by Babs Carryer
Detective Small assumes control again. “Stronghold has a rock solid alibi for when he left town. We checked. It panned out. So the rental car accident? He just couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”
“Did you ask about Errol, about the past?” I query.
“Of course,” Detective Small starts. “We got the whole story. There was a lot of resentment about some technology from a long time ago. We gather that they didn’t like each other. Actually, they were rivals. I think they despised each other. But Stronghold didn’t kill him.”
Straler took over. “He has an alibi for when Errol died too. A pretty good one. A board meeting with all kinds of muckety-mucks in the room. All prepared to swear that he was there all night. He couldn’t have gotten down to Pittsburgh in time.” He stops and the room is silent. “He’s not a nice man, Brie. He’s, well, he’s an asshole. Sorry, boss,” he sends a guilty smile towards Detective Small.
“Agree with you actually, detective.”
He picks up the story. “A real asshole, like we knew he was going to be,” Straler says decisively. “We had done all this research on him, well Brie did most of it,” he states to the room at large. He turns back to me and lowers his voice. “But he’s not a criminal.”
“What about the threats to Sally, to Errol’s PI?”
“PI, what’s that?” Detective Small asks sharply.
Before I can answer, Straler fills in, “Principal Investigator. Brie means Errol’s academic advisor, thesis advisor, at the university when he was getting his PhD. This woman, the PI, she died suspiciously. Or it could be viewed as suspicious. We think Errol thought so. Stronghold was in Amherst then too. He was a professor. Brie found out from Errol’s wife, Amy, and from some other folks, that Errol might have thought Stronghold arranged an accident, a car accident, sort of like Brie’s, to get control of a certain technology. That was a long time ago. He said that he didn’t kill her. To us. He did admit threatening her because she was holding up the deal. But he didn’t kill her, or that’s what he swears. He said he felt awful about the accident and realized that Errol blamed him, but he never wanted to kowtow to Errol either so he just dropped it.”
“He’s clean,” Detective Small finishes. “He just didn’t do it.” She turns to me. “Brie, we don’t even know if Errol’s death was a murder. We are running out of leads and I am afraid that our department is not going to let this be an open case for much longer.”
I don’t say anything. There is nothing to say. I remember Shala asking me if I wanted her to read to me. I wish that she was here so that I could bury myself in a good book and forget about all that has happened.
Straler’s phone rings and he steps out of the room to answer it. “Really?” I hear him almost shout. A minute later, he comes back into the room. “I have news,” he said. We all look at him expectantly. He glances at his boss. “The guy driving the red car? Turns out his name is Boris Zokshin.” Straler pauses as we take this in. “He’s dead.”
Chapter 36
April 7
The day after I am back, Straler comes to my apartment. Neal took the day off of work to stay with me. Is he jealous? Or just curious? When I ask, he tells me that he is staying home for my safety. “You get into the worst trouble, dear Brie. And I am going to share it with you from now on.” I don’t see how he really can do that, but I am happy to have him with me today.
Straler looks super cute and clean when I answer the door, leaning on my crutches. Big grin to me and a greeting to Neal. They’re like old friends, with their “Hey, Neal,” and “Hey, detective.” “Call me Straler.” “Yea, bro,” and all that. It’s like a secret club.
We sit down at my kitchen table and Neal makes coffee. Arwen comes in meowing for a treat and rubs up against Straler’s leg. “Arwen, stop, I say,” thrumming my fingers on the table to lure her away in case Straler doesn’t like cats.
“Arwen?” he asks. “As in Tolkien’s Arwen, the beautiful half-elven from Rivendell who chooses love of Aragorn over eternal life?” I look at him in surprise. “I read Lord of the Rings twice, and I’ve seen the movies a dozen times,” he says sheepishly with a crooked smile.
“Me too!” I exclaim. “Yes, she is Arwen as in…” Neal looks at me and I shut up.
