by Cleo Coyle
“Are you a registered member of SinglesNYC? If you are, there’s a thirty percent discount to hear Trent and Granger,” said a perky young woman wearing muddy brown lipstick and a short matching dress with a neckline even lower than the one I’d worn for Bruce.
“No,” said Matteo. “We’re not registered members.”
“Yes, actually,” I admitted.
Matteo looked at me in stunned surprise. “You have been busy while I was away.”
I ignored Matteo and gave the woman my e-mail address and she cross-checked it on a laptop. I felt like grabbing the computer and fleeing into the night, certain that all the information I needed was imprinted inside of that little machine’s drive. But nothing in life is that easy, and I’d probably get caught halfway down the block with the heels I was wearing.
“Clare Cosi? Welcome to ‘Pull the Plug: Freeing Yourself from the Mouse,’” she said, handing me a brochure. “That will be forty dollars.”
I sighed.
Here I stood in the hallways of the New School, a haven for academics and literati since World War I, the 1930s East Coast nexus for intellectuals and scientists fleeing the Nazis. Within this school’s sphere, luminaries such as William Styron, Edward Albee, Robert Frost, Arthur Miller, and Joyce Carol Oates had taught or lectured, along with cranky, controversial iconoclasts like psychologist Wilhelm Reich and psychedelic guru Timothy Leary.
And what amazing lecture was I about to hear? “Trent” and “Granger” talking about how to pick up the opposite sex without the crutch of a Web site.
I paid cash.
Low-neckline Girl turned to Matteo and asked if he wanted to register as well. My ex didn’t answer immediately—the woman’s cleavage and full lips had momentarily distracted him.
Luckily, my elbow to his ribs solved this dilemma.
The auditorium was large enough for a thousand people, but less than two hundred were crowded together in the first ten or twelve rows, over two-thirds of them female. Almost all the audience members looked to be over thirty and under fifty.
As we found seats close to the stage, Matteo complained incessantly that he had to pay sixty dollars to gain admission.
“You could feed a Kenyan family for six months on sixty bucks.”
“Hush and you might learn something.”
He shot me a look that said “I doubt it,” but he shut up for the moment.
On stage was a tall man with dark, floppy, Hugh Grant hair and thin lips. He wore a tight black shirt, open at the neck, black slacks, and a charcoal gray Italian silk jacket. He moved with confidence, and as he spoke he drifted back and forth across the stage, addressing audience members as if they were the focus of his lecture.
“So far we’ve covered the rules of engagement and how important they are,” he said into a microphone. “And how those vitally important rules get trashed in most on-line hook-ups. Now we all remember rule number one, right?”
The man next to him—shorter and a little stout, with tiny dark-rimmed glasses and a round face—hit the button on his power pointer and a phrase appeared on a large blank screen behind them. On cue, the audience read along like it was karaoke night.
“Not all of the Creator’s children are beautiful,” the audience chanted.
“And rule number two?” Matteo whispered. “These guys are total grifters.”
“So how do you know if they’re hot or not,” continued the man on stage, “if you don’t meet them in the flesh? Is she a Monica or a Hillary? Is he Prince Andrew or Homer Simpson? The dirty little secret is that you’ll never know if you meet them in a chat room. But you will know if you meet them in the flesh.”
He emphasized the last words with what he thought was an erotic thrust of his pelvis—but this guy was no Elvis. Beside me, Matteo let out a disgusted sigh.
“That’s why I’m here. My name’s Trent. And this money dude right next to me is Granger. Granger and I have sacrificed our Saturday night to provide you with a guaranteed map through the minefield of real-time, face-to-face hook-ups.”
Trent stepped closer to the edge of the stage and lowered his voice an octave.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we call it dating without the Net—it’s real, it’s risky, but the rewards are well worth the hassles. I’m asking you to try, at least for a little while, pulling the plug on that computer. Douse that mouse. Be the player with all the right cards in your hand and you’ll come up a winner every time—and find a better love life than you ever dreamed possible.”
