by Cleo Coyle
After I’m dead, will someone find my shoe?
Gritting my teeth, I felt for the rope with renewed determination. Locating the knot, I began to work it. To cover what I was doing, I had to distract Ferrell—
“You know you’re not getting away with anything, Tommy Finkle!” I bluffed. “The NYPD’s Harbor Patrol has barge camera footage of you murdering Haley Hartford in Hudson River Park.”
Tristan threw up his hands in mock surrender. “You got me,” he said around a half-chewed Oreo. Then he laughed.
“I didn’t kill Haley.”
“So who did?”
“Robert Crenshaw—she was working for him.”
“I thought she was working for you?”
He shoved another cookie in his mouth.
“I was just the front man. I needed someone to create my fitness app, and Crenshaw overpaid Haley to do it—as long as she also agreed to put a backdoor into Cinder’s programming for him. He lied to her when he bribed her. She thought he only wanted access to Cinder’s analytics—the number of users, customer demographics, that kind of crap. When she figured out what was really going on, she freaked out.”
“So that’s why Haley had the viral videos from my coffeehouse—”
“Haley wasn’t stupid. As soon as she saw those videos, she knew Crenshaw was playing her. Some underling at Cinder was already getting suspicious with all the unexplained activity and uncovered some of Crenshaw’s sabotage. The videos sent her over the edge. Turns out Haley was a true believer . . .”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Haley was outraged that Crenshaw used a woman-friendly app to abuse women—” Tristan raised his hands in mock horror. “‘The victims, the victims,’ she kept saying. Haley told me Crenshaw’s abuse, on top of sabotage, was too much, and she was going to put a stop to all of it.”
“Why was Haley talking to you?”
“She thought she could trust me.”
“How could she think that?”
He shrugged. “She assumed Crenshaw had lied to me, too. And she was desperate. By then Crenshaw had cut off all communications with her, and she was still technically working for me. So she demanded that I set up a meeting with Crenshaw at Habitat Garden or she’d blow the whistle. Crenshaw planned to pay her off anyway, and he offered her another ten thousand in cash to keep her mouth shut. She told him no, and the rest is history.”
“Yes. Criminal history,” I wheezed, my side aching from Tristan’s kick.
“After he killed her—he claimed it was an accident—Crenshaw called me. I used Equator’s blacked-out back door, went to the park, and we tossed her into the river, after I made it look like a mugging.”
Another cookie went down the hatch.
“I decided that night that he had to go.”
“Go—as in murder?”
“Please. People die every day. Sometimes they die because they make themselves a problem for other people. And they have to be dealt with—like you.”
“But I’m not your friend. Crenshaw was.”
“Ancient history. I only went along with his schemes because I needed the money, and he agreed to invest in my business—”
“So you didn’t get rich off Hookster?”
“Crenshaw got richer than I ever did. He was the programmer, and he made a side bundle from the software that he’d developed, and more from his deal to distribute Styx, through a guy he knew in Scotland.”
Tristan gobbled another cookie and checked the steering. Apparently, the boat was on course, because he faced me again.
“I was glad to get Crenshaw out of my life. He was the one who couldn’t keep his hands off Sydney. He screwed her for a little while, then he screwed her over—like he did with all his women. But she fought back—in the press. She talked about all the crap that went on inside the Hookster offices. And when she had the gall to turn around and start her own dating app business, Crenshaw went nuts. All he cared about was setting up his ex-girlfriend for a fall. Ever hear of a website called Silk Road?”
“No, did you help sabotage that, too?”
He rolled his eyes. “Silk Road was closed for illegal activity. When you go there now, all you see is a big fat THIS SITE HAS BEEN SEIZED notice from the US government. That’s what Crenshaw wanted for Cinder. He dreamed of hitting the Cinder web address and cackling over that notice, while Sydney rotted in prison. He was obsessed—so distracted that he was throwing money away, jeopardizing everything, me included. So I made my own deal with the Scotsman.”
