by Nic Saint
“I find out their secrets and I pounce,” said Ansel seriously.
“Well, pouncer, since I reckon I’ll need all the help I can get I’ll accept your offer.”
A smug smile crept up Ansel’s face. “You know what this means, right?”
“No, I don’t.”
“For Shroom Patrol.”
Shroom Patrol was the comic strip Emily and Ansel had been working on since their Brooklyn College days. They hoped one day to sell it to a publisher. First they had to finish it, of course.
“What’s Shroom Patrol got to do with this?”
“We can use Jan’s murder as a storyline!”
“Right. Because in a dystopian future the murder of a life drawing model will be the biggest problem this planet has to face, even more than the nuclear holocaust.”
“We can work it in,” said Ansel, happy now that he would get to solve a crime. “So how much are they paying us?”
“They’re not paying us a thing, Ansel. I’m doing this for Jan and for Taryn.”
His face sank. “Don’t tell me we’re working for free.”
“We are. We’re not detectives. We can’t ask people for money.”
He threw up his hands. “Fair enough. So where do we start?”
“I’ll start by talking to my colleagues at the Roast Bean.”
“And I’ll start by going through the newspapers,” said Ansel, undeterred. And he dug into his shoulder bag and brought out a small stack of papers. The Post, of course, and the Daily News, but also Newsday, USA Today, the National Enquirer, the New York Times and even the Wall Street Journal. He handed a few to Emily and started going through the others.
“We could have read all of this online,” Emily grumbled.
“Not everything is online,” said Ansel. “A lot of this stuff is behind paywalls.”
He was right, of course, and for the next twenty minutes they both analyzed the reports on Jan’s murder as written up by the various writers covering the gruesome murder. Meanwhile the Creaky Shack’s owner had brought out two apple and almond butter sandwiches cut into tasty triangles and both Emily and Ansel gratefully devoured them. They might be on a budget, and doing unpaid detective work, but it was tough to detect stuff on an empty stomach.
“They all seem to lean towards the political assassination angle,” Ansel finally concluded. “Though the National Enquirer thinks a love rival might be involved.”
Emily, who’d just read a lengthy article on Chus Skrzypczak’s oligarch past in the New York Times, rubbed her eyes. “The Times sees shady business deals in Jan’s dad’s past and figures either political or business rivals must be behind his son’s murder.”
“Of course they do,” said Ansel, yawning cavernously and stretching like a cat. “Which means nobody knows anything. Not the police. Not the mayor or the governor. No one.”
“The mayor and the governor are involved?”
“The son of the former Silvistanian president was killed in New York, Em. Of course the mayor and the governor are involved. This is quickly becoming a high-profile case.”
Emily groaned. A high-profile case and an impossible murder. How the heck did she get involved? And how the heck could she get uninvolved again? But she’d promised Taryn she’d give it her best shot so that’s exactly what she would do.
Just then, her phone belted out the latest Ariana Grande hit and she pressed Accept.
“Miss Emily Stone?” an unfamiliar voice boomed into her ear.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“NYPD. Detective Robin Shakespeare has requested your presence at an interview.”
“An interview? When?”
“How about now?”
“Um…”
“Great.”
The line disconnected and Emily sat staring at her phone for a moment, before realizing she’d better haul ass before she was accused of failing to show up for the interview.
Chapter 10
Luckily the 83rd Precinct was only a couple of blocks away. Housed in a building Joseph Stalin would have loved, she mounted the concrete steps to the blocky structure’s entrance and hurried inside. She’d been there once before, to report a couple of derelicts using her window as target practice for their empty cans of beer on a nightly basis, and that experience had been agreeable enough. Of course she hadn’t had the pleasure of dealing with Detective Shakespeare or Detective Estevez at that time. When she approached the desk, a swarthy man in a police uniform sat sucking on a large cigar, growling something into his phone. When he slammed it down, he gave her a frown from beneath beetling brows.
“Yes?”
“I was, um, summoned for an interview with Detective Shakespeare,” she said.
He grinned. “Summoned. I like that. Name?”
“Emily Stone.”
“Take a seat, Emily Stone.”
And so Emily Stone did, squeezing herself in between an elderly African-American lady of voluminous dimensions and a jittery young man who looked Puerto Rican. And she’d only been there five minutes when suddenly a familiar face was escorted in through the front door by two burly cops: it was none other than Justyna, and judging from the handcuffs she’d been forced to wear, she wasn’t there to see the sights.
“You can’t do this to me!” she was shouting. “I’m innocent, I keep telling you!”
“Yeah, yeah, save it for the judge,” one of the cops rejoined.
Emily caught Justyna’s eye for a brief moment, before her Roast Bean colleague was shoved unceremoniously through the door and out of sight.
“Police brutality,” the African-American woman huffed. “And I got it all on tape, too!”
Emily saw that the woman was holding up her phone. She’d filmed the incident and was now busy uploading it to her Facebook.
“Ma’am, you can’t film in here,” said the front desk officer. “Put that away right now.”
“I know my rights!” said the woman. “This is police brutality plain and simple and the people have a right to know.”
“Just put your phone away,” said the officer firmly, “before I take it away.”
