by Cleo Coyle
“End of discussion.” Matt closed the laptop. Then he handed over a skimpy pair of nylon gym shorts. “Best I can do.”
“And here I thought you’d forgotten.”
Matt looked me up and down. “I figured you didn’t really need them. That shirt is long enough to cover your sweet parts, yet it’s the perfect length to show off your legs. It also looks better on you than it ever looked on me.”
I rolled my eyes. My ex-husband was the only man I knew who could find sexual overtones in an old flannel shirt.
“Can I get dressed now?”
“When you’re done, join me in the kitchen. We’ll have a bite to eat before we sample the new coffee.”
“New coffee?”
“Isn’t that why you’re here? To try the East Timor cherries I sourced on Mount Ramelau?”
“Uh, sure,” I replied. “But I also need your help with something else. Something important . . .” (I neglected to mention this “help” I needed involved setting a trap for a murder suspect.)
“You can talk to me about it in the kitchen,” Matt said over his shoulder. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Forty-three
THOUGH he’d left to give me privacy, the bedroom didn’t feel very private. Matt’s living space was nothing more than partitioned-off areas of a long, high loft—a simple wooden platform, really, built fifteen feet below the warehouse roof.
Each “room” had three walls. Where the fourth wall should have been was a railed open space that framed a view of the sealed, temperature-controlled coffee bean storage facility one floor below.
The loft didn’t have a proper kitchen—just another partitioned section of the high platform, with a sink, a refrigerator, a hot plate, and a few small appliances. There was a storage cart with a butcher’s block top, and a table barely big enough for two.
From the creamy-spicy-smoky scents wafting through the building, I knew Matt was cooking up something spectacular.
He was stirring a thick pink sauce with his shirtsleeves rolled up when I arrived. Only then did I realize he’d changed his look. His shaggy dark hair was cropped, and his beard trimmed to a shadow of its former self.
“Heat up the tortillas,” he commanded.
Matt had a million kitchen hacks he’d learned on the road—crazy, even goofy cooking techniques. He could make poached eggs in a drip coffeemaker, for instance, as well as ramen noodles, instant oatmeal, and broccoli (not all at once, of course). I’d seen him make crispy hash browns in a waffle iron; cook up a grilled cheese sandwich with aluminum foil and a clothing iron; toast bagels on a coffee burner; and cook a small steak sous vide–style with a bucket of boiling water and a sealed plastic bag. In a pinch, Matt could even use a simple French press to froth warm milk for a latte.
Remembering his favorite way to warm flour tortillas—even in a conventional kitchen—I cut four of the small circles in half. After folding them into foil, I plopped them into his wide-slot toaster, setting the time long enough for the inside of the packet to steam. As long as the foil stayed sealed, I could move the tortillas to the table and they’d keep perfectly warm until we were ready to nosh them.
“So, what’s on the menu?”
“Barbecued chicken with creamy chipotle sauce.”
“That’s some ‘bite to eat.’”
I glanced around the improvised kitchen. “How the heck did you barbecue chicken, Matt? You don’t have an oven, and I didn’t see a grill in the parking lot.”
“I have a tent set up on the roof, with two charcoal grills, a wine cooler, folding chairs, and blankets. You should see it, there’s a spectacular view of the bay.”
I double-checked the man’s trim waist and firm tush. “Obviously, you don’t cook like this every night.”
“Actually, this was supposed to be dinner for two. Marilyn and I had a date for eight, but she bailed on me—working late. So you’re in luck!”
“Are you talking about that Millennial Marilyn Monroe you matched with on Cinder?”
“Is that what you call her?” Matt thought it over. “Yeah, I guess that platinum blonde thing is Monroe inspired—and her name really is Marilyn. Marilyn Hahn.”
“This was supposed to be your second date?”
“Third.”
“Wow. On Cinder that’s like a long-term relationship.”
“Ha-ha,” he said. “Anyway, it’s not like that.”
“What’s it like, then?”
“Why do you want to know? I thought you didn’t care for the swipe-to-meet scene. You’ve made your disdain pretty clear.”
“Not disdain, Matt. Distrust. Have you ever heard of Hookster?”
He snorted. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. Esther just told me about it.”
He waved his hand. “I dumped that thing after I read the terms of service agreement.”
“You actually read those?”
“I do. And the Hookster fine print, which went on forever, included the ‘understanding’ that the app was a form of interactive entertainment and employees of Hookster would be compensated for conversations on the app.”
“So the users were warned it was a fake?”
“They were.”
“I’m surprised you remembered all that.”
“The Wall Street Journal just refreshed my memory last week with their coverage.”
“Coverage of what?”
“The results of the Hookster civil litigation. The trial finally ended.”
“Did they win or lose?”
“Both. The jury sided with the users, believing Hookster employed deceptive business practices.”
“So Hookster’s owners did lose?”
“Not entirely. The jury found the users were at fault, too, for not reading the terms of service. So there were no punitive damages awarded. But Hookster does have to give back all the monthly premium payments they collected.”