Straler pulls out a notebook. I see that it is almost full. The case has been going on for a while. He looks at me intently, his blue eyes glistening. “Brie, I’ve done some research on Boris.”
I remember Boris zooming off on his motorcycle. Straler’s face is lit up like a flashlight. This guy loves his job, I think. And I am his partner. I feel like I’m letting him down. I don’t feel any closer to solving who murdered Errol, or finding what he left for me. I reach for the bottle of capsules on the table. “I’m still on pain killers,” I explain. Neal and Straler exchange a look with raised eyebrows.
Then Straler launches into a long explanation of what he had found out about Boris. I am not following the whole conversation, but I sit there with a smile on my face.
“The meds,” I hear Neal whisper to Straler.
“Yea, right.”
I hear snatches of how Boris was involved in the Russian Mafia. It had some other name, but Straler couldn’t remember it. I started laughing and he ended up saying that he would just call it the “Russian Mafia.”
“Yea, got it,” I say. At least I think that I said it out loud. I am not sure because Straler keeps talking. By this time Neal is taking notes. In my notebook. “Hey that’s my…” But I don’t think that they hear me as they just kept going, Straler talking, Neal listening and writing. They sound far away. I must have nodded off because I wake up on the couch. I am covered by a blanket. There is a note on the coffee table.
“Honey, I took notes. Read them so that you know what Straler told us. I had to run by the office to get some work done. I’ll be back tonight.” I check my phone, which is conveniently plugged in on the floor next to the couch. I look out the window, and it is dark. 7 p.m., I guess. It hurts to sit up and even more to stand. Neal had put my crutches within reach. I turn on some lights and go into the kitchen. My notebook is on the table. There is a post it marking the spot to start reading. How thoughtful.
What I read makes me sit bolt upright in spite of the pain. Half way through, I make myself a pot of coffee. I remember the part about the Russian Mafia and Boris. It seemed that this happened before he came to the U.S. and certainly before his involvement with Quixotic. Wow, was he working for the Russian bad guys the whole time I knew him, I wonder?
Apparently, as a result of his scientific expertise, he got involved in drug distribution – medical drugs – on the black market. He was some sort of wunderkind at his university in biochemistry, where he got his Russian equivalent of a PhD. He had been tapped while he was still at school to leverage contacts between pharma companies looking to expand into Russia and large distribution firms which landed monopolies to distribute medicines to hospitals and clinics. That didn’t sound too bad to me, but then I read that the operation expanded into other types of drugs, including heroin, cocaine, and other illegal substances. Apparently, the ring was enormous with business happening all throughout the country. With Putin as President since 2000, corruption and these sorts of activities were rampant. Officials turned a blind eye. Pockets were lined. As Boris rose in the ranks, so did his illegal activities. That’s where his interaction with Popov Brothers started.
Straler specifically identified the Popov firm as being part of the ring of illegal drug distribution. In 2009, the Putin kleptocracy cracked down, probably to international pressures. Boris narrowly escaped being caught and sent to prison. He fled to the U.S. Where he got a job as a scientist for Quixotic!
I keep reading. Straler had discovered that Boris was wanted on Interpol’s Red Notice list, which is a kind of international wanted poster for fugitives. Straler further discovered that Interpol has long been accused of allowing its Red Notices to be used for political purposes. There were some arti
cles that came out in The New York Times. Neal’s notes state that Straler would send me the links to the articles. The notes end with “Call Straler when you get this far.”
Picking up on the first ring, Straler explains that the reason that Boris likely left Pittsburgh is because he was discovered. Even though he had changed his name, the Russians had found out. “Probably through the Popov connection.”
“Yes, exactly. Once he was back in touch with them, things escalated and he had to flee from both Interpol AND the Russians. They likely wanted to kill him because of what he knew. He was no longer valuable to them. They had no loyalty to him.”
My mind ponders the obvious. “Why was he in the red car following me? Was he trying to kill me?” I shudder and reach for the pain bottle but then push it aside. I have to stay cogent. And awake.
