Cheesescake Crime Story Chapter 1

I’m not a murderer. I’m just a woman.

That was the shameless defense offered by a monster who had mercilessly taken another person’s life, poisoned numerous victims until they were on the brink of death, and then robbed them of every last penny.

Yet at first glance, no one would have suspected this woman.

Why?

Because what people saw was a glamorous, sophisticated woman who dressed fashionably, spoke charmingly, and knew exactly how to make others feel cared for and indulged.

But no one imagined that beneath that dazzling, sweet exterior lay a soul so rotten, savage, and cunning that it was terrifying.

Normally, when people hear about murder and robbery, they probably picture horrifying things like knives, guns, or violent attacks, right?

But this case was different.

This woman struck in a way we could hardly have imagined, even in our wildest dreams.

She used nothing more than a cake—a rich, creamy cheesecake advertised as the best in New York City.

Its sweetness was irresistible, but it was a deadly sweetness.

Only later, when the full extent of those appalling crimes came to light, did even some of America’s most seasoned detectives shake their heads in horror and say that they had never encountered anyone so cruel and calculating in their entire careers.

They said that perhaps only one person in a million could act with such cold-blooded depravity.

So who was this woman with the heart of a monster? What deadly trap had she set with that sweet cheesecake?

What had she done to leave even experienced detectives shaking their heads in disbelief?

It all began to emerge with an emergency call to 911 on August 29, 2016, in Forest Hills, Queens, New York City.

When police officers and emergency medical personnel forced their way into a second-floor apartment on 84th Street, a chilling scene confronted them.

It was a sweltering day in late August, with the temperature outside exceeding thirty degrees Celsius. Yet inside the room, the heating system was on, and someone had turned it up to its highest setting.

The air was so stiflingly hot that it was difficult to breathe.

On the bed lay an unconscious woman.

All her usual modest clothing had been removed. She was wearing nothing but a flimsy, strangely provocative set of lace underwear.

Even more alarming, sedative pills were scattered around the bed, across the mattress, and all over the floor.

A room littered with sleeping pills. A woman lying on the bed in lace underwear.

At first glance, anyone might have assumed that this was a young woman who, heartbroken and desperate, had foolishly tried to end her life.

Wouldn’t they?

Her condition was so severe that, after she was taken to the hospital, doctors confirmed that blood flow to her brain had stopped for thirty-four minutes.

She spent an entire week in a deep coma, fighting for her life.

But after waking from that coma and eventually staggering home, she was horrified to discover that all her valuables, money, and most important identification documents had vanished.

Deeply distressed, she immediately called the police to report the crime.

And it was through her frightened account that the name of the mysterious perpetrator first emerged: Victoria.

Who was this woman named Victoria, who could commit such a crime and yet make everyone arriving at the scene believe that the victim had attempted suicide?

Let’s go back to August 2016.

Our victim, Oga, was thirty-five years old at the time. She was an immigrant from Ukraine who worked applying eyelash extensions in Forest Hills, Queens.

Oga lived an extremely private life. She seemed to do little besides keep her head down and work in her rented apartment on 84th Street.

Everyone who knew her described her as gentle, down-to-earth, and someone who never wanted trouble with anyone.

You might have thought that her life in a foreign country would simply continue in peace.

But it did not.

A customer named Victoria Nazarova, then forty-one, began visiting the salon where Oga worked.

This Russian woman was, in fact, in the United States illegally. She lived with her boyfriend in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn.

Only later, when investigators dug into her dark past, did they discover, to their astonishment, what Victoria really did for a living in New York.

She worked as a high-end escort and dominatrix, catering to the unusual sadomasochistic desires of wealthy clients.

But what truly sent chills through people was the discovery that Oga and Victoria looked almost identical.

My goodness, look at these two women. They look so much alike.

How can two people who are not related bear such an extraordinary resemblance?

They were roughly the same age, had similarly curvaceous figures, very fair skin, dark brown eyes, and long, sleek black hair.

