Shoot by Kieran Crowley Read Free Book Online

Shepherd. Listen to me. Those two girls are probably going to come flying out of there any second. Yes. Repeat after me. Hardstein just had a heart attack upstairs.”
    Orlando did that, but in a hushed voice.
    “Hardstein just had a heart attack upstairs? How do you know that? Wow, is that true?” Orlando whispered.
    “Yes it is. But I meant repeat it loudly—like you’re fucking up by letting out a secret. If anyone asks you— deny it. Then, when the shit hits the fan, chase those girls with your shooter so no one else sees them. If you’re lucky, everyone else will be too busy covering the heart attack to notice where you went. Okay, yell. Do it now.”
    I heard him yell “Hardstein had a heart attack upstairs?” Then I heard a lot of other voices, followed by sirens and screeching tires. I hung up.
    “Is this legal?” I asked.
    “Sure,” Sparky answered. “Hard-On is out of the picture and I’m taking pictures from a public area.”
    “That’s a stretch,” I laughed. “Better withdraw your air force before the NYPD get upstairs, Sparky.”
    “Not until I get some shots of cops inside with the body,” Sparky insisted. “Jeezus squeeze-us, look at that. Poor horny bastard is still at attention. You gotta give it up for Viagra, man. Chubby hubby forever.”
    The cops and EMS paramedics arrived and swarmed the penthouse. Sparky got his video and stills. I knew I had to call Mel. I told my boss what had happened. It sounded like he was jumping up and down on the other end.
    “The sex stuff is folking amazing but are you sure he’s dead?” Mel demanded.
    “Sparky has the video that shows the ladies doing CPR. He zoomed in and his chest wasn’t moving. I’d say he’s dead. The paramedics couldn’t do anything, either. Maybe they’ll revive him at the hospital.”
    “No, I hear they’re not transporting him,” Mel said. “It’s a flagging crime scene. Great fogging job, Shepherd.”
    “I didn’t do anything,” I told him. “I’m not even on the story.”
    I waved goodbye to Sparky. Skippy and I walked toward the park exit. Dirty clouds were coming in low and fast, from the Hudson. Skippy’s head was busy, snapping toward every bird and squirrel. My cheek and temple throbbed softly, my scars responding to the falling barometer. I called Jane at work. Lots of barking in the background. She was too busy to talk, so I said I would see her later at home.
    Hell of a day. A friendly chat with my boss, Mel. Stalked by a chameleon lady private eye. A job offer. Stumbling over a story, the charge of beating the competition, beating Ginny Mac. That was all new and not unwelcome. But the secret surveillance mission, the stealthy drone, the death— that was too familiar.
    Inescapable.
    I took out my phone.
    “Siri, am I a pathetic adrenaline junkie?”
    After a pause and a double beep, she replied with her usual good breeding.
    “I would prefer not to say, Shepherd.”

10
    I was done but the day wasn’t done with me yet. I tried to goof off but it didn’t work. Back at Jane’s place, I grabbed a beer. Jane’s refrigerator only contained designer beers. I wondered if she was gently trying to steer me away from my high-octane arak liquor and onto an unending series of fancy pumpkin ales and wheat stouts or whatever overpriced brew the Manhattan suds snobs were pushing this month. I was channel surfing the fifty-inch on her living room couch and sipping something called Honey Meade Malt when my father’s face appeared on CNN.
    “Holy crap!”
    I turned the sound up. The banner underneath his image read POLITICAL SCIENTIST P ROF . J AMES B. S HEPHERD . He looked good, kind of like Santa Claus gone corporate. His silver hair and beard were as long as ever, the chin whiskers almost covering the top of his blue silk tie, Kansas cornflower blue eyes sparkling, his mouth crinkled in amusement. On the table in front of him was his latest book, with a picture of the Statue of Liberty being auctioned off