Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  Brant rolled his eyes in frustration.

  ``Her outfit. Those shoes.’’ Brant crouched for a better shot.

  ``What about them?’’

  ``They’re newly bought. No wear.’’

  With thumb and forefinger, Brant zoomed in on the woman’s left foot.

  ``Okay, so she bought new shoes. Find me a woman in this city who doesn’t buy at least one pair of shoes every month. Women and shoes. It’s a thing.’’

  Brant shrugged. ``Maybe.’’

  ``What? You think there’s more?’’

  ``You say women and shoes are a thing, eh? Well, that’s true in a sense. Patronizing and misogynistic, maybe, but partly true.’’

  ``Misogynistic?’’

  ``It’s a word. Look it up.’’

  Brant showed him the screen on his cell and the photo he’d taken moments before.

  ``Jimmy Choo. I recognize them because my wife, Maggie, used to own a pair. They were a gift from daddy. I’m betting these cost about $1,400.’’

  ``So she had expensive taste in shoes. I don’t see how that’s much help.’’

  Brant positioned his phone for a second time and quickly snapped a picture of the woman’s face.

  At his back, Sanchez had begun waving his arms, gesticulating toward the other side of the square and the public library. Three unmarked cars had pulled up.

  Brant tapped an icon on his phone’s touchscreen. The messaging app sprang to life.

  ``Give me your cell number.’’

  Clatterback did as he was told without protest.

  ``I’m sending you a text with a picture of the shoes and the girl. Start circulating them among shopkeepers. I’m guessing boutiques. Probably downtown or in the vicinity of the major hotels. It’s a long shot, but worth the effort.’’

  ``Sounds like a lot of time for nothing if you ask me.’’

  ``I didn’t ask you. Also, work with Sanchez. Let’s get an interview list. Start going door to door if you need to. I want to talk to everyone. The guy that runs the hot dog stand on the other side of the square. The Coke delivery guy. The guy behind the counter at the CVS place. Pull the CCTV footage. Someone around here knows something. I want to know what they saw and when.’’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The day was coming to an end. The car had been returned to the pool and a preliminary report had been filed with Jolly.

  The squad room was on autopilot. A television tuned to a local cable news channel droned in one corner. Tate had long gone. A junior investigator sat behind a mound of paperwork, shuffling one file from an inbox to a tray on the other side of her desk. Two uniforms had claimed desk space near the printers. The talk was of budget cuts, the travesty that was this season’s Boston Red Sox, and the hope that the Bruins would reclaim at least a semblance of the city’s proud sporting heritage.

  Brant checked his email. Satisfied he’d missed nothing, he logged off. Ben needed picking up from daycare and he had just about enough time to get across town before incurring a late pickup penalty.

  Little Acorn daycare was housed in a converted church on Warren Street. It wasn’t the best neighborhood, nor was it the ideal school for Ben, but it was safe and the staff seemed attentive.

  The daycare’s head teacher met him at the door of the center, her arms folded in a gesture of defense — or defiance. He could never tell.

  Carolyn Growski was a big woman, bulky with a cap of brown hair and a round, doughy face. She’d been a university librarian in a past life but had decided she was unsuited for the academic life and had devoted herself to young children ever since. Her demeanor was open and warm, but tinged with a sharpened edge he found off-putting. She could be mean-spirited and she knew it.

  ``He’s been cranky all day,’’ she said without greeting. ``We’ve been trying to keep him busy, to keep his mind off whatever’s bothering him, but nothing we do makes any difference. Is everything okay at home? Is there anything bothering him?’’

  Growski wore big, voluminous dresses and moved in a slow, deliberate fashion. Her voice was deep, her hair thinning. Had he not met her husband at the daycare’s Christmas party the previous year, Brant would have taken her to be a lesbian.

  ``He’s been hitting the other boys,’’ a teaching assistant who’d taken up position beside the head teacher said. ``We’re worried he’s not getting enough stimulation at home. He needs deep contact with other people.’’

  Brant thanked them, apologized for Ben’s behavior and promised he’d talk to his son.

