Thirty-eight

THE detectives were getting restless, and I was getting frustrated. Despite their opinion of my theory, I still felt my suspicions had merit, even if I couldn’t pull out hard evidence to back them up. “Richard Crest” (for want of his real name) stank like shark scum at low tide, and I had plenty more questions about Haley Hartford’s murder.

But the pastry was eaten, the coffee cups empty, and Sue Ellen began pushing away from our table. I feared all was lost—then Esther arrived. Balancing fresh cups of Rwandan and two more sticky buns (warmed this time), she flashed me a wink as she set down the small tray. The warm buns were fragrant with sweet yeasty goodness; the coffee rich, nutty, and enticingly aromatic from this morning’s roasting.

Note to self: give my barista a bonus!

Both detectives immediately reached for seconds. My Fish Squad was back on the hook! And I resumed my grilling . . .

“So let me get this straight,” I said with feigned incredulity. “You’re telling me that all you know about Richard Crest is what he looks like?”

Sue Ellen confessed: “We’re not even sure about that.”

“How is that possible? I thought you reviewed his dating profile?”

“We did, but the guy is devious,” Lori said. “Most of his social media photos are group shots where he’s half hidden. And he’s usually wearing sunglasses and a hat, or in a pose that obscures his facial features. He’s also big into pushing the affluent lifestyle impression. The pictures were taken on fancy boats or around expensive convertibles or at resorts—”

“That’s because he’s pitching himself to the ladies as a rich beach bum,” Sue Ellen cut in. “Translation: he wants hot bodies. All of his matches are with women who post bikini shots.”

“What about his profile photo?” I asked. “You must have been able to tell what he looked like from that!”

But the detectives shook their heads.

“It’s a typical ‘love-my-bare-chest’ dude shot taken on a beach,” Sue Ellen said, “but at a distance.”

“And with a slouchy hat and sunglasses,” Lori added. “I mean, a guy could rob banks like that.”

Sue Ellen snorted. “Don’t you remember? We busted a scumbag who did just that!”

“I remember him! He was wearing a shirt, though—”

“And he had a lot more chest hair!”

At their mention of banks, I suddenly remembered something—Richard Crest’s ten-thousand-dollar bank withdrawal slip that I’d picked up off this very floor.

The night of the Gun Girl incident, I had dropped it into my apron pocket. Then Madame phoned with her upsetting call, and I hurriedly hung up my apron and forgot about it.

Now it was too late. I didn’t bother checking the pantry. I already knew. The last batch of aprons, towels, and rags were picked up last night for laundering at Matt’s warehouse.

I quickly sent text messages to both of the guys on his day crew, but I didn’t hold out hope. That receipt was probably long gone.

As the Fish Squad continued to laugh about their old cases, I remembered one more thing: how desperate Richard Crest was to hide his features on that viral video. But he wasn’t able to hide them from me.

“I think I can solve your ID problem,” I suddenly declared to the detectives. “My barista Dante is an excellent artist—and I have a fraction of talent left over from my art school days. Together, I’m sure we can create an accurate sketch of Richard Crest, facial features and all. You could use it for an all-points bulletin.”

Lori and Sue Ellen exchanged uncomfortable glances. Then Lori put on her diplomatic hat.

“Clare, we would never use a sketch like that for an APB. You would have to sit with a police artist for it. And we’d never get that authorized because Richard Crest is not a suspect in Haley Hartford’s murder.”

Sue Ellen agreed. “The guy wouldn’t be on our radar at all, except he had a gun pointed at his head in this coffeehouse, which officially makes him the victim of a crime, not the perpetrator of one.”

Lori nodded. “Face it, there’s no evidence Crest is anything more than—”

“A scumbag,” Sue Ellen spat.

“—a cruel confidence man who is also a person of interest in a minor assault investigation, but as a victim, not a suspect.”

I quickly considered another angle. “Doesn’t the DA’s office need this man for testimony against Carol Lynn Kendall?”

“Sure, if the case were going to trial,” Sue Ellen said, “but it’s a nothing burger. Kendall’s attorney already accepted a plea deal.”

“Okay, fine.” I sat back. “Then who do you believe killed Haley?”

“We think she was the unfortunate victim of circumstance,” Lori said. “A robbery gone wrong—”

“Or an attempted sexual assault. There’s been a string of both in that area of the park.” Sue Ellen locked her gaze on mine. “Of all people, Cosi, you should know that’s a dangerous spot. You and Quinn collared a mugger there.”

“Yes,” I said, “and I agree that looks like an obvious theory. But what was Haley doing there? And with all those downloaded viral videos in her backpack, the ones starring Richard Crest?”

The two detectives glanced at each other once more; this time they practically rolled their eyes.

“What Ms. Hartford put on her memory device is immaterial—a distraction. The most likely scenario for the deadly assault against her person is obvious to us, as well as our commanding officer. And it should be to you, too.”

“A mugging gone wrong?” I assumed.

They nodded.

“Then how do you plan to solve it?”

Sue Ellen shrugged. “Standard police work. Over the next week, we’re supervising a sting, using decoys to lure any muggers operating in the area.”

“Even if we don’t find Ms. Hartford’s killer,” Lori said, “we’ll take a few perps off the street—and out of that park.”

Sue Ellen’s eyes lit up at the prospect. “If we squeeze hard enough, we might get a lead or even a confession out of one of them . . .”

Yeah, I thought, when it comes to policing, some things never change. They were Quinn’s words, and he was righter than ever.

“Can you at least share anything else you know about this Richard Crest character? What do you think he’s doing with these abusive games?”

“It’s clear enough to me,” Sue Ellen said. “He gets his kicks from screwing women and then screwing them over.”

“Then why won’t you help me stop him?”

“Because our commander wants the park cleaned up and Haley Hartford’s killer caught,” Lori said. “That’s our priority.”

Sue Ellen nodded. “Crest may be an asshole, and his bad-boy act is vile. But, so far, it’s not a crime.”

“Giving a false statement to a police officer is,” I pointed out. “And so is using a fake driver’s license.”

“You’re right,” Sue Ellen finally agreed. “And if the man walks back into your coffeehouse, give us a call. We’ll pick him up. We’ll find out his real name and run it through the system. We’ll question him—and charge him on the fake ID and false statement stunt. Otherwise . . .”

“Otherwise, he gets a pass? Walks away free and clear?”

“Sorry, Cosi, like my partner said, we have our priorities.” Sue Ellen drained her cup and rose. “Right now, our job is to find a guy who breaks heads, not hearts.”