by Cleo Coyle
At 12:34 the man we knew as Richard Crest stepped into the frame and sat down at the corner table—the farthest from our door. His chair was flanked by open sidewalk on one side and the redbrick wall of our shop on the other. Crest thumbed his smartphone, ignoring his surroundings. A few people walked by on the sidewalk, and all the tables near him remained empty.
Six minutes later, a slender woman stepped into the frame holding a blue paper cup and shouldering a large tote bag. She wore baggy sweatpants, a pulled-up hoodie, and a large, loose jacket. A scarf was coiled around her neck and lower face, and gloves covered her hands. Though her facial features were hidden, strands of honey blond hair spilled out from under the hood.
The man’s attention was focused completely on his smartphone. As he crouched in his chair, typing into the device in his hand, she pulled an object from her jacket pocket.
Moving quickly, she placed the blue coffee cup on the table in front of Crest. In the split second it took for him to notice the cup being set down, the killer stepped behind him. Using her large tote bag to block the street view of the weapon, she shot Richard Crest in the back at close range. The victim jerked, and blood gushed from an exit wound in his chest. As he slumped forward, his dying spasms knocked the killer’s blue coffee cup off the table.
By 12:41, Crest was obviously dead, and the killer was calmly walking away, taking the victim’s smartphone with her.
Lori asked the traffic officer to run the footage again, while the two detectives provided commentary.
“The victim was shot once, through the heart. From the wound on the body, it was likely a .38 caliber handgun,” Sue Ellen said. “Though we can’t see it, the gun had some type of silencer attached, because the ShotSpotter in the area never picked up the blast, or sent an alert to the precinct.”
“The Crime Scene Unit recovered the coffee cup,” Lori said. “The killer wore gloves, but they hope to lift a fingerprint or two.”
The words coffee cup spurred my memory. “Wind it back,” I said. “I want to watch the victim die again.”
“Whoa, you’re a cold one,” Sue Ellen joked.
“Freeze it right there!” I said at the moment the killer set down the blue paper cup. I stared at the screen, then shook my head.
“This can’t be right. The cup—”
Lori squinted. “It’s a Village Blend cup. I can make out the design.”
“That’s my point.” I reached behind the counter and grabbed one of the white cups that we’d been using most of the evening. “This is our catering cup. We only use these white cups at events outside the Blend. Never here. But we were forced to use these cups tonight because we ran out of our standard blue Village Blend logo cups—”
“When?” Sue Ellen asked.
“About eight o’clock. Shortly after my barista Vicki opened a box of replacements in the pantry, I realized Matt had brought the wrong cups from the warehouse—”
“But you did use both cups tonight?” Lori countered.
“Sure. But don’t you find it strange that the killer walked around the party with the same cold cup in her hand for over four hours—or kept a disposable paper cup from a previous visit? It’s not normal behavior.”
“Neither is shooting someone dead at a corner café,” Sue Ellen pointed out. “Nevertheless, Cosi’s got a point.”
“Okay, noted,” Lori said. “Let’s move along.”
As we watched, various street cameras followed the killer slowly walking up Hudson. After a right turn onto Barrow, her trek ended at a redbrick prewar apartment building at the corner of Barrow and Bedford.
“She used a key or was buzzed inside,” Sue Ellen said. “The front entrance wasn’t tampered with according to the CSU team over there now.”
“It would help if any of you recognized this individual,” Lori said. “A lot of people live in that building, and she may only be a visitor or a guest. Have you ever been to this place before? Do you know anyone connected with this apartment house?”
Esther and I shook our heads.
Tuck stared at the screen in tense silence.
Finally, I apologized to the detectives for our lack of help.
“No worries,” Lori said as the traffic officer closed the computer. “With what we already have, we should be able to make an arrest within twenty-four hours—maybe less. There’s so much evidence that it’s only a matter of time.”