“Then they’re finished.”
“They are—although, given the app’s ancillary earnings, the owners might be able to retain a few million or so.”
“Pretty nice payday for dealing out dating app addictions.”
“There’s that disdain again.”
I took a breath—and let it out. “Believe it or not, Matt, I honestly am interested in learning more about swipe-right dating. I need to know, actually . . .”
“Fine,” Matt said with a shrug. “Let’s have dinner first. I’m starving. Over coffee, you can tell me why you’re suddenly so interested in something you detest so much—and while you’re at it, you can give me a clue how I’m supposed to help you with some mysterious ‘important’ thing.”
“They’re actually the same thing.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think the answer will go down better when you’re stomach’s full. Let’s eat.”
Forty-four
I rolled the warm tortilla in the creamy pink sauce and captured the last morsels of juicy chicken between its folds.
The medley of flavors tangoed on my tongue—from the charcoal-grilled meat to the smoky goodness of the brick red chipotle peppers, their mild heat beautifully balanced in the rich cream sauce.
Matt once told me he’d created this recipe to punch up the blandness of plain cooked chicken. Lacking a stove, he took the recipe to a lip-smacking new level.
My plate wiped clean, I pushed away from the table, sated. “That was spectacular. I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“Good, because all I have for dessert is chilled champagne.”
“I’d better not.”
Ten minutes later, the French press was primed, and we moved along the loft floor to the sectioned-off space that served as Matt’s living room. A typical man cave, it included a leather couch, easy chairs, a big-screen TV, and a high-end sound system. It simp
ly didn’t have a fourth wall.
Soon the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the air and wafted across the railing that overlooked the cavernous warehouse. That’s when I realized this makeshift shotgun apartment was the perfect habitat for a peripatetic coffee hunter who balked at the very idea (literal or romantic) of being boxed in.
“I roasted the sample a little too dark,” he said, filling my mug. “But you can experiment. I’ll give you a package to take with you, so you can officially ‘cup’ it when you have time. Tonight I just want you to enjoy it . . .”
We clinked our mugs. Then I closed my eyes, took a sip, and immediately knew Matt’s latest find would pay off, especially with our restaurant and hotel clients.
The East Timor coffee was richly layered—earthy and herbal with charming cocoa undertones, and the mouthfeel was extraordinary. “Even dark, these beans retain an exciting effervescence, yet the finish is nearly as creamy as your chipotle chicken.”
Grinning with coffee sourcing and culinary pride, Matt made a promise. “Next time I’ll grill steaks for you, with Brandy Mushroom Gravy.”
The description almost made me hungry again, but gluttony could be a punishment in itself. So I curled up on the couch, content with my personal digestive philosophy: enjoy one meal at a time.
With my legs in Matt’s too-short shorts feeling uncomfortably naked, I looked around for cover—and found it in his ruana, a wool poncho from the Colombian Andes. The region was famous for not only fine coffee, but also the criminal gangs who grew coca leaves to make cocaine. (Given Matt’s past, I continued to pray I’d never find any of the latter in this warehouse again.)
More of Matt’s exotic treasures were displayed on the exposed brick wall. I recognized most of them. A piece of artwork made from thousands of lacquered Kona beans and laced with pearly seashells was a gift from Matt’s good friends, the Waipunas, a coffee-farming family in Hawaii. A traditional Ethiopian gabi, its edges expertly embroidered in blue and green threads (the blue signifying peace and progress; the green representing the rich fertility of the land), hung protected behind glass. A cooperative of African farmers had presented the handwoven garment in gratitude for Matt’s help financing a badly needed irrigation system.
Then I noticed something new. “When did you get that crocodile tapestry? It’s gorgeous.”
“It’s a tais from my last trip to Southeast Asia,” Matt said. “See the design? It’s supposed to depict a classic legend of the country. Once a boy did a good deed for a crocodile, and the animal thanked him by transforming into a beautiful island that the boy could live on, along with all his future generations—the island of Timor-Leste.”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately, the croc I ran into was not so friendly. I had to save a little kid from becoming his lunch.”
“Oh, my God, is the child all right?”
“He’s fine. I was snorkeling in Dili when it happened. All I did was get the croc to chase me instead of the boy. Then I screamed like a little girl and climbed a tree. I nearly lost a leg; but, hey, I saved the kid—and got a pretty cool wall hanging out of it, right?”
He grinned as he refreshed our mugs. Then he leaned back, content in his La-Z-Boy. “So you liked my chicken and loved my new beans. Now are you ready to tell me the ‘something important’ you need my help with?”
Like a novice diver, I took an extra-deep breath and said it—
“I want you to help me set up a Cinder account. I want you to do it as soon as possible. And I want my profile to attract as many men as possible.”
Matt’s howling laughter (after his frozen shock) echoed through the warehouse. “At last, you’ve come to your senses! You finally dumped the flatfoot!”
I set him straight. “Mike and I are still very much engaged and very much in love.”
My ex scratched his dark beard. “So if you’re still feeling all warm and fuzzy about Detective Drugstore Cologne, why do you want a Cinder profile?”