“I wanna see you try!” said the woman, but still did as she was told.
More minutes passed, and finally a harried-looking Detective Shakespeare appeared, beckoned Emily to follow him, and so she did. He kept up a brisk pace as they passed along a long corridor. “Sorry to drag you in like this,” he said. “Just a few things I want to clear up.”
She was shocked to hear the detective apologize to her. For a moment there she’d wondered when he was going to arrest her. “That’s all right. Anything I can do to help.”
He held open a door to his right. “Just wait in here. I’ll just be a minute.”
And then he was gone again—even before she could ask him about Justyna.
She took a seat on a rickety chair at an equally rickety table, and waited. After a while, though, she started getting antsy and walked over to the door, opened it a crack, and looked out. No Detective Shakespeare anywhere in sight. Across the hallway a window offered a view of a larger room, and that’s when she saw something very interesting indeed.
An evidence board. And at the top of the board, a picture of Jan Skrzypczak.
She looked left. She looked right. Then she quickly dashed across to the window and peered at the board. She recognized Justyna’s picture, too, and a lot of stuff that was hard to make out from this distance. And then she got an idea. She took out her phone and quickly snapped a shot of the evidence board through the window. Before she could take another shot, though, a door opened at the end of the corridor and she quickly put away her phone again and dashed back into the interview room, taking a seat and trying to get her pounding heart under control. She’d never done anything like this before in her life.
Moments later Shakespeare entered the room. “Right,” he said, looking at Emily as if seeing her for the first time. The man was obviously under a great deal of stress.
&nbs
p; “Emily Stone,” she said, just to make sure they were on the same page.
“I know who you are,” he said tersely, then grabbed the other chair and plunked himself down. “Now what can you tell me about Justyna Tamowicz?”
“Um… Well, I only worked with her briefly. At the Roast Bean. She seemed nice.”
“She was also at the art class last night,” Shakespeare prompted.
“Yes, Jan must have invited her. She’d never been before. She, um…”
“Yes?” he said, motioning for her to hurry up.
“Well, Jan had a thing for her. They’d been flirting all day, so I just assumed he invited her to the art class so they could continue their… whatever it was they had going.”
Shakespeare drummed his fingers on the table. “Did you notice anything strange about her behavior last night? While the class was in progress?”
“She seemed to have a fixation on Jan’s buttocks.”
“His buttocks.”
“Yes, she kept drawing his buttocks even after Judyta told her to capture the full body.”
“Full body,” said Shakespeare dubiously.
“That’s right.”
“How about when you discovered Jan had been killed? How did she respond?”
Emily thought back to the night before. “I’m afraid I didn’t really notice.” She’d been entirely too busy having a minor panic attack herself to notice how the others had reacted.
He leaned in. “How about when you were all waiting to be interviewed?”
“She seemed shocked. She was very pale, I remember.”
Shakespeare nodded slowly. “Did she ever talk politics? With you or Jan Skrzypczak or the others?”
“Politics? I don’t understand.”
“Did she ever talk Silvistanian politics with you?”
“No, she didn’t. Why?”
“Never mind,” he grumbled. “Thank you for coming in, Miss Stone. That’ll be all.”
And with these words, he escorted her to the door, then down the corridor back to where she came from.
She suddenly stopped short. “Do you really think Justyna is involved, Detective?”
He gave her a stern look, then thrust open the door. “Goodbye, Miss Stone,” he growled, and quickly ushered her into the front office, closing the door at her heels.
Nice, she thought. But at least she hadn’t been arrested.
Chapter 11
Emily took a seat on a street bench for a moment, and studied the picture she’d taken of Shakespeare’s evidence board. Just below Jan’s picture was Justyna, and when she zoomed in she saw that underneath her picture the words Manta Kanczuzewski had been written. She blinked. So… Justyna worked for the Silvistanian government? As some kind of spy? If so, she’d played her role to perfection. She looked every bit the dumb blonde, and Jan had fallen for her hook, line and sinker.
But had she also killed him? Considering Justyna had just been arrested, and considering Shakespeare’s line of questioning, the police certainly seemed to think so.
Emily quickly checked the rest of the evidence Shakespeare and his team had gathered. There were pictures of everyone present at the art class last night, but nothing added that Emily didn’t already know herself. Next to Emmerich’s name three question marks had been placed, indicating the police were very much interested in him, too.
As they should be. That man’s behavior had been more than a little suspicious.
A picture of the bench Jan had been lying on was pasted next to an identical picture. The dates indicated the first picture had been taken the night of the murder, the other one the next day. Presumably the evidence team had taken a closer look at the room that day.
She studied both pictures, searching for clues, but nothing jumped out at her.
She sent the picture to Ansel so he could take a look at it, then briskly got up and set foot for the Roast Bean. Teddy had given her the afternoon off so she could deliver the condolence card to Taryn, but she wanted to have another chat with Clara, who’d been at the Roast Bean a lot longer than Emily, and might have overheard stuff.
