by Cleo Coyle
But Equator was a big, busy facility with a broken security camera on its back door. If Ferrell had wanted to slip out and meet Haley in Hudson River Park, then slip back into the club, would anyone have even noticed?
“You know,” I said to Franco, “I’ll bet all the evidence you would need to incriminate Ferrell is on Robert Crenshaw’s phone. That might explain why the killer took it after shooting him.”
“You could be right.”
“And what about Red Beard’s phone?”
“You mean Doug Farthing?” Franco rubbed his jaw. “Interesting. Soles and Bass told me his phone is missing, too.”
“And so was Haley Hartford’s. Phone snatching looks like the modus operandi for this killer— Hey . . . what if you got hold of Tristan Ferrell’s smartphone? Why not get a search warrant and crack it open?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Franco laughed. “Haven’t you ever heard Mike Quinn gripe about the phone graveyard at the DA’s office?”
I had—more than once. The Manhattan DA’s spanking new Cyber Crime Lab had hundreds of phones encrypted with advanced iOS software, which made them impossible to crack without a password.
“That’s hundreds of major crimes that can’t be cleared, and hundreds of active criminals still walking the streets,” Franco said. “So you see? Even if we got a warrant to search Ferrell’s phone, it might be encrypted. Unless he gave us a password, we’d be locked out.”
“What about the cloud?”
“Smart criminals don’t back up their data where law enforcement can access it. They keep it in their phones.”
I fell silent a minute and thought of one more option. “Mike once told me UK police found a way to get around a locked phone. They wait until the suspect is using it, then they arrest him. One officer grabs the phone while it’s open, and keeps swiping until they get the device to a computer and download its contents.”
“We could legally do that—if we secured proper warrants or had a solid reason to arrest him. With this Tristan guy, I don’t see any.”
Franco watched me silently deliberate.
“Spill it, Coffee Lady, what’s your idea? Because I know you’ve got one.”
“I’m a private citizen. If Tristan decides to freely give his unlocked phone to someone, who, in turn, hands it to me, then there’s no civil rights issue. And if I happen to come upon evidence of a crime, I would be duty bound to report it to the police, right?”
Franco’s eyebrow arched. “Okay. I’m listening . . .”
Eighty-one
THE very next evening, Tristan Ferrell’s Angel Party was in full swing, with help from a twelve-piece swing band. No gangsta rap here. The Critter Crawl guru knew the age range of the select New Yorkers he hoped to reel in as investors, and he’d booked accordingly.
The venue was the brand-new Anchor and Light on the Hudson, a three-story, glass-walled structure next to Manhattan’s 79th Street Boat Basin. Like Pier 66 Maritime, fifty blocks south of us, this venue was built atop a floating barge. The top floor housed an elegant event space with a spectacular nighttime vista, polished teak flooring, a roaring fireplace, seafood and vegan buffets, and three open bars.
I sighed at the large, gorgeous space on the river. It was the perfect location for a wedding. Mike would absolutely love it. But we could never afford it.
It didn’t matter, anyway, I thought, shaking off disappointment. I wasn’t here to scout wedding locations. I was here to steal a peek at the contents of Tristan Ferrell’s smartphone. It would be tricky, but I had a clever plan, and a lot of help from my friends.
Back at my bustling Village Blend, Tucker Burton was watching over the shop—and the clock, smartphone in hand.
Madame and Sergeant Jones were here at the party, prepped and ready for their roles.
As one of Tristan’s Day-Glo spotters, Nancy’s job as an insider was pivotal.
And just in case things went south, Sergeant Franco was parked on West End Avenue and 79th, as close as he dared get to what had to be a “concerned citizen” operation.
I listened impatiently to Tristan’s presentation speech, while his Day-Glo helpers handed out packets. Inside, I found a business prospectus for the expansion of The Critter Crawl into a national brand with a premium app, line of fitness clothing, sports drinks, and sugar- and carb-free Critter Snacks. A glossy, autographed “Master of the Crawl” poster was also included. It featured the Critter guru wearing camouflage paint and little else, crawling boldly on hands and knees through a Photoshopped jungle.