  Dusk and the sky above Back Bay was a pale gray, turning to black. The first stars of the night had appeared. The moon, high overhead, was a crescent of light. To the left, the city spread out, the skyline punctuated by office towers and blinking lights.

  They’d made their way through rush hour traffic accompanied by The Who. Quadrophenia. Daltrey doing his best to keep pace with Townshend. Deciding he was in a different frame of mind, Brant changed over to some Springsteen and Thunder Road. Ben hummed along, trying to match the Boss word for word. Nothing like Springsteen to clear a bad day, Brant thought, replaying the scene in the alleyway. He edged onto Cambridge, turned left onto Prospect and coasted, passing the Irish pubs, whole food grocery stores and art galleries. Solid stone buildings, gray and elegant, flanked each side of the street. A closed, claustrophobic feeling.

  Ben said nothing. In the rearview mirror, Brant watched his son as he fiddled with the seat belt, struggling to break free of his restraints.

  ``Did you have fun today?’’

  Again, Ben remained silent, his eyes fixated on the restraint’s latch, his small hands poking and prodding at the locking mechanism. Finally, the boy looked up.

  ``Stevie farted.’’

  Steven Stover. Ben’s best friend at daycare. Before Maggie’s death, many a night had been filled with Ben’s reciting of the day’s events and Steven Stover’s exploits.

  ``Did you have a good time?’’

  ``Stevie hit me. In the face.’’

  ``What did you do when that happened?’’

  ``Hit him back.’’

  A broad smile appeared on his son’s face as he punched at the air, no doubt mimicking the pasting he’d given his best friend. Brant was crestfallen.

  ``You know that’s not what to do, right Ben?’’

  ``He hit first.’’

  ``I know but you can’t go around hitting people. It’s not right.’’

  ``But you have a gun. You shoot people.’’

  Brant sucked air in through his teeth. How did he explain to a four-year-old the difference between a cop and a common criminal? He and Maggie had considered the point many times before, giving up and deciding Ben had been too young to grasp the subtleties of the discussion. The truth was, he wasn’t sure he understood the difference himself anymore.

  Brant tapped the steering wheel with his left hand, matching the change of tempo as the Boss segued into Tenth Avenue Freeze Out. At a stoplight, he smiled at his son over his shoulder. The little guy would have to be fed, bathed and prepped for bed.

  Mrs. Rodrigues was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when they arrived home. She was a small, stout woman with a dark complexion. She’d come from the Philippines, where she still had family. Maggie had found her through a colleague at the university, and she’d stayed on after the accident.

  Her round face broke into a smile.

  ``Dinner’s on a plate in the microwave. Ben’s knapsack is packed for tomorrow.”

  ``What would I do without you?’’ Brant smiled.

  ``You still need to pay for last month. Maybe I go somewhere else. Some other family.’’

  Brant grimaced. ``You’re part of this family, Mrs. Rodrigues.’’

  ``Even family have disagreement Mr. Brant. You know what I mean?’’

  Brant smiled, kissed her on the cheek and thanked her.

  Dinner eaten and Ben in bed, Brant found himself alone in his living room, his face illuminated by the white glow of t
he television screen. Normally, he would have avoided the local news, which he found to be shallow, pandering and crass. Not tonight. He turned directly to channel 7, the local NBC affiliate.

  There’d been a news alert earlier in the day. A political rainmaker and district city councillor named Eddie Brower had died. When Brant heard the name, he called a buddy in South Boston to check on the details. Brower had died of a heart attack while walking his dog. A common death for a man his age. What wasn’t widely known was that Brower had been the target of a task force investigating bribery, racketeering and intimidation. The investigation had been ongoing for months, though its existence had never been made public.

  Channel 7 had become the Eddie Brower channel, offering a retrospective on the man, his life, his career, his family. No aspect of the man had been untouched — the exception being the investigation, Brower’s penchant for breaking legs, and his taste for prostitutes.