“And I should thank you, Cosi, for pulling us away from decoy duty in the park,” Sue Ellen said as she flipped her flowery skirt. “You don’t know how much I hate dressing like a drag queen.”
Then the Fish Squad wished us a nice night and headed out.
The detectives appeared chipper for good reason. They would soon have a killer in custody and a quickly solved homicide. But, as I sent my people home and locked the front door, I couldn’t share their enthusiasm or their certainty. And—as heartlessly mercenary as it might sound—I went up to bed worrying what kind of impact this violent crime would have on our coffeehouse.
A few fake gun blasts nearly torpedoed our shop. How were we going to survive a real shot in the dark?
Seventy-one
“MOM?”
Hearing my daughter’s voice, I shifted under the bedcovers.
“Wake up, Mom. I’m leaving . . .”
With a yawn, I opened my eyes to find Joy sitting on the edge of my big four-poster, sipping from a travel mug of coffee. She was fully dressed, her chestnut hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail, her eyes wet and bloodshot, her nose red as Rudolph’s.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” I quickly sat up, much to the dismay of Java and Frothy, who’d been cuddling up to me for some extra warmth during the cold autumn night. “Were you crying again?”
“I’m flying back to DC this morning . . .” She scratched Frothy’s fluffy white neck as she spoke. “I want to relieve Chef Bell in the afternoon. I’d rather work than waste any more time blubbering over my stupid love life problems.”
“They’re not stupid . . .” I rubbed my eyes, then ceded to Java’s feline demands to rub her soft brown ears, as well. “I thought we decided this yesterday. You’re going to stay and speak to Manny. You have coverage in DC, and—”
“I don’t want it anymore. I want to go.”
“Why? What’s changed? Don’t you want to work things out? You love Manny. And I’m sure he loves you.”
“After that awful video, I’m not sure at all.”
“Video? What video?”
“You haven’t seen it? Dad sent it to both of us. Here . . .”
She handed me my phone from the nightstand. I powered it on and tapped the e-mail app. A message had come in from Quinn. I bypassed it and opened the one from Joy’s father.
I started by reading Matt’s text . . .
After I walked Marilyn home, I was feeling beat, too, so I grabbed a cab and headed back to Brooklyn. On the way, I shot this footage. You both need to see this . . .
I played the five-minute video.
I could see Matt had captured it while traveling through Soho, on his way to the Williamsburg Bridge. The streets in this area boasted the greatest collection of cast-iron architecture in the world, and one of the highest-priced real estate markets in the city.
The neighborhood’s nightlife was equally expensive, and one of the hottest spots in Manhattan at the moment was the trendy new Soho Lounge. Tucked between another of those Equator luxury gyms and a gallery for digital art, the Lounge served craft cocktails and a menu of posh noshes from Royal Ossetra caviar to truffle beignets.
Matt panned the camera over a stylish downtown crowd, loitering in front of the exclusive watering hole. And that’s when I spotted the reason for my ex-husband’s attempt to channel Martin Scorsese.
Joy’s beloved boyfriend, Emmanuel Franco, dressed for success in a gorgeously tailore
d business suit, was talking and laughing with a stunning brunette. A strappy black dress hugged her perfect curves, and Franco’s big arm was hooked around her waist.
After exiting the Lounge’s double glass doors, the pair strolled along the crowded sidewalk and paused at the corner, where Franco helped the woman into her coat.
Matt obviously shot this footage while stuck in a traffic jam. As the cab slowly moved down the block, he kept the camera on the young sergeant and his chic date.
“Make a left here,” Matt’s voice sharply told the driver.
“I thought you were going to Red Hook—”
“I’m taking a detour. Make the turn and go slow.”
Matt continued to shoot the pair as they walked, arm in arm, into an exquisite residential building with an attentive doorman, who appeared to greet them with friendly recognition.
Off camera, I heard Matt call Franco a few choice names. Then, with disgust in his voice, he told the driver, “Let’s go. Take off . . .” And the video ended.
