by Cleo Coyle
“What do you mean?”
“I remember him from one of those viral videos taken at our coffeehouse the night Carol Lynn went off the deep end. After I heard what happened, I watched all eight of them.”
“Eight? I thought there were only five.”
“After it hit the news, more people uploaded them. Anyway, one of those videos showed this red-bearded guy actually urging Carol Lynn to ‘go ahead’ and ‘finish’ Crenshaw. Red Beard looked really bitter when he said it, too.”
I blinked, remembering that night. I’d heard that comment behind me but never saw the person who’d made it. “Tuck, I think this building’s janitor could be involved in Crenshaw’s murder, right up to his furry neck.”
“Really? You think he—”
“Helped frame Carol Lynn.”
“But how exactly? And why? You saw the DOT video of Crenshaw’s murder. There is no way on earth this big, bearded guy could have disguised himself well enough to look like my slender, pretty friend.”
“No. But I know who might have . . .”
I told Tucker how I watched Marilyn Hahn’s face darken when she told me how she, too, had experienced a horrible hookup with Richard Crest aka Robert Crenshaw. And I whispered what I’d just overheard between Doug and Marilyn. Putting two and two together . . .
“I think what Crenshaw did to Marilyn might have been awful enough for her to plan his demise. And if she did murder Crenshaw, she clearly had help, judging from her cozy relationship with this building’s janitor. Just like the famous Groovy Murders, he knows more than he’s telling the police.”
“So you think Marilyn dressed up as Carol Lynn and shot Robert Crenshaw?”
“We need proof, of course. But I think we may have just witnessed Marilyn returning the key to Carol Lynn’s apartment. The super would have it, of course; he has access to all the units. And they had a prior relationship. Marilyn made a remark about knowing him since high school. It’s possible Marilyn went to Red Beard and asked for access to Carol Lynn’s apartment—”
“Yes, I follow!” Tuck said. “Marilyn took Carol Lynn’s clothes, maybe days ago, and wore them, and a wig, to commit the murder.”
“And after the shooting, Marilyn would have walked back to Carol Lynn’s building in full view of New York’s traffic cameras. Only once she entered the building, she would have gone to the super’s apartment, where she could change out of the stolen clothes, toss them into the Dumpster with the murder weapon, and exit through the alley—unseen because the security camera in the back is conveniently broken. It’s the perfect crime!”
Tucker nodded in wholehearted agreement. Then he stopped nodding. “But if you solved it, how do you prove it? Soles and Bass are a pretty tough audience.”
“I think even the Fish Squad would be impressed with a taped confession.”
With that, I speed dialed our Brooklyn warehouse.
“Hello, Matt? I really need your help this time . . .”
Seventy-seven
TWO nights later, I was watching my ex-husband dress for a romantic dinner, followed—if he had his way—by a passionate seduction.
Matt was in his Brooklyn man cave, wrapped in nothing but a towel, his hair and beard glistening from the shower. He looked confident and comfortable in his natural habitat, circling a table set for an intimate dinner, complete with white cloth, crystal and china, champagne on ice, candles, and something delicious on the menu.
I was outside, in the warehouse parking lot, shivering behind the wheel of the Village Blend’s panel van. As rain beat slowly on the metal roof, water drops traced curvy rivers on the windshield. With the engine off, the air was getting nippy, cold enough for my breath to cloud. So I sipped my warmth from a travel mug of coffee—with plenty of backup in the thermos beside me.
My laptop was open on the dash with the Matt Allegro Show playing on its big screen. So far, the streaming setup with Matt’s phone and my computer was working as advertised, and I was recording every second of the feed on my hard drive. But since I never trust technology all that much, I’d also set up a voice-activated digital recorder in the man cave for backup. Either way, I wasn’t going to miss a word.
My smartphone was activated, too, and I spoke into it.
“You are going to put clothes on, right? Marilyn’s going to be here in half an hour. If you plan to reveal your true self the moment she arrives, I don’t see much time to coax a murder confession out of her.”
