| Eyebrow Killer. CHAPTER 4. “Don’t get too comfortable,” Panetta said as he walked out without looking back to see if Nura Cocasse had followed him. “Let’s chat outside.” As the Chief Inspector left his room, the station quickly fell silent. He slowly made his way down the path to the elevator through the voiceless sea of desks and people. All he needs is the black cape with a shaky finger, serving as a scythe. Voila! You look grim, Panetta! Nura thought. "Cocasse, you are one of my top detectives, if not the best I have. " Panetta began carefully, weighing each word, while they stood in the cold wind near the entrance of the Burgwallen Central Police Station. The words “best detective” evoked a mental image in Nura’s mind so upsetting that she couldn’t help but squint in pain—an expression that did not escape Panetta’s watchful eye. He ignored it. “As I said in there, while Maryssa’s death was sad and tragic, it doesn’t change the fact that she was killed. I know…I know…” Panetta paused. “I know I said something different in the office, but even if it’s a suicide as Gail predicted, what harm is there in checking all the facts again to make sure this isn’t the work of a serial killer? It’s not like the girl will die again if we investigate her death. I hope you understand what I’m saying… Eggert wants to resolve this quietly because the girl’s mother is... his niece.” “I understand and agree, sir. Enni will send you her post-mortem report later today, and you’ll see, I’m right.” “It doesn’t matter, Cocasse. The Annual TCS Marathon matters. And Maryssa’s parents do. Her mother wants us to relieve her body as soon as possible.” Panetta paused. “Do you know how much attention her mother, Lydia Wilhelmina Aschwin-Goldsmyth, received from the media this year? Google it. I understand the woman… She’d like to avoid the headlines talking about some killer on the loose when there probably isn’t one. You know the press, Cocasse; you know how much they love speculating. They will raise dull concerns and cause the entire population to start seeing signs of serial killers under each bridge in Amsterdam.” Nura glanced at Panetta’s face. She was surprised he could say the mother’s last name so quickly and without hesitation. Such a skilled use of language was not her boss’s usual strength. She smiled as she imagined how many times Panetta must have repeated it to remember it. “Let’s investigate, but quietly,” he finished his speech. He looked like an animal that had shortened its steps to fit in the cage. Nura could clearly see the strings that controlled Panetta’s work. She understood why he agreed to cover it up: the man had one foot in the force and the other in retirement. Everything he did and was doing was to secure his future pension. A major media scandal involving a wealthy family linked to the Royal House of Orange-Nassau and the monarchy would only jeopardize his relaxed life at this stage. “What if the media stops speculating and provides concrete proof? What if tomorrow we see in De Telegraaf that the death of Maryssa Goldsmyth was a murder and not a suicide, as we are currently suggesting? I don’t know if doing it quietly would work, sir.” “Don’t force me to change my mind about this, Nura, don’t…” Panetta returned to the police station in the same unrushed manner. Nura stood outside long after the Chief Inspector entered the building. For some reason, she could not and did not want to move. She had a feeling this case would soon blow up. She let her mind wander through the range of decisions she had to make. Her shift was ending soon, and she could head to Molly Malone’s Irish pub tonight, her typical Friday evening. Or she could visit the victim’s family to discuss the last days of Maryssa. “Any plans after work?” Someone shouted from the open window on the second floor. Nura raised her head and recognized Rocco’s green beanie. “Work? What is that? I don’t work on Friday nights, Rocco. I spend my Fridays trying to avoid horrifying myself.” “Do you need any help?” Nura laughed. “Why not…By the way, have you seen Gail?” “He left. I saw him in his car, sitting with his Kapuka bottle. He held it with such pleasure and melancholy. Damn, I envy that man!” When Rocco went out, he shared the latest news: the meeting with Leye Ogundamisi was scheduled for tomorrow, October 13th. Nura patted him on the shoulder and said, “Well done,” then asked if he’d like to take a quick tour to visit Maryssa’s parents, to which Rocco gladly agreed. He ran back to the station to get an address. Nura threw her jacket on the backseat of the car, climbed into the driver's seat, and let her mind wander. Could Eggert be protecting his niece from the police? What's going on with Gail this week? How is Leye Ogundamisi linked to our victim? She shared her doubts with Rocco Bendetti when he got in the car. “Well, journalists do go overboard with things. They are after the dirt all the time,” Rocco commented. “That doesn’t mean every one of them is a mad, uncontrolled sadist. But what if it was an accident? Let’s say Ogundamisi killed Maryssa, but why shave the eyebrows? And who is the other woman in the blue wig?” Nura didn’t answer. She let Rocco theorize about the case as much as he wanted. She couldn’t see the connection between Leye and Maryssa, but