Traffic was thick, rush hour causing people to pack the sidewalks, cars causing the usual congestion. Brooklyn was no exception. Though a lot less busy than Downtown, commuters returning from work and kids from school created a mass movement of bodies. Home to a majority of Latino groups, mainly hailing from Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic, in recent years Bushwick had also attracted a lot of artists and young professionals, who were slowly pushing out lower-income residents. Gentrification at its best. Or worst.
Emily arrived at the Roast Bean and swung through the glass door, the bell tinkling merrily. Clara, who was behind the counter adjusting prices on the blackboard, looked up. When she saw Emily she smiled. “How did it go with the Silvistanian Kardashians?”
“They’re hardly the Silvistanian Kardashians,” said Emily, walking around the counter and joining her friend. Business had slowed, dinner hour coming up, which meant that fewer people were interested in coffee and cake and wanted to sink their teeth into some real food instead. Teddy had sent the two temps home, and now it was just him and Clara. “They offered me a job,” she whispered, checking that Teddy didn’t overhear.
“What job?” Clara whispered back.
“Jan’s sister wants me to investigate her brother’s murder.”
Clara’s lips formed a perfect O. “You’re kidding me.”
“Swear to God. And Ansel is going to be my sidekick.”
“How much are they paying you?” was Clara’s next question.
“Nothing. They’re paying me nothing.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” said Clara with a frown.
“Taryn offered but I said I couldn’t possibly accept. I’m a complete amateur!” she added when Clara made protesting noises.
“You could have asked something. Expenses, at least.”
Yeah, maybe she should have negotiated for an expense account. All those visits to the hipster pop-up bar with Ansel came at a steep price.
“You missed a big stink,” said Clara conversationally.
“Stink? What stink?”
“The cops showed up and arrested Justyna! Just like that!”
“Oh, I saw that!” She explained how she’d been summoned to the police station and how she’d managed to take a snapshot of the investigation board with Justyna’s name taking top billing. “She must be a spy for the Silvistanian government. No doubt about it.”
“Oh, my God! A spy? Here at the Roast Bean? Way cool!”
“Who’s a spy?” asked Teddy gruffly. He hated when his underlings chatted amongst themselves, even when there were no customers to be served.
“Justyna. She was spying on Jan for the Silvistanian government,” said Clara. “And she probably killed him, too.”
Teddy frowned. “I’ll have to complain to the temp agency. Sending a killer spy into my shop. I’ll demand a full refund of all salaries paid.”
“Was Justyna a temp?” asked Emily.
“Of course she was. Everyone at the Roast Bean is a temp.”
“Not me,” said Clara. “I have a contract.”
“Lucky you,” murmured Emily once Teddy had turned his back, presumably to lodge a formal complaint with the temp agency about Justyna.
“I wish,” said Clara, also keeping her voice down. “My only hope is one day Teddy will be promoted out of here by Roast Bean upper management and I’ll become manager of this shop.” She gave Emily a beaming smile. “The moment I take charge, you’ll be my very first hire.” Then her smile faltered. “Unless of course by then you’ll be a famous detective.”
“Or a famous artist,” said Emily wistfully.
“Right. At any rate, looks like the case is closed then, huh? With Justyna’s arrest?”
“Looks like,” Emily admitted.
“Now all they have to do is get her to confess how she did it.”
“Probably through the use of som
e Silvistanian secret weapon.”
Clara laughed. “She didn’t strike me as particularly bright. She sure fooled me.”
“She sure fooled us all.”
The sound of a fight had them both look up. It was that Emmerich again. The Adrian Brody lookalike had gotten up from his usual perch in the corner, and was shouting abuse at a young woman who was giving as good as she took. At least Emily thought so. It sounded like they were both speaking Russian. Then suddenly Emmerich picked up a mug and hurled it through the coffee shop until it crashed into a million pieces against the wall.
“Hey, hey, HEY!” Teddy yelled, instantly on high alert.
But Emmerich stalked out on a huff and, after casting a furious look at Emily, slammed through the door and was gone, Teddy immediately chasing after him.
The young woman, meanwhile, stood trembling, then sank down on a chair and broke down. When Emily and Clara joined her, the woman lifted a teary face and wailed, “He killed him—I’m sure he did!”
“Killed who?” asked Emily.
“Killed John!”
Chapter 12
“Just tell us what happened,” said Emily, who’d pulled up a chair and had placed her arm around the young woman’s shoulders.
“Yes, tell us what happened,” Clara echoed. But Teddy had returned, his pursuit apparently fruitless, and loomed over them. So Clara quickly amended, “Or tell Emily. She’s a good listener.”
“If you wanted the afternoon off you should have taken that card to the Sunderlands,” said Teddy as he and Clara resumed their vigilance behind the counter.
“It’s the Skrzypczaks,” said Clara.
“Whatever.”
Emily had dragged a few paper napkins from a dispenser and pressed them into her charge’s hands. “It’s all right,” she said. “He’s gone.” And to make sure she wasn’t lying, she quickly scanned the pavement in front of the shop. No sign of Emmerich Bernadzikowski. “Is he your boyfriend?” she asked gently. “Did you have a row?”
The girl shook her head. Like Emmerich, she was raven-haired, with sharp facial features. “He’s my brother,” she said.