Hack by Kieran Crowley Read Free Book Online

the West Side downtown. It was a small, overpriced one-bedroom apartment in one of three identical six-story red-brick buildings that used to be factories. It was like living in a traffic jam. Day and night, especially during the evening rush hour, honking lines of cars filled the one-way street, bound for a nearby entrance to the Holland Tunnel. The Holland Tunnel did not go to Holland, but to New Jersey. And the rush hour was about four hours long. I have no clue what “TriBeCa” means. There were two pitiful saplings on my block and two actual trees.
    Mary Catherine was waiting in my living room, her high heels off, legs tucked under a short business suit skirt on my black fake leather couch. The long, natural dirty-blonde hair she kept in a French braid during the day fell loose below her shoulders. Cold Thai food and stacks of legal documents were on the table. She was an amazing sight to come home to.
    “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded.
    “Working. Remind me, Mary Catherine. When did I give you a key to my apartment?”
    “I gave you the key and kept a copy, and that is what’s best for our arrangement. You were writing about how to pick up dog poop until this time of night?”
    “That was my first column. Now I’m working on number two. Well, the second column—whether it’s right or wrong to make love in front of your pet.”
    “So? Which is it?” she asked, completely uninterested.
    “Depends. Lots of issues. What kind of pet, the pet’s reaction. All things considered, no. Especially dogs. Cats are more mature.”
    “Glad that’s settled. Seriously, where were you? Were you with a girl?” she demanded, returning to lawyer mode, her crisp blue eyes watching me.
    “No. Two gay guys.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Yup. I’m kidding. Sort of. My new job just got more complicated.”
    “Is that good or bad for us?”
    “Both,” I told her. “We may actually have to do this.”
    “Okay, let’s get to it,” Mary Catherine said, unwinding in a way that was a pleasure to watch. “My husband hates it when I’m late.”
    * * *
    I woke up in my rumpled bed at seven because the phones were ringing. Both my landline and my cell had the City Desk on them, telling me to go to the Criminal Courts Building at 100 Centre Street to cover Aubrey’s 9:30 arraignment on a charge of murder. I tried to explain that I really wasn’t a reporter and had no idea how to cover court proceedings but I was already talking to myself. I showered, threw on jeans, a clean dress shirt and black waterproof sneakers.
    It was cool and hazy outside but you could tell it was going to be another nice spring day. I bought newspapers, a Danish and a coffee at the corner store. Around me, Manhattan people were buying the
Mail
and talking about my first news story—a cannibalistic murder—and laughing. It was a strange feeling. I was proud and ashamed. The emotions merged into excitement. I snagged a cab and triple-tasked in the bouncing backseat—eating, drinking, and reading. In the
Mail
, I was a superstar. Mary Catherine would freak. My name was on the front page, under the huge, screaming bold type headline:
NEIL PARMESAN
Tubby Trib Food Critic
Noshes Slain Roomie
By F.X. SHEPHERD
    I had already seen the front page on the morning news shows. All of them. They held up the paper for the cameras, with my name visible. It was a national story. So much for my low-key cocoon. The front page had a shot of Aubrey stuffing his face with mysterious food and Neil’s surprised face, superimposed onto a frying pan. A red banner across the top of the page said “EXCLUSIVE: Cannibalism Cuisine Confirmed by Cops.” A menacing wedge of cheese was floating nearby.
    Famed
New York Tribune
food critic and author Aubrey Forsythe is today to be arraigned on charges of murder and cannibalism after he killed and dined on the naked corpse of his live-in boyfriend, Neil Leonardi, after the two had a spat at their $15 million