“I don’t think so, Brie. But that’s my next investigation. I will find out why he was in the car, and why he was following you.”
…….
Later that night, with Arwen on my lap and Neal at my side, we talk about what Straler had discovered.
“The connection between Boris and Popov must go way back. But why would they want to kill Errol?”
“Or you?” Neal asks gently.
“You know I have half a mind to…”
“NO WAY,” Neal shouts. “You are NOT going to Russia. No earthly way, Brie!”
“I was going to say, call the cellphone number that he left me,” I reply. Neal was right, I WAS going to say that I had half a mind to book a flight to Russia, but Neal’s reaction makes me change my mind to something more realistic.
“He left you a number?” Neal is shocked. “Why didn’t you tell me? Tell Straler when he was here earlier?”
“I forgot.” It was lame, I knew but it was all I could think of. “I called it before, but no answer. I’ll call it again. With Straler, I promise. Tomorrow. Right now I need help getting to bed.”
Neal smiles and helps me up. “Now you’re asking me to do something I am actually good at,” he chuckles to me as he helps me down the hall and into bed.
Chapter 37
April 8
In the morning, Neal drops me off at the office. I hobble in and Jim rushes to hug me. He feels terrible that he didn’t visit me in Massachusetts or at my apartment. “I did call, did Neal tell you?”
“Yes, Jim, no worries. And the flowers are lovely.” He had sent three bunches of flowers, roses, a spring bouquet, and a lovely bunch of tulips. I didn’t have vases and they had looked pretty sad sitting on the counter as Neal searched through my cabinets finding only half-finished bottles of booze and a few of my grandmother’s glasses.
“How do you live?” he sputtered as he stormed out to buy a vase. When he returned, he primped the flowers back to life and acted miffed for hours until I melted him with a request to help me set up my apartment better once I was back on my two feet.
“For us,” I said, and Neal beamed.
Jim jolts me back to reality. “Brie, I know that you are still on crutches – again – but I have to talk to you right away.” In his office, he offers me the job he mentioned before. “A new job: Director of Strategic Relationships,” he says with a warm smile in spite of looking so frail a wind could knock him over. “We need you more than ever, Brie. The board and I have some clean-up to do. We have to calm them down. To save the company. You will accept won’t you?”
Of course I will. I’d have to be insane to not accept this elevation at my age and level of experience. That I don’t deserve it, don’t have the experience for it, is irrelevant to Jim. The company is desperate, he says, to “gain normal footing on rocky ground.” He seals the deal with an assurance that he will be there with me every step of the way. He also mentions that I will be working directly for him, not for Gigi. I think about her deep, dark eyes. They will be angry.
As I hobble from his office to mine, I pass her. She is looking like the old Gigi in a black suit and high heels. As she clicks her heels towards me, I expect a hug and a smile. I get neither.
“Brie, so sorry for your troubles,” and she breezes on by with an icy look. She hates me, I realize. I nearly fall off my crutches. I’ve been promoted. Jim is CEO, not her. She is no longer my boss. And she is certainly not my friend.
…….
I am light years behind in my email. Between my eyes being bandaged at the hospital, and my vision being blurry for a while, not to mention the painkillers and a bottle of Dalwhinnie malt scotch that Neal got me, I had let the email pile up. Now that I’m back at Quixotic, I need to catch up. I close the door to my office and sit down at my computer. I am immediately overwhelmed. All I want is to do is find Errol’s killer, find what he left for me, and get back to normal at Quixotic. Most of the email is not important, and I file everything that can wait in a “To-Do” folder. One email catches my eye, however. I don’t recognize the sender but the subject startles me: “STOP your investigation.” They have my attention whoever it is. I read the email:
“Brie Prince, we know what you are doing. We are watching. Stop your investigation into the death of Dr. Errol Pyrovolakis. No good will come of this investigation. If you persist, you will find things that you do not want to know and they will be harmful to you and to those around you. I urge you to stop now!”