she hoped that the right questions for Maryssa’s mother would reveal the thread she was missing. Soon, she started to worry because they had gotten lost despite installing a new GPS in her car. The roads were rough and unpaved, causing the vehicle to bounce a lot. The house was supposed to be only thirty minutes from Amsterdam’s Airport Schiphol, near one of the most beautiful rivers in the Nederland, the Vecht. Nura didn’t want to draw Rocco’s attention to the problem with finding the house because she knew he would make her stop, dig into her new GPS, and make navigating even harder. She kept driving, thinking about the blue wig and the unknown woman on CCTV. She was lost in her thoughts when Rocco said, pointing at the dim lights in the distance, “There! I think this is the house.” After ten minutes, Nura started to see the outlines of the buildings they planned to visit—the Amsberg Castle. She passed a long alley lit on both sides and parked the car as close to the entrance as she could. “I can see the local news headline tomorrow: ‘Two policemen lost their lives near the Amsberg. It happened at night when the terrifying beast of Goldsmyth-Baskerville howls for blood,’” Rocco said as they stepped out of the car. “What a tragedy for the 1,417 lovers of Rocco Benedetti.” Nura smiled. “Who is counting? And I’ve settled down, boss. I have a fiancé now.” Whoa! Are you saying the Casanova in you is aging?” “No. He just doesn’t want some jealous husband to kill him. He’s ready to commit; he’s ready to go back to a normal life and find some peace.” “Aha! Let me know how it goes for him…” They walked past a long stretch of fence mounted on a wall. The wall sections were divided into separate pads, each bearing a crest of some kind. Nura couldn’t see the ridge, as it looked like it had been worn away over time, but maybe that was part of the design. The estate's entrance was a barred gate, its bars adorned with golden flowers. Nura could see the compound through the bars. The grounds were paved with bricks arranged in a pattern that drew the eye toward the center, where a three-tier water fountain stood, featuring a mythical creature: the woman's upper body was nude, while the rest was a serpent, making her look like a mermaid. “Cool, right? La Sirene, or the so-called water spirit.” Rocco nodded toward the sculpture. “Do you know this place has a gardener’s house, deer house, teahouse, and tennis court? I googled ‘Amsberg’ in the car.” “A deer house? What for?” Nura snorted. She pressed a button on the right side of the gate and explained to the voice on the other side that she was a police officer and had some questions for Lydia Wilhelmina Aschwin-Goldsmyth about her daughter’s death. The hoarse voice crackled over the intercom, “Show your identification to the camera on the left so I can see it.” Nura pulled out her ID. A loud buzz sounded, and the gate slid open to the right. Nura and Rocco entered the compound. It was bordered on three sides by different buildings that were just short of forming a rectangle. The main building, or at least what Nura believed to be the main building, had three levels with a roof that bent at its edges. The front of the building was covered with many windows, whose frames were coated in gold. They rang the doorbell. When the door opened, a gray-haired woman in a maid’s dress ushered them inside. After a minute or two, they were invited into the long, bright hall where the young and pretty second maid was waiting. The hall was even more grand inside: the ceilings were tall, each covered with a glossy finish that made the lights reflect all over the walls like a million tiny diamonds. The walls near the stairs were filled with exquisite portraits of Lydia Wilhelmina Aschwin-Goldsmyth and her husband, who had yet to appear. “Good evening,” the young woman in the hall, dressed in a black maid’s outfit, said, cutting off Rocco’s gawking. “My name is Debby Naciri. Madam Lydia wants you to wait here in the library. She will see you soon,” she said as she pointed her hand toward an open door on the left. “Would you want anything else?” Nura shook her head as Rocco said, “No, thank you.” When Debby left, Nura lay on the orange sofa in the middle of the room and started looking at all the books on the walls around her. “Rich people… Here we are fighting for scraps, and someone is living this way.” Rocco scoffed. “I understand why Eggart sounded so angry when talking about a child of his niece." “I don’t know. I’d be so mad if I had to stay inside these walls every day, especially with Debby, if that’s even her real name,” Nura replied. “Maybe this is exactly what happened with Maryssa?” Rocco said as he checked the bar table near the bookshelves on the far-right side of the room. “I feel I’ve seen that Debby before. I don’t remember where… Do you think maids like her go to the pub crawls? I might have seen her there. Or on the wanted list.” “Do you know what I’m wondering, Benedetti? How did a young, pretty girl like Debby manage to get a job in this gloomy, quiet house?” “Why? She looks smart. But you are right, boss… she is kinda sweet, like a little perfect candy.” Rocco chuckled. “Yeah. I can imagine what Lydia’s hubby thinks when he sees her whipping that 100-year-old dust under his desk in