Grave Intent by Alexander Hartung Page A

he’d fall asleep right in his chair—but in the afternoons, as I said, he couldn’t be stopped. And his entire mood changed too—he was always in great spirits after lunch. I didn’t need to know any more than that.”
    “How addicted was he?”
    “He struggled whenever he wasn’t taking stimulants.”
    “How often did he take them?”
    “Once a week.”
    “Where did he get the drugs?”
    “That I don’t know.”
    “Cocaine is still being used in medicine.”
    Vanessa nodded. “In cranial surgery.”
    “Could he have procured his drugs that way?”
    “No! The medical profession was sacred to him. It might sound funny, but he never would have exploited his position for such a thing.”
    “Through a dealer, then?”
    “I’m guessing, yes.”
    “Maybe a patient?”
    “It’s possible.” Vanessa sounded unsure. “But I can’t supply you with a suspect.”
    “Our computer geeks will do that,” Jan told her. “They’ll compare the patient list with any drug-related offenses in the database. Maybe we’ll get a hit.” He noted that down for Max.
    “Could that man who was arguing with Dr. Valburg have been the dealer?” Vanessa asked.
    “Maybe. We’ll put out a search for him.” Jan put away his notepad. “Thanks for your time.” He shook Vanessa’s hand. “I’ll be in touch if I learn anything new.”
    Vanessa nodded, then went back inside the office.
    On the way to his car, Jan took out his phone and called Chandu. It was time to stir things up in Berlin’s underground.

    It was late afternoon as Chandu strolled through the old hood. He’d spent most of his time here collecting on debts and roughing up borrowers who hadn’t paid, people who’d been dumb enough to borrow money from underworld kingpins. They had all deserved it—dealers, fences, pimps, and other pillars of the community.
    As he turned a corner, he noticed the street coming to life. Nothing that a normal citizen would notice. Up on the second floor of a tenement building, a face turned away from the window. A group of kids dispersed down below and disappeared into a back courtyard. A man on a park bench discreetly pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. It was more than enough warning.
    Chandu had switched overlords. He had no friends here anymore, but more than enough new enemies. He could handle these gung-ho kiddies, but it wouldn’t be long before the tough boys came marching in. Debt collectors taking his place, bodyguards wanting to protect their investment—whether it was a lucrative hooker or some little drug hideout. No one knew why he was here, but they would all assume that it wasn’t for nostalgic reasons. And they would be right.
    It was hard to predict how fast this network operated, but he was giving it ten minutes, tops. He might not be able to get back out after that.
    It wasn’t much time, but he couldn’t reveal the slightest panic. He had worked hard for his rep as one rough thug. Any show of haste would give him away. Then those little hyenas would pounce on him even before the big lions arrived.
    Chandu hated these ugly prefab tenement buildings. The gray walls were cracking and washed out, and the glass of one building’s front door was shattered. A cheap satellite dish hung at every window. The place reeked of piss and vomit. Chandu stepped over a man propped up next to the door. He was holding a bottle of rotgut and muttering nonsense to himself.
    Chandu headed to the fifth floor. Taking the elevator was too dangerous; he might get stuck there, unable to move. So he walked slowly up the stairs. There was neither a fire escape nor a second stairwell. The ideal conditions for a hunter. And he was still the hunter—but that would be changing soon.
    Nine minutes, tops.
    On the fifth floor, Chandu stopped in front of a door made of cheap pressboard, but he knew it was reinforced with extra deadbolts, a steel bar, and metal plating. At any rate, you couldn’t just walk on in. Chandu was hoping