The Netscher Connection

  Estelle Ryan

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  The

  Netscher Connection

  Nazi-looted art. Cyber-stalking. Betrayal.

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  Nonverbal communication expert Doctor Genevieve Lenard is on holiday in Hungary when she and her team are asked to assist in a missing person case. Her autistic mind is already having difficulties dealing with the new environment, and having to co-operate with local authorities might push her past her limits. Even more so when the missing person turns out to be an important, and painful, part of a team member’s past.

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  The seemingly simple case takes a gruesome turn as their search uncovers artwork drenched in violent history, numerous deaths presumed to be by natural causes and the menacing online presence of a serial killer who’s been cyber-stalking victims for years. Bodies are piling up at an alarming rate and, knowing that one of their own is in the killer’s sights, Genevieve will have to use all her inner strength and expertise to stop this ruthless murderer.

  Contents

  Chapter ONE

  Chapter TWO

  Chapter THREE

  Chapter FOUR

  Chapter FIVE

  Chapter SIX

  Chapter SEVEN

  Chapter EIGHT

  Chapter NINE

  Chapter TEN

  Chapter ELEVEN

  Chapter TWELVE

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Chapter NINETEEN

  Chapter TWENTY

  Chapter TWENTY-ONE

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  The Netscher Connection

  A Genevieve Lenard Novel

  By Estelle Ryan

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  First published 2017

  Copyright © 2017 by Estelle Ryan

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely incidental.

  Chapter ONE

  “Did you know this used to be an Orthodox Serbian church until 1944?” Colin Frey, my romantic partner of five years, notorious thief and unofficial Interpol agent, looked up from his smartphone and studied the cream and mustard façade of the building in front of us. “After the war it became a Roman Catholic Church and is now one of seven churches here in Szentendre.”

  I enjoyed the factoids Colin got from the travel guide app he’d downloaded on his smartphone. It made our visit to the Hungarian riverside town twenty-two kilometres north of Budapest even more interesting. I adjusted my handbag strap over my shoulder and waited for Colin to take another photo.

  It was early autumn and the weather was wonderful. Sunny and warm days, cooler evenings and no crowds. The tourist season was finished, which meant I enjoyed strolling through the quiet village, and very few of the photos Colin took had unwanted people in them. Szentendre was also still one of the less-discovered cultural gems, which made it the perfect place for a person who despised crowded tourist places. A person like me.

  “There you are!” Vinnie, the self-appointed protector of our investigative team, stormed across the cobblestone courtyard. His corrugator supercilii muscles were drawn down, forming a displeased frown. “Dude! Why didn’t you wake me up? You know I should be here.”

  “Good morning, sunshine.” Colin’s smile grew when Vinnie became even more agitated. “Sleeping on the job, were you?”

  Vinnie stopped next to us, glowered at Colin, then turned to me. “I know you think it’s safe here, Jen-girl, but you really shouldn’t take any chances. We’ve had this conversation before.”

  “And all three times I pointed out that those men”—I looked at the tall man leaning against the church a few metres behind us, the bald man standing by the stairs and the dark-skinned man under the tree to our right—“are already following us everywhere.”

  “Émile’s bodyguards are good, but they’re not me.” Vinnie thumped his fist against his chest, the long scar on the left side of his face turning a darker shade.

  Eight months ago, I’d decided to go on holiday. I had not anticipated the endless debates, arguments, discussions and even betting that were going to take place. My thought had been for Colin and I go to a remote locale and spend a few days reading and relaxing. That was not to be.

  Vinnie had refused to let us go anywhere without his protection. His girlfriend and internationally respected infectious disease specialist Doctor Roxanne Ferreira had agreed, but she was terrible at deception. Her true motivation had been easy to observe—excitement about joining us on a holiday trip. My best friend and top hacker Francine had dramatically pretended to be devastated that I’d considered going anywhere without her. Her romantic partner and the only law enforcement officer on our team, Colonel Manfred Millard, had argued to let Colin and I go on our own, but he’d been outvoted. He’d been most displeased.

  Nikki, the young woman who’d become part of our close-knit group, had begged for us to wait until her baby was at least six months old. She wanted to join us, but not while Eric was still too young. Of all the chaotic arguments, this had caused me the most anxiety. I was still barely coping with Eric’s presence in my life. The thought of having him out of his safe, controlled environment had sent me into a three-hour shutdown.

  After three full days of everyone arguing and me observing their nonverbal cues, I’d declared that we would all go. On the condition that I chose the location. That was the only way my autistic mind would be able to manage the change in routine, the concern over everyone’s wellbeing and the general anxiety I experienced while travelling.

  A Sunday morning brunch with Émile Roche had ended weeks of agonising over our holiday destination. I’d met Émile during one of our cases. At that time he’d been in the process of legitimising his businesses that had previously served his organised crime lifestyle.

  That Sunday he’d announced that every transaction for the last eighteen months had been one hundred percent legal. When he’d heard about our vacation plans, he’d offered us his newly acquired villa in Hungary. Only when I’d had a video conference with the housekeeper and the chef had I agreed.