  First up was video of a still-young Brower. A freshly graduated lawyer, Brower had taken a position at a second-rate law firm in one of Boston’s less respectable neighborhoods. There he had specialized in pro-bono work, advocating on behalf of the homeless, the poor, single mothers. Every cause a poster child for the ``bleeding heart’’ liberal that Brower was to become. In his youth, Brower had exhibited an unexplained magnetism.

  Brant marveled at the spectacle of Brower as a 30-year-old working a group of Teamsters, hand extended, a million-dollar smile, arms stretched wide. The camera panned, taking in the crowd. Happy faces, all of them. Thirty years ago. The people that had rubbed shoulders with Brower seemed to know they were at the beginning of something.

  Next up, a tribute to Brower’s work with various special-interest groups, followed by a video montage of the man’s election campaigns, followed by more clips from the archive pulled together into what the TV station was calling a ``chronology’’ of Brower’s life.

  Brant flipped the channels. At least the journalists hadn’t found out about the investigation into Brower’s extracurricular activities. This early in the news cycle, the airwaves and newspapers were atwitter with the accolades and tributes due the ``great’’ man.

  Brant shook his head, disgusted at the hypocrisy. The deification of Eddie Brower would go only so far. Once the real Brower was found out, he’d be torn down, his memory buried. The pundits would appear. There’d be a public lynching of all who knew or had associated with the man. His finances would be scrutinized. Every aspect of the man’s life would be turned over, chewed up and spat out. The village mob would take over.

  A difficult story to contain. It would have to wait, Brant thought, switching off the television and preparing for bed. Brower’s face loomed large in his mind as he tossed and turned, waiting for sleep to take hold.

  He dreamed of winter, of dead trees stripped of their leaves and of snow blanketing the city in waves of drifting, shifting crystalline dunes. He was standing in his driveway, shovel in hand, as those around him piled snow into columns. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep up with the onslaught.

  The snow kept coming, the people kept building their towers and he kept shoveling. As he dug deeper, he hit not pavement but a body. The head was a frozen mask with an icy stare. The torso, arms and legs were blocks of ice. As he chipped at the body, the snow began to swirl around him, licking at his boots and legs until he found himself knee deep in the white stuff.

  Panicked, he looked up from his work to the gray clouds, to the swirling flakes and finally to Ben who was sitting in the window of their apartment. The boy turned away. The snow fell harder until all sound was muffled and a warmth took hold of his body.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ``You told Junior to do what?’’ Jolly hissed.

  The big man was fuming, his face florid. They were standing in the lunch room. Jolly held a mug of hot coffee.

  ``I sent him shoe shopping.’’

  ``Tell me you aren’t that stupid.’’

  ``He’s never investigated a murder in his life. Who is this kid and why the interest?’’

  Jolly gulped his coffee and paced. A uniform appeared at the doorway, took one look at the two men, and abruptly left.

  ``You ever hear of a thing called a budget, Brant? Let me tell you, we don’t have money falling out of our armpits around here. Which means I have to do some horse-trading. Junior’s one of the horses. So be nice and give him something meaningful to do…just not too meaningful.’’

  Jolly folded his arms. Brant knew he had a point. As much as it pained him, compromises sometimes had to be made to keep the big bosses happy. City council approval was needed to sign off on the police department budget, which meant many masters and many agendas.

  ``Look, I know this is a dog, but just for once do what you’re told.’’ Jolly had meant the case, not Clatterback.

  ``I suppose I don’t have much choice.’’

  Jolly shot him a threatening look. ``Just do your job, Brant.’’

  ``Why so much pressure from the brass?’’

  Jolly furrowed his brows in thought.

  The question was more than curiosity. Brant’s desk was protesting under the weight of the outstanding case folders. He’d spent much of the summer investigating a series of car thefts. There’d been a spate of armed robberies, too. Then there were the gangs. Cash, weapons and cars had been scooped up earlier in the week during a raid that the department had conducted with the help of the Feds. The target had been one of the most feared and violent street gangs, a group called the Columbia Point Dawgs. The raid had been a success and a public relations bonanza for the Mayor and the department, but the concern was that the near collapse of the Dawgs would create a vacuum. New gangs from Eastern Europe and Asia were already moving in.