A foursome of “Advanced Crawlers” soon took to the stage to demonstrate an array of Tristan’s signature moves. The guru kept his tailored skinny business suit on, offering a running narration in soothing, earnest tones while his fit young pupils did the crawling.
Tristan discussed the philosophies behind each Critter pose, along with the story of his “discovery” of “Critter Flow” with phrases and ideas (e.g., “Follow your bliss”) that bore a striking resemblance to Joseph Campbell’s Power of Myth interview with Bill Moyers, circa 1988. I was only too happy to turn my attention to Madame when she appeared at my side.
As always, my elegant octogenarian employer dressed in evocative style with silk slacks matching the exact shade of her loose, knee-length cashmere sweater, “the ivory yellow hue of a George Inness harvest moon,” as she put it after I complimented her outfit. She’d even accessorized with a print scarf featuring that landscape painter’s masterpiece Moonrise.
“He was influenced by the Hudson River School of nineteenth-century artists, so I felt it was appropriate,” Madame noted with a wink.
Sergeant Leonidas Jabari Jones cut a striking figure by her side. Shedding his tweeds, he’d donned a beautiful evening suit, crisp white shirt, and bright red bow tie. The black silk patch over his bad eye made him look a little dangerous as well as dashing—just the combination that continued to intrigue my ex-mother-in-law.
Though the couple appeared jovial, an angry fire burned behind Madame’s violet gaze whenever she looked Ferrell’s way.
“Please enjoy the buffet and bar,” Tristan said, concluding his presentation. “I’ll be here for the next hour, so if you have any questions, just ask!”
“I’d like to ask how he can sleep at night after poisoning my son and that poor girl,” Madame hissed in my ear, cursing the man.
“It’s still only a theory, so keep your cool, okay?” I warned, while crossing my fingers that this little scheme of mine would give us the proof we needed.
I made sure Madame, Nancy, and I were close to Ferrell when the moment arrived.
On cue, Tucker’s call came through, and I watched Tristan pull his phone from his lapel pocket and check the caller ID. I didn’t expect him to answer—he didn’t need to. All I wanted him to do was unlock his phone.
As soon as he did, Madame sprang into action.
“Excuse me, young man,” she interrupted. “Nancy tells me you’ve created a sequence of poses called ‘The Madagascar Lemur.’ Little furry primates have always fascinated me, and I’m disappointed your young pupils weren’t able to demonstrate it.”
“Well,” Tristan replied as he pocketed the phone, “that’s a very challenging sequence. It takes balance, strength, and unique flexibility—”
“I told you, Madame,” Nancy spoke up with just the right amount of fawning awe. “It took Tristan years before even he could master The Madagascar Lemur.”
“Oh, I see.” Madame sighed, feigning disappointment. “But it would be such a treat to see it . . .”
Several partygoers—quietly prompted by Sergeant Jones—agreed with Madame, urging Tristan to show off this spectacular Critter creation.
Clearly flattered, the Critter Crawl Master relented. “If you insist . . .”
He removed his jacket and passed it to Nancy, who passed it to me. I made a show of d
raping it over a chair, but as Nancy took Tristan’s designer loafers to hold for him, I slipped the man’s phone out of the lapel pocket and swiftly walked away, swiping as I stepped—to keep it from locking, just as I’d discussed with Franco.
Tristan didn’t notice. He was too busy finding his “Critter Center,” closing his eyes, for nearly a full minute after positioning a chair just right and limbering up. Then the sequence of poses began with a kind of slow-motion backbend that flowed into an impressive handstand on the seat of the chair.
By then, I was already hiding behind the bar, searching his phone for evidence. And I started with the Cinder app.
Eighty-two
SURE enough, Tristan had an account, though the profile wasn’t in his name, or even his gender.
Posing as a bisexual woman named “Tricia,” Tristan had exchanged dozens of messages with “Richard Crest” and a woman named “Red,” whose profile photo looked an awful lot like a young Lucille Ball.
