by Cleo Coyle
“It’s all right. What have you got?”
“Jumper.”
Uniformed police had already cordoned off the area around the body and were scanning it for evidence. But it was a waste of effort. They’d quickly come to the same conclusion as the other cops at the other crime scenes—suicide.
Ms. Inga Berg, they would assume, had said goodnight to her big date earlier than expected…because taking off one’s panties may get you sex, but it doesn’t guarantee a long night of lovemaking by any stretch. After retiring for the evening, Inga had decided to take the elevator to the rooftop parking area, walk to the edge, and somersault over the banister.
Inga Berg, they would conclude, had leaped to her death.
“Objective achieved,” whispered the Genius.
Slipping away was the last task left, before the police began to question the tenants. This being a new building, few of the tenants would know each other. These people would naturally assume the Genius to be just another tenant, or friend of a tenant. So departing would be easy.
But the Genius couldn’t leave just yet. It was too good a feeling, seeing the handiwork appreciated for the first time. The tape being put up, the police photographer snapping photos, the chalk being drawn, the detective staring up into the cold, black night, estimating the trajectory of the body’s fall, then snapping on latex gloves to gently examine the woman’s smashed body.
She looked a bit like she was sleeping actually, except for the splattering of blood and brain matter.
Inga Berg’s white shoes had been torn off in the fall, but she was still clothed in the white fur-trimmed parka, beneath it, the cream silk negligee with lace trim, her long, dyed hair a blonde mop across her face.
The Genius watched the detective crouch down, tenderly push the long blonde hair away, to reveal staring brown eyes, a mouth frozen open forever.
This was just too good. Seeing the accomplishment like this.
The Genius almost didn’t notice the detective rising, turning, scanning the crowd.
Time to slip away, the Genius decided. Slip away…slip away…And after slithering slowly backward through the heart of the crowd, that’s exactly what the Genius did.
FIVE
NOT pretty.
Not a disaster by any means. But definitely not a thing of beauty.
My first official “date” of the last two years had started out badly and went downhill from there.
Frankly, the last thing I expected to be doing exactly one week after “My Dinner with Quinn” (as I now thought of it) was sitting across from a guy who looked like he’d stepped off the cover of the Metrosexual’s Handbook.
Yet here I was, sitting in the Union Square Coffee Shop, which, despite its name, was not, in fact, a coffee shop, but a trendy restaurant made to look like a 1960s-style coffee shop/diner, with the addition of mood lighting, loud music, a slick crowd, and a Brazilian-American menu.
Later, when I was happily back at the Blend, Tucker would inform me that the waitresses there were employed by a major modeling agency—which owned this restaurant, as well as another, called (appropriately enough) Live Bait. And I would consider myself a heel (in retrospect) for consenting to eat at a place where a twenty-two-year-old reed-thin underwear model with long blonde hair asked my date, “What would you like?”
This man had e-mailed me as a result of the profile Joy had helped me post on SinglesNYC.com—and the only reason I’d even posted in the first place was to check out the dating service my daughter intended to use.
“What would you like?” Paris Hilton asked again.
Ensconced in the vinyl booth, I’d already ordered the churrasquino carioca; however, my date, a forty-something with curly black hair, refined features, watery hazel eyes, and a profile that listed his occupation as “Director of Fundraising,” seemed to be having an issue with the menu.
“I thought you had vegetarian fare?” he asked unhappily.
“We have a veggie burger and a ton of fish dishes,” suggested the waitress.
“I’m a vegan. No animal products, which includes the swimming animals.”
A vegan? I thought. His profile hadn’t mentioned that. I could have sworn it said nonsmoking gourmet food lover. O-kay.
“Veggie burger?” asked the model-slash-waitress hopefully.
Brooks Newman sighed the sigh of a martyr. “I suppose.”
“Cheese?”
“Yes.”
“You know cheese is an animal product,” I pointed out. “I mean if you’re a vegan.”
“Oh, yes,” said Brooks. “Of course. It’s only been three days.”
“Three days vegan?” I asked. “Is that like three days sober?”
Brooks wasn’t amused. He gave me a little squint. “No cheese,” he told the waitress.
“Anything else, sir?”
“Yes,” said Brooks. He snapped the menu shut. “And another martini. Dry. Got that? D-R-Y.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Hilton look-alike spun on her go-go boot heel and left.
“I hate it when girls that age call me ‘sir,’” said Brooks, his eyes glued to the waitress’s retreating ass. “Makes me feel old.”
“Well…” I said. No reason for that. After all, you’re acting like a child.
“You, uh, don’t look forty.”
“Thanks. I know. It’s the botanicals.”
“Botanicals?”
“Yes, in the facial products. I find a weekly spa visit to be vital for people our age. You should try it. Really.”
Oh, for pity’s sake.
“Renu Spa,” he said, draining the last of his not-dry-enough martini. “Park Avenue, by the W Hotel.”
“Renu, eh? Funny…”
“What’s funny?” he asked.
“Renew! Renew! Renew!” I said. “You know, Logan’s Run? Do they have a ‘Carousel’ treatment for clients over thirty?”
Brooks made his little squinty face again. “Why would they have a merry-go-round in a spa?”
