“It doesn’t seem that way,” Jack said. “She apparently died of botulism. Have you ever heard of that?”

“I think so,” Flash said. “Isn’t that some kind of food poisoning?”

“Generally, yes,” Jack said. “It’s caused by a toxin that a specific type of bacteria manufactures. What makes this bacteria particularly dangerous is that it can grow without oxygen. You used to hear about it mainly in connection with canned goods when the food wasn’t heated enough during processing to kill the spores. But in your sister’s case, the important thing for you to understand is that it appears that foul play wasn’t involved.”

“Are you sure?”

“I just got the report back from the laboratory,” Jack said. “The technician assured me they checked the results. I’m personally confident she died of botulism, and except for a few apocryphal stories of the toxin being used to assassinate Reinhard Heyrich, one of Hitler’s cronies, back in World War II, I’ve never heard of the agent being used in a deliberate poisoning. The stuff is not easy to come by. The idea of Connie’s husband using it would be giving him more credit than he deserves.”

“Damn!” Flash exclaimed.

“I tell you what,” Jack said. “Warren and I will let you win at basketball the next time we’re on opposing teams.”

Flashed laughed halfheartedly. “You’re too much, Doc! As competitive as you and Warren are, I can’t see you guys throwing a game, no-how. Anyway, thanks for looking into this mess for me. I appreciate it.”

“I’m glad to have been able to help,” Jack said. “Now I have a question for you. What’s Connie’s husband’s name?”

“Yuri,” Flash said, practically spitting the name. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m afraid I have to call him up,” Jack said. “With Connie passing away with botulism, Yuri is certainly at risk.”

“I couldn’t care less,” Flash said.

“I can appreciate that,” Jack said. “And as your friend, I couldn’t care either. But as a doctor, I feel differently. Would you mind giving me his phone number?”

“Do I have to?” Flash asked.

“I suppose I could look it up,” Jack said. “Or get it from the Brooklyn office. But it would just be easier if you gave it to me.”

“I feel like I’m doing the turd a favor,” Flash complained before giving Jack the number.

Jack wrote it down. They talked for a few more minutes about possibly playing ball that evening before saying goodbye and hanging up.

Once they did, Jack immediately dialed the Brighton Beach number. As the call went through, he mentally outlined what he’d say. He wondered if Yuri Davydov would have an accent, and if he truly was the ogre that Flash believed he was. But Jack didn’t get through. The line was occupied.