“What kind of deal?” I asked, tearing another nail as I worked to untie the ankle ropes.
“Now that the Hookster lawsuit is over, two million dollars will be released from receivership. A pathetic sum compared to what we could have had, but with Crenshaw finally out of the way, I get it all, and I’m going to use it to build up my fitness business—a nice, legitimate front to use while I get filthy rich distributing Styx in the USA.”
He tossed the Oreo bag aside and turned his back on me.
“You really don’t know anything, do you, Cosi?” he said, steering the boat. “That’s a shame, because I’m about to rendezvous with a freighter beyond the Verrazano Bridge.”
Part of the knot slipped, and I felt the rope around my legs loosen.
“The Scotsman sent over a batch of Styx, and I’m going to deliver you to the smugglers as a bonus. I’m sure they’ll dump you overboard, in the middle of the Atlantic, after they’re finished with you. I’ll leave it to their imagination.”
Eighty-four
TEN minutes later, the tip of the Freedom Tower was receding—and so were my hopes of being rescued.
After passing Governors Island, we would motor by Red Hook, within sight of Matt’s warehouse. So close and yet so far . . . Soon we’d be out in the open sea.
An electronic gadget mounted on the Riva’s dashboard began to blink. “The smugglers are waiting!” he declared. “I just have to follow this beacon to the rendezvous point, and you can meet your new playmates . . .”
With renewed determination, I continued working the ropes binding my ankles. Another few minutes, and they finally fell away. My feet were free!
In the movies, I would then be able to slip my legs through my arms and get my hands in front of me. But even if I were that flexible—which, I’m not—I was wedged between two seats and unable to move.
Hope surged in me again when an NYPD helicopter flew directly over Tristan’s boat. He peered upward, alarmed. But the chopper raced on until the sound faded. Then he tensely returned his focus to the dark waters ahead.
The beacon on the boat’s dashboard continued to blink, and the boat surged across New York Bay. Suddenly the helicopter returned, flying lower this pass. A shaft of light projected from its belly, spearing the boat.
Tristan panicked and swerved out of the brilliant glow. As he jinxed the boat back and forth, he tossed the Styx cylinders overboard. I could hear his panicked breathing as he wheeled around to face me.
“Looks like you’re going swimming.”
When the helicopter gave up the hunt and flew away, he put the boat back on autopilot, left the driver’s seat, and grabbed me. As he dragged me to my feet, he tried to loop a rope tied to several dumbbell weights around my arms.
He was interrupted by a booming voice and a spear of blinding light—this time on the water.
“This is Sergeant Jones of the NYPD. Heave to and prepare to be boarded.”
As a surprised Tristan paused, I ground the one high heel I had into his loafer until he howled with pain and released me.
“Twinkies!” I yelled, kicking him in the shin. “Oreos!” I cried, delivering a second kick that knocked me and him to the deck.
Tristan was up first, and he wrapped his arms around my waist, hauling me to my feet again.
�
�Heave to,” Jones commanded, his boat closer now.
Three lights bathed Tristan’s ship in a white glow, but with no one at the controls, there was no one to “heave to.” As we struggled, the Riva kept racing toward the Atlantic.
Growling like a frustrated animal, Tristan flung himself against me, and the force of that body block was too much. With only one shoe, and my wrists tied, I lost my balance. Our feet were tripped up by the weighted rope, and we both tumbled into the freezing water.
The shock of the cold was paralyzing, and I nearly blacked out. Hands hopelessly bound, I felt my body sinking fast. But as darkness closed in, a prayer rose up. Mike’s prayer . . .
Angel of God, my guardian dear.
To whom God’s love commits me here.
Ever this night, be at my side
To light, to guard, to rule, and guide . . .
The words steadied me, and I saw the light. Was I dead already? No, this light was moving. It was a searchlight from the Harbor Patrol boat above!
