Hack E-Book

Kieran Crowley

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

It's a dog-eat-dog world at the infamous tabloid The New York Mail, where brand new pet columnist F.X. Shepherd finds himself on the trail of The Hacker, a serial killer who is targeting unpleasant celebrities. Bodies and suspects accumulate as Shepherd runs afoul of cutthroat office politics and Ginny Mac, a sexy reporter for a competing newspaper. But when Shepherd is contacted by the Hacker, he realizes he may be next on the list.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also by Kieran Crowley

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

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62

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Coming Soon from Titan Books

Also Available from Titan Books

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM KIERAN CROWLEY AND TITAN BOOKS

Shoot (October 2016)

HackPrint edition ISBN: 9781783296491E-book edition ISBN: 9781783296507

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: October 20151 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2015 by Kieran Crowley. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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FOR RIKI

1.

On my third day on the job at the tabloid New York Mail, I was weaving a quiet, climate-controlled cocoon of predictability inside my beige, carpeted cubicle. When I swiveled toward the window in my chair, I was rewarded with a shiny Manhattan view of the skyscraper next door, like a giant, docked cruise ship, bright with sharp spring sunlight. I watched a flock of dirty pigeons in tight formation wing up from the unseen sidewalk below, shape-shifting past my window, mounting the space between the buildings. As they rolled and climbed as one, maybe toward their never-seen nests, the space between them never changed. Until a brown blur flashed down, making a hole. The blur and the birds vanished like magic, so quickly it took me a few seconds to realize what I had seen. A hawk, probably a peregrine falcon, taking lunch. To go.

I turned back to my desk and sipped some soothing decaffeinated Earl Gray tea from my New York Mail mug. I glanced at my screen, where I was making headway on my second weekly feature column. Besides the computer terminal on my desk, I had a flat black letter opener for opening what little mail I got, along with some pens and thin notebooks, and a neatly folded emergency necktie for my collared shirt, in case I needed to dress up. There was a telephone and a set of three interlocked stainless-steel rings, magic rings from my early magician phase in school. As a kid, I was the pest who knew where the rabbit was hidden. That’s the thing about magic, and it was a good lesson. Magic is not magic. It’s misdirection. And planning.

I unwrapped my lunch, a steaming chicken souvlaki sandwich on pita bread, and was reaching for the tzatziki yogurt sauce when I was startled by my desk phone ringing. For the first time. It was loud and annoying.

I didn’t answer it but it kept chirping. I had used it to phone people I needed to speak to for my column. Readers emailed and snail-mailed questions for me to answer, and my voicemail took care of the rest. Up to that point, I had been comforted by the idea that, theoretically, I would never have to communicate with anyone I didn’t want to, while I worked on my other project.

The phone rang some more and I remembered I hadn’t personalized my voicemail message. It might be someone important, perhaps a boss. I let it ring a while longer but it wouldn’t stop. I thought about what might happen if I didn’t answer it and finally decided I had no choice.

“Hello?”

“Frank Shepherd?” a young, loud female voice demanded.

“Umm… yeah. F.X. actually. Just call me Shepherd.”

“Hold for Nigel Bantock on the City Desk,” the voice snapped, quickly, over a noisy background of squawking police radios and more ringing phones. Damn. It was a boss.

“I’m sorry. Who is this?” I asked dead air. She was already gone. The City Desk. Breaking news. One floor above me and a world apart from the sleepy Features Department where I was hiding.

“Bantock here.” A sharp accent. Australian? “Frank Shepherd?”

“Yeah. Call me Shepherd. I’m sorry, what did you say your name—”

“Howaya, Shep? Nice to meet ya, mate. I’m new in town, first day on the desk truth be told, but I hear you’re the best. I’ve got what smells like a good murder uptown. Right up your alley.”

“Uh, great, uh… sir,” I stumbled, wondering if I was supposed to respond with enthusiasm. “What’s the story? What kind of animal is involved?”

“Damn. You’re bloody good. How did you know that? You listening, too?”

“Know what?”

“The pooch. Photo just heard over the cop radio a sec ago that some dog is guarding the body. Cops may have to shoot it. Top of the list right now, mate,” Bantock continued without a breath. “You know, ‘loyal pooch protecting slain master?’ Blah blah. Got a runner from the shack on the way with Photo but I need you on this right away. I want an exclusive break on this from you or I’ll know why not,” he concluded in a friendly, threatening tone.

“A good murder. The shack,” I repeated, trying to sound as if I knew what the hell he was talking about.

