Hack, p.10
Hack, page 10
“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.
26.
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.”
27.
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.”
