Hack (2 page)

“Too bad,” he cackled.

As we walked up the sandstone steps and through a large antique door of dark wood, the cop talked into his portable radio. He led me down a hall toward the rear of the first floor. It was like an art gallery, with framed photographs, cookbook covers and magazine stories on both sides, a red Persian carpet underfoot. They were vanity walls for some bald fat guy with big red lips who looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy. I deduced that his name was Aubrey Forsythe and he was a food critic for the prestigious
New York Tribune
, hobnobbing with very famous people. The folks in the photographs were all eating wonderful food and smiling because it was so delicious. My stomach growled again. There were pictures of Forsythe, chowing down with an obnoxious billionaire in a cheap toupee, and with famous actors, mayors, and presidents. There was a large poster for
Food Fight
, a TV show featuring Aubrey and a lean, handsome guy with wavy hair, throwing food at each other and laughing. In some photographs, obviously personal shots, the Pillsbury Doughboy was being hugged by the same guy. One big framed photo at the end featured both men in front of a church, wearing tuxedos, holding bouquets of flowers and beaming.

At the end of the hall, several plainclothes detectives in suits waited behind a uniformed Emergency Services cop, who was pointing a black 12-gauge shotgun in the direction of a growling noise coming from the kitchen, a large, bright white and stainless-steel affair that looked like a nuclear lab. Something smelled great and something else smelled bad.

“Here he is, Lieutenant. His name is Shepherd,” Officer Gumbs announced, chuckling and waiting for a reaction.

There wasn’t any, except they all looked confused. “I’m Lieutenant Izzy Negron,” said one of the detectives. “We got a big husky in attack mode. Guarding the boyfriend’s body.”

“Husband,” I corrected him.

“What?” Negron asked, sounding genuinely confused.

“Husband. Looked like a wedding photo back there,” I told him.

“Husband?” one detective asked. “Give me a fuckin’ break.” The other cops began snickering.

“Knock it off!” Negron snapped. “Okay, the husband,” he said to me. “Maybe. I haven’t seen a license yet. Who cares?”

“Where’s your trank gun and noose?” a suddenly suspicious ESU cop demanded. “All we’ve got is a wire noose on a pole. We’re out of trank darts.”

“I don’t use that stuff,” I told them.

“Shit. Okay. I’ll have to take the dog out,” the shotgun cop said.

“Not in my crime scene,” Negron said. “I don’t want canine blood contaminating my body.”

“Let me give it a try,” I said.

They argued some more then agreed to let me try, obviously convinced I would fail—but better me than them.

“Okay, Shepherd. If he attacks you, just go down, go fetal, and we’ll get close and get a better shot. Clear?” Negron said.

Yeah. I was bait. They all pulled guns and made a hole for me. I asked them to back around the corner. Negron’s partner, who said his name was Detective Phil D’Amico, gave me a pair of baby-blue surgical gloves. I put them on.

“Don’t let him see you,” I told them, stepping into the kitchen. “I’ll yell if I need you.” I stopped and turned back. “What’s his name?”

“Neil something,” Negron answered.

“Leonardi,” D’Amico said, glancing at his notebook. “Neil Leonardi, age thirty-eight.”

“No, I meant the dog’s name.”

Now they laughed loudly. Including Negron. At me. The dog growled at the sound.

“No fucking clue,” Izzy said, still laughing.

I entered the kitchen with silent, baby steps. It was a large square room with a shining white marble floor and a black restaurant-style swinging door on the far side, a round window in it at eye level. There was a brick oven on one wall, a small fireplace next to it, and a huge, gleaming stainless-steel chef’s stove. Above the white center island counter and sinks, suspended from a shiny oval, hung dozens of pots and pans, brilliant in the micro spotlights, like a TV set. The room cost more than I could make in ten years.

My mouth watered from the aroma of onions, garlic, parsley, sautéed butter and cheese. Someone had been making a mess, cooking, squirting oil and vinegar everywhere. A large stainless-steel frying pan was on the stovetop and various spices and other ingredients were strewn across the shiny, dark granite counter near the stove and on the center island. A white, papery garlic bulb had rolled across the floor.

