by Cleo Coyle
“Then a fake online identity isn’t difficult to create.”
“Not if you’re motivated. There’s even an Internet rumor that guys set up fake female Cinder accounts so they can read the comments their dates make about them.”
“I’ll keep my gender, thank you, but I do want a false name. I always thought Rafaela was pretty.”
Matt rolled his eyes. “Who can pronounce that? You want to use something simple, but not mundane. Exotic, but not silly.”
“What if my name really was Rafaela?”
“Here. Look—” He pulled out his own phone, activated the Cinder app, and showed me a screenshot of a woman straining to look natural in an obviously posed shot.
“Her name is Bernadette. Now, she knew enough to shorten her moniker for her profile, but she should have used more imagination.”
“Why?”
“Because no straight man wants to cry out, ‘Yes, Bernie, yes, Bernie,’ in that most intimate of moments.”
I buried my face in my hands. “I give up. You win.”
We finally settled on Kara C. The C was because the app didn’t display last names, unless you specifically chose to use one, which I didn’t. As for social media platforms, I told Matt to connect Kara C.’s profile to our Village Blend accounts. Later tonight, I’d simply add “Kara” to our barista staff list.
“Okay, Clare, now you have to mention your interests and likes. Are you fun-loving? Do you like long walks in the park?”
“Only when they lead me to forensic evidence.”
“Excuse me?”
“Forget it,” I said. “Likes . . . let’s see. I like coffee. Art. And the art of cooking. Live music. Theater. River walks. Sunsets. Swimming. Roses. Cats. New York history. I like trying new restaurants—”
“Good, all good.”
“I also like eating . . . almost everything. Pasta. Pastries. Candy—”
Matt groaned. “Stay away from liking ‘candy.’ It’s code for drugs.”
“Drugs? You mean like Styx? Is that why it was made to look like candy?”
“Styx?” Matt’s brow furrowed. “That’s one I haven’t heard of. What the hell is Styx?”
I told Matt everything I knew about the new party drug—courtesy of Mike Quinn and his OD Squad. How it came in powder form and was packaged like the old Pixy Stix in colorful, straw-shaped wrappers . . .
“So please be careful, okay? I still worry.”
“Clare, I’m never going to touch drugs again. And I stay away from people who use them, especially women.”
“You do drink.”
“Not to excess, and never on the road. Believe me, alcohol I can handle. Drugs and I are finished. You can trust me on this.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Oh, it’s done. A fully grown tree cannot be bent into a walking stick.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a Kenyan proverb. Basically, it means strength and wisdom come with maturity.”
“So you’re saying you’re mature?”
“Hey, I may not be the Dudley Do-Right your flatfoot fiancé is, but I’m not a stupid kid anymore, either . . .”
Matt studied my still-worried face.
“Listen, I became a husband and father before I knew what it meant to be either. At this age, I know what I lost. But I also know what I still have. I’m not going to risk my life; or screw up my business; or hurt you and Joy and Mother. Not ever again.”
That I did believe. “So who told you that proverb?”
“The smartest man I know—a truck driver in Kenya.”
“Did he teach you anything else?”
“Yeah, that a donkey’s thanks is a kick.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You should. You’re doing a good deed trying to catch this psycho, but you’re likely to get kicked in the process.”
“You know what? I can take it—along with my so-called ‘round behind.’”
“Your beautiful round behind.”
“Hey, we could put that in my profile.”
“The description or the photo?” Matt rubbed his beard. “We could do both.”
“For heaven’s sake, I was kidding! Let’s get back to work . . .”
With a shrug, Matt turned back to his Cinder app and began swiping left through random women. In the interest of creating the “perfect profile” for me, he stopped every so often to make a comment.
Pearls of wisdom followed. They were made of paste, but they had their uses just the same. I only remembered a few . . .
“This girl is frowning. That’s a red flag. If she’s not smiling on her profile picture, she never will.
“This one posed in front of her framed diplomas. She’ll probably keep reminding you that you’re no rocket scientist.
“This one likes ‘harness racing.’ Sorry, darling, but I couldn’t get into Fifty Shades of Grey.
“She loves children. That’s code for ‘I’m not looking to hook up with a guy. I’m looking to hook a guy.’
“Oh, my. Tiffany says she’s a waitress, but all her pictures have her in expensive Prada lingerie. Tiffany is a prostitute.
“This one loves to go to the ball.” Matt paused. “Wow. She has a nice smile.”
“The ball?”
“Yeah, give me a second, will you? I need to swipe right.”
Forty-six
“ALMOST finished,” Matt said fifteen minutes later. “All you have to do is enter your credit card information, add a few pictures, and you’re official.”
I entered my real credit card number with my real name. The app didn’t seem to mind that it didn’t match my profile. Sparkles appeared on the screen, and my smartphone suddenly played a royal fanfare, the welcome greeting for a newly minted Cinder-ella.
“You are now officially Kara C.,” Matt announced.
“In Cinder-land, anyway. Would you send me a list of other dating apps you think a guy like Crest might use? I’ll set up more Kara C. profiles after I leave tonight.”
