The Sirani Connection

by Estelle Ryan

  I swallowed. It felt like a large piece of bread was stuck in my throat. The last hour had been a great distraction from the reason I’d gone into a shutdown. But seeing Manny walking towards me, concern on his face, brought the panic back. I shook my head and held out one hand as if it would stop his progress.

  He didn’t stop. Instead he leaned over me, his face filling my vision. “Look at me. Do your Doctor Face-reader thing and look at me.”

  I did. A lone tear rolled down my left cheek. I pushed Mozart’s Quintet in E flat major for Piano and Winds into my mind and continued studying every micro-expression on his face until I could speak again. My words came out as a whisper. “I was scared.”

  “So was I, Doc,” he also whispered. “But you’re okay now and I’m almost okay. You heard that horrid doctor. A bit of rest and a lot of tea will fix me right up.”

  “She didn’t say anything about tea.” I exhaled heavily when I saw the fleeting amusement in Manny’s eyes. It was reassuring to once again be annoyed by Manny.

  He straightened. “She did. You just didn’t hear it.”

  “You know I can see when you’re lying, right?”

  “Well, I’m not lying when I’m saying that I want to have a cup of tea before I go to sleep on the wrong side of that overpriced hotel bed.”

  “You can have my side, sugar-bear.” Francine laughed when Manny swore rudely. “But I agree on getting out of here.”

  “We can all do with a good night’s rest after today.” Ivan got up. “Daniel and I will join you for breakfast tomorrow morning. Hopefully, we’ll have some results on Doctor Novotný’s autopsy. And more data.”

  Chapter EIGHT

  “DID YOU SLEEP AT ALL?” I put my coffee mug under the coffee machine spout and turned to where Francine was sitting at the kitchenette counter.

  “Nope.” She flipped her hair over one shoulder. “It was either lie in bed and stare at Manny the whole night, worrying about him, or get dressed, pretend I’m fabulous and get work done.”

  I studied her. She’d clearly spent more time than usual on her appearance. Her make-up was slightly heavier than I was used to. I wondered if it was to hide the dark circles she always had under her eyes when she was tired and stressed.

  Behind the façade of determination and focus, I could clearly see her fear. And I found this most disconcerting. My breathing increased with my heart rate as panic started pushing at my brain.

  I inhaled deeply, then placed both palms on the countertop, reaching towards her. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not equipped to be a friend. The books I’ve read talk about supporting friends when they exhibit fear like you do now. I don’t know how to support you.”

  Francine tightened her jaw and looked at the coffee machine dripping out my coffee. I waited for her to compose herself. When she looked back at me, her eyes were shiny with unshed tears. “You’re the bestest best friend anyone can ask for. And you’re doing exactly what I need you to do. You’re not fussing. That would turn me into a puddle of goo and then we won’t be able to focus on work.”

  “You can’t turn into a puddle of goo.” I thought about this. “Unless you are talking about the decomposition process after death.”

  “Oh, God, Genevieve.” Francine burst out laughing. “No, I was not talking about that, but thank you. All gooey emotions are now properly gone.”

  “Oh.” I turned to get my coffee. “Okay.”

  “So I found something interesting.” She pointed at the chair next to her.

  I took it and placed it across from her. When she didn’t say anything else, I sighed. This time I would play along with her melodrama. I knew she employed this to help her cope. “What did you find?”

  “Ooh, I thought you’d never ask.” She winked at me. “I found this just after two this morning while you were all snoring.”

  “I don’t snore.” I had an app that recorded my sleeping patterns. Also to monitor if I had any breathing, snoring or sleep apnoea problems.

  “Hmm.” She glanced at her silver wrist watch that matched the eight silver bracelets jingling every time she moved her hands. Which was all the time. “They’re most likely still snoring. Hey, what are you doing up and ready at half past five in the morning?”

  “I was going to work.” I sighed angrily. “Tell me what you found.”

  She leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Patrik Bakala was Jan Novotný’s nephew.”

