by Nic Saint
The moment she sat down, she was up again, staring at the screen, where a picture of John—or Jan—was displayed in the upper right corner of the screen, the newscaster babbling away.
“Wait, what?” she said.
“Oh, hey, hon,” said Ansel. “What took you so long? Your class run late?”
Ansel, a spiky-haired pasty-faced youth, was snacking from a giant bag of Cheetos.
Emily pointed at the screen. “He—that’s John! But he’s not John!”
“Yeah, poor bastard. You knew him then, did you?”
“I was there!”
“There, where?”
“There when he was killed!”
Ansel frowned, then laughed. “Very funny, Em. Now tell me about your day.”
“I’m telling you about my day! That man was in my class, and he was killed. Right in front of me!”
Ansel shot his roommate a look of incredulity. “Isn’t this the moment where you yell something like, ‘Just kidding?!’”
Just then, the newscaster intoned, “The Community Arts School is where Jan Skrzypczak had been modeling for life drawing classes for the past couple of weeks. It is also where he was found murdered by Brooklyn College graduate Emily Stone, one of Jan’s colleagues at the Roast Bean, where the young man was a barista. Jan’s parents are flying in from Silvistan, where they’re leading the opposition against President Manta Kanczuzewski. Chus Skrzypczak was Silvistan’s president until late last year, when he was surprisingly ousted in a snap election following accusations of fraud and grand-scale corruption.”
Footage of the Ritz-Waldorf hotel was shown, where a man was being waylaid by reporters swooping down on him. Emily recognized him as none other than Tanton Skroch.
“Mr. Skroch!” a reporter was yelling. “How do you feel about your young charge being murdered on your watch? Mr. Skroch!”
But Mr. Skroch wasn’t answering questions. Instead, he practically ducked into the hotel, like a rabbit shooting into a hole.
The reporter turned to the camera. “That was Tanton Skroch, Jan Skrzypczak’s bodyguard, who was there in the room when the young man was murdered in cold blood. Jan’s sister Taryn is currently rumored to be holed up at the Ritz-Waldorf, where she shared a suite with her brother. A diplomatic crisis looms over this murder that has shocked the nation of Silvistan, where the Skrzypczaks are practically considered royalty.”
Emily’s jaw had dropped. “John was… the President of Silvistan’s son? And Tanton Skroch was his bodyguard?”
“I’ve been watching this stuff all night. Looks like these Skrzypczaks are more like Silvistan’s version of the Kennedys. For one thing, they’re super-rich, and for another, like that reporter said, they’re considered royalty in their country. Which makes Jan a prince, and his dad a king—before he was removed from power, of course.” He frowned. “Can a king be removed from power? Aren’t they, like, king for life or something?”
Emily was still reeling from these sudden revelations. “So that’s why Tanton was looking at John like that. He was supposed to protect him.”
“He did a pretty lousy job if you ask me. What good is a bodyguard if you’re going to get killed anyway?” He directed a curious look at Emily. “So you were there, huh? Front-row seat? Tell me all, darling. Start from the beginning. How handsome was this guy?”
“Very handsome,” she said automatically, then got up and moved towards the kitchen. Her stomach had finally settled and she noticed for the first time that she was starving. Ansel followed her into the kitchen, which was more like a nook in the loft they shared. “In fact he was so handsome he had his groupies follow him from the coffee shop to the art class.” She remembered Justyna, and wondered if she knew who Jan really was.
“So what happened?” asked Ansel as he followed Emily’s lead and dumped a packet of spaghetti into a pot of water and set it to boil. “Was this really the impossible murder?”
“Yes, it was,” she said as she got busy with a can of tomato sauce. “Jan was murdered in front of us, in full view of a room of people, and yet no one saw a thing.”
“You must have seen something. I mean, the guy was shot, right?”
“He was, but he was lying with his back to us, and he was shot from the front, so…” Suddenly she remembered Jan coughing at a certain point, and now wondered if that was the moment he’d been shot. At least he hadn’t suffered, and death had come quickly.