“I can’t believe this,” Matteo complained in my ear. “They’re teaching supposedly urbane, sophisticated, well-educated New Yorkers how to hook up with the opposite sex? Some of us figured that one out in high school.”
“You figured it out in the sixth grade,” I whispered.
Matteo frowned. “I told you about Maggie?”
A thirty-something woman in the row in front of us turned, and I’m pretty sure she intended to shush us. But when she laid eyes on my ex, her resolve seemed to weaken—as well as her knees. She glanced flirtatiously at Matt, then gave me a nasty look.
“He’s all yours, honey,” I murmured.
Matt glanced at me, and we both laughed.
“In the next hour, we’re going to look at the right places to find a perfect match,” purred Trent. “It’s like The Donald says—location, location, location—and you’d be amazed at how many people get it wrong.
“Are you looking for a disco diva? Don’t try to score at the Natural History Museum. Got a clandestine office romance going? Don’t take her to the boss’s country club for dinner. Looking for hot, delicious, no-commitment sex? Don’t cruise church groups! Remember rule number seven.”
Granger activated the power pointer and the audience chanted along.
“When looking for a love location, destination is destiny.”
“I’m going to puke,” Matteo groaned in my ear.
“Just don’t do it on me,” I warned him.
“We’re going to take a twenty-minute break before part two of this seminar begins,” Trent announced. “Don’t forget to take a brochure, and I suggest all you latecomers chat up a few of the early birds to catch up on what you missed—and you might even make a connection…”
The stage went dark and the audience rose and stretched, murmuring among themselves.
“Let’s go,” said Matt, grabbing my hand. He practically dragged me down the aisle, rudely pushing his way through the crowd as we moved against the flow of traffic. I apologized to the folks my ex shoved aside, until the way to the stage was finally clear.
“Matt, what’s gotten into you?”
Matteo’s face was set in harsh lines as he surged forward.
“Quiet,” he said. “Just getting into character.”
One of the stage hands moved to block our path, but he was just a slender college kid with a backward baseball cap. Matteo pushed right past him and charged onto the stage. Trent and Granger were sitting there, fiddling with the power pointer. Matt walked right up to them and roared in a suitably angry and combative voice.
“My underage daughter registered with your site and has dated a number of middle-aged men. Some of her friends did the same thing. She’s just a teenager! She’s in junior high for God’s sake! I want to know the names of the men she and her friends have gone out with or I’m going to the police.”
Granger shrank back fearfully as Matteo’s tanned and muscular form stood over him, fists clenched, a vein throbbing in his temple.
Trent, on the other hand, remained cool. I watched him glance out at the auditorium, where heads turned and necks craned to hear more.
Frankly, I had to hand it to Trent. Matteo was always a pretty intimidating presence, but when he was angry, he was a force of nature—a lot of men would have become sniveling idiots in the face of Matt’s fury, calling for security or running. But Trent didn’t.
He faced Matteo and, with a forced smile, gamely tried to handle him, and the situation, p
rofessionally. “Listen, calm down, Mr.—?”
“Allegro.”
“Mr. Allegro, this isn’t the time or place. Come to my office Monday and—”
“My daughter and her friends are out on dates right now. By Monday I’ll have you arrested for facilitating the corruption of a minor!” yelled Matteo.
More heads turned. People who had started wandering toward the auditorium’s exit doors for a smoke or restroom break suddenly decided to loiter in the aisle, eavesdropping.
“Come with me,” said Trent, leading Matteo and me to a small waiting room behind the stage. On his way out, Trent ordered Granger to fetch one of the laptops from the registration desk.
Pay dirt!
We sat down in steel folding chairs while Trent apologized repeatedly.
“We’ve never had this happen before,” he said. “We’re proud of our screening process and will cooperate with you and your wife in any way we can.”
Granger arrived with Low-neckline Girl in tow. She carried the black laptop like a serving tray. I tried not to remember Torquemada’s offerings.
“Our entire database can be accessed by this wireless remote system,” Trent began. He keyed in a password and looked up at Matteo.
