Shot in the Dark

by Cleo Coyle

  “Slow down, Clare,” Lori said, vainly trying to clean the sweet maple-stickiness off her fingers. “Just because we don’t have Ms. Hartford’s phone doesn’t mean we haven’t already accessed and reviewed its contents.”

  “You looked at her backed-up data?” I assumed.

  Sue Ellen nodded. “And her Cinder activity and messages. After we got a warrant—and a cyber-forensics analyst on the case.”

  “And?”

  “Haley Hartford didn’t have a date with Richard Crest, because she didn’t date—not since the breakup with her boyfriend two months ago. She did have the Cinder app on her phone, but never arranged any meetings. She appeared to use it only to test functionality.”

  “Haley must have communicated with someone prior to her murder. Didn’t she make a phone call or send a text? Something?”

  “The girl was a workaholic,” Sue Ellen said. “She was holed up in her apartment, focused on developing a new app. There’s no social contact with anyone in the forty-eight-hour period leading up to her death, except two delivery calls to that vegetarian joint on Christopher Street.”

  “She did have a few back-and-forth calls concerning the new app she was developing,” Lori mentioned. “Part of a start-up fitness business.”

  “Didn’t she use any other dating apps besides Cinder?” I asked. “Maybe she and Crest hooked up through—”

  Lori silenced me with a raised hand. “Sorry, Clare, let it rest. Your theory is shot to hell.”

  Thirty-eight

  THE detectives were getting restless, and I was getting frustrated. Despite their opinion of my theory, I still felt my suspicions had merit, even if I couldn’t pull out hard evidence to back them up. “Richard Crest” (for want of his real name) stank like shark scum at low tide, and I had plenty more questions about Haley Hartford’s murder.

  But the pastry was eaten, the coffee cups empty, and Sue Ellen began pushing away from our table. I feared all was lost—then Esther arrived. Balancing fresh cups of Rwandan and two more sticky buns (warmed this time), she flashed me a wink as she set down the small tray. The warm buns were fragrant with sweet yeasty goodness; the coffee rich, nutty, and enticingly aromatic from this morning’s roasting.

  Note to self: give my barista a bonus!

  Both detectives immediately reached for seconds. My Fish Squad was back on the hook! And I resumed my grilling . . .

  “So let me get this straight,” I said with feigned incredulity. “You’re telling me that all you know about Richard Crest is what he looks like?”

  Sue Ellen confessed: “We’re not even sure about that.”

  “How is that possible? I thought you reviewed his dating profile?”

  “We did, but the guy is devious,” Lori said. “Most of his social media photos are group shots where he’s half hidden. And he’s usually wearing sunglasses and a hat, or in a pose that obscures his facial features. He’s also big into pushing the affluent lifestyle impression. The pictures were taken on fancy boats or around expensive convertibles or at resorts—”

  “That’s because he’s pitching himself to the ladies as a rich beach bum,” Sue Ellen cut in. “Translation: he wants hot bodies. All of his matches are with women who post bikini shots.”

  “What about his profile photo?” I asked. “You must have been able to tell what he looked like from that!”

  But the detectives shook their heads.

  “It’s a typical ‘love-my-bare-chest’ dude shot taken on a beach,” Sue Ellen said, “but at a distance.”

  “And with a slouchy hat and sunglasses,” Lori added. “I mean, a guy could rob banks like that.”

  Sue Ellen snorted. “Don’t you remember? We busted a scumbag who did just that!”

  “I remember him! He was wearing a shirt, though—”

  “And he had a lot more chest hair!”

  At their mention of banks, I suddenly remembered something—Richard Crest’s ten-thousand-dollar bank withdrawal slip that I’d picked up off this very floor.

  The night of the Gun Girl incident, I had dropped it into my apron pocket. Then Madame phoned with her upsetting call, and I hurriedly hung up my apron and forgot about it.