Even more notably, whenever Victoria came in for eyelash extensions, she would stare intently at Oga’s face. She repeatedly tried to persuade her to go out for coffee or visit bars together so they could become friends.

But Oga always refused.

She later told the police that she had always felt there was something strange about Victoria. The woman’s eyes, she said, had an intimidating, frightening quality.

Despite those repeated refusals, Victoria was not about to give up.

At two o’clock on the afternoon of Sunday, August 28, 2016, she began her first campaign of emotional manipulation.

She called repeatedly. As soon as Oga answered, Victoria began crying and speaking in a panic, as though the world were about to end.

She said she had an extremely important party that evening, but her eyelash extensions were falling out and looked terrible.

She begged Oga to make an exception and let her come to Oga’s home for a touch-up. She promised to pay extra afterward.

As one woman listening to another desperately plead for help, with a party fast approaching and her lashes looking awful, how could Oga bear to refuse?

She softened and agreed, unaware that this might become a decision she would never forget for the rest of her life.

At precisely four o’clock that afternoon, Victoria appeared at Oga’s apartment door.

She was carrying a clear plastic container holding three small slices of cheesecake.

Victoria boasted that she had bought them from the renowned Italian bakery in Brooklyn, which she called Cy Shock. She said it was the best cheesecake in New York and that she had bought it especially to thank Oga for her kindness.

Who would suspect anything wrong with such an appetizing box of cake?

Victoria even casually picked up two slices and ate them right in front of Oga.

She ate with obvious enjoyment, as though deliberately trying to demonstrate how delicious the cheesecake was.

Seeing her confidently eat two slices, how could Oga remain suspicious?

And who ever thinks they need to be wary of a piece of cake?

Oga certainly did not.

Victoria handed her the third slice and coaxed her:

Try it. It’s absolutely delicious.

Without hesitation, Oga took a bite and said it tasted good.

But the disturbing thing was that Victoria kept pressuring her:

Eat faster. Finish it. Don’t leave any behind. This cake is so good, and it’s very hard to get.

Do you see how calculated she was?

She was not only persuading Oga to eat poisoned cake, but urging her to finish every bite so that she would consume the entire dose.

Just five minutes after Oga finished the slice, the nightmare began.

Oga recalled that her insides suddenly churned with pain, as though someone were tearing at them with a knife.

Her stomach cramped violently. Sweat poured off her. Her vision blurred, and the floor seemed to tilt and sway beneath her.

She managed to vomit several times before collapsing onto the floor and slipping into a deep coma, without even having time to cry out for help.

Normally, in a situation like that, you would expect the perpetrator to act quickly and flee, wouldn’t you?

But Victoria did not immediately disappear after seeing her victim collapse.

The following day, August 29, 2016, she calmly returned to the apartment to complete her horrifying staged scene.

She stripped off Oga’s usual modest sportswear and dressed the unconscious woman in flimsy, provocative lace underwear.

Then she scattered sedative pills across the mattress and floor, creating the appearance of a scene of sexual excess followed by suicide.

That was the scene I described at the beginning.

More horrifying still, in the oppressive heat of an August day, she turned the bedroom heater up to its maximum setting.

Her purpose was to turn the room into a furnace.

It would intensify the poison’s effects, hasten the victim’s cardiac collapse, and accelerate the decomposition of the body to erase evidence.

Could anything be more appalling or barbaric?

She seemed afraid of nothing.

Every action appeared to have been planned long beforehand and carried out with such practiced ease that investigators were forced to ask whether Oga could really have been her only victim.

Before fleeing, Victoria also stole everything: Oga’s Ukrainian passport, U.S. work authorization, Social Security card, identity card, all her designer handbags, and four thousand dollars in cash.

Stealing the money and valuables was easy enough to understand.

But why had she taken Oga’s identification documents as well?

Later, case records revealed that all her calculations served one purpose: to turn Oga into an unidentified body whose death would be attributed to suicide.

Victoria herself would then step out into the world with a new identity—Oga’s.

In other words, she intended to steal her identity.