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Murder at the New York Library / Murder in Harlem / Murder in Central Park – Part 03

Meanwhile, Kazuya’s group headed north through Manhattan, passing through Central Park, and made their way to Harlem, the black neighborhood at the city’s northern end.

Kazuya and Victorique met up with Carlos in front of a shop, where an African American woman dressed in bright colors sold buttermilk-fried chicken and red velvet cake by weight. Kazuya swiftly bought a red velvet cake and a whole fried chicken, handing the bag to Victorique.

“Why are you buying stuff at a time like this?” Carlos said dubiously. “Are you planning to eat the chicken yourself?”

“No, this is… for Rokushou. He’s probably hungry, so it’s for when we get him back.”

Carlos looked over his shoulder and regarded Kazuya briefly with a scowl. He snorted. “You’ll be lucky to find that brat alive. Who knows? You might end up meeting a corpse…”

Kazuya stared back at him in silence.

Carlos averted his gaze. “Anyway, this is that burlesque place.” He gestured toward the establishment.

While the street came alive at night, in the early afternoon, it was bathed in the soft winter sunlight, with the signs and neon lights looking dusty and dull. Somewhere in the distance, the tinkling notes of a jazz piano drifted through the air.

The designated establishment boasted an impressive entrance with a sign that proclaimed, “If it’s burlesque, it’s here.”

“They have half-naked women dancing theatrically to music. There’s a famous dancer named Bessie here. Rumor has it she’s the first black person to grace Broadway. But before that, she was caught by the KKK, lynched, and subjected to mob justice.”

Kazuya nodded thoughtfully. Flipping through documents, he said, “Two weeks ago, on Saturday night, Fiume and his associate came here to see Bessie’s performance. They watched the burlesque show while having drinks and a meal. Then, Fiume alone collapsed and began to convulse and passed away.”

“Yes.”

“Though the autopsy revealed poisoning, the police has not identified what was poisoned exactly. Investigations into gang-related deaths are rarely thorough these days. It’s likely to remain a mystery.”

Victorique nodded in understanding.

Kazuya glanced up. “Let’s go inside. Carlos, you first…”

“Me first?”

“If I recall correctly, you’re supposed to be our watchdog and bodyguard.”

Grudgingly, Carlos descended the stairs. Kazuya followed, and then Victorique.

Posters for upcoming shows adorned the dark staircase. Jazz sessions, Arabian-themed burlesque, Shakespearean plays performed by black actors, magic shows.

One particular show seemed to be popular, with a “Sorry! SOLD OUT!” sticker plastered on its poster. The title read: “The Invisible Golden Fairy Show by Magician Brian!” It featured the profile of a red-haired man and a golden-haired fairy with wings.

Whether she noticed or not was unclear; Victorique walked past the poster of Brian and the gold fairy.

Finally reaching the bottom of the pitch-black stairs, they pushed open the heavy iron door and entered the establishment.

Suddenly, there was a loud thud. Carlos tumbled inside.

“Carlos? Hey, stop!”

Kazuya tried to intervene, but it was too late. Carlos, scrambling like a frog, stood up and swung his arms blindly, hitting someone in front of him.

It was dim inside. Round tables dotted around a small stage. The lights were still off before opening, shrouding everything in darkness.

A small black man holding an iron pan lay on the ground. He had apparently struck Carlos with the same pan. Carlos glared at him with bloodshot eyes.

“You bastard! How dare you attack me?!”

“A-Anyone would be suspicious when an Italian mafia guy, a silver fairy-looking girl, and an Asian come down together. I’m technically the bouncer, you know.”

A burly black man emerged from behind a table. “What’s all the commotion about?”

“And who are you?” Victorique asked, her emerald eyes narrowing. She held a golden pipe in her mouth.

“I’m the waiter here.”

The light in the kitchen flickered on, and an elderly man appeared.

“What’s going on here?”

He was Caucasian, a rare sight in a neighborhood like Harlem. He seemed to have just woken from a nap. Numerous scars marred his face and neck.

Studying the trio before her, Victorique introduced herself, “I’m a private detective investigating the poisoning of an Italian mafia member. Oh, are you trying to show us the door already, Mr. Bouncer? With a pan? Let me make things clear from the outset. My client is Garbo Boss.”

The bouncer, poised with the pan, wore a perplexed look. The trio exchanged confused glances.

“It would be in your best interest to cooperate,” Victorique added. “I’m only here to find the murderer without causing further disruption. So, as long as you weren’t involved in the killing, there shouldn’t be any issues, correct?”

They gathered around a round table, facing each other. Victorique, Kazuya, Carlos, and the bouncer, waiter, cook—holding each other’s gaze.

Kazuya produced some documents, opened his notebook, and began his inquiry.

“First, could you tell us what Fiume ate that day?”

“He shared a bottle of wine and a plate of fried chicken with his companion. His junior also ordered spaghetti with squid ink.”

“Hold on. Did Fiume eat anything separately? His companion was unharmed, and only Fiume was poisoned.”

The trio exchanged glances. Speaking on behalf of them, the bouncer explained, “That’s correct. Even the police were puzzled. But we’re just as clueless.”

The waiter shrugged. “When I passed by their table, I overheard Fiume criticizing the spaghetti, saying, ‘Wine is fine, but spaghetti and pizza should only be eaten in Little Italy.’ What an asshole. Maybe that’s why only his junior ate the spaghetti.”