  Now it was too late. I didn’t bother checking the pantry. I already knew. The last batch of aprons, towels, and rags were picked up last night for laundering at Matt’s warehouse.

  I quickly sent text messages to both of the guys on his day crew, but I didn’t hold out hope. That receipt was probably long gone.

  As the Fish Squad continued to laugh about their old cases, I remembered one more thing: how desperate Richard Crest was to hide his features on that viral video. But he wasn’t able to hide them from me.

  “I think I can solve your ID problem,” I suddenly declared to the detectives. “My barista Dante is an excellent artist—and I have a fraction of talent left over from my art school days. Together, I’m sure we can create an accurate sketch of Richard Crest, facial features and all. You could use it for an all-points bulletin.”

  Lori and Sue Ellen exchanged uncomfortable glances. Then Lori put on her diplomatic hat.

  “Clare, we would never use a sketch like that for an APB. You would have to sit with a police artist for it. And we’d never get that authorized because Richard Crest is not a suspect in Haley Hartford’s murder.”

  Sue Ellen agreed. “The guy wouldn’t be on our radar at all, except he had a gun pointed at his head in this coffeehouse, which officially makes him the victim of a crime, not the perpetrator of one.”

  Lori nodded. “Face it, there’s no evidence Crest is anything more than—”

  “A scumbag,” Sue Ellen spat.

  “—a cruel confidence man who is also a person of interest in a minor assault investigation, but as a victim, not a suspect.”

  I quickly considered another angle. “Doesn’t the DA’s office need this man for testimony against Carol Lynn Kendall?”

  “Sure, if the case were going to trial,” Sue Ellen said, “but it’s a nothing burger. Kendall’s attorney already accepted a plea deal.”

  “Okay, fine.” I sat back. “Then who do you believe killed Haley?”

  “We think she was the unfortunate victim of circumstance,” Lori said. “A robbery gone wrong—”

  “Or an attempted sexual assault. There’s been a string of both in that area of the park.” Sue Ellen locked her gaze on mine. “Of all people, Cosi, you should know that’s a dangerous spot. You and Quinn collared a mugger there.”

  “Yes,” I said, “and I agree that looks like an obvious theory. But what was Haley doing there? And with all those downloaded viral videos in her backpack, the ones starring Richard Crest?”

  The two detectives glanced at each other once more; this time they practically rolled their eyes.

  “What Ms. Hartford put on her memory device is immaterial—a distraction. The most likely scenario for the deadly assault against her person is obvious to us, as well as our commanding officer. And it should be to you, too.”

  “A mugging gone wrong?” I assumed.

  They nodded.

  “Then how do you plan to solve it?”

  Sue Ellen shrugged. “Standard police work. Over the next week, we’re supervising a sting, using decoys to lure any muggers operating in the area.”

  “Even if we don’t find Ms. Hartford’s killer,” Lori said, “we’ll take a few perps off the street—and out of that park.”

  Sue Ellen’s eyes lit up at the prospect. “If we squeeze hard enough, we might get a lead or even a confession out of one of them . . .”

  Yeah, I thought, when it comes to policing, some things never change. They were Quinn’s words, and he was righter than ever.

  “Can you at least share anything else you know about this Richard Crest character? What do you think he’s doing with these abusive games?”


  “It’s clear enough to me,” Sue Ellen said. “He gets his kicks from screwing women and then screwing them over.”

  “Then why won’t you help me stop him?”

  “Because our commander wants the park cleaned up and Haley Hartford’s killer caught,” Lori said. “That’s our priority.”

  Sue Ellen nodded. “Crest may be an asshole, and his bad-boy act is vile. But, so far, it’s not a crime.”

  “Giving a false statement to a police officer is,” I pointed out. “And so is using a fake driver’s license.”

  “You’re right,” Sue Ellen finally agreed. “And if the man walks back into your coffeehouse, give us a call. We’ll pick him up. We’ll find out his real name and run it through the system. We’ll question him—and charge him on the fake ID and false statement stunt. Otherwise . . .”