My fight coming back, I used my free legs to kick. Desperately, I tried to reach that searching light, but I couldn’t. Not on my own.
As my head spun and my lungs burned from lack of oxygen, I felt myself passing out. Suddenly, strong hands closed around my waist. Then a mask was placed over my nose and mouth, and I sucked in oxygen like a suffocating newborn.
For long seconds, nothing else registered but the simple miracle filling my lungs. Air! Beautiful air! Nothing felt better!
Seconds later, we broke the water’s surface, and I recognized the deep brown eyes of a grinning Officer Hernandez.
“Hello, again, Coffee Lady!”
He and Burns pulled me, shivering, numb, and still gasping, out of the water and aboard the Martin Morrow.
Hernandez dived over the side again, while Burns cut through the ropes on my wrists and wrapped my teeth-chattering body in a blanket. Instantly, I was further warmed by Nancy and Madame, who both tearfully hugged me.
“You p-p-pinged my phone,” I stammered between shivers.
“We did,” Jones replied, relief on his weathered face. “Nancy found your shoe on the dock, and we knew Ferrell had taken you. I called my crew, and with Sergeant Franco’s help, we tracked your mobile.”
Just then, Hernandez and Burns hauled Tristan Ferrell out of the drink and dumped him onto the deck. He was still shivering and calling us “evil bitches” when they put him in cuffs and read him his rights.
When they were done, Nancy lost it. And I was reminded again how much she loved us—her Village Blend family.
“You jackass!” she screamed, lunging at the fitness guru.
It took Burns and Hernandez to pull her off, but not before Nancy found her Critter Center and delivered a swift kick to the man’s hoo-hah.
Epilogue
THREE days after my evening dip in New York Bay, Madame hosted a dinner party for six at her Fifth Avenue town house near Washington Square.
In a well-appointed dining room filled with fine art and antiques, warmed by a roaring fireplace, we feasted on Pork Chops Smothered in Onions from an old Jones family recipe (and rumored to be a soul-food favorite of Jimi Hendrix). We ladled the savory onion gravy over Matt’s own Fluffy Garlic Mashed Potatoes, whipped up by Joy, along with a mound of succulent Hard Cider Green Beans—a popular side at the upstairs jazz supper club of our Village Blend, DC.
Dessert was provided by yours truly, my often-requested, rich and decadent Double-Chocolate Fudge Bundt Cake with a dash of espresso powder to add complexity and deepen the lovely roasted flavor of the chocolate.
After the plates were cleared, and a fresh bottle of champagne was popped, the guest of honor proposed a toast.
“To Clare,” Matt said, rising. “The best ex-wife a guy could ever have, and my guardian angel.”
“Please,” I demurred. “I’ll admit I’m a decent ex-wife, but guardian angels don’t put others in jeopardy. What happened to you is on me.”
Matt scratched an IV bruise on his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous, Clare. That romantic dinner was set before you were ever involved. Marilyn would have slipped that poison into our drinks, and with no one watching, we would both be dead.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel, you should acknowledge the fact that more than one person at this table was watching over you that night . . .”
Franco tugged the collar of his dress shirt and looked away. Joy glanced at her father expectantly.
“Sure, why not?” said my ex-husband after a lengthy pause.
I held my breath, daring to hope—
“A toast, to the Angel . . . and the Mook.”
Joy groaned. Franco shook his head, and we all drained our glasses. Okay, so there’s still some work to be done.
Matt quickly sat down. He’d only been out of the hospital one day, and he still looked pale and ashen from his brush with death.
“So, Lee,” Madame said, as we popped another bottle of bubbly. “Tell us what happened after you dropped us off at Battery Park.”
Sergeant Jones, impressive in his NYPD dress uniform and matching blue eye patch, sent a sweet smile Madame’s way.
“Well,” he began, “after we located the runaway Riva doing loops off the coast of St. George, Staten Island, we boarded her and found the beacon Clare told us about. We turned it over to the Coast Guard. They boarded the smugglers’ vessel, seized the drugs, and detained the crew. End of story.”