  “There’s more.” I’d known her for long enough to recognise the signs.

  “Oh, there is more and then some.” She rubbed her palms together. “I used my social media and Google-fu and found quite a few gems.” She leaned back in her chair. “Don’t ask me how I got all this info, but about eleven years ago, Doctor Jan and his brother had a huge—I mean epic—fallout. There were quite a few ugly emails flying back and forth between them. All about their late father’s estate.

  “Jan didn’t care about the inheritance. Since he had no-one and nothing but his work, he said that he had enough money and didn’t need their dead father’s. He was going to put his full inheritance into a trust for his nephew Patrik, who was then twelve years old. He wanted his brother to do the same, even if it was only part of his inheritance. Brother didn’t want to do that. He wanted to sell their father’s small house in Berlin and use that money as well as the cash inheritance to invest in his cleaning company. He even wanted Doctor Jan’s inheritance as well.”

  She threw her hands in the air and rolled her eyes. “Well, that just blew up all over the place. Jan refused and even went to court. It went on and on and on and on. Should I tell you?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Thought so. Anyhoo, Jan signed legal documents giving his brother everything. He disavowed his brother completely and cut off all communication. The same day, he established a trust for his nephew. He waited a year before reaching out to his nephew. I found that email and was quite touched. His nephew seemed totally ready to connect with his uncle and get away from his dad. Do you know why?”

  “Of course not.” What an absurd question.

  “I know you don’t know. That’s why I’m going to tell you.” Again she paused dramatically. “His dad—Jan’s not-so-loving brother—had used all the money for his cleaning business and lost it all. In less than a year. In the process he took to the bottle and was by now a proper drunk. Patrik stayed with his dad until he was sixteen, then went to live with his uncle.”

  “Didn’t that cause legal problems?”

  “No. You know why? I’ll tell you why.” She smiled when my lips tightened and I frowned. “Patrik changed his name and appearance. Before that he had long hair and was totally into heavy metal—the look, black clothes and all. When he moved to live with Jan, he cut his hair short and went all preppy. His social media photos for the last nine years are all slacks, shirts and vests like a proper nerd in the movies would wear.”

  “Did he legally change his name?”

  “After a few years, yes. He took his mother’s maiden name, which is Bakala. And it seems like he and Jan were very careful to keep their lives separate in public. Nothing connected them on social media or anywhere else.”

  “What about the police? Wasn’t there an investigation when he left home at sixteen?”

  “Nope. Brother dear never reported his own son missing.” The corners of her mouth turned down. “Bastard.”

  “Apart from the emails, did you find anything else to connect them?”

  “No.” Francine waved her index finger at me. “Don’t even think it. Patrik’s father didn’t do any of this or have any contact with Shahab. He’s been dead for four years.”

  I thought about this information. “You didn’t mention the mother.”

  “Because she died when Patrik was three. Breast cancer.” Her expression softened. “He’d had a rough start, but it really seemed like he found a home and love with Doctor Jan. And now they’re both dead.”

  “Who’s dead?” Manny wa
lked out of their room.

  My eyes widened. “You look different.”

  “Hmph.” He glared at Francine. “This is what happens when she packs and tells me to trust her.”

  “Doesn’t he look snappy?” She jumped up and hugged Manny before taking his face between her hands and studying him. “How are you feeling?”

  “Downright daft in this outfit.” He grumbled when she kissed him, but pulled her closer and closed his eyes. When she moved back, he grumbled again. “I’m fine. I told you that yesterday.”

  “Blah, blah.” She stepped back, but didn’t take her eyes off him. “Your colour looks better. But it could be because for once you’re wearing decent clothes.”

  The tan trousers were perfectly ironed as well as the fitted black shirt. His black shoes were not the scuffed brown slip-ons he usually wore and his belt looked new. His stubbled jaw and the scowl on his face had not changed though.

  “Oh, this is...” Colin laughed as he walked towards us. “Millard, you look respectable for maybe the first time since I had the pleasure of making your friendly acquaintance.”