  ``The Mayor campaigned on law and order. He’s gotta be seen as being tough on crime. The optics in this case are terrible.’’

  ``What about extra men? Case like this, I could use a few more bodies.’’

  ``I’ll see what I can do. Maybe you can have Katy Malloy.’’

  ``That’d help.’’

  ``Anything else you want to tell me? Anything not in the prelim?’’

  Brant had filed the preliminary report the day before.

  ``We only just found the body yesterday. As you said. Woman. I’m guessing about twenty five. ’’

  ``She a hooker?’’

  Brant shook his head.

  ``Shame.’’

  ``What makes you say that?’’

  ``A dead hooker off Copley. You find her ass peddler, bring him in, case closed. We all get to tell the Mayor and his buddies on council what geniuses we are for solving it so quickly.’’

  ``Even if he didn’t do it?’’

  Jolly stabbed a finger into Brant’s shoulder. ``If I were you, I’d go get Junior and start doing some investigating.’’

  ``You’re late.’’

  Dr. David Heinz tapped his long fingers distractedly against the tails of his white lab coat. They were standing in a hallway off one of the autopsy suites at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner’s Albany Street headquarters. Gray doors blocked the comings and goings of technicians and examiners doing their best to disassemble those unfortunate enough to land on one of the agency’s slabs. ``The autopsy’s done but I wanted you to see this.’’

  Brant began to protest but thought better of it. ``What do you have?’’

  ``Not here. In my office.’’

  Heinz led the way down the corridor and up to the building’s second level. The older man climbed the stairs with ease, his slender long-limbed body making quick work of the exercise. Brant fell behind as he struggled to match the medical examiner’s pace. Clatterback followed.

  They’d met at the junior officer’s condo on Beach Street, a two-bedroom loft in the Leather District. More than 1,500 square feet with a designer kitchen, recessed lighting, massive flat screen hung from an exposed-brick wall, and heavy casement windows looking out onto an alleyway.

  Brant smile
d admiringly when he’d seen the place, his mind furiously working on a valuation for the property and its contents. Clatterback had taken no notice, which pissed Brant off all the more.

  ``Come on men,’’ Heinz said, urging the two detectives on. ``We don’t have all day.’’

  They’d come to a hallway.

  ``You met Doctor Simmons the other day?’’ Heinz asked.

  ``She was at the scene,’’ Brant said, recalling the encounter.

  ``She’s not joining us today. I’ve reviewed her notes and I’ve taken the case over.’’

  The medical examiner’s office belonged to another time. No computer. No flat-screen monitors. No light boxes. Instead, he had amassed an impressive collection of medical text books, which he’d displayed in row upon row of book shelves of solid varnished mahogany. An old-fashioned globe sat on a wooden office desk with brass handles. A green banker’s lamp cast a pool of light onto a leather blotter. The room’s blinds had been drawn, blocking out the sunlight.

  ``Sit.’’ Heinz stabbed a crooked finger in the direction of two black leather chairs. Heinz’s own seat, a buttoned red leather armchair with a high back and rollers, creaked as the medical examiner took position behind his desk. ``I’d offer tea but this isn’t a social call.’’

  Clatterback said nothing.

  ``I’m fine, thanks,’’ Brant said.

  ``Of course you are,’’ Heinz said, studying Brant from above the rim of thick black frames. ``The workload around this place stinks and you aren’t making it any easier.’’

  Brant smiled weakly.

  ``Why can there never be any simple deaths? Always tests and more tests. It’s as if you detectives watch too much NCIS, or whatever it is on the idiot box these days, and expect we poor doctors to perform the same kinds of miracles of deduction. Well, it isn’t that way at all. Not by a long shot.’’

  ``I’ve always found your work to be miraculous, doctor.’’

  Heinz ignored the jibe. ``We had a shortage of body bags last week. Two of the technicians were out for HIV tests after getting stuck with needles. And don’t get me started on the plumbing system around here.’’