Seventy-eight

“JOAN?”

Either Franco was genuinely puzzled, or he had acting chops the equal of Tucker Burton’s. At this point, I opted for the latter. He was an undercover cop, after all. Deception was his business.

“Yes, Joan!” I shot back. “The woman you’re seeing when you’re lying to Joy about being at work. The woman you’re upscale dressing for, the one who’s showering you with expensive man products and writing cute little notes. Don’t play innocent, Franco. You know what you’re doing!”

“Me?!”

Franco lunged for his smartphone. He reached so fast into his pants pocket that he smacked his elbow on the door handle. Cursing like the marine he used to be, he thumbed the device.

“What about this?!” He displayed the Cinder profile for Kara C—my bikini shot, of course.

“Mike’s a great guy, Clare,” Franco said in a tone of wounded indignation. “Why are you two-timing him? Bad enough his first wife did it. I never expected that sort of behavior from you.”

“Me?!” I sputtered—then noticed movement on the street in front of the warehouse.

“Quiet!” I hissed. “Marilyn’s here.”

In simmering silence, we watched the platinum blonde bombshell climb out of an Uber car and hurry through the open gate. (Matt had left it unlocked for his guest, and the police backup.) Head down, umbrella rippling in the wind, Marilyn tottered across the puddled parking lot in knee-length dominatrix boots.

Matt held the door open and she raced inside.

“Truce,” I said. “We’ll talk this out later. Right now I need to bring you up to speed.”

I did. It took a solid ten minutes, time enough for Matt and Marilyn to settle in. Despite our tension, the cop in Franco was intrigued, and he was willing to stand as a witness to a possible criminal confession.

“You’re lucky this is New York,” he said, sharing my thermos of Wide Awake. “This is a one-party consent state, and your ex has given his consent. And that’s not your ex-husband’s bedroom per se—it’s a common room in a warehouse that just happens to have an Italian leather sofa and table setting that looks like he’s dining at Eleven Madison Park.”

I held back from asking “Fast-Food Franco” how he knew about Eleven Madison Park, where a dinner for two with drinks and wine could cost more than he earned in a week. Likely, it was “Joan” who footed the bill and played footsie with the young sergeant over dessert!

“In the end,” Franco concluded, “I wouldn’t expect this to be admissible in court—”

“I don’t care about court,” I said. “I care about the truth. And the police can certainly use a confession, or any information this woman might provide, as grounds for a further—and perfectly legal—investigation.”

“Right,” Franco said with a nod. He sat in silence for a moment, staring at the computer screen. Suddenly, he grinned. “I wish I had a bag of popcorn for this. I know Allegro’s got a reputation as a ladies’ man. Let’s see how good he is at romantic interrogation . . .”

Matt was quite good, as it turned out—despite one harrowing moment. They were on their third glass of bubbly when Marilyn said, “Let’s get really crazy.”

She reached into her purse, and what she pulled out absolutely terrified me.

“It’s called Styx,” she said, “because it comes in these little straws . . .”

“More Styx,” Franco murmured. “I feel like I never left work. I’ve been on the trail of this stuff for weeks.”

“They’re usually colored,” Marilyn went on, “but this time the straw is clear, so you can see the pretty white powder . . .”

I tensed as she waved the cylinders under my ex-husband’s ex-addict nose. Oh, God, Matt, please don’t!

“Want a taste? It makes loving better. It makes everything better.”

Matt reached out, and my heart stopped. Then he closed his fist around Marilyn’s hand and guided it and the drugs back into her purse.

“Not interested,” he said. “It’s one road I avoid now, and you should, too.”

My body sagged with relief. Good for you, Matt. Good for you . . .

“You’re unadventurous for an adventurer,” Marilyn chided.

“How about a nice gin cocktail instead?” Matt countered. “I’ve got Bombay Sapphire. It has a beautiful coriander finish.”

Marilyn shook her head. “More champagne,” she insisted.

They toasted two more times. Matt didn’t even bring up the subject of murder until they’d finished most of the bottle. He started casually, telling her how he discovered the identity of the man in the viral video.

“Clare tells me you dated him.”

“I dated lots of guys,” Marilyn replied, looking more tipsy than guilty. “After small-town boys, New York was like a buffet. And I’m a girl who loves to eat.”

“Not everyone is as sophisticated as you,” Matt said. “A couple of bad dates, and that girl in the viral video snapped.”

“She’s crazy. She needs help. And she’ll finally get it, now that the cops have arrested her for killing that asshole who abused her.”

Matt nodded. “A little bird told me the police are looking for an accomplice in that crime. A guy with a red beard named Doug.”

Marilyn didn’t vacillate. “You mean my ex-boyfriend, the stalker?”

I glanced excitedly at Franco. Bingo!

Marilyn opened up, telling Matt how she and Doug Farthing had been a couple since middle school and moved to New York together from their small town outside of Lima, Ohio. Her college journalism work and flamboyant blog landed Marilyn a prime position at PopCravings.com. Doug Farthing didn’t fare so well.