“You’re breaking my concentration, Clare. I’m trying to focus.”
“Don’t worry, Romeo, your seduction scene will be pristine.”
He checked the temperature of the champagne, then added more ice to the bucket.
“Are you finished cooking yet? I’m asking because you always say dinner’s ready, and then you’re ten more minutes in the kitchen. That’s a mood killer, you know.”
I watched Matt roll his eyes. “It’s ready, Clare. The main course, the side dish, the salad—even the sauce.”
“What are they serving at Chez Allegro tonight?”
Matt lit the candles. “They are serving grilled steaks with my Brandy Mushroom Gravy and Fluffy Garlic Mashed Potatoes, along with a simple salad.”
“No dessert?”
“No pastries. I had a different dessert in mind when I arranged this rendezvous.”
“I know, and I appreciate what you’re doing. But you really should know what kind of woman you’re dealing with.”
“Marilyn is a lot of things, but a cold-blooded killer isn’t one of them,” Matt replied. “We’ll know that in a little while, when you see this is all a big dumb misunderstanding.”
“Well, don’t forget to go for the confession before you close the deal. After she’s relaxed, maybe had some champagne, start to grill her. Don’t wait until . . . you know . . . Not unless you want an audience.”
“And if Marilyn doesn’t confess, if she laughs in my face at the very thought of murder, you’ll stop watching, right?”
“I promise.”
“I’m getting dressed now. Have Soles and Bass arrived?”
“Help is arriving any minute,” I replied. That part was true, at least. Though it wouldn’t be Soles and Bass, I knew Matt was better off not knowing who’d be serving as our police backup tonight.
Luckily, Matt was too distracted to pursue the subject. “Before I put on my clothes, I’m going to mute this phone, so you won’t distract me,” he said. “It’s bad enough you’re watching. I don’t want to hear you, too.”
Before I could reply, his giant hand closed over the phone. When he pulled it away, he was grinning.
“Now you can hear me but I can’t hear you, which so works for me.” Chuckling, he sauntered out of camera range.
Five minutes passed. The rain increased, beating a faster drumroll on the van’s roof. I drained my travel mug and refilled it from a large thermos of Wide Awake blend—light-roasted Colombian with a smattering of robusta beans for a high-caffeine kick. I would need the jolt to get through this night.
I’d just finished pouring when a knock on the window startled me.
I popped the lock, the door opened, and Sergeant Emmanuel Franco climbed into the passenger seat. Shaking raindrops off his shaved head, he flung a dripping slicker in the back. Under the storm gear, he’d dressed like the Franco I remembered—worn denims, sweatshirt, and heavy work boots, his gun and badge on his wide belt.
“Thanks for coming,” I said. “Soles and Bass were called to a crime scene in the Village and bailed on me at the last minute. Mike is out of town, and I didn’t have anyone else to call.”
Franco detected the cold tone in my voice, but I couldn’t hide it—not after the pain he caused my daughter.
“I’m always happy to help, Coffee Lady. But, I have to admit, your invitation to meet inside a van in a warehouse parking
lot had me wondering about your intentions.”
He’d cracked that like a joke, yet there was an uncomfortably brittle edge to it. Ignoring the awkwardness, I pressed on—
“Before I tell you what this is about, I need to know if you did as I asked and parked your car around the block and out of sight.”
“Sure, how do you think I got soaked?”
“Good.”
We sat in silence for a moment, tension thick between us. Finally, I spoke. “One more thing before we get down to police business.”
“What’s that?”
“Who’s Joan?”
Seventy-eight
“JOAN?”
Either Franco was genuinely puzzled, or he had acting chops the equal of Tucker Burton’s. At this point, I opted for the latter. He was an undercover cop, after all. Deception was his business.
“Yes, Joan!” I shot back. “The woman you’re seeing when you’re lying to Joy about being at work. The woman you’re upscale dressing for, the one who’s showering you with expensive man products and writing cute little notes. Don’t play innocent, Franco. You know what you’re doing!”