  “Otherwise, he gets a pass? Walks away free and clear?”

  “Sorry, Cosi, like my partner said, we have our priorities.” Sue Ellen drained her cup and rose. “Right now, our job is to find a guy who breaks heads, not hearts.”

  Thirty-nine

  AS the detectives headed for the spiral staircase, I automatically stood up to bus the table—then sat back down.

  The facts the detectives revealed were “just facts” in conversation. Now that the conversation was over, those facts became anchors, depressing enough to sink my spirit.

  Haley Hartford’s last moments on Earth were horrific. Someone had bashed that poor girl in the head hard enough to cause fatal brain damage. Because I discovered her body, I knew it didn’t end there. While she lay dying, the killer coolly emptied her pockets, and then hefted her into the Hudson, full backpack kept in place with the likely hope it would drag her into oblivion, leaving her loved ones forever tortured by unanswerable questions.

  This person—this murderer—was a monster.

  The detectives knew it. I could see it in their impatient glances. And I didn’t doubt their determination to catch this cold-blooded killer. They could hardly wait to set their riverside trap.

  The only trouble was—I still believed they were setting it in the wrong place, and for the wrong person.

  “Hey, boss?”

  I looked up to find Esther Best staring at me from across the lounge, still pretending to clean a perfectly clean tabletop.

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right.”

  I leaned back. “You were eavesdropping?”

  “No, I was just—”

  “It’s okay.” I waved her over. “I’d like another perspective. Tell me what you think.”

  She shrugged. “I think the detectives mean well, but their theory makes no sense to me.”

  “Why didn’t you speak up?”

  “Because you already said everything I was thinking.” Standing beside me now, she lowered her voice. “Look, when you first sent out those photos of Haley in the river, I was really upset—”

  “I’m sorry, Esther. I wasn’t trying to upset anyone. I was hoping someone could help identify—”

  “Hold on! I know why you sent them. I would have done the same thing. I was upset because I knew Haley—as a customer, I mean . . .”

  I gestured for her to join me at the cluttered table. When her Rubenesque hips were settled in, I started my own interview.

  “Tell me what you remember about her.”

  “Nothing that could have helped the detectives. I didn’t even know her real name. I used to greet her as Heart Girl because of the tattoo on her cheek. That’s mainly what we talked about—tattoos. And coffee, of course. She loved our coffee. And she did not strike me as stupid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You heard Soles and Bass. They said on the day Haley was killed, she was holed up in her apartment, working on a new app. They described her as a workaholic with no social life. So why did she stop working to download five viral videos of the same incident, within hours of it happening, put them all on a memory stick, and take them to Hudson River Park—alone, at night?”

  “It’s baffling. I agree.”

  “The other thing that bothers me is the fake ID stunt this Crest creep pulled. I mean, catfishing is fairly common—you know, creating a false online identity. Crest may have even Photoshopped himself into some of those resort pictures. But why go to the trouble of creating fake IDs? Who does that?”

  “A criminal might.”

  Esther nodded. “That’s why I think you’re right about Crest. He reeks of bottom-feeding. The guy’s guilty of something.”

  “Soles and Bass agree. But they don’t believe he killed Haley, and they think his fake IDs are small potatoes. They’re throwing all of their energy into proving the mugging theory with that sting operation in the park.”

  “So why don’t we conduct our own sting? A coffeehouse sting?”

  “That’s a thought.” I leaned forward. “How would we do it?”

  “Have Dante sketch Crest, like you suggested he do for the cops. We scan it and send it to the phones of everyone on staff.”

  “Like a Barista APB?”

  “Exactly! The moment Crest walks into the Village Blend, he’s made. We call the Fish Squad, and the lady cops reel in the creepy catfish on the fake ID charge.”

  I thought it over. “It’s a good plan. But how do we even know Crest is still swiping?”