Was young Lucy really Douglas Farthing, aka Red Beard? When I saw a reference to Carol Lynn’s street address on Barrow, I knew it was!
I used my own smartphone to snap screenshots of these archived messages, including Red’s agreement to work for Tricia/Tristan by making “candy” deliveries. So much for the “high-paying digital gig” Doug claimed he was getting. Red Beard’s new job, if he had lived, would have been trafficking drugs.
When I saw “Tricia” traded messages with “Harry Krinkle,” I knew I’d hit the jackpot. I also discovered that my guilt over luring Crenshaw to his death was greatly exaggerated.
Robert Crenshaw hadn’t come to the Village Blend to meet “Kara.” It was Ferrell, using his “Tricia” account, who’d brought Crenshaw to my coffeehouse on the night of his murder . . .
Urgent news. Must meet now!
Take outside table, last one on corner.
The timing and specificity of the request convinced me. Tristan appeared to have pulled the trigger on his Hookster partner. And he’d used Red Beard to help frame Carol Lynn, which meant he was the one who’d paid him off in the deadly Styx that nearly killed Matt.
You were right, Madame, I thought. Curse away!
Finally, I noticed a contacts folder on Tristan’s phone labeled “Hook’s Crew.” Opening it up, I recognized names from Franco’s list of drug dealers, who were slated to be arrested within hours. He’d shared it with me in hopes of finding connections with Ferrell. Well, here they were!
Judging from the date, time, and “Hook’s Crew” name of the folder, my guess was that Ferrell had downloaded these contacts from Crenshaw’s phone right after shooting the man.
It looked like Ferrell had decided to take over the Styx drug-dealing business from Crenshaw. Was that the reason he murdered him? The two had been friends for years, dating back to when they were fraternity brothers. They’d gone into business together, weathered storms together, and from that warm bro shake I saw them share in Soho, I couldn’t help wondering what had prompted Ferrell to turn so viciously on his old friend. But there was no time to look for more answers now. I’d already found enough evidence to have Ferrell arrested and his business investigated by the OD Squad. I quickly snapped screenshots of the incriminating messages, sent them to Franco’s and Tucker’s phones, and returned to the party.
Tristan was finishing his last pose as I slipped the phone back into his jacket. Suddenly, he performed a quick, unexpected flip, and faced me. I couldn’t be sure, but it was possible he’d seen what I’d done.
The Madagascar Lemur demonstration ended to cheers and applause. Even Madame acted suitably impressed, and Sergeant Jones shook the guru’s hand.
While Tristan donned his loafers and jacket, I hurried for the exit. I was in such a rush I even left my wrap at the coat check. There was no time to alert Nancy or Madame that I was leaving. When I hit the street, I would text Franco, telling him I was about to catch a cab to meet up with him. Then he could officially take my “statement” about what I’d witnessed at the party—as a “concerned citizen,” of course.
Unfortunately, the single elevator closed in my face. My heart pounded, and my adrenaline levels went through the roof while I waited for the agonizingly slow return of the car. When the door finally opened again, I rushed inside and pounded the button.
The sliding doors were just about to close when a smiling Tristan swiftly entered, along with a few partygoers.
I thought about escaping, but before the doors closed, he subtly blocked my way and began engaging me in polite conversation.
“Ms. Cosi, right? Your boss seems quite interested in my Critter Crawl philosophy. I think she sees the potential . . .”
Thank God he was talking up his business, not asking questions. Perhaps he hadn’t seen me with his phone, after all.
“I’m off to Seattle in the morning, Portland after that. I think young people in those cities will be especially receptive to my message . . .”
No doubt they’ll be receptive to the Styx you’re dealing, too, I thought.
Clenching my jaw into a smiling position, I tried hard to keep a pleasant face—and those images of Matt lying close to death out of my mind.
When the doors opened, Tristan and I faced two exits, one to the street, the other to the 79th Street Boat Basin.