“Mom, I can hardly believe it . . .” Joy’s voice was weak, her lower lip quivering. “That he would do this to me . . . to us . . .”
I knew how she felt. And yet . . .
“Joy, you still need to speak with Franco about all this. You need to do it in person. He owes you answers.”
She shook her head. “It’s too humiliating.”
“Have you tried contacting him?”
“Yes, of course! I left several messages, asking him to call me back. He replied twice by text. ‘Busy working. Will get back to you soon. Love you.’ Yeah, right.”
“I’m sure he does love you.”
“So what am I supposed to do? Track him down at this Joan woman’s multimillion-dollar Soho apartment? Or go over to his place later and find her answering the door in his NYPD T-shirt? I can’t. I can’t . . .”
I couldn’t blame her for wanting to run away. This news was crushing, the video evidence irrefutable. It broke my heart, too.
Still, I tried to argue with my daughter, convince her to stay, but it was no use. She had made up her mind. Like her father, there’d be no changing it.
After a quick, tight hug good-bye, my Joy was gone.
Seventy-two
IT was too early on this tense Sunday morning to be staring at fish and chips, but that’s exactly what was displayed on my smartphone screen when I finally opened Mike Quinn’s message—after a long, sad shower and a desperate double espresso.
London was five hours ahead of New York, and Mike had sent me a photo of his lunch. The man’s voice mail message was cheerful, but I was hungrier to hear him speak than view his midday meal.
“I was hoping to hear your sweet voice before I listened to bureaucratese for the next five days, but I guess ‘please leave a message’ will have to do for now. I’m due at Scotland Yard for a meet-and-greet with our NYPD liaison officer. I’ll call again later.”
Pause.
“Oh, I was thinking about our wedding, and I visited a place this morning that would be perfect. It’s called Westminster Abbey, and it just might be big enough to accommodate my family. Think about it, okay?”
Another pause.
“And if it’s too much trouble to contemplate our wedding, then use the power of suggestion to imagine we’re having this delicious pub lunch together. And your Peanut Butter Cookies. Your shop always has them on Sundays, and I think I’m addicted. They don’t have them here,” he relayed with sweet disappointment. “Well, anyway, I’d better go. I miss you.”
I missed him, too. So much. Unfortunately, he didn’t send a selfie, just a pic of the fish and chips, and all that did was remind me of the Fish Squad and make me worry again how last night’s crime scene would impact our business.
By now, I’d decided not to discuss Sergeant Franco’s personal behavior with Mike while he was in London. I didn’t want him to be distracted. And I still wanted answers from the horse’s mouth—even though Franco appeared to be acting like the horse’s other end. So I sent a curt message to the man, asking him to stop by the Village Blend for a talk.
If Joy was too humiliated to confront her boyfriend, I certainly wasn’t. I planned to show the sergeant Matt’s video and demand an explanation. At the very least, I expected him to be straight with me and my daughter.
This lying and cheating was beneath any man of decent character. I would demand he break things off with Joy in a civilized manner and give her the closure she deserved.
As depressing as that prospect was, the morning’s business wasn’t much better. For a Sunday, we were abnormally quiet, other than a few neighborhood regulars and NYU students stopping for coffee while they read the papers.
Tucker and I eagerly devoured the news, too, relieved to find that last evening’s shooting only made one late edition—a police blotter paragraph with no pictures, no mention of the Village Blend, and the victim’s name “withheld pending notification of next of kin.”
Ironically, Carol Lynn Kendall’s fake gun caused a bigger bang in our world than a killer’s real one. With no one uploading mobile phone videos or spouting hashtag opinions on social media, the result was a crime committed in relative silence, and (for the moment) I dared to breathe a sigh of relief.
With Richard Crest gone, could the worst be over?