As I inched forward, the low growling became louder snarling. I peeked around the island and caught a glimpse of a large white husky with glacial blue eyes, his snowy bib smeared with blood—not his own by the look of it. He snapped in my direction. Behind the dog was a pale, naked dead man, face down on the gleaming floor. The younger guy from the photographs in the hall. His head was covered in wavy hair and haloed by shiny bright red liquid on the white floor. His throat was slashed, hacked open. Something glistened in the eye I could see. I inched closer. Tears. Like he had been crying and was killed mid-sob.

Next to the body was a glazed ceramic bowl, a circular white island in the lake of crimson. The top of the dead man’s right ass cheek seemed to be missing, an oval purple gash in its place. Weird. I ducked back. Did the dog maul him? It looked sliced, not chewed. It was a striking image, the china white floor, the pale corpse arrayed atop the perfect raspberry-red puddle. There was some scruffy green stuff scattered across the dead man’s back. It took me a while to realize what it was.

The large expensive frying pan, splattered with burned and clotted sauce, was still on the stove. A cutting board had been used to shred lemon slices. A gouged-out wedge of Parmesan cheese had been tossed aside. Tufts of green parsley, melting butter in a glass tub, greasy knives, a cheese grater, and a smelly garlic press littered the counter. Tiny green gnarly capers were scattered about and, near the edge of the counter closest to the door, one small white pill. I looked closer at the square chalky tablet. Ecstasy? Oxycodone? I sniffed it without touching it. Mint? There was a letter A on the tablet. It was an Altoid mint. I sneaked another look at the dog and he snapped again but did not come at me. The white bowl had lettering around the rim.
SKIPPY
.

“Skippy!” I called out in a friendly tone. “Skippy?” The growling stopped. “Skippy, where are you?” I asked, edging toward the body.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Izzy Negron peering around the door at me, a confused expression on his face.

“Skippy?” I continued, getting closer. “Oh my God! What happened to Neil? Is he hurt? Skippy, what happened to Neil? What happened to Neil, Skippy?”

Skippy barked in response. I kept it up, repeating myself about a dozen times. Skippy kept up his answering barks. I opened a few cabinets until I found another bowl and half filled it with water. Wary, Skippy watched me but did not growl. I put it down in the far side of the kitchen, where Neil was hidden by the island, and sat on the floor a few feet away, next to the swinging door. I looked away. Skippy cautiously sidled over to the water, his paws leaving smeared bloody prints on the floor. He lapped up the water. When he was done, he collapsed on the floor next to me, whimpering. I petted him and told him he was a good boy. The cops peeked at us again, their guns poking into the room. Skippy howled. After a few minutes I pushed open the swinging door. Inside was a pantry and an expensive, cushioned dog bed in the corner. I held it open for several more minutes, talking to Skippy, and eventually he ambled through it and onto his bed. I went in, let the door swing shut behind us and sat with him.

Within a minute I could hear the CSI technicians entering the kitchen. I stood and looked through the door’s porthole. They were beginning the process of taking photographs and processing the scene. I sat down again and googled Neil Leonardi on my iPhone and got a flood of hits. There were videos of Neil and Aubrey on their show, a website for the show and a different one for Aubrey. They were rich and famous and stars of American reality TV. There was even one episode called “Wedding.”

“What happened to Neil?” I asked Skippy, who was too exhausted to bark.

“Foof,” Skippy said, with a weary sigh.

“You got that right, Skippy,” I told him, taking a shot of him with my phone’s camera.

I turned and took another shot through the glass porthole of Neil’s body and the kitchen. I was frustrated that Skippy could not talk. Probably not as frustrated as he was. I dialed the main number for the
Mail
and asked the operator for the City Desk.

“Where the bloody hell are ya, mate?” Nigel yelled. “Nobody can find you up there. Why don’t you answer your fucking phone?”

“It hasn’t rung. I’m inside the townhouse, with the dog. His name is Skippy and he is a large husky. Seems to be about three or four years old. White coat, blue eyes. He is very upset but he seems unharmed. The blood on his paws and his fur is not his. He got it from the pool of blood while he was guarding his dead master. I’ll send you photos. What’s your email?”

“You’re
inside
the bleeding townhouse?”

“Yeah. Just off the kitchen. With Skippy.”

“You have pictures? Skippy? Uh… records say the building there is owned by…”

“Aubrey Forsythe, the food critic. Yeah. The blood on Skippy belongs to Neil Leonardi, Aubrey’s husband. He’s the one dead in their kitchen. Throat slashed.”

“Bloody brilliant! Are you sure?” Nigel asked.

