Thirty-nine

AS the detectives headed for the spiral staircase, I automatically stood up to bus the table—then sat back down.

The facts the detectives revealed were “just facts” in conversation. Now that the conversation was over, those facts became anchors, depressing enough to sink my spirit.

Haley Hartford’s last moments on Earth were horrific. Someone had bashed that poor girl in the head hard enough to cause fatal brain damage. Because I discovered her body, I knew it didn’t end there. While she lay dying, the killer coolly emptied her pockets, and then hefted her into the Hudson, full backpack kept in place with the likely hope it would drag her into oblivion, leaving her loved ones forever tortured by unanswerable questions.

This person—this murderer—was a monster.

The detectives knew it. I could see it in their impatient glances. And I didn’t doubt their determination to catch this cold-blooded killer. They could hardly wait to set their riverside trap.

The only trouble was—I still believed they were setting it in the wrong place, and for the wrong person.

“Hey, boss?”

I looked up to find Esther Best staring at me from across the lounge, still pretending to clean a perfectly clean tabletop.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re right.”

I leaned back. “You were eavesdropping?”

“No, I was just—”

“It’s okay.” I waved her over. “I’d like another perspective. Tell me what you think.”

She shrugged. “I think the detectives mean well, but their theory makes no sense to me.”

“Why didn’t you speak up?”

“Because you already said everything I was thinking.” Standing beside me now, she lowered her voice. “Look, when you first sent out those photos of Haley in the river, I was really upset—”

“I’m sorry, Esther. I wasn’t trying to upset anyone. I was hoping someone could help identify—”

“Hold on! I know why you sent them. I would have done the same thing. I was upset because I knew Haley—as a customer, I mean . . .”

I gestured for her to join me at the cluttered table. When her Rubenesque hips were settled in, I started my own interview.

“Tell me what you remember about her.”

“Nothing that could have helped the detectives. I didn’t even know her real name. I used to greet her as Heart Girl because of the tattoo on her cheek. That’s mainly what we talked about—tattoos. And coffee, of course. She loved our coffee. And she did not strike me as stupid.”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard Soles and Bass. They said on the day Haley was killed, she was holed up in her apartment, working on a new app. They described her as a workaholic with no social life. So why did she stop working to download five viral videos of the same incident, within hours of it happening, put them all on a memory stick, and take them to Hudson River Park—alone, at night?”

“It’s baffling. I agree.”

“The other thing that bothers me is the fake ID stunt this Crest creep pulled. I mean, catfishing is fairly common—you know, creating a false online identity. Crest may have even Photoshopped himself into some of those resort pictures. But why go to the trouble of creating fake IDs? Who does that?”

“A criminal might.”

Esther nodded. “That’s why I think you’re right about Crest. He reeks of bottom-feeding. The guy’s guilty of something.”

“Soles and Bass agree. But they don’t believe he killed Haley, and they think his fake IDs are small potatoes. They’re throwing all of their energy into proving the mugging theory with that sting operation in the park.”

“So why don’t we conduct our own sting? A coffeehouse sting?”

“That’s a thought.” I leaned forward. “How would we do it?”

“Have Dante sketch Crest, like you suggested he do for the cops. We scan it and send it to the phones of everyone on staff.”

“Like a Barista APB?”

“Exactly! The moment Crest walks into the Village Blend, he’s made. We call the Fish Squad, and the lady cops reel in the creepy catfish on the fake ID charge.”

I thought it over. “It’s a good plan. But how do we even know Crest is still swiping?”

“Oh, he’s still swiping!” Esther waved her hands. “This guy is a textbook addict. I’m sure of it.”

“How can you be?”

“Behavioral science. One of my professors cited a case study. Ever heard of Hookster?”

“You mean streetwalkers? Ladies of the evening?”

“No, not hookers—Hookster. It was one of the early swipe-to-meet dating game apps. A couple of frat boys brainstormed the idea over spring break in Florida . . .”

I reflexively recoiled. But I steeled myself just the same. Dating app culture was part of the urban fabric. It had affected my business—first positively, now negatively. It was time I learned more about it.

“Go on,” I told Esther.

She did, describing how the Hookster app marketed itself to college guys as having the “hottest” women. But the app was shut down when attorneys representing a group of users brought a multimillion-dollar class action suit against the app’s owners, charging fraud.

“The app’s software pushed profiles of real women to the bottom of the pile,” she explained. “At the top, where users swiped first, the app was packed with fake profiles of girls in bikinis.”

