by Cleo Coyle
“Your ‘reliable source’ is badly informed. I created this app to protect women from abuse, not encourage it. My Tinkerbells would never do what you’ve described. They couldn’t if they wanted to. We have backup systems in place for review and protections embedded in our coding.” She snapped her fingers. “Right, AJ?”
“Um, excuse me?” AJ tore herself away from Dante and hurried over.
“This is AJ, the temporary head of my development team.”
“Temporary?” I said. “What happened to your permanent head?”
“Gone,” AJ replied.
“Haley Elizabeth Hartford was a real whiz, and a real loss, I have to admit. Until recently, she oversaw all of our coding, but she’s gone off to spearhead development of a new app; and we wish her well, don’t we, AJ?”
“We don’t hold grudges,” AJ said almost robotically. “We like happy endings.”
“You see? That’s why your charges are totally bogus,” Sydney reiterated. “Tell them, AJ.”
“Tell them what?”
With that familiar head-toss of parental exasperation, Sydney explained: “These ladies have been led to believe that Cinder ignores abuse reports and deletes negative comments in its forums.”
“That’s crazy!” AJ echoed. “We encourage our Ellas and Fellas to tell us about abuse of any kind so we can keep all our users safe and happy!”
Sydney folded her arms. “You see, Esther, we strive for happy endings. Not broken hearts.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, that’s your malfunction, not ours.”
Sydney tried to wave her away. But Esther stepped up, right into the CEO’s space. Before she could utter another word, one of the Tinkerbells rocketed out of the group and blocked my barista, forcing her backward.
“Hey!” Esther and I objected together.
“Stand down, Cody,” Sydney ordered.
A golden-tanned siren with a brownish blond pixie, athletic build, and square-jawed scowl, Cody looked like the girl most likely to be flagged for an offensive body check in Ivy League Lacrosse.
Like a good Tinkerbell (or German shepherd), she did as her mistress ordered, but not before glowering a warning at Esther. Then she took a position to the right of Sydney, her hand poised over a bulging pocket the way I’d seen uniformed officers anticipate a gun draw.
“Is she carrying a weapon?” I asked in alarm.
“Cody is my head of security,” Sydney replied, “and she’s licensed to carry a stun gun and other forms of protection. She’ll be here Saturday night with Team Tinkerbell, so you’ll have no worries.”
Saturday night? I exchanged glances with Esther and we both blurted: “Why Saturday night?”
Sydney glanced at her cyber-posse and snapped her fingers. “Is everything on schedule?”
A beautiful African American Tinkerbell with a curly black pixie raised her smartphone. “The crowd has been hired. Not as couples, of course. They’ll hook up in the coffeehouse for the cameras.”
“Thank you, Tanya.”
Crowd? Esther and I exchanged glances again: “What crowd?!”
“We’ve arranged for a rent-a-mob,” Sydney replied. “A lot of trendy young people will be hanging around the Village Blend Saturday evening. Two hundred or so will be coming, starting around six PM until you close.”
“But I don’t need a fake crowd,” I said. “I want real customers.”
“They will be real, paying customers. They’ve got a one-night expense account, and they’re urged to spend generously. They will all be young and attractive, too, and they are all bona fide users of my Cinder app. You don’t see the symmetry here?”
I scanned the tigresses around me. “Yes, and a fearful symmetry it is.”
“Oh, don’t get all apocalyptic on me, Clare. The crowd we put in place will do the trick. They’ll be posting on social media with images of your drinks, your pastries, and their attractive Cinder matches—all of the people coming are alphas with plenty of followers. And their activity will attract legit customers. The whole thing will provide the perfect background for our Post story. We have a reporter and photographer coming Saturday night.”
“The New York Post is coming Saturday?”
“The Washington Post. We’re taking this story national.”
“But—”
“Do you have tables you can set up outside?” Sydney asked. “It would be great if it looked like people were clamoring to get in.”
“But we can’t even fill this space—”
“You will. And you’ll need those tables outside, too.”
Dante stepped forward. “Boss, do you want me to haul up the outdoor café tables and heaters from the basement?”
“I guess so.” I turned to Esther. “You better call our part-timers to see who’s available for tomorrow evening.”
“Oh, I’ll be doing much more than that!” Esther promised with a mad poet’s gleam in her eye. (I was afraid to ask.)
Luckily, Cinder’s CEO took her words literally.
“Then we’re set!” Sydney declared. “You’ll see, Clare. I always deliver. Your Happy Ending—and mine—are on the way.”
Just then, my welcome bell jangled, and two women walked in. I knew these customers. They were NYPD detectives. And from the look in their eyes, they weren’t here to deliver a Happy anything.
Thirty-five
DETECTIVES Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass arrived with their game faces on.
Tagged the “Fish Squad” by their peers, Soles and Bass cut through the pack of pastel tees like a couple of hammerheads parting a school of rainbow fish.
In their mid-thirties, the two tall women—one blonde, one brunette—reminded me of an old married couple, together so long they could read each other’s thoughts (and twang each other’s nerves). The pair even dressed alike. Today’s ensemble consisted of sharp-creased slacks and battleship gray blazers. The only dash of color came from the gold shields clipped to their belts.
