Hack (18 page)

Izzy moved around the body, crouching, leaning close, using gloved hands to lift the victim’s hands and examine them.

“He exposed your breasts and crotch after you collapsed,” Izzy told his subject. “That’s why he couldn’t get your skirt all the way up, right? Why? Just to show you off as a slut? No offense, Pookie.”

“Maybe that’s just the theme of this one,” I suggested.

“Yeah, maybe,” said Izzy. “The victims are a gay man, a straight man, and a straight woman. Food. Money. Sex.”

“Right,” I said. “No more cannibalism.”

“Small favors,” Izzy smirked.

“But no Altoid,” I pointed out. “Maybe we’ve got a—”

“Too soon,” Izzy said, cutting me off before I could say the word. “Gotta wait until daylight. If the mint’s here, we’ll find it. We’ll sift the dirt. Also the autopsy. Let’s see what we find in her system. The other two, Neil Leonardi and Cash Cushing, both had drugs in their systems, including animal trank. She’s got weed and coke and pills in her purse. Let’s see if her pills match up with the others.”

“So… you’re not thinking copycat?” I asked.

“Bite your tongue,” Izzy said. “That’s all I need. Two of them. And none of this makes any sense, other than some vague ‘I-hate-reality-TV-stars’ motive. Makes no sense—Aubrey was one of those assholes himself.”

“True. Maybe this is it,” I suggested, hopefully. “Maybe he’s done.”

“With my luck? No way. This is Manhattan,” Izzy countered. “More rich, famous assholes here than in Hell.”

The next morning my name and picture—along with a photo of the bloody horror of the slaughtered girl—were on the front page under the giant nasty headline:

My exclusive story—which I didn’t have to leave my building to read, thanks to the copy of the
Mail
left outside my apartment door—contained the information I had filed from Central Park the night before but it was rewritten as an open challenge to the Hacker.

“You are a degenerate coward not fit to breathe the same air as decent human beings,” said the story with my name on it. “I challenge you, man-to-man, to come out from the shadows,” I read out loud to Skippy at the breakfast table, after he took his usual seat opposite me, his head cocked to one side.

It went on like that, weaving in the details of the murder among the insults. It read like
Gone With The Wind
or some dumb dueling movie. I called Badger and he pretended to be both surprised and insulted.

“But, mate, we put your byline and face on the front page. It’s being picked up nationwide, around the world. You’re a star.”

“No, you’re a star. You totally rewrote everything I filed.”

“As is our right, amigo. Check your contract. The Editor felt it was time for us to move it to a higher level. We’re upping the game.”

“Yes, I believe you are. Did it occur to you that the tone of the story might piss off the killer?”

“Who cares?” he said in a disgusted tone. “That could be good for us. You’re not scared are you? Of Aubrey Forsythe?”

“You have me challenging a demented serial killer to… some kind of vague showdown. Why would I be concerned? I don’t suppose you care that Aubrey will probably never call me again now that you’ve called him every name in the tabloid cliché book. He’ll probably call the
Daily Press
.”

“Nonsense, dear boy. I’m sure you’ll smooth it all over.”

“Right. I’ll just take him out for a few drinks on the expense account.”

“Don’t forget to take photos if you do,” Badger said, breaking the connection.

While I was on with Badger, Izzy and Jane had called. I called Izzy first.

“You got some kind of death wish, pal?” he asked me.

“I didn’t write that crap,” I told him. “That was my bosses’ brilliant idea.”

“Don’t they get that if you become victim number four it will make it kinda hard for you to cover the story?”

“I think they see me as expendable. Also, I’m beginning to think they want me dead. Maybe this is normal in the newspaper business.”

“Really. Your story is addressed to ‘The Killer,’ like they were covering the bases, so, if there’s a copycat, he’ll want to knock you off, too.”

“Looks that way.”

“You’d think they would want to keep the guy who’s giving them all these exclusives alive.”

“You’d think.”

“What’s going on?” Izzy asked. “What’s with you and this prosecutor?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I can, Izzy.”

“Okay. By the way, the autopsy only found alcohol in Pookie Piccarelli’s blood, plus THC. Beer and grass. No animal tranquilizers, unlike Leonardi and Cushing. But she had Vicodin in her bag. Her throat was slashed at least eighteen times, as opposed to once.”

“Sloppy,” I said. “Or angry.”

“Yeah. No mint, either. We dug up the dirt and sifted it through a screen. No Altoid. Unless she ate it.”

“Maybe the killer ran out of mints and drugs. Maybe the killer is their drug dealer? Maybe the Altoid didn’t fit in with the slut theme. It wasn’t about food.”

“Uh-huh. Then why did he leave a mint at the money murder?”

“Right,” I said. “So, either he’s doing it differently or it’s a different guy.”

“Yeah,” Izzy sighed. “And now they both hate your guts.”

“Comforting.”

“Are you listed in the phone book?”

I told my new detective friend that I was a new listing, but I did not request an unlisted home number. He told me that meant that anybody could get my number and home address. He asked how security was at my building. I just laughed.

Izzy told me that Pookie was very drunk and was last seen at a bar called the Tiki-Peekie, where she was ejected after doing some kind of trick that involved dancing with beer bottles tucked under her breasts. Apparently it was a big hit on her reality show. Then he made me an offer.

“If we do have a copycat, you won’t see him coming,” Izzy said. “Want protection? I think I can arrange it.”

I thought about it. My apartment windows were open and I could hear a bird twittering through the screen before an accelerating bus drowned it out.

“Nah.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Izzy said. “You’re beginning to grow on me.”

“Thanks, Izzy, but I’m not that easy to kill.”

“Everybody is easy to kill,” Izzy countered. “From what I hear, you’ve seen enough killing to know that.”