“He dropped out of college and mostly bummed around. With no degree or résumé, the best he could do was a super’s job and a windowless apartment in a basement. That wasn’t for me. So I broke things off.”

“You called him a stalker?” Matt said.

“He shows up everywhere I go, won’t accept that we’re different people now and need to go our separate ways. That’s why I wanted to leave the party at your coffeehouse the other night. Doug was there and it made me feel squirmy. Anyway, the whole thing was a bore.”

“Maybe you should get a restraining order against your ex.”

Marilyn shook her head. “I talked things over with him Sunday night. He’s feeling more optimistic about the future. He came into money and says he’s getting a better job. He’s doing so well that he bought my half of our shared SUV—the one we drove out here from Ohio. I gave him the key Sunday, too, and that’s the last time I’ll have to see that loser, unless I want more Styx, of course . . .”

Again, I glanced at Franco, this time with disappointment. The “key” I watched Marilyn give to her ex-boyfriend was not the key to Carol Lynn’s apartment. It was a key to that stupid red SUV—the one that almost ran me down a few yards away from this spot.

Now I realized what Red Beard had been doing that evening outside Matt’s warehouse. He wasn’t spying on me. He was stalking his ex-girlfriend—or maybe, in his mind, he was trying to “protect” her. Matt had made a date with Marilyn for dinner, but she’d canceled at the last minute. I’d shown up instead; and when I walked toward him, he sped away without looking back.

In the chilly van, Franco noticed my distracted look. “Pay attention, Clare. If this Doug Farthing is selling Styx, there’s still something worth listening to . . .”

With Marilyn’s next words, I realized Franco was right. She may not have killed Robert Crenshaw (aka Richard Crest), but she had a strong lead to offer in the case.

“So tell me,” Marilyn pressed, “is my ex in hot water? If he is, I should warn him—because I’m pretty sure he took a bribe to set that girl up.”

Matt played dumb. “What girl?”

“The viral video girl who the cops think shot Richard Crest. Like I said, she was obviously unstable, and it’s good that she’s off the street. But she didn’t kill Crest. I’m pretty sure she was framed.”

“By who? Who did kill Crest?”

Marilyn curled her legs under her and held up her glass for a refill.

“Doug’s new boss. Doug keeps talking about how he’s getting in on a good thing, the ground floor of something big. He just had to do this ‘special favor’ for this new boss. As the building super, he was in a ‘unique position’ to do it. In exchange, Doug is getting some high-paying digital gig, which is supposed to impress me, I guess. But I think it’s a crock—”

“Why?”

“Doug has no experience. He can barely work his smartphone. It’s more like a payoff for the frame job he did on that crazy girl.”

“And you believe him?”

She shrugged. “He said all he had to do was give a simple false statement to the cops about her, break his building’s back door camera to make sure they couldn’t catch him in the fib, and pick up a coffee cup with her prints on it, you know, after she threw it away. Small stuff for a giant paycheck and shiny new job.”

“So who is this mystery boss?” Matt finally asked. Franco and I leaned close to hear the answer.

“I don’t know. Doug never said a name. The boss pays in cash, though. Doug is big on tax evasion, so he sees that as a plus. His boss pays with other things, too—like the Styx.”

“How nice,” Matt deadpanned.

“It’s all good,” Marilyn said, nodding. “That creep Crest is dead, which makes me happy. Crazy Girl goes to the psych ward for therapy, and Doug gets out of my hair. Win-win! Just like you and me.”

“Right,” Matt said. He was facing the camera and not Marilyn. When I saw his look of disgust, I knew he and Marilyn were history.

He shook the champagne bottle.

“It’s nearly empty. Let me get another and we can talk some more—”

“Don’t you have something stronger?” Marilyn asked. “I told you I want to get crazy tonight.”

“I have that gin—or how about tequila?”

Marilyn shook her head. “If that’s all you’ve got, then just bring another bottle of the champagne.”

As soon as Matt left the man cave, Marilyn lunged for her purse, took out two cylinders of Styx, and poured one in each of their glasses.

“No!” I shouted and turned to Franco. “I can’t warn Matt! He’s muted his phone, so there’s no way I can call him!”

Franco let out a string of curses as he reached for his rain slicker.

On-screen, Marilyn added the rest of the champagne bottle to their glasses and stirred them with a manicured finger.

Franco popped the door and stepped into the rain. “Get in there and stop them, if you can!”

“Where are you going?”

“To my car.”

“What for?”

“Hercules!”

Franco was halfway to the gate before I jumped out of the van. As I fumbled through my purse for the warehouse key, I heard Marilyn welcome Matt back to his man cave.

“Before you pop that, let’s finish the old bottle. Waste not, want not.” Marilyn laughed.

“Sounds good,” Matt replied. “Bottoms up!”