When the sister skyscrapers halted in the middle of the rainbow pack, all conversation ceased. Then CEO Sydney announced—
“Good afternoon, Detective Soles, Detective Bass.”
The officers nodded. “Ms. Rhodes.”
The greeting surprised me. Since when did these three know one another? Sydney’s next words gave me a clue.
“The Cinder account information you formally requested has been sent to you. What more could you possibly require from me or my business?”
Sue Ellen Bass tossed her dark ponytail—pulled so tightly that no wrinkle would dare crease her forehead. “We’re not here about the Carol Lynn Kendall case. We’re here to speak with Clare Cosi on another matter.”
I stepped forward. “Is this about the young woman in the river? The one I found?”
Lori Soles’s head bobbed, along with her loose blond ponytail. “You’re on our interview list.”
“Then we’ll be going,” Sydney said, snapping her fingers for her posse to follow.
Sue Ellen blocked her exit. “Not so fast. Since you’re here, we’d like to speak with you, too. You’re also on our list.”
“What do you mean? How could I be on your list for a woman found in the river? Unless—” Sydney’s frown deepened. “Was she a Cinder user?”
Sue Ellen jerked a thumb toward the fireplace. “Take a seat over there. Let’s talk in private.”
“Must we do this now?”
Lori cocked her head. “We must.”
The CEO followed the two detectives across our wood plank floor. Like a loyal guard dog, Cody followed a few steps behind, lingering close enough to eavesdrop while the Fish Squad questioned Sydney.
They talked too quietly for me to overhear—other than Sydney’s insisting, “No, I’ll stand,” after the Fish Squad again requested that she take a
seat.
Instead, Sydney anxiously checked her smartwatch and folded her arms. As the detectives continued to speak, her impatient expression completely froze then morphed into one of obvious shock.
Dropping into a café chair, Sydney looked with distress to Cody, who crouched by her side. The pair whispered back and forth. After a minute, Soles and Bass sat down across from Sydney, and Cody stood behind her.
As the detectives continued their questioning, the Cinder CEO grew increasingly agitated, aggressively shaking her sleek blond pixie. Finally, she rose and tapped her watch. Soles and Bass glanced at each other, appearing to reach an agreement to let Sydney go.
When the Cinder CEO rejoined me and her curious Tinkerbells, her voice sounded scratchy and much weaker.
“Clare, I’m due for a meeting back at our Chelsea office. I trust you’ll be ready for our Saturday night action plan?”
“We’ll be ready.”
“Good. Where’s your phone?”
“Why?”
She tapped hers then waved it. “I have my contact information for you.” She transferred it with a warning. “That’s my private information. Get in touch anytime if you need my help. But don’t share it.”
“I understand.”
“And do not forget to set up those outdoor tables,” she ordered, the perky power already back in her voice. “Trust me, you’re going to need them!”
Finally, Sydney squared her shoulders, and with a wave of her magic pinkie, she and her pastel army marched into the chilly autumn afternoon.
Only AJ lingered behind, apparently to “pack up,” but she appeared more focused on flirting with Dante.
Sue Ellen Bass, on the other hand, was more interested in the activity outside our French doors, where the Cinder-ellas were piling into Uber carriages.
“They certainly seem motivated,” she told her partner. “Maybe I should give Cinder a try.”
Lori exhaled hard. “Do us both a favor, Sue. Stick with cops.”
“You’re just saying that because you married one.”
“I’m saying that because nine out of ten civilian males can’t handle you.”
“Based on what?”
“You know what. I can barely keep up with the Italian opera that is your love life.”
“I told you a thousand times. Nick stabbed himself while peeling an avocado.”
“In the groin?”
“Near the groin. And there was no permanent damage.”
“Excuse me, Detectives,” I interrupted. “You did come here to interview me, right?”
The Fish Squad turned around, cop faces back on.
Thirty-six
SUE Ellen wasted no time: “Three nights ago, you told Sergeant Jones and his River Rats that the girl in the water was a regular here at the Village Blend, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell us what you know about her,” Lori commanded.
“Not much. We spoke only once. I didn’t even know her name or exact age—”
“The victim was twenty-six,” Sue Ellen read from her notes. “Single. She lived alone at 1 Horatio Street. Her name was Haley Elizabeth—”
“Hartford!” I blurted. Of course, I thought, now it made sense. “She was head of the development team at Cinder, wasn’t she? But she left three weeks ago—under some sort of a cloud, by the sound of it.”
Sue Ellen scowled. “I thought you said you didn’t know anything about the dead woman.”
“Sydney Rhodes made a few comments about her former employee. I just now made the connection.”
Lori flipped through her notes. “In your statement, you name someone who you claim is a ‘strong suspect’ for Ms. Hartford’s killer. Did that information happen to come up in your conversation with Ms. Rhodes?”
“Only the fact that her company appeared to ignore abuse reports about him. That may be how Haley Hartford ended up murdered.”
Sue Ellen and Lori exchanged skeptical looks.
“What?” I pressed. “You don’t think she was murdered?”