As the other guests departed toward the street, Tristan firmly hooked my arm in his. “Do you want to see my boat? She’s a Riva. You’re Italian, right? You should really appreciate her sleek lines.”
Before I could decline or break away, he used his jacket to shield a weapon—what felt like the barrel of a small gun was now pressing into my kidney.
“We’re going on a boat ride, Ms. Cosi. I’m not going to hurt you. But I do insist you tell me why you’re so interested in my phone . . .”
He led me through the door to the Boat Basin. The night air was bracing, and I shivered in my flimsy cocktail dress. I thought I might have a chance to escape, or alert some passerby to my plight, but the man’s boat was moored no more than a dozen steps from the Anchor and Light.
“Get in,” he commanded.
Despite his claim not to “hurt” me, I knew who this man really was. Any boat ride with him on the Hudson was going to end on the River Styx.
With a violent tug, I freed my arm to run. But before I could take a step or draw breath to shout “Help!” Tristan lashed out.
Then everything went dark.
Eighty-three
MY head throbbed, and the madly rocking cradle wasn’t helping. I wanted to call my nonna to make it stop, but when I opened my eyes, I snapped back to grim reality.
I wasn’t safe and warm in my childhood bedroom above my grandmother’s little Italian grocery store. I was shivering aboard Tristan Ferrell’s boat, on my way to a watery grave.
I tried to move my arms, but they were tightly tied behind my back. My ankles were bound, too—I knew because I could touch the ropes. I’d been dumped between two fine leather seats at the ship’s bow, squeezing me into a fetal position. Helpless, I feigned unconsciousness while I observed the murderer, drug dealer, and kidnapper through half-closed eyelashes.
Ferrell was steering his Riva downriver. I saw the tops of several landmark buildings and realized we were just passing Midtown.
I shut my eyes completely when Ferrell hit autopilot and approached. I remained motionless while he groped me through my clothes, then under my clothes. He gave up, to rummage through my purse. When he found my phone, he tossed everything else over the side.
When I realized he hadn’t tossed my phone, I felt a surge of hope.
I knew the NYPD had the ability to ping a phone and track its location, using cell phone towers. If Nancy realized I was gone, she would have alerted Madame, Franco, and Sergeant Jones.
A curse interrupted my thoughts. Tristan was poised to toss my smartphone—and my only hope of rescue—o
ver the side. Instead, he threw the phone back at me. I stifled a cry as it bounced off my shoulder and clattered to the deck.
When Tristan took control of the boat again, I opened one eye, saw that my phone was still locked, and nearly laughed at the irony.
Meanwhile, Tristan popped a compartment on the dashboard, and a cascade of Styx cylinders tumbled onto the deck. I thought he was hooked on his own stash, but quickly learned the fitness guru had another addiction.
While he steered with one hand, Tristan used his teeth to rip the cellophane off a two-pack of cream-filled Twinkies—
Twinkies!
In a frenzy of stress eating, he stuffed them into his mouth, one after the other, grunting as he chewed. When the Twinkies were gone, Tristan went for a big bag of Double Stuf Oreos.
And I should “consider cutting out a few forms of sugar”?! Kiss my assets, guru! (Yes, despite my predicament, I silently stewed.)
After gobbling three Oreos in a row, he dropped the bag on the passenger seat and approached me again—this time to administer a designer loafer kick to my torso.
There was no faking it this time; I cried out as my body instinctively curled into an even tighter ball.
“I know you’re awake,” he said. “And I want to know who you’re working for. You’re not wearing a wire, so you’re not a cop or a Fed. If I had to guess, I’d say you were a private detective working for the bitch.”
I was smarting too much to make a coherent reply.
“Deny it all you want; I know you’re Sydney’s snoop. Too bad your boss is going down. Cops are circling her like vultures over a carcass. Of course, Sydney will still be breathing in a week. I can’t say the same for you.”
To ease the pain in my side, I gripped the rope around my ankle and discovered I was missing one high-heeled shoe. In a flash of memory, Haley Hartford’s lost pink sneaker came back to me. I could still see it lying there, on its side, beneath that bench by the river.