I shook my head. “Not merry-go-round. Carousel. Don’t you remember Logan’s Run? That sci-fi movie from the mid seventies?”
“Sure, I remember it. Farrah Fawcett, right?”
“Right. Well, the entire premise is based on the idea that it’s the twenty-third century and Big Brother takes care of everything for you. Your whole life is spent in the pursuit of pleasure. The only catch is when you turn thirty, the red crystal embedded in your palm begins to blink. So you have to report to this ritual they call ‘Carousel,’ where you’re supposedly ‘Renewed.’ But in reality they zap you with enough volts of electricity to light up Detroit.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“‘Run, Runner!’ doesn’t ring any bells?”
“No.”
“Forget it.” I sighed and found myself thinking, Quinn would have laughed.
Brooks adjusted his pale yellow Armani sweater and looked around the room, his eyes snagging on the tight clothing of the model slash waitresses more frequently than my cat Java’s claws on my goose down duvet.
“So…” said Brooks. “What’s it like managing these…I mean, this place?”
“This place? I don’t manage this place,” I told him.
Brooks frowned. “Your SinglesNYC profile said you managed Coffee Shop.”
“Coffeehouse. I manage a coffeehouse. Of course, I didn’t put the name of it in my profile. The site instructions said not to put down any information on the public profiles that would give away your identity.”
“Your profile said you managed Coffee Shop.”
“I don’t see why it would say that. Does SinglesNYC.com change the profiles of people?”
“No…but there’s an automatic spell check after you send. Didn’t you review the profile once it was posted?”
“Not really.”
“I see.” Brooks now made a show of looking around the room. “So you don’t manage any of these girls.”
&nbs
p; “No.”
The atmosphere got even chillier after that. I politely asked about his work, and he talked about directing the fundraising campaigns for various charities.
“There are myriad techniques,” he said, “depending on the not-for-profit’s history. Donation patterns can grow stale over time. So I can direct anything from phone solicitation blitzes and letter writing campaigns to gala benefits.”
“Interesting.”
“It can be.”
Not to me. Not then. I couldn’t stop thinking about Detective Quinn. Since last week’s Chicken Francese dinner, he hadn’t been by the Blend. Not for his usual latte, not even to bolt an espresso. For a full week he’d avoided the coffeehouse entirely. I tried to tell myself it was his work, or his marital issues, which appeared to be as emotionally straining as mine and Matt’s had been.
Still, I couldn’t help suspecting that he was intentionally avoiding me. Maybe he’d regretted opening up. Maybe he felt embarrassed on some level and was worried I’d put him on the spot the next time I saw him. I didn’t have a clue—but I refused to let it tear at me, which was another reason I’d gone out tonight after getting Brooks’s call. I needed to get my mind off the police detective. The still married police detective.
After the food was served, Brooks bit into his vegetarian burger. He chewed, swallowed, and made that squinty face again.
“What is that you ordered?” he asked, eyeing my platter.
“The churrasquino carioca,” I told him.
“And that is…?”
“A Brazilian-style grilled steak sandwich.”
“Steak?”
“Yes. Steak. Beef. Cow,” I said, around a mouth of deliciously marinated meat. “Listen, Brooks, my profile never said I wasn’t a meat eater. There’s no spell check I know that would change ‘gourmet food lover’ to ‘vegetarian.’”
“No, I know,” he admitted, his tone less chilly. “But I have found that everyone lies about something on these sites. One girl had this dominatrix vibe to her profile, but when we went out she mainly talked about her pain-in-the-ass parents, the sex was vanilla, and afterward she just wanted to play Scrabble.”
“Brooks, let me be honest with you so we can both digest our food. The only reason I’m here is to see what this on-line dating thing is like. My daughter insisted on signing up, and I wanted to check out the site, see how it worked. I’m really not interested in…hooking up…or anything.”
“Oh.” The man leaned back in his chair. “Oh.”
“Honestly, you’re not interested in me, right?”
He took a sip of his martini and made an unsatisfied face. “I usually go out with women much younger than you. But for thirty-nine…you actually look okay. I dislike what you’re wearing, that sweater is too big for you and I don’t like women in pants, but you have a very pretty face…In fact…” He took a closer look. “You are kinda cute.”
“Thanks.” Creep.
“And you look a little familiar for some reason.”
“Ever been in the Village Blend coffeehouse—on Hudson?”
“That’s the coffeehouse you manage? Oh, sure. I’ve been in there. Good cappuccinos.”
“Thanks.” Okay, maybe not a total creep.
“To be honest with you, I thought this could be more of a networking thing than a date,” he said. “I’ve arranged a new approach to fundraising that’s going to involve the sort of beautiful young women who work here. And I thought if you managed this place, then you might be able to help me secure the donation of services.”
“Services?”
Brooks nodded. “A lingerie show at the Puck building. And, after the show, the girls will serve drinks.”
“While still in their underwear?”
“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Brooks said with a grin. “I am such the Genius. The big spenders will love it, and I’ll certainly be reeling in some new whales, too. As far as the models, I’m sure, if they’re forced to work here, then they’re between gigs anyway—and they already know how to serve drinks.”