“Sure. But what are you going to use for pictures?”
“I was thinking we could use those old photos you took of me in Hawaii . . .” Matt once brought me along on a sourcing trip for Kona, and we made a romantic vacation out of it. “Do you still have the pictures?”
“The sexy bikini shots?” He nodded. “I still have them. But why those? I thought you were embarrassed by them.”
“I was, but Richard Crest has a thing for bikinis. Did you ever digitize the photos? Or do we have to dig them up and scan them in your office downstairs?”
Matt brought his laptop to the coffee table, sat beside me on the couch, and tapped a few keys. I was surprised how fast he found the photos. He knew exactly what folder to look in. He didn’t even have to search.
On-screen, a slide show appeared with a dozen shots of me in a skimpy string bikini, taken over two decades ago on the beach in Maui. Together we silently watched the images appear and disappear, like bittersweet ghosts.
“I remember that first sunset,” I said with a pang. “We were alone on a secluded beach with chilled champagne, and that succulent pineapple pork.”
“I remember what happened after dinner. It was pretty memorable, too.”
“Yeah, it was . . .” I swallowed hard. “You know, I can’t believe you talked me into wearing that string thing. I always wore one-piece bathing suits—”
“Until you met me.”
“You were always a bad influence.”
“And you loved every minute of it.”
“No, Matt. Not every minute.”
“You look pretty happy in these pictures.”
“I can’t believe how young I was—”
“And hot.”
“I’m a different person now,
in so many ways. I’ll never be that young again.”
“Maybe not . . .” He smiled. “But you will always be hot.”
Matt’s hand moved to my thigh. I gently removed it.
“I appreciate the compliment. I do. But there’s only one man I want to think of me as ‘hot’ now.”
Matt sat back. “So why aren’t you married to him yet?”
“We’ll be tying the knot soon. I’m still looking for the right venue.”
“I don’t get why you don’t just go down to the courthouse. The groom is a cop. He should feel right at home among prison guards and perps heading off to trial.”
“Mike Quinn is beloved in the NYPD. His entire precinct wants to attend our wedding. He’s got a big Irish family, too, and with his work downtown, half of 1PP will expect invitations.”
“Then why not choose someplace really spectacular and be done with it?”
“Sticker shock. You would not believe the prices.”
Matt snapped his fingers. “You know what? One Police Plaza is lovely in June. You could hang flowers from the guardhouse at the gate, and drape white silk over the bulletproof glass.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Seriously. What are you looking for?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, all kidding aside. I promise.”
“Mike and I talked about a place overlooking the Hudson River with an afternoon wedding and reception, so we can enjoy the sun setting over the water. But it’s too much money. We have to think more practically.”
“Well, that’s something you’ve always been good at, Clare—and I mean that as a compliment. You’ll find a way . . .”
Matt’s gaze drifted back to the never-ending slide show, now displaying a full-body shot.
“Wow.” He paused it. “Look at you.”
“It’s perfect!” I cried. “I’m using this one for the Cinder profile.”
Matt agreed. “If that doesn’t attract the guy, introduce him to Tucker.”
I took a closer look at the photo. “You know, I haven’t seen photos of me this young in years. It’s uncanny how much I resemble Joy.”
“What? No way . . .” Matt leaned in. “Oh, God, you’re right.” He threw up his hands. “Why did you have to bring up our daughter? Now you ruined it for me!”
“Speaking of Joy, I should text her about your new beans. If all goes well with my sample roasting, I should have a shipment ready for next Saturday’s delivery to our DC shop . . .”
While I texted Joy in Washington, Matt sent me the slide show of photos. Then he went to the kitchen to press us more of that superb East Timor. As he returned with two steaming mugs, Joy replied to my text. But it wasn’t about single-origin coffee.
Can we talk later tonight?
“Something’s wrong,” I murmured.
“What?! What’s wrong?” Matt’s protective mode was back.
I showed him the phone screen.
“She wants to talk?” He nodded tensely. “What else does she say?”
“Nothing. She doesn’t have to. I can tell something’s wrong from this.”
“Five words? Your daughter wants to talk to you, Clare. Maybe it’s good news.”
“It’s not. I can tell. A mother knows.”
“Well, let me know if I can help, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And it better not be a problem with that mook cop or I’ll turn his shaved head into a boccie ball.”
“You’ll do no such thing. Really, Matt, it’s time you got on board with Emmanuel Franco. He’s a good man. Loving, loyal—he would never cheat on Joy.”
Matt grunted. “He’s no saint. I’m sure of it. And she could do better.”
“She could do worse, and you know it—” I tapped the burning heart on my phone and waved the match game at him. “Without Franco in her life, a date from hell could be in our daughter’s future. Think about that!”
Before Matt could mutter a reply, a loud buzz echoed through the loft.
“Marilyn is here. I’m going downstairs to let her in.”
While he was gone, I uploaded my bikini photos, and—speaking of dates from hell—wondered if there was a direct way of connecting to Richard Crest. I noticed Cinder-ellas were provided with a name search. So I typed in his full fake name to see what came up.
