“Overdose? Brawl?” The detective walked into the club. “What was it this time, coroner?”

“Found nothing unusual in her system. No visible wounds or bruises…” Then, a slight chuckle. “Never seen anything like it—” he brought his hand to the nape of
his neck, “two puncture holes… right here.”

Detective Torres, who arrived on the scene expecting another case of a young 20-something having too much fun in the bathroom, snapped up in rapt attention.

The coroner piped up again, “I know the rat problem here is bad, but I can’t imagine one capable of anything like this.”

Torres nodded solemnly, ignoring the coroner’s quip. “You suspecting foul play?”

“I don’t know what to suspect,” the coroner sighed, “but it’s the only thing that can’t be ruled out.”

Torres hummed and started making his way to the scene of the crime: the bathroom of the club. The place had already been covered in evidence markers, though the evidence itself didn’t amount to much: bloodstains left by the victim, and feminine products. The bathroom was nice, like the rest of the club, clearly meant to appeal to the tastes of the newest generation of young New York transplants.

The detective walked out to a table where the contents of the victim’s makeup bag were orderly laid out and labeled. There were cheap makeup products that could typically be found at a Walgreens or CVS, however a light, champagne-colored perfume bottle sat at the edge of the table. Dior. Torres lifts the bottle to his nose. It smelled like burnt sugar.

***

Today’s work was interrogation. First, the boyfriend: Matthew Long. Torres took a seat in the chair across from Matthew and inspected the person before him; disheveled hair, and dark circles under his eyes. Probably from mourning the loss of his girlfriend.

“Hello, I’m Detective Torres. I’m going to be asking you a few questions.” Torres shuffled a thin stack of forms. “What was your relationship with the victim?”

“I’m Lora’s boyfriend. Well, former boyfriend now,” Matthew mumbled.

“I see… Want to tell me what happened?” Torres questioned, clicking his pen in anticipation.

“Well,” Matthew hesitated, “I invited her out with me to meet a couple of friends from college. We had only been dating for a few months and she was always a little reserved. I thought this would get her to open up a bit. Y’know — share a bit of myself.” Matthew began picking at his fingernails. “Obviously wish I hadn’t now…”

Torres hummed. “Anything strange when you got there?”

“We arrived at the party a bit late, so there were a lot of people at the club already. In the beginning, she stuck really close to me, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She’s never been the type to want to stand out, so being surrounded by a lot of new people probably made her uncomfortable. I found my friends, Karina and Alma, and we made our way over. I introduced her to them.”

He paused as if to think of what to say next. “Things were a bit awkward at first, but Karina started breaking the ice by asking Lora more about herself. Alma barely spoke, but that’s just how she is. After a while, Lora seemed to be somewhat more comfortable with them, so I decided to leave the three of them alone, and went to find another group of friends to catch up with.”

Matthew threaded his hands through his hair and heaved a sigh. Torres almost felt bad for the kid. But the kid could be the killer, so he had Matthew go on.

“I noticed that it was getting a bit late, and I started searching for her but I couldn’t find her anywhere. Even Alma and Karina were gone so I thought to myself ‘Maybe she went over to their place? Or they brought her home, since Lora couldn’t find me?’ I hadn’t received any messages from her, but I thought nothing of it and went home on my own. When I got to my car I sent her a message asking if she made it home, but I never got a response.”

That seemed to be the end of Matthew’s recollection of what happened that night, so Torres closed his eyes and attempted to put the pieces together. The interrogation with him didn’t reveal much, but it did pinpoint a few people that Torres definitely needed to question.

***

Karina Nijat was an interesting case. Her father was a wealthy Malaysian businessman who relocated his headquarters — and family — to Norway. During the interrogation, it was clear that she was rattled.

“I’ve never really been in this kind of situation before,” she disclosed, “so please excuse me, detective.” She began reciting a similar manner of events. A friendly meet-up at a club, mostly filled with young creatives. “Lora was a really nice girl, you know? Very quiet, but she spoke when she was needed,” Karina explained. Suddenly, she leaned forward.

“Actually, she did seem a bit irritated during the conversation. Sort of… agitated,” she motioned with her hands. “It might have been drugs,” she put forward.

“No substances were found in her system,” Torres plainly interjected.

Karina instantly deflated. “Oh...”

“Why would Lora be irritated?” the detective questioned.