“So how was he shot from the front?” asked Ansel, dumping some salt into the pot then putting a lid on it.
“That’s the strange part. I overheard the detective in charge discussing the case. He was shot with a bolt. Like from a crossbow? Only the window through which he was shot wasn’t shattered, and there’s no sign of a crossbow being embedded in the wall or anything like that. So it’s really a mystery how he was shot at all.”
“What about…” Ansel thought hard, judging from the wrinkle grooving his brow. Then he relaxed. “No. I got nothing.”
“Me, neither. And neither do the police. They questioned all of us.”
“They questioned you?”
“Of course. I was there, remember? Not only that—I recruited Jan for the Roast Bean.”
Ansel grinned. “You make it sound so dirty.”
“I’m sure that’s how their minds work. I recruited Jan so I must be responsible for his murder.”
“So you’re, like, a suspect?”
“The main suspect, I would think. They were pretty tough on me.”
“Nah. Can’t be. According to the news this was a political assassination. This Skrzypczak fellow was kicked out last year, following reports he’d been lining his pockets for years. Apparently not all that unusual with these Eastern European so-called democracies,” he added, waggling his eyebrows. “Cronyism is in our blood, and the Skrzypczaks weren’t an exception. The current president has vowed to put his predecessor in jail and retrieve the billions missing from the country’s coffers, so this murder is right up her alley.”
“Her?”
“Yeah. Manta Kanczuzewski is a she, and won the election on an anti-corruption platform.”
“But wouldn’t they kill Jan’s father? Why target the son?”
Ansel shrugged. “These people are ruthless, Em. They probably killed the son to send a message.”
“Message?”
“Return the stolen billions you put into your Swiss bank account or else.”
“Or else…” Her eyes widened. “Do you think they’ll go after Jan’s sister next?”
“Not if Skrzypczak gives in.”
“How horrible,” she said, stirring the tomatoes and adding seasoning.
“That’s Eastern European politics for you,” said Ansel. “And the reason I’m here right now, and not back there.”
Ansel’s parents had fled to the US many years ago, when the persecution of Jews in Ukraine’s Odessa was in full swing. Emily had met the young man when they both studied art at Brooklyn College, and along with a third classmate had rented a loft in Brooklyn’s vibrant artists’ community in Bushwick. The third roommate had since moved back to her home state, but Ansel and Emily stuck it out, Ansel hoping to become the next Frank Miller or John Romita, and Emily the female Keith Haring. So far they were temping to pay the rent.
“I didn’t know,” said Emily now. “I had no idea who John really was.” Or Tanton.
“He probably didn’t want to advertise the fact and attract a bunch of cranks.”
“Poor guy. Killed because his father is a corrupt politician.”
“Could be that Manta Kanczuzewski is the corrupt one, and simply wanted to kick out the Skrzypczaks so she could put her hand in the till herself. You never know with these people.”
Dinner was finally ready. Ansel drained the pasta, dumped it onto two plates, Emily added sauce and cheese, and they sat down at the kitchen counter, which doubled as a dinner table. The loft was sizable, but not that sizable. The kitchen and middle part were shared space,
where they hung out in front of the television. Emily had her bedroom up on a mezzanine near the back, and Ansel had his room below hers. Bunk buddies, that’s what they were. Emily’s mom hated it, feeling her daughter ought to find herself an eligible bachelor, finally take on a decent well-paying job, and settle down, not shack up with Ansel.
“You know?” said Ansel, chomping down on the impromptu pasta dish with relish. “Maybe you should solve this case.”
“Who, me?” She laughed. “No way. I don’t know the first thing about sleuthing.”
“You were there. You probably know what happened—on a subconscious level.”
“Yeah, right. On a subconscious level I’m glad whoever did this didn’t kill me.”
“No, but I mean it. You should get a hypnotist to put you under and question you.”