I thanked Izzy and said we would chat soon. When I called Jane, she was also worried about the ridiculous challenge to the Hacker.

“Why would your own people do that to you?” she asked.

“They’re not my people,” I answered. “I just work for them.”

I told her about all the differences between the first two killings and the third in the park.

“Whether it’s Aubrey or someone else, you are probably in danger,” she said.

“Maybe.”

“What kind of sick person reads about murders and decides it would be a great thing to imitate?”

“The same kind of person who sees planes crashing into buildings and decides to blow up a truck in Times Square,” I told her.

I told her about the huge number of emails and letters I was getting from readers, all with solutions to the crimes. “Most people want to play Sherlock Holmes,” I said. “It’s fun. A few decide it’s an interactive game, I guess.”

“It’s insane,” she said.

“So are the first two killings but at least the killer thought he had some kind of motive. A copycat is just a ham.”

“I’m worried about you,” she said.

“Want to protect me?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Lunchtime?” she asked.

“Where?”

“My place?”

“I feel safer already.”

Skippy and I went out for his morning walk. Going down in the elevator, I went through the case with him.

“I’m not afraid of Aubrey, physically, even though he’s a suspected serial killer. He has weight on me but doesn’t look like he knows how to use it. Just because he and Neil were into S&M doesn’t mean Aubrey is an accomplished assassin. Or does it?”

Skippy looked thoughtful.

“I can’t really see him killing Neil—his shock and grief seemed so real. I can only picture Aubrey killing Neil in a fit of rage, not coldly, methodically. Or is Aubrey a very good actor? But why would he kill Nolan Cushing? Or Pookie? He probably didn’t have lovers’ quarrels with them.” I shook my head. “So a world-renowned food critic just decides to throw away his fame and fortune and become a fugitive for the sheer fun of slaughtering other celebrities? It makes zero sense!”

Skippy chewed his leash a little.

“Fear of a second possible killer is more abstract. It’s easy to fear an unknown—because it’s unknown. If Aubrey isn’t the killer, then someone else is. Who? If the unknown killer or killers did all three victims it makes more sense. A psychopath bent on sensational serial slayings. Well, not sense, but it seems more consistent. Right?”

Skippy did not agree or disagree but he was a good listener.

As soon as we emerged from my building, I spotted my armed pals from Human Resources. They were sitting in a cop-style unmarked Ford Taurus at the curb, looking right at me. They weren’t trying to hide. In one pocket of my brown shorts, I had my house keys. They were my only weapon. In the other pocket, I had a crumpled plastic bag, for Skippy’s anticipated activity. I could smother one of them with it if he stood still. They started to open their doors but quickly closed them when Skippy began barking at the car, tugging on his leash. Correction.
Skippy
was my only weapon. I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye and saw more silhouettes, one small and two large, in a Honda parked down the block. Ginny Mac and her brothers tried to hide by sliding down in their seats. Ginny vanished from sight behind the wheel but her hulking siblings just wiggled, unable to hide their bulk, rocking the car on its suspension.

I held up my palm and yelled at Skippy to stop barking. Amazingly, he stopped.

“Good morning,” I said to Jack Leslie through his slightly open driver’s window. “Is there a Human Resources problem in front of my building?”

“You’re the fucking problem,” his partner Matt Molloy snapped.

“What Matt means is we have been asked to keep an eye on you, a little special attention,” Leslie smiled flatly.

I smiled flatly back.

“You’re too late,” I told them, jerking my thumb towards the packed Honda. “I already have bodyguards. Their Human Resources are much larger.”

Skippy and I walked away from their confused expressions and strolled across the street a few hundred feet to Ginny’s car. She magically rose up in the driver’s seat. Skippy barked again and I told him a second time to stop. He did. Incredible. Who had trained him? I rapped on Ginny’s window and it rolled down a bit.

“My armed bodyguards from the
Mail
told me they don’t like you hanging around,” I told her with a straight face, using my thumb to point out the Human Resources dynamic duo. “They don’t like you. I had to convince them not to attack you.”

“Bodyguards?” Ginny asked. “I thought they were cops.”

“Don’t worry, I told them not to shoot you. So, Ginny, you here to steal another story or are you just here for more sex?”

Her face frosted over. The brothers looked at Ginny and each other and scrambled to open their doors to get at me. Skippy began barking again. They closed the doors. For the third time I told Skippy to stop. He stopped. Totally cool.

“Good boy,” I told him, patting his head.

Skippy sat on the pavement, alert, watching the occupants of the stuffed car, as I scratched his fluffy neck.

“If it’s for sex, that’s great, I just need to finish walking Skippy,” I told an infuriated Ginny. “But your bros have to stay down here. That would be awkward.”

She rolled up her window. All three McElhones began yelling at each other, arguing and pointing at the Human Resources execs down the street—who were both watching, both parties convinced the others were my protectors.

Skippy and I moved on. He pulled me west, toward the sparkling river a few blocks away, and I began to jog to keep up with him. My fan club stayed in their cars.

“Who taught you to do that?” I asked Skippy. “Who taught you to stop barking when I say ‘stop?’”

He ignored my question and took care of business, which I deposited inside the plastic bag and then into a trash can. We ran out to Hudson River Park again and admired the Manhattan and Jersey City skylines. We ran along the river some more before slowly working our way home. On the way back into my building, I gave friendly waves to both cars. As we walked inside, I glanced back to see the two sets of angry people glaring at each other as if I did not exist.

Back in the elevator, I began laughing and the dog joined in, jumping and yipping, which was probably the closest Skippy got to laughing.

When I got out of the shower and got dressed in my black pants and black shirt, there was a text on my phone from another number I did not recognize.

The only developments were the new murder and “my” letter to the killer. He seemed to be taking the insults in his stride. I texted back.