“So what do you need to know?”
Matt gestured to me. “My wife will tell you.”
“Let’s start with my daughter’s best friend, Valerie Lathem,” I lied. “She was sharing names with my daughter, we understand.”
Trent typed in Valerie’s name.
“This account isn’t very active. Valerie hasn’t visited our site since October. She made a total of six dates through our registry.”
“Who?” I’d already pulled out a small notepad and had my pencil poised.
“Jack Wormser, Parnell Jefferson, Raymond Silverman, Dr. Anthony Fazio, Julio Jones, and Brooks Newman.”
Brooks Newman? I thought. That was interesting.
“Nobody named Bowman?” Matteo asked.
Trent shook his head.
Of course, Bruce wasn’t going to be there—I knew that. Valerie had met Bruce through her job, not through this site.
“Our daughter’s other friend is Inga Berg,” I quickly continued.
Trent’s fingers flew across the keyboard.
“Ms. Berg has been busy…very busy. There are dozens of dates here since August.” He looked up at Matt. “Here’s the name you mentioned, though: Bowman. Bruce Bowman of Leroy Street in the Village. He definitely dated Inga.”
“We’re looking for the names of the men she last—uh, most recently dated,” I said. “The last two weeks you have on file for her should do.”
“Inga’s account hasn’t been active lately, either. Her latest hook-ups were Bowman, and also Eric Snyder, Ivan Petravich, Gerome Walker, Raj Vaswani, and Brooks Newman.”
I blinked. Brooks Newman. Mr. No Way. Mr. Three Days Vegan. Mr. Meat No More Lingerie Show. Mr. Serial Seducer with a Peter Pan Syndrome.
Yes, I could believe he was a serial killer of women, too.
Newman’s attitude toward the opposite sex was close to misogyny—although if you asked him, Brooks would probably proclaim that he absolutely adored women, for their bodies, anyway.
“Mr. Newman is one of the men who’s been leaving messages for our daughter,” I lied. “Any other hook-ups on file for him?”
Trent glanced at the screen.
“Nothing in the last ten days…guess he’s been busy at work. But Mr. Newman has put two client profiles in his personal basket—that’s a cyber space for members to store the profiles of people they are interested in hooking up with in the future.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“Ms. Sahara McNeil, and Ms. Joy Allegro, that’s your daughter, right?”
The confirmation that Brooks had put Sahara in his basket was less of an impact on me than the mention of my daughter’s name. I closed my eyes. “Oh, my god, Joy!”
Suddenly, a number of unconnected facts linked up in my brain to form a blood-red flag. It waved in front of me now in dire warning.
“Come with me!” I cried, grabbing Matteo’s hand.
“But—”
“Come on!”
Matteo got up, leaving Granger and Trent totally confused.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Trent demanded.
“You’ll…you’ll hear from our lawyer,” Matteo cried, still in character, as I dragged him away.
I practically ran down the aisle, past the registration desk, and outside. Matteo hurried to catch up to me.
“Clare, what’s the matter?”
I ran down the block, until I reached the boarded-up building.
“Oh god,” I cried when I looked again at the Meat No More poster.
“Clare, talk to me!” Matt demanded.
“It’s Brooks Newman!” I cried. “He’s the one who’s been killing these women. I’m sure of it now. He dated Valerie, he dated Inga, and he’d obviously hooked up with Sahara at Cappuccino Connection night—her on-line profile in his web basket just confirms his interest in her…And now he’s after Joy.”
“Don’t worry,” said Matteo. “He’ll never get near our daughter.”
“She’s with him right now!”
“What?”
“The poster.” I slapped the board. “This is advertising the Meat No More Lingerie Show, it’s at the Puck Building tonight—it’s starting right now!”
“So?”
“So Joy told me she’s catering a vegetarian party at the Puck Building tonight. This is it, Matt. She’s there. Our daughter is with Brooks Newman right now!”
TWENTY-TWO
“HI! You’ve reached Joy Allegro. I can’t pick up my cell right now. I’m either in class or trying to keep a French sauce from separating. Either way, leave a message!”