“I’m sure the police will figure out what happened.” She remembered Detective Shakespeare and shivered inwardly. The man scared her. But he was probably very efficient.
“The police don’t have a clue. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“So? They’ve got their CSI teams and whatever high-tech gizmos going over that room with a fine-tooth comb. I’m sure they’ve already found the telling clue by now.”
“Pretty sure it’s a drone. I saw that on Castle once. A drone is what you’re looking for.”
“Not what I’m looking for—but if I see Detective Shakespeare again I’ll tell him.”
“Shakespeare? Is that the guy who interrogated you?”
“Yup. Besides, if there was a drone, don’t you think I would have seen it?”
“Invisible drone. Russian tech.”
She laughed, and for the first time since the terrifying events of the evening started feeling like herself again. Then her phone sang out ABBA’s Mamma Mia. She groaned.
Ansel placed his index fingers on his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. “My subconscious mind tells me it’s your mother calling,” he finally said, pretending to be a medium.
She nodded and picked up. “Hey, Mom.”
“Emily, honey, are you all right?!” her mother practically screamed.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re all over the news! A murder! A killing! At your school!”
It took her all of half an hour to calm down her mother, and when she’d finally managed, her pasta was cold. She popped it into the microwave and waited for the ding. Ansel was on the couch again, watching more on the case that had rocked New York.
Rocked New York? It had rocked her.
The microwave dinged and she joined Ansel, munching down the rest of her late dinner. And as the images and the comments washed over her, she suddenly found herself wondering about Emmerich Bernadzikowski and why Shakespeare had been so interested in him.
Chapter 6
The next day she and Ansel set off for work together. Ansel temped at a Ukrainian restaurant two blocks from the Roast Bean, and most days they hiked the couple of blocks from their loft together.
“I still think we should solve this murder together, Em,” said Ansel.
“Oh, so now it’s ‘we,’ huh?”
“Sure. With your brains and my brawn, we’ll figure this out in no time.”
“Let’s just leave police business to the police, shall we? Besides, if some Silvistanian intelligence agency is behind this murder, like you suggest, I don’t want to get involved.”
“Or maybe we do want to get involved. If the Skrzypczaks are as rich as the Post makes them out to be, I smell a big, fat reward for bringing their son’s killer to justice.”
The New York Post had carried a big story on the murder, as had the New York Daily News. The Post was convinced it was a plot by left-wing radicals, while the Daily News thought it was a plot by right-wing radicals. At any rate, radicals appeared to be involved.
“Look, I don’t know the first thing about detective work, and neither do you, so I think we should leave this to the NYPD. They’re usually pretty competent.”
“But you were there!”
“I was there but I didn’t see a thing!”
“Exactly!” he said, as if this was significant. It was only significant to the extent that the killer, whoever they were, had quite possibly committed the perfect crime.
They parted ways without reaching an agreement, and moments later Emily arrived at the Roast Bean, wondering if she still had a job. Most companies didn’t like their workers to be all over the news. It was bad for business. When she arrived, though, customers were already lining up, eagerly awaiting the coffee shop to open its doors. Huh.
Emily let herself in with her key, and saw that Teddy was busy behind the counter setting up for the day, and so were Clara and Justyna. Only Tanton hadn’t shown. Not that she’d expected him to. He was probably on a plane back to Silvistan right now, out of a job.
“I already called the temp agency,” said Teddy without preamble. “We’re two people short and if you hadn’t noticed there’s a perfect storm about to descend on our humble abode.” Then he broke into a big smile. “This is where we make the big bucks, baby!” And without waiting for a reply, he grabbed Emily into a quick hug and said, “My condolences, by the way.” Then he returned to the counter to plunk down fresh pastry in the display case.
“Yeah,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Terrible business,” said Clara, wide-eyed. “Is it true you were there when he was shot?”
“I was, yeah. And before you ask, I didn’t see a thing. One minute he was alive, flexing his buttocks and goofing around as usual, and the next he was stone-cold dead.”