“Me?!”
Franco lunged for his smartphone. He reached so fast into his pants pocket that he smacked his elbow on the door handle. Cursing like the marine he used to be, he thumbed the device.
“What about this?!” He displayed the Cinder profile for Kara C—my bikini shot, of course.
“Mike’s a great guy, Clare,” Franco said in a tone of wounded indignation. “Why are you two-timing him? Bad enough his first wife did it. I never expected that sort of behavior from you.”
“Me?!” I sputtered—then noticed movement on the street in front of the warehouse.
“Quiet!” I hissed. “Marilyn’s here.”
In simmering silence, we watched the platinum blonde bombshell climb out of an Uber car and hurry through the open gate. (Matt had left it unlocked for his guest, and the police backup.) Head down, umbrella rippling in the wind, Marilyn tottered across the puddled parking lot in knee-length dominatrix boots.
Matt held the door open and she raced inside.
“Truce,” I said. “We’ll talk this out later. Right now I need to bring you up to speed.”
I did. It took a solid ten minutes, time enough for Matt and Marilyn to settle in. Despite our tension, the cop in Franco was intrigued, and he was willing to stand as a witness to a possible criminal confession.
“You’re lucky this is New York,” he said, sharing my thermos of Wide Awake. “This is a one-party consent state, and your ex has given his consent. And that’s not your ex-husband’s bedroom per se—it’s a common room in a warehouse that just happens to have an Italian leather sofa and table setting that looks like he’s dining at Eleven Madison Park.”
I held back from asking “Fast-Food Franco” how he knew about Eleven Madison Park, where a dinner for two with drinks and wine could cost more than he earned in a week. Likely, it was “Joan” who footed the bill and played footsie with the young sergeant over dessert!
“In the end,” Franco concluded, “I wouldn’t expect this to be admissible in court—”
“I don’t care about court,” I said. “I care about the truth. And the police can certainly use a confession, or any information this woman might provide, as grounds for a further—and perfectly legal—investigation.”
“Right,” Franco said with a nod. He sat in silence for a moment, staring at the computer screen. Suddenly, he grinned. “I wish I had a bag of popcorn for this. I know Allegro’s got a reputation as a ladies’ man. Let’s see how good he is at romantic interrogation . . .”
Matt was quite good, as it turned out—despite one harrowing moment. They were on their third glass of bubbly when Marilyn said, “Let’s get really crazy.”
She reached into her purse, and what she pulled out absolutely terrified me.
“It’s called Styx,” she said, “because it comes in these little straws . . .”
“More Styx,” Franco murmured. “I feel like I never left work. I’ve been on the trail of this stuff for weeks.”
“They’re usually colored,” Marilyn went on, “but this time the straw is clear, so you can see the pretty white powder . . .”
I tensed as she waved the cylinders under my ex-husband’s ex-addict nose. Oh, God, Matt, please don’t!
“Want a taste? It makes loving better. It makes everything better.”
Matt reached out, and my heart stopped. Then he closed his fist around Marilyn’s hand and guided it and the drugs back into her purse.
“Not interested,” he said. “It’s one road I avoid now, and you should, too.”
My body sagged with relief. Good for you, Matt. Good for you . . .
“You’re unadventurous for an adventurer,” Marilyn chided.
“How about a nice gin cocktail instead?” Matt countered. “I’ve got Bombay Sapphire. It has a beautiful coriander finish.”
Marilyn shook her head. “More champagne,” she insisted.
They toasted two more times. Matt didn’t even bring up the subject of murder until they’d finished most of the bottle. He started casually, telling her how he discovered the identity of the man in the viral video.
“Clare tells me you dated him.”
“I dated lots of guys,” Marilyn replied, looking more tipsy than guilty. “After small-town boys, New York was like a buffet. And I’m a girl who loves to eat.”