  “Oh, he’s still swiping!” Esther waved her hands. “This guy is a textbook addict. I’m sure of it.”

  “How can you be?”

  “Behavioral science. One of my professors cited a case study. Ever heard of Hookster?”

  “You mean streetwalkers? Ladies of the evening?”

  “No, not hookers—Hookster. It was one of the early swipe-to-meet dating game apps. A couple of frat boys brainstormed the idea over spring break in Florida . . .”

  I reflexively recoiled. But I steeled myself just the same. Dating app culture was part of the urban fabric. It had affected my business—first positively, now negatively. It was time I learned more about it.

  “Go on,” I told Esther.

  She did, describing how the Hookster app marketed itself to college guys as having the “hottest” women. But the app was shut down when attorneys representing a group of users brought a multimillion-dollar class action suit against the app’s owners, charging fraud.

  “The app’s software pushed profiles of real women to the bottom of the pile,” she explained. “At the top, where users swiped first, the app was packed with fake profiles of girls in bikinis.”

  I shook my head in astonishment. “Where did they get all these photos for profiles?”

  “Young women, lots of them. They were happy to be paid flat fees and sign legal releases. So anyway, these bikini photos were programmed to come up first on the app, and if a young man opted to ‘chat’ with one of the fake profiles, he would be connected to a paid operator at Hookster’s offices.”

  “But how could they get rich from that? Aren’t these dating apps free to use?”

  “To a point. On Hookster, three free messages to the girl were allowed before the app put up a paywall. So a user would have to pay premium dollars, which he gladly did to stay connected with some babe who said she was hot for him.”

  “It sounds like one of those old 1-900 phone sex lines.”

  “Exactly, but posing as a legit dating app. It worked, too. The Hookster creators spun off ancillary products and sold native advertising to sponsors. They became millionaires.”

  “But, Esther, what happened when one of these young men wanted to meet with the fake girl?”

  “That’s the beauty of it. Most of them didn’t want to meet.”

  “I don’t understand. Isn’t that the whole point of a swipe-to-meet dating game app?”

  “You would think so, wouldn’t you? But swiping is an end in
itself for a lot of users—like looking through a catalog of cool things you might want to buy someday. It’s aspirational to look. And then there’s the chatting, which fulfills the Skinner box need for affirmation pellets.”

  “Affirmation of what?”

  “That you’re attractive, wanted, liked. Some women say they use dating apps daily because they like the attention from random guys—compliments, come-ons. It’s a boost to the ego. Some men say they get off on the flirting or sexting. And that interaction, that ‘feeling’ of romantic connection through app chatting is satisfying.”

  “You make it sound like a drug.”

  “It certainly acts like a drug. You get a high that you want to feel again and again—which also makes it addictive. The Hookster app banked on that. They pocketed plenty of dead presidents from users looking for pretend girlfriends.”

  “And if one of them insisted on meeting?”

  “Apparently, plenty of meetings were planned but never happened. The girl would always be canceling at the last minute for some reason. Meanwhile, guys could send endless obscene phone shots of their junk, without ever getting into trouble.”

  Good Lord. “Not exactly Austenland, is it?”

  “More like Moby Dicks.”

  “Or mobile ones . . .” I thought over Esther’s story. “Is that why you were so hostile to the Cinder staff? You don’t think they’re legit?”

  “That’s not it. Cinder is nothing like Hookster. Sydney’s app is creating legit matches. But that doesn’t mean they’re clean as new snow. I’m sure they’re using algorithms to rate users and push up the more ‘appealing’ ones—in their opinion—and push down the children of lesser Greek gods. That’s what really pisses me off: the invisible techno-Darwinism that’s going on.”

  “So you don’t trust them?”

  “I don’t.” She pushed up her black-framed glasses. “And I don’t think you should, either—or allow them to take over the ‘narrative’ for our Village Blend.”