I shook my head in astonishment. “Where did they get all these photos for profiles?”

“Young women, lots of them. They were happy to be paid flat fees and sign legal releases. So anyway, these bikini photos were programmed to come up first on the app, and if a young man opted to ‘chat’ with one of the fake profiles, he would be connected to a paid operator at Hookster’s offices.”

“But how could they get rich from that? Aren’t these dating apps free to use?”

“To a point. On Hookster, three free messages to the girl were allowed before the app put up a paywall. So a user would have to pay premium dollars, which he gladly did to stay connected with some babe who said she was hot for him.”

“It sounds like one of those old 1-900 phone sex lines.”

“Exactly, but posing as a legit dating app. It worked, too. The Hookster creators spun off ancillary products and sold native advertising to sponsors. They became millionaires.”

“But, Esther, what happened when one of these young men wanted to meet with the fake girl?”

“That’s the beauty of it. Most of them didn’t want to meet.”

“I don’t understand. Isn’t that the whole point of a swipe-to-meet dating game app?”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you? But swiping is an end in itself for a lot of users—like looking through a catalog of cool things you might want to buy someday. It’s aspirational to look. And then there’s the chatting, which fulfills the Skinner box need for affirmation pellets.”

“Affirmation of what?”

“That you’re attractive, wanted, liked. Some women say they use dating apps daily because they like the attention from random guys—compliments, come-ons. It’s a boost to the ego. Some men say they get off on the flirting or sexting. And that interaction, that ‘feeling’ of romantic connection through app chatting is satisfying.”

“You make it sound like a drug.”

“It certainly acts like a drug. You get a high that you want to feel again and again—which also makes it addictive. The Hookster app banked on that. They pocketed plenty of dead presidents from users looking for pretend girlfriends.”

“And if one of them insisted on meeting?”

“Apparently, plenty of meetings were planned but never happened. The girl would always be canceling at the last minute for some reason. Meanwhile, guys could send endless obscene phone shots of their junk, without ever getting into trouble.”

Good Lord. “Not exactly Austenland, is it?”

“More like Moby Dicks.”

“Or mobile ones . . .” I thought over Esther’s story. “Is that why you were so hostile to the Cinder staff? You don’t think they’re legit?”

“That’s not it. Cinder is nothing like Hookster. Sydney’s app is creating legit matches. But that doesn’t mean they’re clean as new snow. I’m sure they’re using algorithms to rate users and push up the more ‘appealing’ ones—in their opinion—and push down the children of lesser Greek gods. That’s what really pisses me off: the invisible techno-Darwinism that’s going on.”

“So you don’t trust them?”

“I don’t.” She pushed up her black-framed glasses. “And I don’t think you should, either—or allow them to take over the ‘narrative’ for our Village Blend.”

That comment brought to mind Esther’s earlier crack to Sydney about doing “much more” on Saturday night.

“So what’s your narrative?” I asked. “What are you planning to spring on the prepaid Cinder crowd?”

“Planning?”

“I mothered a teenage daughter, Esther. Don’t waste your clueless puppy-dog eyes on me. I know you’re preparing some stunt for tomorrow.”

“Stunt?”

Folding my arms, I gave her my super-serious boss stare.

“Okay, okay.” Esther put up her hands. “Don’t Deadeye Dick me . . .”

And with that obscure literary reference, my resident slam poetess explained her own action plan—the Esther Best Op—and her reason for staging it.

I was fine with it. More than fine. I thought her plan was brilliant.

“You have my blessing,” I told her. “And you’re right. Sydney may be ‘taking control of the story.’ But this is still our coffeehouse.”

“Oh, thank you, boss! I just know it won’t suck!”

Rising from my chair, I almost laughed. Almost. But the memory of Carol Lynn Kendall’s arrest, Haley’s cold corpse, and Tucker’s resignation kept my chuckles at bay.

Esther gestured to the clutter before us. “I’ll bus your sticky-bun-bribery table. You should head downstairs, because we might get a new customer, and Dante is otherwise engaged.”

“AJ is still here?”

“She and Dante obviously made a love connection. And they didn’t even swipe to meet. Imagine that!”

As I headed for the stairs, I was imagining a few other things, too, mainly questions about Haley’s work for Cinder. There were still plenty of missing pieces in this fishy puzzle. Maybe AJ could float a few into place.