Eight

“IT might be okay,” Matt said unconvincingly.

“An ‘active shooter’ in our coffeehouse?” I wiped the table in agitated circles. “That video will destroy us . . .”

The two of us were back upstairs, cleaning the remains of our snacking. I told our staff to call it a night, and they headed out, still believing “going viral” was “awesome.” Matt and I held our tongues—until we were alone.

“Do you think our regular customers will be put off?” he asked.

“Some will.”

“I hope you’re wrong. One thing I am sure of. We can kiss all that new swipe-to-meet business good-bye.”

“That’s certain. Who’s going to set up a date in a coffeehouse where Crazy Cinder-ella goes gunning for Prince Piece-of-Trash?”

“I’m guessing our ‘Most Romantic Coffee’ in the Village ranking is history, too.” Matt collapsed into his favorite high-back chair.

Too upset to sit, I took a fast walk around the floor, looking for stray cups or glasses. My baristas had done a good job busing the tables. The floor needed a more thorough sweeping, but that could wait for morning.

Morning. I closed my eyes and released a pent-up breath. What would the morning bring? Will the press and media cover the story—and make things worse for us? Or will Gun Girl be old news by the break of day?

With no crystal ball to tell me, I returned to Matt, who was back to staring into his crystal screen.

“After the night we’ve had, please tell me you’re not looking for another Glass Slipper.”

“Nope. Ordering an Uber. Unfortunately, the Broadway shows are letting out, so it looks like I’ll have to wait for a car . . .”

As he continued tapping his phone, he slumped back and crossed his legs. That’s when I spied a slip of paper stuck to the heel of his designer loafer.

I yanked it free, and Matt sat up. “What is that? A bill of large denomination would be nice.”

“You’re close.” I skimmed the print on the paper. “It’s a bank withdrawal slip for—wow, ten thousand dollars.”

“You’re kidding?!” Matt dropped to the ground and searched for more paper under the chair. “Too bad, no cash. All I found was this ballpoint pen.”

He tossed it onto the café table, and I told him where I’d seen that pen before. During tonight’s awful scene, it had fallen at Richard Crest’s feet, along with his phone and a few scraps of paper—this was obviously one of them.

“Why would Crest withdraw ten grand in cash?”

Matt shrugged and returned to his phone screen. I studied the paper in my hand. There was no name on the withdrawal slip, but the bank branch was listed along with the last four numbers of the account. There was an exact time for the transaction, too: almost five hours ago, 4:47 PM.

“What should I do with this?”

“Throw it away,” Matt said.

“No, I think I’ll hold on to it . . .” I tucked the paper into my apron pocket. At the very least, it would give me an excuse to talk to Richard Crest the next time I saw him. And I had to admit—

“Something about this bothers me.”

“What?”

“In the age of credit cards and smartphones, why would anyone withdraw so much in cash?”

“Maybe he had a craving for a diamond martini at the Blue Bar.”

“Nobody orders that ten-thousand-dollar drink. It’s a publicity stunt.”

“I was kidding.”

“Listen, do me a favor. Call up that video again.”

Matt studied me. “Are you all right? You look stressed. Maybe you should go upstairs and get some rest, try to forget about what happened here, and—”

“Just do it!”

With tight lips, he tapped the screen. I leaned over and together we re-watched the video. When it hit a certain point, I pounded his shoulder.

“Matt, look at that!”

“Ouch! What?”

“Pause it.” I pointed to the screen. “See that? Richard Crest’s face is completely hidden from the camera. His head is turned to the side and down, his hands are up, and he keeps them there. Don’t you find that strange?”

“Why? He obviously didn’t want to be shot in the face.”

“But look—” I tapped the screen to start the video again. “Carol Lynn keeps trying to engage Crest, and he won’t respond. Not one word. That’s not natural. Most people in that situation would have tried to calm her down, reason with her, persuade her not to shoot. But Crest just sits there, not saying a word. And he never moves his hands away from his face.”