“Not quite the end,” Madame prompted.
“Well, I did get this a couple of hours ago.” Jones touched a medal with a bronze star, flanked by blue, green, and gold stripes.
“It’s a Commendation,” Madame said like a proud parent. “The police commissioner made the presentation, and the mayor shook Lee’s hand.”
“It’s a fine way to end a career,” Jones said. “I’m retiring next year—forcibly, I might add. The department brass granted me extensions for years on the mandatory retirement age, but they’re drawing the line at seventy.”
“Sounds like you’ll miss the river.”
“Not hardly, Clare. I live on a houseboat.”
“It’s quite charming, too,” Madame said. “And what a view from the bedroom!”
That revelation brought the conversation to a grinding halt. And we all took another drink.
“It’s moored at the Boat Basin,” Jones added, after an amused throat clearing. “Cheapest riverside rent in New York City.”
Matt poured another round. “Speaking of the Hudson River. Clare, it’s a shame your flatfoot couldn’t be here tonight.”
“Mike Quinn is stuck in London,” I said. “Things went a little crazy on both sides of the Atlantic after that Styx bust. But why bring up the river?”
Joy grinned. “I know why.”
“It’s about your wedding venue,” Matt said. “You told me you wanted something on the Hudson, so you could enjoy the sunset.”
“Sure, but the cost—”
“You don’t have to worry anymore. You have a beautiful location on the water, if you want it. But the place is so popular, you’re going to have to wait until next spring or summer before you can book it.”
“What place?”
“The Anchor and Light,” Matt replied. “I made a deal with the owners. I supply their flagship hotel with premium coffee at half the cost for six months, and they’ll give you the top floor and all the servers, for one booking, for free.”
I sat stunned. “Matt . . . I don’t know how to—”
He raised a hand. “Don’t thank me, yet. You’ll have to pay for the catering and booze—but they’ll be discounted, so it will all be very affordable. It’s my wedding gift to you both.” He paused to meet my gaze. “I only wish I could do more . . .”
It took several moments for me to find my voice. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome! Just make sure that flatfoot doesn’t leave me off the guest list.”
* * *
• • •
A week later, I dined out again, this time at Veselka (Mike Quinn finally got me there) to celebrate his homecoming—and my hapless role in interrupting the supply chain for a dangerous new narcotic.
Thankfully, carbs were still legal, and our comfort food feast included pierogi and stuffed cabbage. But my grinning fiancé insisted on dessert at my place, because Veselka didn’t serve the treat he’d been pining for—my “Secret Ingredient” Peanut Butter Cookies.
I’d baked him a special batch earlier in the day. Now we sat in front of my bedroom fireplace, a plate of those chewy-crispy-caramelized treats in front of us with a fresh-pressed pot of East Timor.
“The Brits don’t know what they’re missing,” Mike said, taking a bite. “I love these,” he mumbled around the nutty circle of goodness.
“And I love the smell of the French soap you bought me at Harrods.”
“I love it, too, almost as much as these cookies.”
I playfully elbowed his ribs. “Thanks. Maybe next time I’ll wear peanut butter perfume.”
“I suggest you don’t wear anything at all . . .” He opened a button on my blouse, and then two.
“No more cookies?” I asked as he nuzzled my neck.
“I’ve had enough dessert. Now I’m hungry for something really sweet.”
“So am I.”
There was sweetness in the air, as well, a meaningful remedy to a past observation . . .
Before Mike had gone to London, he’d been troubled by Matt’s single, forsaken rosebud that I’d saved from dying.
Sadly, I hadn’t been able to save Haley Hartford from that fate. She’d taken her last earthly breath. So had the man who killed her. And the man who killed him was facing years, if not life, in prison. These weren’t happy thoughts, but there was a happy ending—for Carol Lynn, Tucker and Punch, Sydney, and the Village Blend.