Sitting next to Matt in the back of the cab, I exhaled in frustration. Waited for the beep.
“Joy, this is Mom, call my cell the second you get this message. I don’t want to alarm you, but I want you to make sure you stay away from Brooks Newman. If he should bother you in any way, go to your teacher at once. Don’t get caught alone anywhere, stay with your teacher. Be careful and just wait at the Puck Building for me and your dad. We’re coming to pick you up and make sure you get home okay. I’m not kidding, Joy. Call me as soon as you get this message and I’ll try to—”
Beep!
“Shit!”
“Take it easy, Clare, it won’t help Joy to go bananas. Keep a cool head.”
“I know. Okay. I’ll try.”
I hated this feeling, and it wasn’t just the fact that Brooks Newman had killed at least three women and had targeted Joy, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Joy was in danger. Call it a mother’s intuition, but this nagging dark feeling that my daughter needed me had been running through me since we’d entered the New School auditorium.
I tried Joy’s apartment, but I’d just gotten her home machine. Not even her roommate was around tonight to answer.
“Try the coffeehouse,” suggested Matt.
The phone picked up after five rings.
“Village Blend. Hello.” It was Esther Best’s voice.
“Esther, this is Clare—”
“It’s Clare!” called Esther, obviously yelling it to someone nearby.
“Esther!” I yelled. “Esther!”
A second later, Esther came back on. “Are you coming back anytime tonight? That’s what Tucker wants to know. It’s pretty busy here.”
“Esther, listen to me, you two will have to hold down the fort a little longer, okay? I’m calling because I need to find Joy as soon as possible. It’s an emergency.”
“Oh, wow. Well, she’s not here. She was. But she left with some guy.”
“What guy?”
“He was an NYU student. Hot, too. Had short blonde hair and a goatee. I actually think I’ve seen him around school. Buffed dude with combat pants and a peacoat. She said he saved her life on Seventh Avenue South.”
“What! What do you mean he saved Joy’s life?”
“What!” cried Matt beside me. “Clare, what’s going on?”
“Shhhh! Stay calm,” I told my ex-husband. “Esther, what happened?”
“Oh, Joy said there was this big drunken crowd in front of a bar on Seventh Avenue and she got shoved off the curb in front of an oncoming bus.”
“Jesus.” I closed my eyes.
“She’s okay, though,” Esther continued, “because this NYU guy sort of flirted with her for a second before it happened, so he was watching her when she went over the curb. He lunged forward and grabbed her by the hood of her new coat. Nice coat, too. That hood and that dude really saved her life. But she was pretty freaked out about it, so he brought her back here, and she told me and Tucker about it. Then they had some coffee and were laughing, and then she said the guy was gonna make sure she got to the Puck Building for her catering thing okay, and they left. That’s all I know.”
I nodded, my eyes meeting Matteo’s. I put my hand over the cell’s mouthpiece.
“It’s okay. Joy’s okay. Some boy escorted her to the Puck Building.”
“What boy?” Matt’s jaw clenched.
“A nice college kid, according to Esther. Take it easy.”
But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward, poked his head through the plastic partition in the cab, and yelled, “Get this damn cab moving faster. Now!”
The cabbie threw a disgusted look over his shoulder at Matt, muttered something in Russian, then returned his attention to the road, without increasing his leisurely speed one iota.
I sighed. Sometimes Matt didn’t act like he remembered a thing about living in New York City.
“There’s an extra ten in it for you,” I called sweetly.
The cabbie immediately put the pedal to the metal. As we zoomed down Broadway, I punched a stored number on my speed dial.
“Who are you calling now?” asked Matt.
“Mike Quinn’s cell.” But he didn’t answer. I got his voice mail. “Mike, this is Clare,” I said the second I heard the beep. “Meet me as soon as you possibly can at the Puck Building. It’s an emergency. I’m certain I’ve found the killer of Valerie Lathem, Inga Berg, and Sahara McNeil, and right now I’m worried he’s after Joy—”