“Oh, it’s definitely murder,” Sue Ellen said. “Ms. Hartford did not die of drowning. The amount of river water in her lungs was minimal.”
“The official cause of death is blunt-force trauma,” Lori added. “She was struck once, on the side of the head, and was likely dead before she hit the Hudson. According to the ME, it was a blow with a small object from a right-handed perpetrator. We also found blood near her shoe. DNA testing is still out, but the type matches the victim. The weapon has not been recovered. No surveillance footage to speak of—DOT cameras were too far away.”
“And private cameras in the area gave us zilch,” Sue Ellen said. “Park foliage blocked views of the scene, and the forensics recovered thus far gave us no hits with known offenders.”
“I assume you interviewed the usual suspects?”
“If you mean neighbors, friends, and family, yes,” Lori said. “We always look for romantic or personal angles.”
“Would you mind sharing what you found?”
The pair hesitated, and I thought fast.
“The details might, you know, jar my memory of Haley—as a Village Blend customer . . .”
After mulling this over in silence, Sue Ellen and Lori gave each other consenting looks. Then Lori consulted her notes.
“Ms. Hartford’s parents are deceased. They died in a car accident on Long Island five years ago. We spoke to her only sibling, a younger sister, studying medicine at Stony Brook. We also interviewed her ex-boyfriend, a graduate student at Cornell. Both seemed genuinely devastated, and both have solid alibis. Her current employer is a Mr. Ferrell, who was at his place of business, with plenty of witnesses, until midnight the evening of Ms. Hartford’s murder. No one knew of enemies or animosities. By all accounts, Haley Hartford was a good-natured young woman, described as kind, intelligent, thoughtful, and hardworking. You just saw us interview her previous employer, who had nothing to add, just a routine statement for the file, similar to all the others.”
“And what about my statement?”
Again, the detectives exchanged glances. Then Sue Ellen folded her arms. “Okay, Cosi, get it off your chest.”
For the next five minutes, I reviewed all I’d learned the other night, including Esther’s recollection of seeing Haley in an intense discussion with Richard Crest two weeks ago, and Crest’s abusive pattern of behavior toward women.
“I think Haley may have been one of Crest’s horrible hookups. I believe she could have recognized him in that viral video and may have decided to confront him, just like Carol Lynn Kendall. She could have arranged a meeting at Habitat Garden—or maybe Crest set the meeting place. It may have been an accident during an argument, but I believe he could have tried to make it look like a mugging or random assault by taking her wallet, smartphone, and any identifying information.”
When I’d finished, a long silence followed. Finally, Lori spoke.
“We can see you’re honestly trying to help. Unfortunately—”
“There are giant holes in your theory,” Sue Ellen cut in. “Including one the size of a South Bronx subway rat.”
“I’m not wrong about Crest. I’m sure he’s involved. You’ve got to interview him, at least.”
“We tried,” Lori said. “Based on your statement, we gave it a shot.”
“What do you mean, you gave it a shot?”
“All of Richard Crest’s identifying information was available to us based on the crime that occurred in this coffeehouse. We went to his apartment and his place of business—”
“And?!?”
Sue Ellen shook her head. “The man doesn’t exist. There is no such person as Richard Crest.”
Thirty-seven
NOTHING much surprised me anymore, not after working New York food service—and paren
ting a teenage daughter. But Sue Ellen’s statement knocked me back a step.
“How can a man who was assaulted in my coffeehouse, and became the star of a viral video that’s wrecking my business, not exist?”
Soles and Bass provided no answers. They simply made it clear that if I had nothing else to add to the Haley Hartford case file, they were done listening to “my half-baked theories”—as Sue Ellen so diplomatically put it.
Before I knew it, the two detectives were headed for the door. But they couldn’t leave, not yet; I had too many questions. Think, Clare, think!
I needed to lure this Fish Squad into staying, reel them in long enough for me to grill them. What I needed was bait . . .
“Before you go, Detectives, how about some fresh, hot coffee? We’re about to brew a single-origin Rwandan. Its creamy body and caramel finish pair perfectly with our Maple Pecan Sticky Buns . . .”
Sue Ellen’s long legs halted, mid-stride. Slowly, she turned. The grim cynicism in her gaze had morphed into a gluttonous gleam. Success! Unfortunately, her partner was still wavering. So I gave her a little push.
“It’s on the house.”
A few minutes later, the detectives were settling into chairs at a center table in my empty upstairs lounge. Esther delivered the promised goodies, and the women began eating and slurping with work-break contentment.
After a deep breath, I revived our interview—nothing intense, just a casual conversation over coffee . . .
“You know, it’s funny. I watched Sergeant Franco check Richard Crest’s ID the other night, and I was sure the man had a valid driver’s license. The sergeant was, too.”
“It looked like a valid license—” Lori paused to swallow. “From what Franco told us, he also had business cards with his name and the logo of a real investment firm on Wall Street—”
“Forgeries,” Sue Ellen declared, mouth still full. “Much better than the laminated crap you get at the back of a bodega in Jackson Heights, but still phony.”
I stated the obvious. “Since we know this man used the Cinder app under the name Richard Crest, can’t you check to see if Haley Hartford ever hooked up with him?”
