Page 87 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

Cheryl didn’t give up. “Go a little harsher.”

“Well, there was this one time when it was raining, and I saw some old lady about to get in a cab, so I punched her lights out. But in my defense, I was in a hurry. And like I said, it was raining.”

Theo cracked up. Kylie shot Cheryl one of those “men are impossible” looks.

“Try again,” Cheryl said. “Try to land somewhere in the middle between Boy Scout and serial killer.”

Shane sipped his wine and finally gave the question some serious thought. “Well, I don’t know if this is anything, but I fired my accountant.”

“A woman?”

“Yeah. Natalie. Natalie Brinsmaid. One day, I walked into my office and she was going through my emails. She said she was looking for some purchase order, but that was bullshit. Then I caught her stealing—nothing valuable, just personal stuff.”

“Like what?”

“When I got my first real job, my mom bought me a chef’s knife—a Wüsthof. She had it engraved ‘Chef Shane,’ and I’ve taken it to every restaurant I ever worked in. One day it went missing. Luckily, I have security cameras in the kitchen. I guess Natalie didn’t know they were there, because I watched her cop it, plain as day. She just grabbed it and put it in her purse.

“I called her on it, and she swore she didn’t take it. Showed me her purse. Nothing. So I went to her locker, cut the lock, and opened it. There was the knife, along with one of my chef’s jackets that also had my name monogrammed on it, and a headband. I buy them by the dozen, so I didn’t know it was missing.”

“Was your name on it?” Cheryl asked.

“No. Just a lot ofdried-upsweat, which made it even creepier.”

“Did you ask her why she took them?”

“Nope. I just canned her on the spot.”

“Look her up on social media,” Cheryl said.

A few minutes later, we were looking at Natalie Brinsmaid’s Facebook page. We scrolled down to the date Shane said he fired her.

“I was terminated today by the most ungrateful man I ever worked for,” the post read. She went on to trash the man, never mentioning him by name, but with blatant references like “new restaurant on Bank Street” and “redheaded celebrity chef,” anyone with a search engine could zero in on Shane in seconds.

He seethed as we read the post. But it was the closing sentence that put him over the top.He used me to build his empire, and then he kicked me to thecurb.

He exploded. “Fiction! Pure fucking fiction!”

“Scroll down,” I said to Theo, who was sitting at the keyboard.

“Haven’t you read enough?” Shane spat out.

“Natalie Brinsmaid didn’t shoot you,” I said. “But she might have incited others. I want to know how people reacted to this post.”

Natalie didn’t have that many followers, so there were onlythirty-twolikes and eight comments. Theo scrolled through them.

“Whoa!” he said when he got to the fifth one. “Check this one out.”

It was short. Posted by amiddle-agedwhite woman.You go gril, this shuld beonhhnf.

“Check what out?” Shane said. “It’s illiterate.”

“Not totally,” Theo said. “People type fast and hit send. They don’tspell-check. The first part says, ‘You go, girl.’”

“Yeah. I figured out thatgrilisgirl. Then it says, ‘This should be on’ something, buthhnfis a typo I can’t figure out.”

“Hold on,” Kylie said, tapping on her phone. “I think she meanshanf. ”

“What the fuck is hanf ?” Shane said.

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