A moment later, Crest’s profile filled the screen, but with a big red INACTIVE bar across it and some fine print: Under review for violation of terms of service.
The pictures were just as the Fish Squad described. I found the heart-shaped button that led to user comments about this “Fella.” I would have loved to read them, but that button had been deactivated, too.
I stared at the screen, trying to pick out Richard Crest from the crowd around him. I found the beach bum photo and enlarged it.
“You’ll want to stay away from that SOB if you know what’s good for you . . .”
Though deep and throaty, the voice belonged to a woman—Marilyn Hahn. She greeted me warmly. “You’re Clare, right? Matt’s ex-wife?”
“And current business partner.” I rose and shook her hand.
“Matt’s told me all about you,” she said. Her platinum blonde hair was still retro-styled in sleek waves, but the young woman had ditched the cat glasses, her large eyes enhanced by Prussian blue eye shadow. Her full, glossy lips frowned as she pointed at the screen. “Take my advice, steer clear of him.”
“You know this guy?”
“Dick Crest?” she spat. “Yeah, I know him. He’s a—” The expletives that followed were more suited to a burly sailor than a young professional in a strapless Ferragamo dress.
In the interest of hearing more from her (other than four-letter words), I hedged: “Matt did already warn me that some men would be sexually aggressive in their messages, even send obscene photos—”
“Not this guy. And that’s why you have to be careful. Richard Crest will act like a perfect gentleman. He’ll listen to you talk, because nice guys listen, right? He’ll take you somewhere really nice to impress you with his money. He’ll act reluctant to suggest a first-date sleepover, insisting he respects you too much for that. And by the end of the evening, you’ll melt into his gentle postfeminist arms because you can’t help yourself . . .”
She shook her platinum locks. “Yeah, it’s all a dream until he gets into your panties. After that, it’s a nightmare. Sleep with that guy, and next morning you’re no better than the dirt under his Fendi penny loafers.”
“Did you know that a woman pulled a gun on Crest?”
Marilyn’s eyebrows rose. “Did she kill him?”
“The pistol only had blanks.”
“Too bad,” she said.
I lowered my voice. “What did he do to you, exactly? It must have been bad.”
A shadow crossed her pretty face. “It was,” she rasped. “Very bad.”
Before she could say anything more, Matt came around the corner with chilled champagne and three glasses. “Great,” he said. “You’ve met.”
My ex-husband’s timing could not have been worse. Marilyn instantly changed her demeanor, plastering on a sunny smile for Matt. I gently tried to resume our conversation, but she refused to talk any more about her experience with Crest in front of her current Cinder-fella.
“Let’s toast to an amazing evening!” she insisted instead.
I declined the champagne. After some small talk, I could tell three was a crowd. So I ordered a car, borrowed Matt’s London Fog trench coat, and left the fired-up Cinder matches to their midnight party plans.
Forty-seven
ON my ride back to Manhattan that night, I officially joined the ranks of New York’s smartphone zombies. Door to door, my gaze never left the mobile screen.
First, I replied to my daughter’s text, telling her to call me a
nytime.
Next, I checked for any reply from Tucker to my many messages, pleading with him to reconsider his resignation, found nothing, and feared my beloved assistant manager was (in the parlance of the digital domain) “ghosting” me!
With a sigh, I scanned a new note from Matt:
Told Marilyn about your mission 2 find & unmask Crest. She is all 4 it. Suggested 3 more dating apps 4 U . . .
I downloaded the new swipe-to-mate apps and set up “Kara” profiles on all of them. Then I returned to Cinder to get comfortable with its glittery bells and whistles.
By the time my car pulled up to the Village Blend, I was feeling confident about my first steps into this sparkly new digital dating world. Then I pushed the door open to the depressing state of my real one.
As the welcome bell echoed through my near-desolate shop, I took in the sad customer count. Three NYU students sat by our wall of French doors, and an older couple faced the fireplace—a far cry from the packed house we usually had on Friday nights.
At least we’ve got a plan, I thought. Two, actually, if you count Esther’s scheme. After tomorrow, if things don’t turn around, I’ll try something else—because, I swear, if our Village Blend goes down, it’s going down swinging . . .
As for tonight, Esther was still behind the counter, so bored she was reading a book of poetry to pass the time. When I took a seat at the empty espresso bar, she set it aside.
“Hey, boss lady! Take off that trench coat and stay awhile.”
“I can’t take it off. I’m practically naked under this thing. I had to borrow it from Matt—” When Esther’s eyes widened behind her glasses, I realized what that sounded like. “No! It’s not what you think . . .”
After my story of a near-death experience with an SUV the color of a young cabernet, Esther shared her own news.
“Our Barista APB is activated! Dante’s sketches are now on the phones of everyone on staff. And I hung his originals in the pantry. That goof is so proud of them, he even signed them.”
“Dante’s no goof when it comes to art, Esther. He’s very talented. Those sketches might be worth a pretty penny one day.”
