Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

``I’m Lieutenant Jonas Brant. This is my partner, John Clatterback.’’

  The woman dismissed Brant’s introduction with a nod of her head.

  ``Susan Chua. Now what’s happened to Allison?’’

  ``You haven’t seen her today?’’

  The woman shrugged. ``We work different schedules.’’

  ``So you’re…’’

  ``Roommates. We share the apartment.’’

  ``And how long have you lived here?’’

  ``A couple of months. Maybe three. Is Allison in some kind of trouble?’’

  ``You’d better sit down, Miss Chua.’’

  She led them down the hallway and into a lounge. Windows hugged the room in a sweeping curve, framing a view of a neighborhood park with mid-rise buildings beyond. The tops of trees swayed lazily in a strengthening breeze. The Cabot Yard rail facility pulsed with the comings and goings of commuter trains while traffic on Dorchester Avenue flowed in drips as if on intravenous.

  Brant caught Clatterback’s face as he scanned the apartment. The lounge was decorated simply. A beige oval rug had been placed in the center of the room. A sofa and two chairs — white leather cushions on frames of silver chrome — had been placed around a black lacquer coffee table. A small blue vase filled with freshly cut flowers sat atop the table. In the corner of the room, an oversized ceramic holder contained a leafy plant. Four framed oversized posters of women dressed in period fashion hung along a far wall. The remaining walls were white and devoid of artwork. Simple but elegant — and expensive.

  ``Something’s happened.’’

  Brant took the cellphone from his pocket and passed it to Chua. The woman took the handset and began flipping through the photos.

  ``That’s your roommate? Miss Carswell?’’

  Chua’s face turned gray. ``I think I’m going to be sick.’’

  The young woman gagged as beads of sweat formed on her brow. A look of disgust formed as she puckered her mouth.

  ``I’m sorry,’’ Brant said, meaning it.

  ``Where?’’ Chua asked, gagging a second time.

  ``Her body was found in an alley off Copley Square yesterday,’’ Clatterback said.

  ``I see,’’ Chua said, fighting to regain her composure.

  ``Were you and Ms. Carswell close?’’ Clatterback again.

  ``Miss.’’

  ``Excuse me?’’

  ``Miss. She isn’t married. Wasn’t married, I mean. Neither of us are. Were. Sorry, it’s just…’’

  Chua rose and crossed to the kitchen where she began rummaging through an overhead cabinet.

  ``I need a cigarette.’’

  She returned to the lounge with a packet of Winston’s and a gold-plated lighter. Removing the plastic wrapping from the cigarette packaging, she hesitated for a moment.

  ``Yesterday, was it?’’

  ``That’s right,’’ Brant said. ``In the afternoon. There was no ID on the body. One theory is that it could have been a robbery gone bad. But there are indications she may have known the person who killed her. Or that she was killed somewhere else and moved to the location where we found her.’’

  ``How is that possible?’’ Chua asked, lighting a cigarette and blowing a stream of smoke through her lips and nostrils. ``I mean how can you tell a thing like that?’’

  ``When did you last see her?’’ Brant asked, ignoring the woman’s question.

  ``Three days ago, in the morning. We passed in the kitchen. I was getting in and Allison was getting ready to leave.’’

  ``How did she seem? Was anything out of the ordinary?’’

  Chua pursued her lips, shrugged, picked a piece of tobacco off the tip of her tongue. ``She was in a hurry. I think she had a meeting or something. I don’t know. To be honest, we didn’t really know each other very well. As I said, we’d only been living together for a few months.’’

  ``What do you know about her? Does she have family?’’

  Chua brushed an errant lock of hair from her cheek. She sighed, sucked again on the cigarette. ``She didn’t talk about them very much if she did. She might have mentioned her mom and dad.’’

  ``And where do they live?’’ Clatterback asked.

  ``Upstate New York, I think.’’ Chua shrugged. ``Maybe Syracuse. Someone’ll have to tell them, right?’’

  ``We’ll take care of it. Do you have a number?’’

  Chua shook her head.

  ``Do you know if Allison was seeing anyone?’’ Brant asked. It was the question he’d been holding in reserve.

