Free Hack by Kieran Crowley Page A

supposed to be locked and opened only by key or buzzer from one of the apartments. It was closed but unlocked. So much for security. I pulled it closed behind me and, feeling lazy, took the small elevator up to the third floor. I got a glass and a cold bottle from the fridge. On the couch, I downed a full glass of icy arak, which was like getting hit over the head with a licorice stick.
    How could Aubrey partake of his unholy entrée and still not be the killer? I had another blast of arak. The solution did not present itself. I had a third glass.
    * * *
    I was awakened at six the next morning by my doorbell ringing. It tinkled off-key like a bicycle bell, as someone pushed the mechanical doorbell button. I looked through the peephole, an ancient metal disc that swiveled over a two-inch hole in the metal door like a little porthole. It was a kid wearing a NEW YORK MAIL t-shirt, dropping off a copy of the paper. My story was page one, The Wood, again, but the copy bore no resemblance to what I’d handed in. A single word was emblazoned across the front page under a picture of Aubrey shoveling Big Macs into his face: “GLUTTON.” The subtitle read: “Killer Critic Chows Down On Fast Food Fare—The Video Aubrey Did Not Want You To See.”
    There was also a timeline, a map of the locations involved and a profile of Aubrey’s big belly, containing a list of all the food he had wolfed down that day. There was also a story with Badger’s byline about Aubrey’s frantic phone calls to his victim, a possible attempt to set up an alibi. Badger attributed the transcripts of the voicemails to a law enforcement source, not to illegal phone hacking. I turned on the TV and flicked through the news channels. Several anchors were holding up the
Mail
with my byline on the front.
    I called Bantock. He picked up on the first ring.
    “Shep! Mate! Your video’s gone viral!”
    “Look, I need a break. I’ll call in any follow-up, okay?”
    “Sure, sure. Not too long, though.”
    “I read The Wood. Why did you cut out the stuff about Aubrey possibly being innocent?”
    Bantock laughed. “Come on, Shep. We’d never piss on our own yarn unless and until the cops drop the charges.”
    I ate two blueberry Pop Tarts at room temperature and crawled back into bed. My low-key cocoon at the
Mail
had been shattered. Mary Catherine would flip. I was supposed to be quietly doing my job, not being the star of my own reality show.
    Aubrey’s lawyer called my cell phone. How did he get my number? As he began to give me melodramatic quotes about his innocent client, I activated the recording app. He said he would ask the court to set his client free, or at least set reasonable bail, and promised I would be the first to know when it happened. When he’d hung up I typed up the transcript and emailed it to the office. I called Aubrey’s townhouse and introduced myself to the housekeeper, an elderly Hispanic-sounding woman who told me her name was Adela, and that she had walked and fed Skippy. I tried to reach Izzy but got his voicemail.
    I went back to sleep again, until the City Desk called and told me to cover Neil Leonardi’s funeral the following morning at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I took a shower and got dressed. The door tinkled again at noon. I looked through the peephole and cursed out loud. Obviously
anyone
could get into my building. I wasn’t going to open it but I felt like a wimp so I swung the door wide to Ginny McElhone, who looked like a sexy Catholic school girl, in black stockings and a short green tartan skirt, clutching a copy of the
New York Mail
.
    “Your office said you weren’t in, so I came over to tell you that you won,” she informed me.
    I was wondering how she found out where I lived and if she had a gun. I was also wondering if Ginny’s dark, curly copper hair was natural. I smiled as I thought of a way to find out.
    “Won what?” I asked.
    “The
Press
fired me. They saw your story today and canned