By eleven AM, it certainly seemed that our luck was turning. Business became brisk and steady. By eleven thirty, more than a few people had come in asking for the pastries or coffee drinks photographed by Sydney’s prepaid crowd and uploaded to the interweb.
About an hour later, there was a mini-rush, with many of the customers climbing the spiral staircase to the upstairs lounge after making a purchase. By one PM that rush became an avalanche—the Village Blend was so busy I pleaded with Esther to come in early to take up some of the slack. A quick text brought Dante here to set up the outdoor tables and heat lamps—because we desperately needed them, despite the chilly afternoon.
As I whipped up drinks behind the espresso machine, I was starting to think Sydney’s plan had actually worked. It wasn’t until later that I learned the real reason for the Village Blend’s revived popularity, and it had little to do with the schemes of Sydney Webber-Rhodes and everything to do with Esther Best.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
It was around three o’clock when Tuck and I neared the end of our break, and moved downstairs to get back to work. Suddenly, Tucker cried out and threw his lanky arms wide.
“Carol Lynn Kendall!”
Seventy-three
AS Tucker wrapped his arms around his friend, I approached the pair.
Carol Lynn looked relaxed in denims, a soft blue sweater, and a quilted blue jacket. Seeing me, she smiled shyly and extended her slender hand.
“Ms. Cosi, right?”
A table was vacant, and I grabbed it while Tuck went off to bring some coffeehouse treats.
The polite young woman who sat across from me was a pale shadow of the fierce, armed-and-dangerous drama queen who’d disrupted my business and my life. But I was relieved to see the near-catatonic girl, who’d been timidly carted off to jail, was gone, too.
Face plain, sans makeup, honey blond hair tied neatly back, Carol Lynn met my curious gaze with eyes that were clear, sharp, and focused.
“I came to tell you I’m sorry, Ms. Cosi,” she said firmly. “I’m ashamed of the trouble I brought you.”
“No apologies necessary—”
“No, that’s not true. I had no right to disrupt your place of business. It was wrong.”
“I’m just glad to see you’re—”
“Sane?”
“No. Better. And out of jail.”
“The legal system was the easy part. Our producer hired a great lawyer, and refused to press charges against me over the stolen prop gun. There’s a plea deal in the works that
involves no prison, just probation and community service.”
“That’s great,” I said. “You can start fresh.”
“I’m required to see a doctor every week. I’ve had some emotional issues in the past, and I’d more or less stopped taking my medications months before it all happened. I thought I was cured, but I guess I wasn’t. As part of the plea deal, my medications must be monitored by a psychiatrist, and I have to see a therapist, too.”
I was glad to hear Carol Lynn was getting the help she needed, and I told her so. “I’m sorry you crossed paths with such a horrible human being. Tucker talked to me about Richard Crest, what he did to you, and other women.”
“Thank you for saying that, but I’ve already forgiven him.”
“That’s very generous of you, Carol Lynn, more generous than a lot of women would be in your shoes.”
“What he did was very wrong. But I was wrong, too. Now I’m glad the nightmare is over, and he and I can go our separate ways . . .”
I realized then that Carol Lynn didn’t know, likely couldn’t know, about Crest’s murder.
“With so many people showing me how much they care,” she went on, “I truly feel blessed and loved—and very lucky things didn’t turn out worse. I have my whole life ahead of me now, and I’m seeing things much more clearly, rationally, and in proportion!” She laughed. “I’m feeling a lot stronger, too, like myself again. For the first time in a long time . . .”
I believed what she said about feeling stronger, but I feared the shock of hearing how Crest was shot dead might really shake her. As I debated how to tell her, Tuck arrived bearing frothy cappuccinos and a plate of Carol Lynn’s favorite treats—so she said, because they brought back sweet memories from childhood.
Our big Café-Style Peanut Butter Cookies, caramelized and crispy on the outside yet moist and chewy on the inside, were the very cookies Mike was pining for in London. (Our baker delivered large batches every Sunday from my “secret ingredient” recipe.)