  ``You mean apart from work?’’

  ``I’m not following,’’ Brant said.

  ``Oh, you mean like a boyfriend? There was one.’’

  ``Young? Old? Black? White? Asian?’’

  Chua leaned forward far enough to flick the burnt end of her cigarette into the crystal ash tray she’d placed on the coffee table.

  ``I’m not really sure.’’ She frowned, knitting her brows together in thought again. ``He never came into the apartment. He always stayed outside, in the car. I got the sense he was older. Maybe he had a wife. I don’t know.’’

  ``What makes you say that?’’ Brant asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. It was something to go on.

  ``Just a feeling. He drove an SUV. You know, one of those big things with a bike rack on the roof.’’

  ``Color? The boyfriend, not the vehicle.’’

  Chua shrugged, straightened her back. ``He usually picked her up at night.’’

  ``What about build? Tall, short, thin? Anything would help.’’

  Chua hesitated. ``Tall, I guess. I didn’t really pay much attention.’’

  ``Well, that could be helpful,’’ Brant said, flipping the cover of his notebook closed to signal the interview was drawing to a close. It was a rookie move — close the notebook and get them talking — but effective nonetheless.

  ``Honda.’’ Chua finally said, filling the silence.

  ``Excuse me?’’

  ``The make of the car. I’m pretty certain it was a Honda. Maybe black. Yes, now that I think of it, definitely black.’’

  Brant looked over at Clatterback quickly enough to catch the other detective’s look of interest. He nodded discreetly in reply.

  ``Did you know that Allison had had a baby?’’ Brant asked.

  ``Do you see signs of a kid around here?’’ Chua asked without missing a beat.

  ``And you never heard her on the phone talking about a baby?’’ Clatterback asked.

  Chua shook her head, rejecting the idea.

  ``She never mentioned anything about a baby,’’ Chua said. ``Maybe she had it before we met. I don’t know.’’

  ``Maybe,’’ Brant agreed.

  There was the possibility Carswell had placed the baby up for adoption. Then again, she could have asked her parents to take care of the child. He scribbled a note to himself in the margins of his notebook.

  ``What is it you do, Miss Chua?’’ Brant asked, changing track as he looked up from his notes.

  ``Financial services.’’

  ``Can you be more specific?’’

  ``Client relations.’’ Chua blew more smoke out through her nose, picked at an invisible piece of lint on the thigh of her jeans.

  ``And what clients would those be?’’

  ``High net worth. Ten million and higher.’’

  ``Sorry to be stupid, but what exactly does client relations mean?’’

  Chua looked at him, a weary smile of condescension crossing her face. ``I work in the private wealth manage group. We provide investment advice and financial solutions.’’

  ``So, you sell stocks and bonds? That kind of thing?’’

  ``In a manner of speaking.’’

  ``And Miss Carswell?’’

  Chua nodded. ``She was some kind of doctor. Worked in a lab near the university. At least I think. She tried to tell me once but I didn’t quite understand. I don’t want to seem like some stupid ditz, but Allison was smart. I mean really smart. Maybe a bit o
f a wallflower. Kind of plain if you know what I mean. She wasn’t really much of a partier. Always had her nose in a book or she was in the lab.’’

  ``But you can’t tell us any more than that?’’ Brant asked.

  ``This may help.’’

  Chua stubbed out her cigarette, rose from her seat and crossed the room.

  ``This is…was…her business card. She gave it to me when we moved in together.’’

  She handed Brant a white business card with red embossed lettering. The card was thick and weighty with a tactile quality he’d seldom seen.

  ``Genepro Molecular Inc.,’’ Brant said, reading the name of the company Allison Carswell had worked for. Carswell’s name had a string of letters behind it, but included no title denoting the position at the company.

  ``It’s in Watertown I think.’’

  ``What’s the name of the company you work for, Ms. Chua?’’ Brant asked.

  ``Meredith Financial Services. It’s in the Bank of America building.’’

  ``Thanks. We’d like to see Miss Carswell’s bedroom.’’

  ``This way. Let me know if you find anything. I want to help.’’

  Somehow Brant doubted it.

