Thirty-seven

NOTHING much surprised me anymore, not after working New York food service—and parenting a teenage daughter. But Sue Ellen’s statement knocked me back a step.

“How can a man who was assaulted in my coffeehouse, and became the star of a viral video that’s wrecking my business, not exist?”

Soles and Bass provided no answers. They simply made it clear that if I had nothing else to add to the Haley Hartford case file, they were done listening to “my half-baked theories”—as Sue Ellen so diplomatically put it.

Before I knew it, the two detectives were headed for the door. But they couldn’t leave, not yet; I had too many questions. Think, Clare, think!

I needed to lure this Fish Squad into staying, reel them in long enough for me to grill them. What I needed was bait . . .

“Before you go, Detectives, how about some fresh, hot coffee? We’re about to brew a single-origin Rwandan. Its creamy body and caramel finish pair perfectly with our Maple Pecan Sticky Buns . . .”

Sue Ellen’s long legs halted, mid-stride. Slowly, she turned. The grim cynicism in her gaze had morphed into a gluttonous gleam. Success! Unfortunately, her partner was still wavering. So I gave her a little push.

“It’s on the house.”

A few minutes later, the detectives were settling into chairs at a center table in my empty upstairs lounge. Esther delivered the promised goodies, and the women began eating and slurping with work-break contentment.

After a deep breath, I revived our interview—nothing intense, just a casual conversation over coffee . . .

“You know, it’s funny. I watched Sergeant Franco check Richard Crest’s ID the other night, and I was sure the man had a valid driver’s license. The sergeant was, too.”

“It looked like a valid license—” Lori paused to swallow. “From what Franco told us, he also had business cards with his name and the logo of a real investment firm on Wall Street—”

“Forgeries,” Sue Ellen declared, mouth still full. “Much better than the laminated crap you get at the back of a bodega in Jackson Heights, but still phony.”

I stated the obvious. “Since we know this man used the Cinder app under the name Richard Crest, can’t you check to see if Haley Hartford ever hooked up with him?”

“Slow down, Clare,” Lori said, vainly trying to clean the sweet maple-stickiness off her fingers. “Just because we don’t have Ms. Hartford’s phone doesn’t mean we haven’t already accessed and reviewed its contents.”

“You looked at her backed-up data?” I assumed.

Sue Ellen nodded. “And her Cinder activity and messages. After we got a warrant—and a cyber-forensics analyst on the case.”

“And?”

“Haley Hartford didn’t have a date with Richard Crest, because she didn’t date—not since the breakup with her boyfriend two months ago. She did have the Cinder app on her phone, but never arranged any meetings. She appeared to use it only to test functionality.”

“Haley must have communicated with someone prior to her murder. Didn’t she make a phone call or send a text? Something?”

“The girl was a workaholic,” Sue Ellen said. “She was holed up in her apartment, focused on developing a new app. There’s no social contact with anyone in the forty-eight-hour period leading up to her death, except two delivery calls to that vegetarian joint on Christopher Street.”

“She did have a few back-and-forth calls concerning the new app she was developing,” Lori mentioned. “Part of a start-up fitness business.”

“Didn’t she use any other dating apps besides Cinder?” I asked. “Maybe she and Crest hooked up through—”

Lori silenced me with a raised hand. “Sorry, Clare, let it rest. Your theory is shot to hell.”