  “Go back to your room, Frey. And stay there.” He turned to Francine. “Now I have to put up with this the whole day.”

  “Back to your sunny normal self, I see.” Colin kissed my cheek and walked to the coffee machine. “I heard Vinnie in his room, so he should be out here soon.”

  “An early morning for all of us.” Manny sat on the chair on Francine’s other side and pointed his chin at her laptop. “Did you find something useful?”

  She had to start her update three times, twice more when Vinnie, then Phillip joined us. Vinnie went straight to the kitchenette and started breakfast.

  “Ooh, you’re all up.” Roxy walked into the shared area, still in her pyjamas. Pink llamas were chasing clouds on her flannel trousers and shirt. Francine’s lip curled when she noticed Roxy’s bulky blue woollen slippers. Roxy lifted her arms and pretended to sleepwalk towards Vinnie as she’d done a few times before. “Coffee. I need coffee. Now.”

  Vinnie held out a mug without turning around to face her. She giggled, took the mug and hugged him from behind. “You are my hero.”

  “Bloody hell.” Manny’s eyes were wide as he observed them. He turned to me. “Do they do this often?”

  “All the time.”

  “Well, kudos to you, Doc.” Manny rubbed his chin, then looked at Roxy. “Doctor Ferreira, can you tell me more about this rubbish that nearly killed me?”

  “Why yes, I can, Colonel Millard.” Roxy’s faux British accent caused Manny’s scowl to deepen. Francine snickered and held out her fist to bump it against Roxy’s. The latter dragged a chair to my other side, but thankfully didn’t sit too close. She took a sip of her coffee and sighed happily before she focused on Manny. “What would you like to know?”

  “Let’s start with the basics of fentanyl. I haven’t had the need to learn about this before now.”

  “The Americans know much more about opioids.” All jesting left Roxy’s expression. “They’ve been running education campaigns and have produced a lot of documentaries in an attempt to teach people about all types of opioids. The current estimate is that about ten percent of people who are prescribed opioids to deal with post-surgery and other pain become addicted. I think it might be more than that, since there is such a stigma attached to addiction that people will do anything and everything to hide it.

  “Very few people actually start on fentanyl. It’s only after their prescribed medication runs out that they start looking for illegal substitutes. Then there are those who are on heroin or other opioids for a long enough time that they no longer get the effect they want from small doses, so the idea of getting more bang for your buck with fentanyl makes it attractive. It’s cheaper than heroin and cocaine, so if you think about it, it is more cost-effective.”

  “But a lot of addicts don’t even know they’re using fentanyl, right?” Francine asked. “I read this morning that fentanyl is a favourite to use as a cutting agent when the dealers are making up their cocaine or meth batches.”

  “True.” Roxy took a moment to think. “No, I can’t remember the statistics of that. But I know that fentanyl as a cutting agent will result in an intense physical addiction to opioids. Over a longer period, addicts’ bodies develop a tolerance for it and they need to up their doses all the time.” She looked at Francine. “I would have to read Doctor Novotný’s research, but if he was on the road to develop a drug that could counter the effects and build a resistance to opioids, it would make recovery for addicts so much easier.” She frowned. “But it would be problematic if they ever needed surgery. Usual anaesthetics wouldn’t work on them. Hmm.”

  Roxy presented plenty of information to consider. There were many complex elements to keep in mind. One of those elements was the growing list of people involved in this case. I thought about it some more. “We are working on very strong circumstantial evidence that Shahab killed Patrik Bakala three days ago and Doctor Jan Novotný yesterday morning. I’m willing to accept that speculation. We’ve also found evidence in Antonin Korn’s gallery that Shahab was supplying him with Near Eastern antiquities for his black-market sales. What we don’t know is if there is any connection between Antonin Korn and Doctor Novotný and his nephew.”

  “I haven’t found anything at all,” Francine said. “And I’ve looked. There have been no emails from Doctor Jan to Ant. And Jan emailed everyone.”