his study.” At that moment, Maryssa’s mother entered the room with Debby. Madam Lydia was much younger than Nura had expected. She looked beautiful but haughty, arrogant, and snobbish—a slim woman with steady eyes, broad cheekbones, and a full bust. Rocco and Nura stood up as she entered the room. I take it you are the detectives Debby mentioned? What do you want?” “Yes, ma’am,” Nura replied. “I am Detective Cocasse, and this... young man is Detective Rocco Benedetti. We are investigating the death of your daughter and wanted to ask you some questions.” “I don’t understand. Questions about what?” the woman asked with a stutter. Nura was certain that Commissaire Eggert had informed her that Maryssa's case was already closed, but she acted as if she didn't hear the question. "I don't know if you've heard, but Maryssa died from an overdose. We'd like to discuss some strange things that happened before her death. For example, her eyebrows were—" “I prefer to stay away from all those types of news. I mean, drugs and murder. It only drags a person's spirit down. I usually like to keep my spirit high, officers,” Madam Lydia interrupted Nura Cocasse. “Unfortunately, we don’t have that privilege. We are investigating those deaths…We know that Maryssa was adopted. Can you tell us more about this?” “Nothing to tell. Her mother was my husband’s cousin, Lillian. She was a junkie and couldn’t take care of her daughter. We took Maryssa in when she was five years old. Her mother died soon after. In case you're interested, we don’t know who the biological father was. I hope you understand why it didn’t surprise us much when we heard Maryssa’s death was from heroin, too.” “You didn’t have much contact with your daughter?” Rocco asked. “No. Last year, I saw her only twice, Detective.” “Wasn’t she a book influencer? I watched some of her videos on her YouTube channel and Instagram. It seems she knew a lot of celebrities in Amsterdam and around the country.” “Sure. She met many people through her private school and here, on the estate. But how does that concern me? Us?” Madam Lydia asked, her voice slightly higher than when she first started speaking. “She is your daughter. Don’t you want to know if she suffered or not?” Nura could feel her anger for the woman rise. “I guess, not so much… Then, we’d like to know where you were after 10:30 p.m. on the eleventh of this month,” she asked. “What for? Your unit investigates serial murders, as far as I know, and this is a suicide,” Madam Lydia declared with a look that seemed taken aback. “We don’t know if this is a suicide. And it’s a routine question we ask everyone. We have to establish your alibi to see if it matches our other witnesses,” Rocco lied. “We’d like to get a clear picture: who Maryssa was, what her day looked like, whom she met regularly, friends, enemies. It would be great to find the last person who saw her alive, too, but we can only hope… That’s why we are here, ma’am. We need your help.” “And we’d like to talk to your husband as well. Gregg, right?” Nura added. The woman looked shocked and furious. She went to speak but paused by placing her right hand on her chest: “Gregg is in Brussels. He won’t arrive until tomorrow. I ask you one more time, does Commissaire Eggert know you're here, Detective Cocasse?” “Yes,” Nura lied. “Commissaire Eggart said to pass on his greetings. Now, back to our questions, ma’am. Where were you after 10:30 p.m. on October eleventh?” The hostess glanced to the side: “I’d have to check my calendar. Debby, can you help me?” Debby stood silently behind Madam Lydia. She murmured, “Of course, ma’am,” then opened the iPad she held ready and whispered something into Lydia’s ear. “It turns out I was at a private event at 8:30 p.m. I left after 10:30 p.m.," Madam Lydia said. Nura wrote it down in her Bear app, looked up, and replied, “Great. Is there anyone who can confirm that? And what event was that?” “A private event. Are you calling me a liar, Detective Cocasse?” Madam Lydia pouted her lips. “No, ma’am. I need the address of that event. It’s for formality’s sake. I trust you were where you said you were by then, but that’s just how things are in our line of work.” Nura played dumb. “What happened after 10:30 p.m.?” "I don’t know. I took a cab home because I was exhausted from everything that happened the day before. I went to sleep. My life is— “ “I see... So, there is nobody at all who can give you an alibi for that evening after 10:30 p.m.? We’ll try to find a taxi driver to verify the time.” Rocco insisted. “No need for that. It was a private driver.” Madam Lydia sounded irritated. “Am I a suspect? I need to make a call.” “I drove her home, Detective Benedetti. I am your witness,” Debby interrupted. Rocco turned slightly to the housekeeper on the left. “You?” “Yes.” The young woman smiled. It’s true. We're close friends. Debby runs this house. She’s my secretary and chauffeur, my everything, really. Whenever I need her, she's there. And what’s wrong with that?” Madam Lydia proclaimed. “Nothing at all,” Nura smiled. “I picked up Madam Lydia around 10:30 p.m., and by 11:30 p.m., I dropped her off at home,” Debby said. “Sorry for prying, but where do you live, Debby?” Nura asked. “I suspect you knew the victim pretty well. You are the same age.” “Is this