Karina’s eyes wandered the interrogation room, searching her memory for an answer. “Well, there was a somewhat intense conversation later in the night.” She continued. “We were talking about our backgrounds, our professions. It was our first time meeting Lora after all, so we were getting to know each other. I mentioned my business of course. I’m a designer. You might have seen my company, ‘Clove’, in Subculture Magazine.” She looked at the detective expectantly.

Torres, well into his 40s, shrugged.

“Well, you should check it out sometime. Anyways, Alma is also a designer. But if I’m being honest, her talents lie in being more of a business manager. Brilliant woman. She makes money in her sleep, I swear. Lora, from what I remember, was a nurse, Dominican. Very pretty girl, you know? Pretty hair. A little bit more care and she could have been a model.” From her backhanded comment she followed, “I wonder if she was the jealous type. I know Alma and I can be a bit much for Americans, being from Europe. Things are very different there. And I am very sympathetic for what immigrants go through, my father is an immigrant after all.” She put her
hands over her chest, as if to point to where her sympathy lay.

“Alma mentioned something, I think it upset her — but I’m sure it was a misunderstanding. She excused herself.”

“Do you know where she went?”

Karina shook her head. “No. I didn’t follow to check. I thought she just needed to cool off, so I said my goodbyes and spoke to some others.”

***

The interrogation with Alma Eriksdotter was immediately different. From the police database, there wasn’t much available. Torres chalked this up to her non-citizenship. She had a work visa, a personal website, and not much else. She walked into the interrogation room with an indecipherable confidence, her back straight and head held high. As she took her seat, he got a whiff of a familiar scent. Burnt sugar?  Not thinking much of the aroma, he adjusted his posture, clasping his hands on the table.

“Hello, detective,” she sighed. “Shall we begin?”

Torres cleared his throat. “What were you doing the night of the victim’s death?”

“I went to a party — some networking nonsense with that girl, Karina. It just so happened that I saw a familiar face, and that familiar face had a new friend.”

“Lora?” asked Torres.

“Yes, Lora. Quite an interesting girl. Her family is from one of those islands — The Dominican Republic. A nurse. Clearly, a hard worker to be educated like that.”

The tone in which she spoke made Torres uneasy. “I heard you two had quite the conversation. Care to explain what it was about?” the detective prodded.

“Ah yes,” Alma exhaled. “Karina always likes to do her little ‘icebreakers’ as you Americans might call them. Usually an excuse to talk about herself and her successful ventures. I tend to care less about those topics but with not much else to do at this gathering, I indulged in her ramblings. I merely asked Lora a question. Poor thing seemed so self-conscious the whole night, I thought she would open up but she just stormed off.”

“Did you know where?”

Alma paused. “The bathroom, I suppose.”

“The bathroom?”

“Yes, the bathroom. To powder her nose or whatnot,” she shrugged in disinterest.

Torres stood from his seat and began to pace. Nothing seemed right about this woman. Her demeanor was entirely cold, and far too calm. The detective knew from some deep instinct, however unprofessional, that she was involved with the death of that girl. But Torres had nothing. The evidence was entirely circumstantial. She was just as guilty as anyone else at that party.

Unless the smell of burnt sugar could tie all the loose ends.

“What perfume are you wearing? I need a gift for my wife’s birthday.”

Alma let out a dry laugh. “Yes, I see… It’s a Dior scent. I doubt someone with your salary could afford it, but if you love your wife that much I’m sure you could scrape something together. Are we done now, detective?”

Torres sighed. “Yes, I think we are.”

He had done it. This was surely enough to keep going. Not enough for an arrest. Hell, not even enough for a warrant, but Torres clearly found something. He could gather a small team, some scientific evidence — something that showed that she was there right as the murder occurred.

But it all amounted to nothing. When it was time to bring her back for further interrogation she was gone. There was no trace left. No visa, no website, not even a name on a social media site. Gone, as if she never existed in the first place. And Lora’s case was left to rot.

***

It had been years. Life moved forward. Tragedies had come and gone. Torres found himself flipping through the extensive photographic archives at the New York Public Library, doing research on his lineage.

There, he saw it: Scandinavia, circa. 1830-1900. A Norwegian girl — thin, gaunt, and filthy — dressed in her traditional peasant clothing. She had a face just like Alma’s.