“But why would they do it for free?”
“Because, given the type of spenders we’ve already invited to the event—media and ad execs and the like—it will be good exposure for them.”
“Good exposure. Right.” (Serving drinks in flimsy underwear would do that for a girl.)
“And it’s also for a good cause,” he added.
“What cause would that be?”
“M.N.M. I’m in charge of their national fundraising drives for the next six months.”
“M.N.M.? Oh, right, I’ve heard of them. Meat No More—the vegan activist organization? So that’s why you’ve only been a vegan for three days?”
Brooks shrugged. “Let’s just say after two weeks on the job, they encouraged me to give the lifestyle a try.” He sighed, dejected. “It was just one take-out order of Chinese spare ribs delivered to their offices. You’d think I killed the damn pig myself.”
I took another bite of my delicious Brazilian steak sandwich. He frowned at his veggie burger. Then he looked around the restaurant and whispered, “Can I have half of that?”
I smiled. “Sure.”
The meat seemed to restore him. He actually smiled, too. “You know, you are really cute. I don’t see why we can’t hook up…you know, just for the night.”
“Sorry, but, uh…I do.” I almost added, “nothing personal,” but stopped myself. Of course, it was personal.
He frowned. “Oh, well…worth a shot.” He shrugged.
“So, what do you think of the SinglesNYC site? I mean, for my daughter?”
“Your daughter, huh? That’s an interesting idea.” He took a drink of his martini and gave me a leer. “Does she look like a younger version of you? And if she does, what’s she doing tonight?”
I pictured Brooks coming in for a cappuccino—and me pointing the steam valve at his face.
“You’re too old for her,” I said with great relish.
He shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
Yes I can.
“Look, SinglesNYC is a pretty edgy site. Most of the people go there to widen their sexual circle.”
I nearly choked on my marinated cow. “Widen their what?”
“Their sexual circle. How old is she?”
“Nineteen. She turns twenty very soon.”
Brooks nodded. “Tell her not to go out with anyone over twenty-five. That should help cut down on the guys who might be married. And here’s a warning label: get the guy’s home number, home address, and work number. Because if he’s reluctant to give any of those out, he could be married or already have a girlfriend.”
A pained sigh escaped me.
My e-date leaned forward. “Hey, look…” He pulled out his business card, flipped it, and wrote something down. “If I had a daughter, I’d want her to be on one of these two sites instead. They’re total duds as far as I’m concerned—people who want, you know, ‘meaningful relationships,’ and talk about things like ‘favorite hobbies.’ A lot tamer than SinglesNYC.”
“Thanks,” I said, and meant it.
We finished our meal and contemplated the desert selection. Both of us ordered the flan, then I asked the waitress for a cappuccino.
“I’ll have one, too,” said Brooks.
I was just about to conclude the guy was okay when he opened his mouth one more time and said the one thing that absolutely put an end to even the remotest possibility of a relationship with me—
“Just make sure mine’s a decaf.”
SIX
ALMOST time.
The air was crisp tonight, polluted with the occasional acrid fumes from the historic district’s wood-burning fireplaces, but there was little wind off the nearby river, and the Genius found tonight’s mission almost tolerable.
For one thing, the sorry parade of single men and women brought the Genius a mild degree of amusement.
Saturday night in the Village was always loud and crowded, but e
ach Single seemed to file down this dark street in a particularly pathetic way. There was something pensive and a little desperate about them as they negotiated the clutching couples and raucous revelers. Hands in pockets, eyes cast down.
Standing in the shadowy recesses of an alley across the busy street, the Genius found the perfect vantage from which to watch them file past the faux gas lamp and trudge into the coffeehouse.
Through the Blend’s tall, brightly lit windows, the Genius studied them as they bumped and squeezed their way around the crowded tables, then adjusted their clothing before climbing up the wrought iron spiral staircase to arrive on the second floor, their false courage now in place—hands out of pockets, eyes lifted up, plastic smiles applied like last-minute lipstick.
There was a bald guy in his fifties with a slight limp.
Two women in their thirties, laughing a little too hard.
An over-dressed fortyish man with enough grease in his hair to qualify as a Mafia don.
A brunette with tight clothing and too much makeup.
A geeky twentysomething.
A geeky thirtysomething.
Three Goth girls.
A forty-plus woman with spike-heeled boots and a trendy leather coat meant for someone twenty years younger.
And they just kept coming…
This Cappuccino Connection thing certainly brought out the losers. Oh, there were a few somewhat attractive women in the mix, but nothing special.
The Genius was actually surprised it had come to this for him.
But SinglesNYC.com really had become a bust.
The last match had taken place at a nearby restaurant. She’d been too old for his taste, which might not have mattered, but there was no chemistry. Nothing about the woman seemed to turn him on. She’d been a bore.
As usual, the SinglesNYC profile didn’t match the reality. Everything from her photo to her occupation had seemed better in the on-line profile than it had been in person. A big yawn for him.
The Genius hadn’t been all that surprised. The only question had been, “What next?”
Cruising more SinglesNYC profiles was an option. Giving up was an option, too. But then, of course, so was this…
