Lisa checked her watcha once, looked around, then turned toward the computer.
The library was nearly empty at this hour.
Detective Lisa Kowalska sat hunched over a beige CRT monitor, its curved glass reflecting in her glasses. A cup of weak vending-machine tea sat beside the keyboard, steam rising in thin spirals. She rolled her stiff shoulders and exhaled slowly.
On the screen: a blown-up, grayscale still frame from the CCTV tape she viewed early — the tall man near Kuroda and Janssen. Grainy, distorted, almost eaten alive by the tape’s static.
Lisa tapped the side of the monitor. A habit. Didn’t help the image, but it helped her think.
“Alright, mystery man,” she muttered. “Let’s see who you are.”
She pulled out a floppy disk, slotted it into the drive, and waited for the mechanical chkk-chkk as the computer read it. She navigated the city’s clumsy 1997 public directory database — it was currently 1998, close enough. A clunky interface with blue ASCII borders and pixelated type.
Most detectives didn’t bother doing this kind of work personally.
Most detectives asked the tech unit or waited until morning.
Lisa wasn’t “most detectives.”
She dragged the distorted still image into a simple face-comparison program — one of the early systems universities were experimenting with. It wasn’t officially available to the police, but Lisa had connections.
She typed commands. The computer whirred, processing slowly.
MATCHING…
MATCHING…
MATCHING…
Lisa drank her tea, grimacing at the taste. The cup was already cold.
"Damn..." She muttered to herself.
The screen blinked.
1 POSSIBLE MATCH FOUND.
Her pulse sharpened. She leaned in.
A picture loaded — an ID photo, clean and clear.
The same jawline. The same eyes. The same build. The same hair.
WOLFGANG ZAWISZA
Age: 51
Nationality: Dutch and Polish Dual Citizenship.
Occupation: Author.
Criminal Record: None
Residence: ████████████
Lisa’s eyebrows rose.
No criminal record... Not even a parking violation.
Men like that didn’t come out of nowhere — and they didn’t stay nowhere unless they wanted to.
She clicked deeper.
The more she scrolled, the more the corners of her mouth curled into a sharp, knowing smile.
“So that’s your name.”
She lifted her teacup, remembered it was empty, and set it down. Her eyes stayed fixed on the address now glowing on the screen.
No record. No history. No digital footprint was worth anything in 1997. And somehow connected to Kuroda.
Lisa leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, expression cold, analytical, predatory.
“Wolfgang Zawisza…”
She tasted the name like a strange new spice.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
“Thought you were slick, didn't you?”
She reached over, shut off the monitor, grabbed her coat off the back of the chair, and headed for the exit.
At the door, she paused.
Looked down at the handwritten address she had copied.
A slow, razor-thin smirk curved across her lips.
“Found you.”
***
Sunlight filtered through half-closed blinds, dust particles dancing lazily in the golden light. The room was quiet—save for the soft hum of the fridge and the distant sound of city trams clattering down the street.
Zawisza lay sprawled across his unmade couch, shirtless, blanket tangled around one ankle, breathing slow and deep. An open book rested across his chest.
Knock knock knock.
A pause.
Knock knock knock.
“Mr. Zawisza?” came a muffled voice from behind the door. “This is the Amsterdam Police. Please open up.”
Zawisza blinked awake, eyes still glazed. He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand across his face.
Knock knock.
“Mr. Zawisza, please open up.”
He slowly swung his legs off the bed, wincing as he stepped barefoot.
He shuffled toward the door in boxers and a wrinkled T-shirt, yawning. He peeked through the tiny fish-eye lens. Two officers. Bulletproof vests. Hands hovering too close to their sidearms. Not the SWAT team yet, but close enough.
Zawisza grinned like a man who’d just remembered the punchline of a joke from two years ago.
He cupped his hands around the door.
He cleared his throat.
“Gentlemen!” he said cheerfully through the door. “Can I interest you in a timeshare opportunity in southern France?”
A pause.
“Uh—sir, this is serious. Open the door, please.”
Zawisza turned on his heel with zero urgency, strolled barefoot across the room,
He muttered to himself: “Suspect? Of course, I’m a suspect. I’m 6’3, not full Dutch, too handsome. That’s gotta scream ‘criminal’ on the spreadsheets.”
He zipped open a weathered duffel bag, pulled out a leather holster, considered it, then tossed it aside.
“Nah, too dramatic.”
He grabbed a sticky note, stuck it onto the counter, reading: "Sorry, K, had to run."
He then took a bite of a cold croissant off the counter and padded to the window.
The cops knocked again.
“Mr. Zawisza, we have a warrant!”
He yelled back, mouth full: “You guys like adventures?”
No answer. He shrugged and turned to the window.
The third floor offered a decent view of the opposite building—close enough to jump with a little faith and a lot of recklessness.
He opened the window slowly, quietly, and slipped out onto the narrow ledge. Below him, a rusted fire escape zig-zagged down the complex. He stepped onto it like a man boarding a cruise ship.
Back inside, the officers shifted.
“Mr. Zawisza?”
Silence.
“Sir?”
They exchanged a glance. One reached for his radio, the other knocked again—harder.
Zawisza smiled, turning back toward the window before descending the stairs.
Cool air. A clear sky.
“God, I love Tuesdays,” he muttered. Then he turned and called over his shoulder, “Just one sec, fellas! Trying to find my dignity!”
The officers exchanged glances.
"He's stalling. We breach."
With a swift kick, the door gave way, cracking off the latch and swinging open.
BOOM.
Guns drawn, they cleared the tiny apartment, shouting commands.
“POLICE! Hands where we can see them!”
But the room was empty.
“Clear! Clear—wait...”
Clink.
A curtain fluttered near the open window. One of the officers sprinted over, looked out, and froze.
Across the alleyway—on the opposite building’s fire escape, Zawisza was casually descending, one step at a time, humming Take Five under his breath.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” the officer muttered.
He spotted them, threw them a salute with his middle finger.
“Bit breezy today, isn’t it?”
"DO NOT MOVE!"
As the officer shouted, Zawisza turned mid-step, hands in the air as if caught stealing cookies.
“I said HOLD UP!” Zawisza called gleefully. “You held up! Ten outta ten for manners!”
“I TOLD YOU! DO NOT MOVE—!”
But he was already sliding down the next ladder as if he had somewhere important to be.
Then, with a casual hop, he dropped the last few steps, landed in a crouch, and disappeared into the narrow maze of alleys, gone like a ghost, or a magician who’d long mastered his last trick.
“Jesus Christ,” the officer muttered. “He smiled at us.”
“Was that—was that a croissant in his hand?” the other added in disbelief.