  Allison Carswell’s bedroom was in the back of the apartment. The blinds were drawn, casting the room in semidarkness. The bedroom was really a suite consisting of the main sleeping area, an ensuite bathroom, a walk-in closet and a small library. From appearances, Brant guessed that she’d turned the library into a study.

  They began in the main area by drawing the blinds, bathing the room in the soft glow of sunlight. Muffled sounds of children playing rose from the park below. A siren called out for attention and was suddenly silenced. A car alarm went unanswered. The traffic on Dorchester Avenue hummed.

  The bed was square and oversized, pushed up against the wall opposite the windows and set against a backboard that rose halfway to the ceiling. A blue oval rug covered most of the carpeted floor. A pair of reading lamps with shades of beige and heavy brass bases sat on two marble-topped bedside tables. A leather King James Bible, worn and marked with the corners of pages folded to mark their location, sat on the left side table.

  ``What manner of man is that, that even the winds and the sea obey him?’’ Brant said, reading from the Bible.

  ``What?’’

  ``Mathhew 8:27. She has it underlined in marker.’’

  Brant handed the Bible to Clatterback. The second detective ran his finger over the quotation then began flipping through the pages in search of other highlighted passages.

  ``Religious freaks,’’ he said finally, passing the book back to Brant. ``Why do you think she chose that particular quote?’’

  Brant shrugged. ``It’s about God’s sovereignty over the weather. Maybe she had a thing about rain.’’

  He found a glass of drinking water. Reading glasses and a cellphone charger had been placed on the opposite table. The charger was empty. Its electrical cord fell behind the table and snaked under the bed. Brant got down on his knees to follow the cord’s path. A half dozen green lights blinked in rapid succession from out of the darkness indicating the unmistakable signature of a broadband router and attached wireless modem.

  The room was discreetly decorated. The walls were painted light green. A rectangular mirror in a gold frame hung from the back of the door. Crystal candle holders adorned an antique drop leaf mahogany side table. Two lounge chairs with cushions of green on sturdy frames of varnished wood had been positioned in corners at opposite ends of the room.

  A gallery of silver-framed photographs adorned one wall, each offering a snapshot of Allison Carswell alive and well. One showed Carswell in a bikini, a towel wrapped around her hips, her hair wet, the sun glittering off a ripple of waves in the background. She was standing on the deck of a sailboat. Her face, turned to face something or someone in the foreground, beamed full of life and energy. Another showed her in black dress, hoisting a glass of champagne to the camera. Men in black tuxedos and white shirts stood in the background. Again, she stood alone, gazing intently at the camera with a look of longing and a touch of pain marking the lines of her face. A third photograph was of Carswell in ski gear atop what looked like a glacier. A helicopter was lifting into midair, tousling her hair and creating plumes of swirling snow with the downdraft of its blades. A gloved hand belonging to someone at the edge of the photographer’s field of vision offered Carswell support and encouragement.

  ``Curious,’’ Brant said as he examined the photographs.

  ``In what way?’’

  ``How does a young woman afford an apartment like this even with a roommate? Not to mention skiing holidays and sailboats.’’

  Clatterback shrugged. ``The roommate said she was smart.’’

  ``Intelligence doesn’t necessarily equate to money.’’

  ``You sound like my father.’’

  ``Smart man. Would I know him?’’

  ``Probably.’’

  The soft pallet of greens from the bedroom carried into the study where another oval rug covered most of the carpeting. The room was large enough for a desk, a chair and some bookshelves. The desk was in an alcove set into the side of the room. It was a big desk, filling much of the alcove. One side was a filing cabinet; the other was a set of drawers. The desk’s surface was white lacquered paint polished to a sheen. A ceramic white and brown lamp with white canvas shade sat on the lefthand side of the desk. A wide-screen iMac occupied the middle. A printer and external hard drive were nearby. White roller blinds had been pulled half down the study’s only window, leaving a glimpse of the trees in the park adjacent to the building. Beside the iMac, a plastic tray held opened envelopes and a neatly folded stack of papers. A copy of The Boston Globe had been folded and tossed aside.

  Brant turned on the computer monitor. The screen flashed to life, asking for a password as the external hard drive hummed.

  ``Suggestions?