“Oh, God. Such a waste,” said Clara. “Just like James Dean, isn’t it? John will be immortally handsome forever.”
“His name wasn’t John, by the way. It was Jan, apparently.”
“Yeah, I saw that. So weird, huh? We were working side by side with an actual celebrity all this time.”
“His dad is a politician, not a celebrity.”
“All the same. Jan was a celebrity and a billionaire—even if his dad did steal most of his billions.”
Justyna, who’d been sweeping the floor, came over and blew a strand of blond hair from her brow. “Did the police ask you all kinds of questions, too?” she asked.
Emily nodded. “Just went on and on. I thought for a moment they were going to arrest me.”
“You!” Clara cried. “Why would they arrest you of all people?”
“They seemed to think I had something to do with Jan’s death because we were colleagues at the coffee shop. They figured I was probably jealous or something.”
“Did they ask you about me?” asked Justyna.
“Um, they asked me about everybody, but not you specifically,” said Emily, trying to remember the interview. “They were more interested in Emmerich Bernadzikowski.”
“Emmerich Bernadzikowski? Who’s he?” asked Clara.
“You remember the guy who always sits in the corner and never budges?”
“Oh, you mean Adrian Brody,” said Clara with a laugh. “I call him that on account of the fact that he looks like Adrian Brody,” she explained. “With the black hair and the sexy eyes and the nose and…” She waved a hand. “Never mind. What about him?”
“When I told them he sometimes sat here for hours they seemed very interested.”
“He’s probably a member of this assassination crew sent to kill Jan,” said Clara.
Justyna laughed. “Wait, what?”
“Didn’t you see the news? Jan was the son of a billionaire politician whose enemies are trying to make him give back all the billions he stole and hid in Swiss bank accounts. They must have sent in a hit squad and Jan was their first target.”
“So who’s next?” asked Justyna, who, judging from her smirk, wasn’t buying this theory.
“Probably Jan’s sister,” said Clara. “I met her. She’s nice.” Then her eyes turned to Emily. “Oh. My. God!”
“What?” asked Emily, unnerved by all this talk about a
ssassination squads.
“They might think you’re Jan’s sister! I mean, you’re replacing her, right?”
“I don’t think anyone would mistake me for a sister of Jan,” said Emily, but the thought that there was an entire squad of hitmen out there, with Emmerich as their leader, made her queasy.
“Well, you don’t look like her,” said Clara dubiously. “I mean, Jill is really pretty.”
“Thank you,” said Emily with an eyeroll.
“No, I didn’t mean it like that!” said Clara when Emily turned to the door. “I mean you look nothing like her.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Emily as she opened the door to let the first customer in. “I wouldn’t want to be shot down with a bolt from an invisible crossbow or drone.”
“Is that how the police think they did it?” said Clara.
“The police have no idea how they did it.” And frankly neither did she. Nor did she care.
The rest of the morning passed by in a blur. The place was packed to capacity, and no less than three television crews showed up to film bits out on the pavement, interviewing customers and wanting to interview Emily, too. She didn’t want to be drawn into the whole thing, so she respectfully declined. Clara didn’t. She was only too happy to give them a full account of Jan’s working days, including what a thoroughly wonderful person he was.
Around ten o’clock Emmerich Bernadzikowski turned up, sat down at his usual table, and didn’t move from his spot for the rest of the morning. Odd. Emily wondered if she should talk to the guy, but since she had no idea what to say beyond ‘Is it true that you’re a member of a Silvistanian hit squad?’ she decided to leave well enough alone. Her mother had always taught her never to get involved with members of Silvistanian hit squads, or words to that effect, so there was that to consider.
Eleven o’clock brought two extra people, sent from the temp agency, and made life considerably easier for the remaining Roast Bean staff. And once the lunch crowd had come and gone, things finally settled down, not even the TV crews sticking around.
Emily was nibbling from a bran muffin in the little storeroom at the back of the shop when Teddy sidled up to her and handed her a small envelope. “Here you go,” he said.