Fifty-three

SINCE we only had time for one more cup of coffee together, I decided to make it count and use the East Timor beans Matt sent home with me last night.

“Tell me something,” I called as I searched the next room for my handbag. “Is our mugger from the park going to be part of your presentation?”

Mike laughed at the “our mugger” phrasing, but confirmed he was indeed part of the presentation. “The information he gave us cracked the online codes that the Styx dealers are using to sell their product in the New York area . . .”

I remembered Matt’s warning not to say anything about liking “candy” in my Cinder profile. According to Mike, Styx had its own peculiar hashtag codes, which included liking #rainbows or listing #RainbowParty or #Like2BChill among other codes.

“Now we’re following the money,” Mike went on. “Using those codes to connect with dealers, we’re building a case against a big fish for distribution—though we still have a long way to go on stopping the manufacturing and international trafficking.”

“I guess following the money is never a bad strategy.”

“It worked in this case. The payments we’re tracking are all being processed the same way—and providing the very best bread crumbs to the big cheese . . .”

“Big cheese? Is that the official term?”

Mike laughed. “I thought you’d appreciate the foodie reference.”

The money reference, as it turned out, was the one I appreciated more as I opened the bag my ex-husband had handed me last evening.

Inside, I found a sealed package of East Timor beans, which I expected. But there was something else in there, something Matt forgot to mention: a small, sealed envelope with “Clare” scrawled on it and a yellow Post-it note in his handwriting—

My day crew guys found something U wanted from the laundry? DK??

DK likely meant that Matt didn’t know what was inside the envelope. I quickly opened it to find out—and shouted with glee!

“Clare? What is it?”

“A bank withdrawal receipt!” I waved it in the air. “I left it in my apron pocket and thought it was gone for good.”

“Is it yours?”

I shook my head.

“Then who does it belong to?”

“That’s what I’d like you to find out . . .”

Over cups of the excellent East Timor, I told Mike about Soles and Bass, Richard Crest’s fake identification, and our Barista APB. (And, yes, I left out the part about posing as Kara to bait Crest—because no sane person would be happy about his romantic partner swiping a dating app for any reason.)

While Mike had no time to follow up on investigating the bank slip himself, he had a plan: “Since Soles and Bass aren’t sold on your theory, I’m bypassing them for now. Monday, I’ll put Franco on this. He’s the one who took Crest’s original statement, so he should request the warrant.”

“Wait,” I said. “You’re putting Franco on it Monday?”

“He’s off this weekend. And last I spoke with him—at our morning briefing yesterday—Franco was heading to Washington to see Joy.”

My jaw went slack as I wondered why Joy needed to “talk” with her mother when her boyfriend was visiting, a boyfriend she was mad for—at least, the last time I’d checked.

Mike finished his coffee and rose. “So, first thing Monday, I’ll send him these account numbers from London . . .” Noticing the stricken look on my face, he misjudged the reason.

“We have to go through proper channels, Clare. We can’t do it any faster, and I should also warn you that the bank may not even have this man’s real identity. Creating a bank account under a false name is not that difficult for someone who’s motivated. Locating him may take a lot more steps and a lot more time.”

Mike checked his watch again, and I kissed him good-bye. Though I wanted to keep talking about Franco and the bank withdrawal slip, this was not the time.

One thing I’d learned from loving cops: when duty called, you let them go. And this one was already heading for the door.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’ve got to run. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too. Stay safe—and call me!”