  ``1,2,3?’’

  Brant frowned. ``I doubt anyone’s that stupid.’’

  ``You’d be surprised.’’

  He typed the numbers using the wireless keyboard that he’d found in a retracting tray underneath the monitor. No luck. Another attempt, another password produced the same result.

  ``How about `Password123?’’’

  ``Worth a try I suppose.’’

  Again, no go. Whatever password Carswell had selected wouldn’t be easy to find, at least not without help.

  ``Look for a piece of paper somewhere with numbers or letters on it. Maybe in the drawer or in that stack of papers,’’ Brant said, indicating the plastic tray.

  ``I don’t think we’re going to find it,’’ Clatterback said.

  ``A lot of people write their passwords down so they don’t forget them.’’

  ``You really think a brainiac is going to be that stupid?’’

  Brant shrugged.

  Clatterback rifled through the top drawers, which were mostly empty. The bottom drawer proved more fruitful, yielding rosary beads, a second pair of reading glasses, a bottle of Extra Strength Excedrin, a leather notebook, an old Samsung mobile phone and a 9 mm Ruger semi automatic.

  ``What the…?’’ Clatterback said aloud.

  ``Not exactly the kind of thing you’d find in a Sunday afternoon prayer group,’’ Brant said, eyeing the 9 mm and its empty magazine.

  ``My thoughts exactly.’’

  ``Bag it. We’ll need to trace the registration.’’

  Clatterback eyed the Ruger as if Brant had said something particularly offensive.

  ``Any luck with the password?’’ Brant asked after the other detective had placed the Ruger in an evidence bag.

  Clatterback opened the leather notebook and began flipping through its pages. ``This could take a long time.’’

  ``You won’t find it.’’

  Susan Chua stood in the doorway. Her eyes widened when she saw the Ruger. She held a mug in her right hand.

  ``What makes you so sure she didn’t writ
e it down on a post-it note or the back of an envelope?’’ Brant asked.

  ``She’d become pretty paranoid the last week or so.’’

  ``Paranoid? How?’’

  ``She’d grab her cellphone pretty quickly when it rang, as if she didn’t want me to see who was calling. I came in here a couple of times and she’d turn the monitor off as soon as I entered the room. She didn’t show up to work about a week ago and when I asked her where she’d been she avoided the question.’’

  ``Did you know about this?’’ Brant asked, indicating the plastic evidence bag and the Ruger.

  Chua’s eyes widened for a second time. ``I had no idea. And if I did, I think I’d have asked her to move out. That gives me the creeps.’’

  Chua took a sip of whatever was in the mug.

  ``What about these?’’ Brant asked, pointing to a tray of CDs he’d found among Carswell’s books. Chua shrugged.

  ``Probably music CDs.’’

  ``They aren’t marked.’’

  ``So?’’

  ``Isn’t it standard practice to label CDs once they’re burned?’’

  Chua looked from one detective to the other. She’d placed her empty mug on the floor and had crossed her arms.

  ``Take them. You’re likely wasting your time.’’

  ``You don’t have any idea about the password?’’

  Chua smiled. ``No.’’

  ``Why do I get the sense you’re holding something back, Ms. Chua?’’

  ``And why would I do that?’’ she asked, her gaze hardening.

  ``Well, that’s the interesting part, isn’t it?’’

  ``I think I’m starting to resent you being here, going through Allison’s things like this,’’ Chua replied, almost biting the words. ``I may even have to ask you to leave.’’

  ``We’ll be out of your way in a minute,’’ Brant said, ignoring the outburst. He’d all but given up any hope that they’d find the password. They might have better luck in the pile of envelopes and documents Carswell had kept by the computer.

  ``This might be of some use,’’ Brant said, producing a piece of paper from the pile as if on cue. He handed the paper to Clatterback, who looked at it intently. Allison Carswell’s mobile phone bill from the previous month, and not for the Samsung. She’d obviously had a second phone, which struck him as odd. A quick survey of the bill showed a breakdown of the charges, clearly indicating heavy data usage. The Samsung was an older model with a small, gray screen barely larger than a postage stamp. She wouldn’t have done much texting from the older handset.