“Not everyone is as sophisticated as you,” Matt said. “A couple of bad dates, and that girl in the viral video snapped.”
“She’s crazy. She needs help. And she’ll finally get it, now that the cops have arrested her for killing that asshole who abused her.”
Matt nodded. “A little bird told me the police are looking for an accomplice in that crime. A guy with a red beard named Doug.”
Marilyn didn’t vacillate. “You mean my ex-boyfriend, the stalker?”
I glanced excitedly at Franco. Bingo!
Marilyn opened up, telling Matt how she and Doug Farthing had been a couple since middle school and moved to New York together from their small town outside of Lima, Ohio. Her college journalism work and flamboyant blog landed Marilyn a prime position at PopCravings.com. Doug Farthing didn’t fare so well.
“He dropped out of college and mostly bummed around. With no degree or résumé, the best he could do was a super’s job and a windowless apartment in a basement. That wasn’t for me. So I broke things off.”
“You called him a stalker?” Matt said.
“He shows up everywhere I go, won’t accept that we’re different people now and need to go our separate ways. That’s why I wanted to leave the party at your coffeehouse the other night. Doug was there and it made me feel squirmy. Anyway, the whole thing was a bore.”
“Maybe you should get a restraining order against your ex.”
Marilyn shook her head. “I talked things over with him Sunday night. He’s feeling more optimistic about the future. He came into money and says he’s getting a better job. He’s doing so well that he bought my half of our shared SUV—the one we drove out here from Ohio. I gave him the key Sunday, too, and that’s the last time I’ll have to see that loser, unless I want more Styx, of course . . .”
Again, I glanced at Franco, this time with disappointment. The “key” I watched Marilyn give to her ex-boyfriend was not the key to Carol Lynn’s apartment. It was a key to that stupid red SUV—the one that almost ran me down a few yards away from this spot.
Now I realized what Red Beard had been doing that evening outside Matt’s warehouse. He wasn’t spying on me. He was stalking his ex-girlfriend—or maybe, in his mind, he was trying to “protect” her. Matt had made a date with Marilyn for dinner, but she’d canceled at the last minute. I’d shown up instead; and when I walked toward him, he sped awa
y without looking back.
In the chilly van, Franco noticed my distracted look. “Pay attention, Clare. If this Doug Farthing is selling Styx, there’s still something worth listening to . . .”
With Marilyn’s next words, I realized Franco was right. She may not have killed Robert Crenshaw (aka Richard Crest), but she had a strong lead to offer in the case.
“So tell me,” Marilyn pressed, “is my ex in hot water? If he is, I should warn him—because I’m pretty sure he took a bribe to set that girl up.”
Matt played dumb. “What girl?”
“The viral video girl who the cops think shot Richard Crest. Like I said, she was obviously unstable, and it’s good that she’s off the street. But she didn’t kill Crest. I’m pretty sure she was framed.”
“By who? Who did kill Crest?”
Marilyn curled her legs under her and held up her glass for a refill.
“Doug’s new boss. Doug keeps talking about how he’s getting in on a good thing, the ground floor of something big. He just had to do this ‘special favor’ for this new boss. As the building super, he was in a ‘unique position’ to do it. In exchange, Doug is getting some high-paying digital gig, which is supposed to impress me, I guess. But I think it’s a crock—”
“Why?”
“Doug has no experience. He can barely work his smartphone. It’s more like a payoff for the frame job he did on that crazy girl.”
“And you believe him?”
She shrugged. “He said all he had to do was give a simple false statement to the cops about her, break his building’s back door camera to make sure they couldn’t catch him in the fib, and pick up a coffee cup with her prints on it, you know, after she threw it away. Small stuff for a giant paycheck and shiny new job.”
“So who is this mystery boss?” Matt finally asked. Franco and I leaned close to hear the answer.
“I don’t know. Doug never said a name. The boss pays in cash, though. Doug is big on tax evasion, so he sees that as a plus. His boss pays with other things, too—like the Styx.”