  “The connection we have—albeit tenuous—is the fentanyl on Antonin’s briefcase and the fact that Doctor Novotný was working on a cure for opioid addiction.” Roxy sat back in her chair. “A cure like that would be life-changing for so many people. Far too many people are caught in its awful web. And it’s too easy to overdose.”

  “Holy hell.” Manny rubbed his hand over his face. “Close call.”

  Francine slapped his shoulder with the back of her hand. “One you are not going to ever repeat. You are going to live forever, you hear me?”

  “No one can li...” I nodded. She was speaking in hyperbole as she did so often.

  “What’s this?” Manny stared at the mug in front of him, then glared at Vinnie.

  “Coffee.” Vinnie shrugged. “I thought it might tide you over until I put the croissants in the oven and run downstairs to get milk for your tea.”

  “There’s no milk?” Manny looked around the large shared room. “What kind of place is this?”

  “You finished the milk last night with your four cups of tea.” Francine tapped on her tablet. “I can order room service.”

  “Nah.” Vinnie opened the oven door and put a tray inside. “I’ll pop downstairs quickly.” He looked at Manny. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Manny grunted. “You should stick with your terrible Texan accent. Your British accent sounds like you are in pain.”

  “With you around I am.” Vinnie slapped his thigh as he laughed. “That was funny.”

  “Bugger off, the lot of you.”

  And so it went on. Vinnie left, but Colin and Roxy teased Manny about his outfit while Phillip complimented him. Francine exaggerated every word she said, but her nonverbal cues communicated less distress the longer they went on and the more Manny groused about everyone’s disrespect.

  Phillip’s phone rang in his bedroom and he left, a soft smile on his face. It was good for me to see him this relaxed. The last two days had brought immense tension to his muscles. Watching his disquietude had eliminated the usual protective layers I had built up to keep shutdowns at bay. As he closed his bedroom door behind him, I turned my attention back to the bickering around the table.

  The hotel door slammed open, causing all of us to jerk. Manny and Colin jumped up, Manny reaching for the back of his trousers where his handgun was holstered.

  “Look who I found loitering around the lobby.” Vinnie entered the room, dragging a woman behind him.

  I gasped, my hand flying to my chest. Walking reluctantly into the room was the
woman I’d seen at the police station and the gallery. Today she was wearing an orange-brown knitted dress, black tights, the same brown double-buckled boots, another bulky scarf and a brown fedora. This close, I noticed for the first time the pink, blue and green neon highlights in her thick braid draped over her shoulder.

  She glanced at everyone in the room and seemed to relax. Until she noticed the gun in Manny’s hand. She took a step back. Vinnie didn’t allow it. He jerked her closer. “You’ve been wanting to meet us. Well, here we are.”

  “You can let go of my wrist now.” Her voice made me gasp again, her neutral English accent unmistakable.

  I pointed at her, but couldn’t speak. No one noticed me.

  Vinnie was waiting for Colin to place himself by the door before letting go of the woman. Even though Manny was pointing the weapon at the floor, everything in his posture communicated readiness to act. To shoot.

  Francine jumped up with her phone in her hand. She walked straight to the woman and took a photo of her face. “Nice outfit. Very hipster.”

  “Um. Thanks?” The woman watched as Francine rushed back to her laptop and uploaded the image.

  I’d worked with Francine long enough to know that she was running a facial recognition search for this woman on all the databases we had access to.

  “Who are you?” Manny’s tone was frigid as he nodded at Vinnie, who stepped away from the woman. Vinnie placed himself between the woman and me, Francine and Roxy.

  “Are you okay now?” The woman studied Manny’s face, seemingly recovered from her initial shock. “I was worried when I doubled back and saw you being taken to the hospital.”

  “Who the holy bleeding hell are you?” Manny’s masseter muscles tightened his jaw until it looked like he might break his teeth. Roxy got up, her hand reaching towards Manny.

  Phillip’s bedroom door opened, drawing the woman’s attention. Her eyes widened, her lips parted and her face turned ashen.