  We’d been here for six days and I’d not yet regretted the decision. Vinnie and Manny complained about it all the time. I studied Vinnie as he glared at the bodyguards Émile had insisted follow us. “I watched you play computer games with them yesterday. You trust them.”

  “I don’t.” Vinnie crossed his arms. “Just because they can work a game controller and know how to strategise an assault and a rescue in a game doesn’t mean they know how to do it in real life.”

  “Drop it, Vin.” Colin put his camera in the backpack slung over his shoulder. “You’re just pissed that you woke up alone.”

  “Even Roxy left!” Vinnie put his fists on his hips. “When she finally answered her phone, she told me that she was buying more art.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Colin took my hand and walked towards the stairs leading down to the main square. “There are some really amazing artists in this little place.”

  “But she’s already bo
ught three paintings and two bronze thingies.” Vinnie’s top lip curled. “Both are these long women in long dresses and long umbrellas.”

  Colin laughed. I seldom saw him this relaxed. The last few years had been filled with art crime cases as well as more sensitive cases that the president of France sent our way. Our team worked directly under President Godard, investigating complex cases that were not limited to art, but often started with a high-end crime.

  Apart from this, Colin was frequently contracted by Interpol to consult on cases that needed not to be immortalised in official reports. At first I had found it disconcerting that such a respected agency would employ thieves. Now I understood that there were situations when Colin had to use his unique skills to break into seemingly impenetrable buildings to retrieve stolen artefacts, classified prototypes of all sorts and even highly sensitive data that had been stolen by countries that planned to use it to start wars. Interpol also used Colin to rescue kidnap victims. The latter made me especially proud.

  Colin slapped Vinnie between his shoulders. “I’m glad Roxy listened to me and not you. Those elongated figures are beautiful and evidence of a master bronze caster. True art. And a much better investment than posters of cars.”

  Vinnie grunted. “Cars are manly.”

  I listened to the bantering between the two best friends. There were times I found the nonsensical to and fro exhausting, but I’d come to learn how invaluable it was to relationships. I had not mastered that skill. “Where’s Nikki?”

  “Huh?” Vinnie stopped in the middle of arguing against art and lifted his chin towards the other end of the market square. “The little punk and her tiny punk are somewhere with Francine and the old man. I walked past them when I was looking for you. Franny was buying some glass bowl in one of the million little shops.”

  “There are not a million...” I sighed at my inability to ignore hyperbole.

  “Yoo-hoo!” Roxy’s melodic greeting reached us from the end of one of the narrow streets. She waved and rushed towards us. Today she was wearing jeans, a fitted shirt that the ever fashion-conscious Francine had insisted on and running shoes that had caused an animated argument, Francine doing most of the arguing and insulting. Roxy shifted the bulging shopping bags into her other hand and tucked her curly hair behind one ear. “I love this place. Love, love, love. Thank you for bringing us here, Genevieve. There’s something beautiful in every single shop.”

  “I can see that.” Vinnie took the shopping bags from her. “We only have so much room in the car, short stuff.”

  “Who’re you calling short stuff?” Roxy stood on her toes and planted a loud kiss on Vinnie’s chin. “There will be enough room. If not, we’ll just leave Francine behind.”

  “Why would you do that?” Francine asked from behind me. She was pressing her hand against her chest, her eyes wide in faux-misery. “You love me. Why leave me behind?”

  Roxy leaned against Vinnie and snorted. “Because then I can wear comfortable shoes without feeling like I’ve committed an unpardonable sin.”

  Francine lifted one eyebrow and slowly lowered her eyes to Roxy’s colourful running shoes. “That is a worse crime than an unpardonable sin, Rox. No woman proud of her chromosomes would wear”—a fake shudder shook her body—“those things.”

  “I see you found them.” Manny stopped next to Francine and put his arm around her shoulders. I had never seen any public show of affection from Manny until this trip. Even though he argued daily with Vinnie and Colin, and fretted about staying in the villa of a man who’d once been one of the most powerful criminals in Strasbourg, his overall muscle tension had decreased and a few times I’d seen a soft smile lift the corners of his mouth.

  “Doc G!” Nikki walked around Manny and Francine, her cheeks lifted and the corners of her eyes crinkled in a genuine smile. She was carrying her baby in a large swath of material wrapped around her body and securing Eric. I’d researched the use of baby-wearing slings and then had made sure Nikki had followed the instructions carefully so Eric’s little body was properly supported. She stopped next to me. “Look what we found.”

  I gasped. “Is that safe?”

  Eight-month-old Eric was holding a green stuffed toy that looked like a dragon. Nikki kissed Eric’s head and smiled. “Of course. It’s soft and cuddly. How can it be dangerous?”

  “Eighty percent of cuddly toys harbour harmful bacteria. Other micro-organisms on soft toys that have been detected during research are antibiotic-resistant Staphylococcus aureus and other bacteria that can cause food poisoning.” I forced myself to stop when I noticed the horror on Roxy’s face as she stared from me to the green dragon.