“The cop shop at police headquarters,” Bantock fired back. “Looks like fun.”

“A fun murder. Great. But I’m not sure why I—”

“It’s a good nabe, mate, um, Clinton area, Upper East Side near Central Park, and it’s indoors. Google Earth shows a bloody townhouse. Good bet it’s RWPs,” he assured me, rapidly reading out an address and repeating it so I could write it down. “Male dead on the scene, hacked to death. Crime Scene and Homicide are there. Get up there and get us a lead for the web, pronto, amigo. Cheers.”

“Yes, sir. Have a nice day,” I lied.

He was gone before I could ask him what RWPs were. Maybe this guy thought he was doing me a favor by sending me out on breaking news? Apparently, at the New York Mail, when they had a good murder, a fun murder, they emptied the office. I thought about it for a while. Maybe I should have told him I wasn’t a reporter. Never did it once. Probably a bad idea. It was the dog. I couldn’t say no to a boss on a pet story, not on my third day at work, and this might help with my little side project. My mouth was watering as I looked at my souvlaki sandwich, with its aromatic grilled chicken and shredded lettuce and tomatoes. I also had a cold can of soda, only because I figured I couldn’t get away with a beer at work. I glanced at my folded tie but decided not to wear it. My lunch was too messy to take with me. I wrapped it back up and left it on my desk. Hoping to hell this was a rare thing, a quick thing.

I left my breached cocoon. It was a warm, sunny, magical day in May but I was not a butterfly. I took a cab.

It was my first time in a New York City cab, a change from the bus and subway. A bulletproof plastic barrier between me and the driver had a pay slot, a credit card machine and a flat screen TV playing lame infomercials. The last cab I was in, in another city, had none of those things and definitely wasn’t bulletproof. I liked this one better. The view was also nicer. Young women in short dresses and high heels, out to lunch, laughing, gossiping in the sun. The only thing similar about this cab in this city was the Baluchistani music the driver was playing.

2.

Bantock was right. It was a good neighborhood: gourmet restaurants, boutiques and fancy townhouses with shiny brass plaques on them, a spot where people were rich enough to have lifestyles, not just lives. It even seemed sunnier. My empty stomach growled. A crowd of TV crews, photographers and reporters were hanging out behind baby-blue NYPD sawhorses on the sidewalk on East 72nd Street. I went up to two uniformed male cops, one black and one white, standing behind a tightly stretched yellow plastic CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS tape, which blocked the roadway. Behind them, emergency vehicles and cop cars were clustered in front of a brown townhouse in the middle of the block. As I approached, I heard the chattering of motorized camera shutters from the photographers, who were all pointing their cameras at me. They had no idea who I was and were shooting first and asking questions later. This could be useful.

“I’m Shepherd. I’m here about the dog,” I told the cops.

They both giggled at my name.

“Give me a break,” I said.

“No vehicle, Shepherd?” the black cop asked.

“No,” I replied. “But I think our other guy, the one from headquarters, is coming in one.”

“You think?” the white cop chimed in.

“Sorry. I’m new. Third day on the job,” I tried.

“Okay,” the black officer said, with a shrug, lifting the tape. “I’ll take you down.”

As we walked, the cop, whose nametag said GUMBS, looked at my face. I got that look people gave me when they were debating whether or not to ask me about the scars on my left cheek; a dark, gnarly one, flanked by two fainter ones that missed my blue eye and vanished into my sandy sideburn and hairline. I was used to it. Everybody saw it but most people pretended they didn’t. I could see the curiosity, the revulsion. The cop went for it.

“Pit bull get ya?” he asked, pointing at the claw-like lines.

“You guessed it.” I smiled at him but he wasn’t convinced. “You should be a detective.”

“Thought you were new?” he asked.

“Happened the first day. Second day, I took off. So far, today looks okay. So, you have one dead guy inside?”

“Yeah, a homicide. Some famous fag.”

I let it go.

“What are RWPs?” I asked, as we walked. The cop smirked.

“Why?”

“Something my boss said. What’s it mean?”

“Rich White People,” he said with a big grin.

“Oh. I just heard it today. Like I said, I’m new.”

And my first assignment as a reporter would hopefully be my last. We sidestepped a dirty young Bradford Pear tree struggling out of its square hole of dirt. In the spring breeze, the tough sapling gently snowed white petals onto the filthy pavement.

“What’s your first name, Shepherd?” the cop asked, smiling.

“It’s not German,” I countered, anticipating the joke.

“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.

3.

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.

4.

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.