Carlos nodded, snapping his fingers. “Fiume was right. Only Italians can make spaghetti.”

“What did you say?” The white cook’s temper flared. The bouncer and waiter exchanged exasperated looks. “I swear to God, New Yorkers are nuts. Black people say, ‘White people can’t make soul food,’ and Italians say the same shit!” He turned his attention to Kazuya. “And you there, with your innocent face, probably think, ‘Chinese food should only be eaten in Chinatown!'”

Taken aback, Kazuya hastily clarified, “Uh, I’m not Chinese.”

“I used to be the head chef at the Hilton Hotel! Well, I left due to too many conflicts. But Michael Kenton’s fried chicken is renowned in Harlem, and Italians had no complaints about my spaghetti. My dumplings are so good that you Chinese folks would fall out of your seats!”

“I-I said I’m not Chinese.”

“Come here! I’ll show you the kitchen!”

The man yanked Kazuya by the collar and dragged him away, subjecting him to a rough and violent treatment. The other two, seemingly accustomed to such scenes, merely watched the cook with a sigh.

Victorique, nonchalantly puffing on her pipe, observed Kazuya, then followed them into the kitchen.

“Look here! A genuine carving knife! This is how you handle dumpling skins, and chicken is prepared like this. Similar to the way the Harlem mothers do it. We bake pizzas in this splendid oven! See, you put the firewood in like this…”

“Uh… Oh, Victorique?”

While Kazuya was being choked by the cook, he felt Victorique jabbing his backside with her pipe.

“O-Ouch! What, do you want to leave? Okay. We’re leaving, chef. I-I mean, please let me leave. I can’t breathe.”

Kazuya, being roughed up for no reason by the cook, could only watch helplessly as Victorique silently walked away and headed out of the kitchen.

“W-Wait, Victorique!” he cried.

As they stepped outside, clouds blanketed the sun, and a chill wind swept through the dim sky. Victorique looked around, her white coat and burgundy ruffles fluttering in the breeze. The radiant gleam of her silver hair arrested the attention of passersby.

Kazuya, arriving a second later, asked, “What are you looking for?”

Victorique turned with a cute wrinkle of her nose. “I want to make a phone call to the man who dined with Fiume. Fiume and his companion had wine and fried chicken, but only the junior had squid ink spaghetti. And then, only Fiume died. Strange indeed.”

“Yeah, the other way around would make more sense. If the wine or chicken Fiume had was poisoned, his companion would’ve died too… Oh!” Inspiration lit up Kazuya’s face. “Maybe his companion tampered with his dish?”

“No,” Victorique dismissed with a single word. Kazuya slumped. “I want to ask him a specific question: Did the squid ink spaghetti taste awful?'”

“What do you mean?” Kazuya asked, but Victorique maintained her silence. Scouring for a phone, Kazuya dialed a number and returned briskly. “Victorique! Jackpot! According to the man, it tasted awful, nothing like squid ink. But he ate it all out of courtesy to Fiume. He was wondering how you guessed it was off.”

Victorique nodded subtly. “Jot down the culprit’s name in your notebook.”

“Okay! Wait, who’s the culprit again?”

Victorique gazed up at Kazuya with disbelief. She took out a red velvet cake and nibbled on it. “It’s clearly the white cook, Michael Kenton.”

“All right. Wait, the cook’s the culprit? But why?”

Victorique strolled along. Kazuya went to fetch his bicycle then trailed alongside her, listening intently.

“Whatever Fiume had, his companion also consumed,” Victorique explained while eating her cake. “But only Fiume died, while his companion lived. So we flip it around.”

“Flip how?”

“The food that only the companion ate contained the antidote.”

Kazuya gasped. “Wait… Are you talking about the squid ink spaghetti?”

“Precisely! Why do you think the cook’s squid ink spaghetti tasted awful that night? Because it contained an antidote. Do you remember the kiln in the kitchen? The one where they bake those authentic pizzas with firewood? There was plenty of charcoal inside. The cook prepared poisoned fried chicken and made the squid ink spaghetti with charcoal. Squid ink and charcoal look almost the same. I can only imagine how awful it must have tasted, though.”

“Why add charcoal?”

“Charcoal possesses natural detoxifying qualities. Although it would have caused some level of discomfort.” Victorique sighed. “Only the cook, Michael Kenton, could have done it.”

At that moment, Carlos caught up with them. “Did you figure something out?”

Lost in contemplation, Kazuya didn’t respond, and Victorique was deep in thought.

“Hello?”

Kazuya lifted his gaze with a grave expression, while Carlos listened intently.

“We initially assumed that these murders were the work of the same individual. A perpetrator browsing newspaper articles and selecting their victims. But after some digging, it now seems like the guy who killed Nitti and the one who killed Fiume are two different people. The first being Benny Sander, and the second, Michael Kenton. What does this mean?”

“Hmm.”

“Also, we don’t know their motives. It doesn’t look like they have ties to the Italian mafia, and they have nothing in common either. I’m absolutely clueless.”

“Indeed. Unfortunately, the truth eludes me still,” Victorique said. “For now, let’s focus on the third case—Dempsey’s death in Central Park. Let’s go.”

“Right!”

Kazuya hopped onto his bike, with Victorique riding pillion.

A crisp wind whistled through the bustling street.

Carlos watched the departing bicycle. “No clue, huh?” he muttered.