“Well, when you put it that way . . .” As Matt watched more of the video, he began nodding his head. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s as if he doesn’t want to be—”

“Recognized!” I finished for him. “Now why would that be?”

“Off the top of my head? He’s married with children, and using the app to serially cheat.”

“Wow. You came up with that in record time. Having a flashback?”

“Please. Let’s not revisit ancient marital history.”

“Fine . . .” I took a breath. “And you’re right. Using dating apps to cheat isn’t exactly uncommon in the swipe-to-meat market. Or maybe there’s something else going on here.”

“Like what?”

Tinker-Tinker.

I frowned at my ex. “I thought you said you were ordering an Uber?”

“I was, but the Cinder app never sleeps . . .” As his voice trailed off, he began typing a reply to the Glass Slipper message. Seconds later, he gave me a sheepish shrug. “Looks like I won’t be going home alone after all. One of my earlier dates had second thoughts.”

“Seriously, Matt, after what you witnessed tonight, I’m surprised at your judgment—or lack thereof.”

“I told you already, I’m not Richard Crest. I don’t mistreat women.”

“That’s not the point. You don’t know these women.”

“That’s what the app is for, Clare, to get to know them.”

“You mean in the biblical sense?”

“You trust my mother’s judgment, don’t you? She’s probably having a wonderful evening with that Silver Fox date of hers.”

“A man whose name you can’t even tell me.” I pointed at his phone. “And who is this Cinder-ella that contacted you? You said she had ‘second thoughts.’ What does that mean?”

“Remember the little blonde who said I reminded her of her father? Well, she texted me that she kept thinking about our conversation—even during her other dates tonight—and she wanted to see me again.” The Tinkerbell noise sounded. “That’s her. She’s rolling up now. Gotta go!”

Shaking my head, I pulled out my ring of keys. Against my own better judgment, I unlocked the door and once again set my ex-husband free in the concrete jungle of love.

A minute later, I watched him climb into an old-fashioned yellow cab with his smiling Cinder-ella giddily sliding over as he slipped into the backseat.

The petite blonde had a Millennial Marilyn Monroe thing going, complete with platinum glamour curls, false eyelashes, beauty mark, tight sweater, and (to trend-ify the whole look) rhinestone cat glasses.

With a mighty exhale, I locked the front door and set the security alarm. This night was awful, and I was glad it was over. But I wasn’t ready for bed. I was agitated, wide awake, and getting my appetite back . . .

Just then, I noticed a long-stemmed rosebud on the espresso bar. The red petals were closed, the edges slightly wilted, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out. That’s when I remembered.

Matt brought this flower . . .

He obviously left it behind.

Inhaling the floral aroma, I filled one of our glass latte mugs with warm water. Taking care to avoid the thorns, I placed the thirsty stem inside—and found myself wishing Matt had stayed behind, too, just a little while longer.

He could have joined me for a bite to eat, helped me figure out how to deal with this disastrous publicity, and (okay, I admit) kept loneliness at bay.

My fiancé, who usually worked out of the nearby Sixth Precinct (where he supervised the OD Squad), had been putting in long hours on some special project at One Police Plaza.

Mike planned to crash at his East Village apartment late tonight, but I expected to hear from him soon—especially in light of our viral-video shooting.

With that thought, I pulled out my smartphone, turned it back on, and searched for any new messages from the man my body and soul still ached for.

There were three unread texts—all old ones from Nancy.

My heart sank a little until I saw the “urgent” new voice mail waiting for me. Unfortunately, the message wasn’t from Mike Quinn. The caller ID read PIER 66 MARITIME, a popular watering hole on the Hudson River.

Who would leave me a voice mail from a bar phone?

Curiosity piqued, I hit play—

“It’s me, dear,” cooed my octogenarian employer. “Please don’t tell my son about this. You know how Matteo tends to overreact. That’s why I’m contacting you. I hate to admit it, but . . . I’m in a pickle!”