“I’m looking at the body. He’s nude, face down and someone made a messy meal in the kitchen. Aubrey isn’t here. They want to question him about—”

“Fucking fantastic! Hold the phone, Shep, let me get rewrite on the line. Give them every cough and splatter so we can toss it up on the web, and then get back to work, mate. This exclusive?”

“You mean are there other reporters in here? No. They’re all a block away. Does it matter?”

“You’re a pisser, Shep. I’ll kiss you later,” he giggled.

I wondered if Nigel was serious about the kiss. By that time, the technicians were finished. Skippy was asleep. I stepped back into the kitchen just as Negron and D’Amico entered their crime scene.

Izzy was asking questions but nobody was answering.

“So, Neil, were you cooking when this happened?” Negron asked the dead man, as he gently parted the hair on the back of the corpse’s head with surgical-gloved fingers. “You were done, right? The meal is gone. What did he hit you with? Or did you get this bump when you fell?” Negron continued. “Who clipped you on the right cheek? Did Aubrey hit you? Isn’t he left-handed?”

D’Amico remained silent, just looking and listening, as if this kind of behavior were normal, as if the corpse might reply. I did the same, casually glancing at the empty sinks and down into a garbage can, which had a new plastic bag in it but no garbage. One upper cabinet door was ajar. Inside I saw two stacks of fine, pure white china dinner plates, almost two dozen.

“Here we go, what’s under your fingernails, Neil?” Izzy asked. “Looks like skin and blood. Alright, now we’re talking. The killer hit you and you scratched him. Yes. Good man. Phil, let’s get bags for his hands. So, Neil, did you cook the meal? Except for the skin under your nails, your hands are clean. Maybe you washed. Where are your clothes, buddy?”

“Upstairs on the floor in the master bedroom in a pile by the bed,” Phil answered, startling me. “They don’t look like they got food on them.”

Izzy nodded impatiently at Phil’s interruption.

“Your eyes are all bloodshot, Neil. From crying, right? Were you already unconscious when he slit your throat?” Izzy continued. “Was it your boyfriend… husband? Lady next door says she heard you two having a big fight just before Aubrey went out.”

Again, Neil did not answer but Negron continued questioning the naked man, undaunted.

“So your neighbor heard you guys fighting and banging things around and then Aubrey went out. She said the TV was on very loud and the dog was barking so she eventually called 911 to complain. When the uniforms arrived, the door was unlocked. They found you and accidentally let the dog out of the pantry. Was it Aubrey? Did he do this? Why did he cut a slice out of your butt after you were dead? Fuck was that about? Trying to dismember you and he gave up? Too much work? What were you…” Negron stopped in mid-question and glared at me, like he had figured something else out.

“Ask Neil why that slice is missing,” I suggested. “Where is it?”

Izzy looked at Phil and they both looked back at me. In the pantry, I heard Skippy stirring, his nails clicking on the floor. I scanned the kitchen, noticed something above the center island counter. Something not there.

“There’s no real food here,” I went on. “No empty meat or veggie package in the trash. If Neil cooked and ate his lunch, where’s his plate, his silverware? Where’s the missing butt cheek?”

“It’s not here,” said Phil. “But he could have eaten, cleaned up the dish and cutlery and put them away. The killer obviously removed or disposed of the missing cheek. We’ll check the garbage disposal, the plumbing traps…”

“Why leave all this mess?” I asked. “Look at this place. It’s a museum. Two neat freaks live here. The knives are all in their slots but the hanging rack above the counter has something missing, something that used to hang there, maybe a meat cleaver?”

“Yeah, I noticed that.” Izzy turned back to the silent victim. “Maybe you were interrupted before you could clean up? Or the killer did the cooking after you were dead and he left the mess?”

“That still leaves a pound of flesh missing,” I pointed out.

Izzy scowled back at me. Then it hit him. “Shit,” Izzy spat. “Why me? No way.”

“Maybe,” said Phil. “Hopefully not.”

Izzy looked back at Neil but before he could ask him the question, a disturbance could be heard from the direction of the front door. Phil went to check it out and returned in seconds. I could hear someone shouting from the hallway. Skippy began to yip and bark from behind the pantry door.

“It’s Aubrey,” said Phil. “He’s back from doing some restaurant review and wants to know what’s happening.” He raised an eyebrow. “He wants to see Neil and he will call his good friend the mayor unless we tell him right away. You have to see his face. His cheek, I mean.”