughed.

“Funny thing. Remember what I said?”

“You said no promises.”

“Exactly.”

“No way.”

“Yes.”

I showed her the texts. She laughed.

“So it’s a different phone you don’t know? Don’t go. It’s fake.”

“It makes sense he would get a new phone the cops aren’t bugging. What if it isn’t fake?”

“It is.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I guess I can’t. Pinky bet,” she giggled, grabbing me and twisting.

“Jane, I’ve got to go. You’re probably right. Come with me. Please.”

“Oh, alright but if I’m right you have to pay for it in bed.”

“Deal.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, throwing on her clothes.

“Central Park South, just inside the park.”

“At this time of night? You’re insane.”

“I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. But I just had sex with a woman who’s been horny for two years and I survived that.”

“So far,” she giggled. “I was just getting started.”

As we approached the imitation forest in the middle of Manhattan, it pushed a damp, dirty breeze in our faces. I saw bursts of light crackling amid the rustling trees as we approached on the walkway just north of the dark stone wall at Central Park South. It wasn’t lightning. We ran through the deserted park in the chilly darkness, from one island of light to another, lit by shadowy lampposts. In the bushes, near the inside of the wall, there was a metal mesh trashcan, stuffed to overflowing with garbage. A large, lurking figure spun around.

“I didn’t know there were bears in Central Park,” I said to
Mail
photographer Ernie.

“Shit, you scared the hell out of me,” Ernie gasped.

“Oh my God. There is a body,” Jane said, looking at the shape on the dead grass.

A half-naked Maria “Pookie” Piccarelli was sitting in the dirt, her back against a rock outcropping, her head lolled to one side. Her large breasts were exposed, her miniskirt up around her crotch. Her throat had been slashed several times and dark, syrupy blood had cascaded down her front. Her left hand was on her bloody breast and her right was pointing at her groin, obviously posed. There were slashes on the reality show star’s forearms and palms, as if she had tried to defend herself. Anger rose in my gut.

“Why would Aubrey do this?” I asked. “Okay, Neil and Cushing were dicks. Pookie was a shallow, drunken slut but why does she deserve to die? She didn’t say anything about Neil at the funeral as far as I remember.”

Jane stepped forward.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Checking for a pulse.”

“Don’t touch her, Jane,” I warned. “She’s bled out and as dead as she’s ever going to be. You’ll just piss Izzy off again.”

She reluctantly obeyed. I texted Aubrey and asked him why he killed Pookie. No answer. I asked him to call and I tried calling
him
. No answer.

“You done?” Ernie asked. “I’m supposed to call the cops as soon as you’re done—so no other press gets shots.”

“Give me a sec,” I replied. “Did you shoot close-ups of the wounds?”

“No.”

“You should. Also, where’s the Altoid? It must be here somewhere. Shoot it but don’t use it. That’s one of the cop hold-backs. It’s too dark here. I can’t see it.”

“Me neither,” said Ernie, taking the additional shots. “I looked for a mint but couldn’t find it. Hope I didn’t step on it.” He peered at the corpse. “Her purse is next to her, open. Looks like a wallet and cash and some dope. Should we take out the drugs and shoot them separate?”

“No. Don’t touch anything. Do the best you can. Shoot all around the body and we can look later.”

I had a weird flash—what if Ernie was the killer, the Hacker? Just doing it for the money? Nah. Made no sense. I told Ernie I would call Homicide so the call would not go over the police radios until later—when our competitors would hear it. Ernie left. I took some shots with my iPhone and then called Izzy Negron’s cell.

“No way,” Izzy protested. “I thought we were done. Why are you calling?”

I told him where I was and what I was looking at. By the time I finished filing my story by phone, Izzy had arrived.

“Now it’s official,” Izzy said. “Three victims make it a serial killer. Rich, famous victims and the Hacker gives it to the
Mail
before us. My boss is apoplectic.”

“Sorry,” I said, as more cops arrived and began setting up a crime scene, complete with generator-powered floodlights.

“Alright, you’ve got a serial killer killing rich, famous assholes,” I said to Izzy. “At least you know who it is.”

“Yeah. A guy I can’t find, even though everyone in the country knows what he looks like,” Izzy said.

“What about the new phone he used to text me?” I asked hopefully.

“Already checked it out,” Izzy answered. “A pre-paid throwaway, bought in Times Square right near his favorite McDonald’s. We’re up on it now but he’ll probably never use it again. Don’t print that part, about us being on the number.”

“Okay,” I said. “This murder seems different from the others.”

“Maybe,” Izzy agreed. “Look, I have no problem with you sticking around but your girlfriend has to get back behind the tape.”

Jane looked hurt but agreed.

“Sorry,” I whispered to her. “I’ll tell you everything later, anyway.”

“Good,” she said, giving me a quick kiss before walking toward the yellow crime scene tape.

I turned back to watch Izzy work, sidling close in the hope of hearing his chat with the newest corpse, but we had to wait for CSI photographers and a video guy to document the murder scene. While they did that, Izzy conferred with a uniformed sergeant, whose men had been literally beating the bushes around the body and looking for any witnesses, hoping to find a sleeping drunk. The sergeant shrugged and Izzy plodded back. After walking around the reality star’s body, Izzy stared at her for several minutes before he began asking the dead girl questions in a soft voice.

“Why outside?” Izzy wondered. “How come nobody saw anything, Pookie? Did Forsythe talk you into coming here? Why would you do that? Don’t you read the papers?”

She did not respond.

“How’d you get those bruises on your arms, Pookie? He dragged you here, right? Why didn’t you scream? We all know you got a good set of lungs. Then he exposed your boobs. No, then he started slashing and you tried to defend yourself. That’s how you got the defensive wounds on your hands.
Then
he exposed you. The other killings were peaceful. No muss, no fuss. This was slashing. In real time. Why? Did you piss him off, Pookie?”