a joke? You are harassing my housekeeper. I want you to leave immediately!” The heiress of the house raised her voice again. “She didn’t know Maryssa that well. Debby started working here only seven months ago.” “Ma’am, this is not a joke.” Rocco turned to Debby and said, “If you know something and are not telling us, now’s the time to say it.” Debby was silent. She stood and glared at Rocco’s chin, chest, and arms. He began to feel uneasy. “Nothing at all? Never checked her Instagram or other social media? How old are you, Debby—five?” Rocco asked, showing his annoyance. Debby grinned and replied with a well-prepared answer, “I have seen her in photos and watched her videos on Insta. But that’s all, officer.” "As I mentioned earlier, they never met. Please leave, or I’ll call security,” Madam Lydia said as she reached into her pocket and pulled out an iPhone in a shiny white case. “Okay. We are leaving, but we’d like to speak to your husband when he returns to the country.” Nura admitted her defeat and stepped out of the library. Madam Lydia followed her, complaining about Rocco’s attitude and their unexpected visit. At that moment, Debby dropped a pen on the floor, and Rocco bent down to pick it up when he heard a whisper, “Tell Mr. Eggert to come around more often; it has been a while…” “I’ll make sure to pass that along," Rocco muttered. An older maid escorted them out of the building. Nura and Rocco walked back the way they came until they reached their car. After driving for a few minutes, Rocco asked, “What do you think about that couple, Madam Lydia and Debby? Do you think they are lying?” “Yes, they are hiding something. We need to dig up more info about that private event Madam Lydia attended on the eleventh. And you know what? I’d say Debby is cold enough to be a killer. What if she is our unnamed stranger in the blue wig on CCTV?” Nura asked. “No way! Debby? That little pretty thing?” Rocco laughed. “She’d look adorable in the blue wig. What do you think about the missing husband?” “Could be him. You know, rich daddies—” Nura stopped suddenly in the middle of the street. Rocco was glad it was late, and the streets in this part of Amsterdam were empty. “Hm, you know… I don’t think Debby’s name is Debby. Did you write down her full name?" “Yeah. Debby Naciri.” “Arabic?” "Moroccan. Debby Zuhur Naciri.” “We need to check our database. What I don’t understand is her refusal to admit that she knew Maryssa in real life.” “Maybe she didn’t? Let’s keep an open mind and leave it for tomorrow… What do we do now, boss?” “I’m driving to Molly Malone’s pub. I usually use the place to brainstorm ideas. Wanna join, Casanova? Or is the perfect fiancé waiting in that warm bed of yours?” Nura glanced at Rocco. The offer tempted him. “The mention of Molly Malone’s pub would be enough to forget my fiancé. She is so jealous; she drives a saint like me to madness.” “I’m glad I ain’t your fiancé, Rocco.” Nura laughed. “You could be today…” “Why not...” Nura whispered. She drifted off and soon forgot Rocco was in her car while he was busy explaining why they’d be a perfect match. Nura always went to Molly Malone’s Irish pub because it was far from the station and, therefore, wasn’t patronized by cops. She didn’t like seeing her colleagues after work hours. A pub was supposed to be fun, a place where she could escape the challenges that troubled her all day, and a bar full of drinking and chatting police officers wouldn’t be that place. It would be impossible to relax. A perfect pub for Nura was a place where someone could share their woes with a half-listening, half-drunk stranger who was, in turn, also talking to another half-listening, half-drunk stranger. By the end of the day, they’d receive a profound piece of wisdom, something like ‘everything is going to be okay tomorrow,’ a platitude spoken with words as fragile as the attention span of the person saying it. Almost every Friday, Nura left with one or two women. She enjoyed female company because she could talk freely, dance wildly, and not feel ashamed of saying something wrong or looking too scruffy. She could be herself. With men, everything was different. They expected her to perform well sexually and give a nice, sweet, charming speech. She hated having to be nice. But this Friday was different: she wasn’t alone in the pub; she was with Rocco Benedetti. They arrived at the pub—a cozy local tavern, a place of instant connection. Despite having many mirrors, Nura liked the place. She got used to avoiding her reflection, just like she did while driving. It was a skill she’d developed over time in places she visited more than once. They ordered Nura’s usual—blue kamikaze shots—which the bartender served up in no time at all. Nura downed two shots of kamikaze in one gulp and was about to order a third—a favorite called ‘The Silver Bullet’—when she felt Rocco’s hand on her neck. As dusk turned into night, the mystique of the famous Red-Light District covered the streets, and the lively rhythm of Leidseplein Street echoed with melodies from live performances. Nura shifted her sitting position to get closer to Rocco, kissed him, and ordered four more shots... She was sure she wouldn’t be going home alone that Friday night. | 
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