I brought Matt up to speed on our murdered customer; Sydney and her Tinkerbells; Tuck quitting; and the fact that the Crusher, with the fake name Richard Crest, appeared to be responsible for all of it—including crushing our shop business.
Then I laid out my plan to reel in the creep with a provocative Cinder profile, and explained why I had to attract as many Fellas as possible—because I didn’t know what new identity the former Richard Crest would be using.
“Matt, you and I both know there’s something very wrong with this guy. He’s got to be stopped.”
My ex-husband’s reaction was predictable.
“You’re crazy, Clare, and so is your plan. Crazy and dangerous.”
“No, it’s not. All I want to do is lure him to our coffeehouse and keep him there long enough for Soles and Bass to take him in. The Village Blend is a public place. I’ll be perfectly safe.”
Matt shook his head. “That’s what Tucker thought. Then he and his friend Carol Lynn found out different, didn’t they?”
I could see Matt was moving into guardian mode, a trait that emerged after our daughter was born. But it hadn’t stopped there. His recent run-in with a crocodile to save a young child was classic Matt. Unfortunately, this mule-stubborn protective streak had a downside, too—his longtime feud with Joy’s boyfriend, for instance. Once my ex was locked in, arguing was useless.
To win on this, I would have to change tactics.
“Okay, then,” I said with a shrug. “I guess we’re done.”
“You’re giving up?”
“If you aren’t confident you can help me—”
“Huh?”
“I understand creating a winning Cinder profile is a tricky endeavor. Don’t feel bad about not knowing how.”
Matt laughed. “Oh, please. That is not the problem.”
“I probably should consult with someone younger. Hipper. Dante maybe?”
“Dante?! I know more than that kid about creating a winning profile!”
“Maybe you can do it for yourself, but I doubt you can do it for me.”
“You don’t know how wrong you are.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“Because, according to PopCravings.com, I’m a certified expert. In fact, you’re looking at their newest in-house sexpert.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve been hired by Pop Cravings as a freelance contributor to their Digital Libido and Sexpert Advice sections, read by millions of app daters all over the world.”
I blinked. (It took a minute for that to sink in.)
“I told you before,” Matt went on. “Marilyn and I aren’t really dating. Well, we are dating, but hot sex is not the reason we’re hanging out together. Okay, not the only reason . . .”
“What’s Marilyn got to do with your new sexpert status?”
“She’s a content editor for PopCravings.com. Turns out I impressed her enough on our first date that our second was really an audition. She liked my ideas for articles; thought my sample answers to advice column questions were clever; and tonight she wants me to meet Pop Cravings’ executive editor at a midnight event in Williamsburg—”
“I thought you said this job was a done deal.”
“It is. She’s hired me already.”
“And you have time for this?”
“Oh, please. I’ve got tons of downtime in airports. Writing for the web will be a pleasure. Not to mention easy money.”
“Okay. Then prove to me you’re a sexpert by creating my winning profile.”
Matt folded his arms. “To attract a confirmed sadist, misogynist, and possible murderer? And you call me reckless.”
“Think of it as another audition. Who knows? You may get a feature article for Pop Cravings out of it.”
“Fine,” Matt said. “But only if I’m part of your sting. When you meet up with this guy, I insist on being i
n the same room—preferably armed with a scalding pot of coffee, aimed at his lap.”
“It’s a deal. Now let’s get to work, before your new boss sweeps you away to that midnight party.”
Forty-five
MATT cracked his knuckles. “We’ll start with the basics by looking at the perfect Cinder profile. That would be my own.”
Settling down on the couch beside me, he pulled out his smartphone. “I tap the app and—”
I frowned. “An advertisement?”
“An offer. I’m a premium member of Cinder, so I have a Treasure Chest.”
“A what?”
Matt explained that basic Cinder use was free. But premium members, who loaded “Cinder dollars” into their “Treasure Chests,” got perks—special deals on dining, clothing, event tickets, bars, and clubs.
Because you could “allow” Cinder to access your social network accounts, the marketing was very target specific, and very effective.
“I get it, one-stop shopping—and a lucrative ancillary business for CEO Sydney. Now can we please create my Cinder-ella profile?”
He asked for my phone. I unlocked it, handed it over, and he downloaded the Cinder app.
“You’re using a fake name, I assume?”
“I can get away with that?”
“As long as it’s a free account. Once you go premium, you’ll need to use a credit card. And if you want to attract a lot of men, you’ll want a premium membership. It’s like paid placement in a retail store. You’ll get better exposure.”
That made me pause. “Do you think Richard Crest had a premium account?”
“To get as much action as he did, I’d say so.”
My heart beat faster. “Then Cinder’s administrators know his real name, his real identity! Not to mention his billing address!”
Matt doused my excitement with three words—prepaid credit card.
“There are plenty of ways to pay online without revealing your identity. The prepaid credit card is only one.”
“Are they hard to get?”
“You can buy them at almost any drug or grocery store.”