  Eric lost interest in the toy and looked around. The moment he saw me, his eyes widened and he leaned towards me, his hands reaching for me.

  Eight months. Sometimes it felt like it had been only eight days and sometimes it felt like Eric had been with us for eight years. Nikki had adjusted beautifully to being a mother. She was energetic, caring and responsible. Eric’s easy nature had helped that adjustment. He had started sleeping through the night after only five weeks and seldom cried. Mostly he smiled. And cooed. Like now.

  I looked at his outstretched hands and took a small step back. Vinnie stepped forward and grabbed both Eric’s hands. He gave them a little shake, which drew Eric’s attention and also brought a big smile to his face. He loved Vinnie.

  Nikki had barely loosened the sling when Vinnie lifted Eric into his arms. “There you are, tiny punk. Is Mommy making you suffer through hours and hours of shopping?”

  I watched him walk away, talking to Eric about the fate of men having to help their women shop. I narrowed my eyes as I made a note to discuss the sexism underlying that one-sided conversation. I was glad though that Vinnie wasn’t using baby-talk with Eric.

  I’d read a Stanford University study that showed addressing babies in normal, educated language developed their own linguistic skills sooner. The use of proper grammar, more varied sentences and full-sentence conversations taught babies context and helped them draw connections between concepts and words.

  One of the biggest challenges I’d been struggling with had been obsessing about every aspect of Eric’s life. I’d expected some form of my obsessive nature to affect how I related to Eric’s presence in my life, but I had not been prepared for how overwhelming it would be at times.

  For the first few weeks, I had experienced daily shutdowns. The smell of his diaper, a drop of his saliva on my hand, even the position of his head would cause me the greatest distress and prove too much for my non-neurotypical brain. But his crying had been my undoing.

  The eight times Nikki had not been able to console him in less than six minutes had been too much for me. The first seven times had resulted in shutdowns, but the last time, I’d had a complete meltdown. Fortunately, I’d known it was coming and had escaped to my bathroom. It had resulted in the destruction of a glass vase and two towels. It had also been one of the longer meltdowns I’d experienced. Colin had tried to calm me in the ways he usually did, but it had not been as effective. Only after I’d plucked at and destroyed the fibres of the second towel had I responded to him.

  It had been hard. Even though Nikki knew that neither she nor Eric was to blame, I saw the self-recrimination on her face after each shutdown and meltdown. I wished I didn’t cause my loved ones so much despair.

  After seven weeks, I’d adjusted mostly to Eric’s presence and had found my own new equilibrium. And I’d no longer suffered from daily shutdowns. Not until we’d come on holiday. Change was never easy for me and the new environment combined with my obsessive concerns about the hygiene and safety surrounding Eric had brought the daily shutdowns back. It was exhausting.

  Watching my friends laugh and discuss their new purchases, and knowing how much this break meant to all of them, made my own discomfort seem insignificant. Nikki was shaking out the long piece of cloth and folding it neatly while discussing with Colin the many great artists�
�� works on display here. Roxy and Manny were arguing with Francine about where to have lunch and Vinnie was now pointing out old buildings to Eric, telling him that they were hard to secure and discussing the best entry points if stealth was to be kept at an optimum.

  “I’m hungry.” Nikki pushed her hand against her stomach. After eight months and a lot of dedication, her twenty-two-year-old body had returned to its pre-pregnancy state. She looked over at Francine, Manny and Roxy. “Since I’m going back to Strasbourg tomorrow, I get to choose what we have for lunch.”

  Francine groaned. “Not lángos again. Please, Nix.”

  “I love it.” She looked at Vinnie. “Vin loves it too. And Eric as well.”

  “You fed lángos to Eric?” I was horrified. The typical Hungarian food was not only most unhealthy for adults, but should never be fed to an eight-month-old baby. It was deep-fried bread dough, the size of a medium-sized plate, served with cheese, garlic and sour cream.

  Nikki looked at me, fake sincerity all over her face. “He told me that he prefers lángos with the extra garlic sauce to the organic vegetable mash I’ve been feeding him. He really loves it.”

  It was clear she thought she was funny. I exhaled sharply and turned away from her. “It’s not healthy.”

  “Pah!” She raised her hands and wiggled her fingers as if drawing the others to her. “So? Who’s with me? Lángos. Delicious lángos. You guys can eat all the boring healthy stuff when I’m gone.”

  I was proud of myself for not responding. After giving birth, Nikki had become especially health-conscious. She’d even convinced Vinnie to adjust a few of his recipes to use healthier alternatives for some ingredients. At home, she seldom indulged in junk food, but had been immediately drawn to the lángos stand and had declared herself an addict after the first bite.

  “I tell you what, little punk.” Vinnie shifted Eric onto his other arm and joined us. “I’ll have a lángos with you if you let me choose your avatar for tonight’s game.”

  “Aw, come on!” Nikki crossed her arms. “You’re going to put me in some silly costume. That’s a high price to pay, Vin. Especially for lunch with the mother of your most favourite nephew.”

 
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