Am I being threatened? Who sent this? I must be getting close. Making them nervous. Good, I want you to be nervous. You won’t get away with murder…
My phone buzzes and I jerk it out of my purse. It’s them, I am sure. “Hello? Who is this and what do you want?”
“Brie, it’s Maya Pendyala,” says a surprised voice. “I am returning your call.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Maya is Errol’s colleague from Centre, who was collaborating with him on Parkinson’s.
“Oh, sorry about that. I thought you were somebody else. Thank you for returning my call.” I had followed up when I learned that she’d been with Errol in Russia. What I gathered as she talked is that no one is talking to her about Errol. She feels terrible about what happened. But, yes, she had gone on the trip to Russia.
“It was in January, I think. Maybe February, I don’t remember exactly. Two years ago. It was after some animal experiments, and we had preliminary data to present at a big neurodegenerative disease conference. I remember being annoyed with Errol because he was so proper about not including any real information. He wanted to keep that a secret because, if it worked, he wanted it to be part of the company and ‘you do things differently in a company than in academia,’ he kept telling me. Ah, I miss him terribly.” Maya sighs. “Anyway, about Russia, it was a short trip. Two days in Moscow and two days of travel, you know how it is.”
“Did anything happen while you were over there? Did he meet with anybody or talk about licensing the technology or something like that? I ask.
“I wouldn’t know, really. I had caught a cold, so I was in bed early and mainly saw the inside of my hotel room.” She pauses. “I do recall that he met someone, might have been part of a group, cousins that all worked together, or something like that. They came up to him after the talk, and I remember they were really interested in the Parkinson’s work. They said something about marketing it in Russia. I didn’t pay much attention. Commercialization, marketing, and all that was Errol’s bailiwick, not mine.”
“Was it a good conversation, do you think? Errol didn’t get upset or anything?” I knew that I was fishing, loading the bait, but I had to get her to think about this in a way that was not normal for her. Faculty researchers don’t get involved in commercialization, but they really don’t get involved in murder cases!
“No, not at that time, I don’t think. But he arranged to meet with them later that night. I was tired; probably went to bed. I didn’t think much of it, but, now that you ask, I remember that the next morning he was absolutely furious about something. Something to do with a meeting that he had had the night before. I didn’t connect the dots, but it’s very possible it was a conversation with t
hose guys. They were all related. And they had a funny name that was like a drink.
“Popov?” I ask.
“Yes, exactly, like the vodka. I remember thinking that is a pretty hilarious name, given the Russians’ reputation for alcohol consumption.”
“But you don’t know why Errol was angry, what was said? If they wanted something?”
Maya sounds crestfallen, “I’m sorry, Brie. I would tell you if I knew. I really would. But I never did find out. Now, we’ll never know.”
Oh, we might. “Thanks, Maya. You’ve been a great help. Really.”
…….
There is a soft knock on my door. It’s Straler. He comes in and closes the door behind him. “What’s up with Gigi? I just passed her in the hallway, and I thought she might sting me.”
Ugh, bees. “Pay no attention to her. There are internal politics going on. She wanted to be CEO. But she didn’t get the job. She’s not right to lead this company, anyway.”
“Aren’t you getting sophisticated and cynical!” Straler says with an admiring glance.
I dismiss him with a wave. We don’t have time to discuss things unrelated to Errol’s murder. I tell him about my call with Maya. He sits across from my desk, and I put my phone in between us. I tell him about Boris leaving me his cellphone number. “I want you to be on the call in case we find anything out that is important.”
“Brie, Boris is dead. We don’t know if anyone has that phone or what it might mean. The car didn’t belong to him. It belonged to a woman named Vivian Christophe. We are investigating if she has any link to Boris.”
“It’s worth a try. He told me that no one else would have this number.” I unfold the scrap of paper that Boris had left me and dial the number. A woman’s voice answers the phone. She sounds surprised, maybe confused.
“Hello? Who is it?”
I explain that I knew Boris at Quixotic and that he gave me this number to call him.