The cafe was retro modern — if such a description existed. Chrome, steel and aluminum mixed easily with lava lamps, teardrop globes and plastic ceiling fixtures of white plastic. The walls were faux wood panelling. Color-changing LED strip lights painted a riot of reds, purples and blues along the length of the serving bar. A glass case illuminated from within offered an assortment of pastries, each laid out individually on silver platters. Ambient lighting was provided by three chrome bubble lights affixed to a silver ceiling. The whoosh and hiss of a Rancilio espresso machine interrupted the hushed murmurs of office gossip and louder critiques of this year’s Sox lineup. On the sound system, Nina Simone served as the soundtrack for the day. A bus passed by on the street outside, shaking the windows as it threw up a plume of gritty exhaust.
Brant smiled in spite of himself, recalling in the recesses of his memory when getting a coffee meant a trip to 7-Eleven and a weak, tepid cup of brown liquid served in a paper cup for less than a dollar. When had getting a coffee become such a production? When had the coffee culture taken hold and who had been astute enough to convince Americans to pay three dollars for a beverage they could get at home or elsewhere for a fraction of the price? Then again, small indulgences. In times of austerity, it was good to hold onto small luxuries accessible to those on the economic borderline. Like cops.
``I’ve got a table in the back.’’
He turned to face a small woman wearing skinny jeans, a white top and a light green blazer with sleeves extending just below her elbows.
``Sheila Ritchie,’’ the woman said as a statement, not as an introduction. ``You must be Lieutenant Brant. I can tell a cop a mile away.’’
Brant offered his hand in greeting, which was taken without much enthusiasm. Ritchie shouldered a waiter aside as she began to make for a table in the corner that she’d staked out with an oversized canvas bag and laptop computer secured into place with a locking cable.
Brant guessed Sheila Ritchie to be about forty. She had brown hair cut short in the style of a severe bob. She wore little makeup. Her skin was blemish-free. Wrinkles had begun to form crows feet under sharp, intelligent eyes.
He liked her.
``Have a seat,’’ she said as she moved her bag to the floor. ``I’ve got a coffee coming. You want something, you better order now. The office drones’ll be breaking for lunch soon. This place gets busy.’’
He ordered a regular coffee and a scone. The waitress brought the drinks in short order.
``So, you want to know about Genepro Molecular?’’
``That was the general idea.’’
Ritchie took a sip of coffee. ``You got anything for me in return?’’
``My undying gratitude?’’
Ritchie grimaced. ``Going to have to do better.’’
``We can arrange something.’’
``What’d you have in mind?’’
Brant grinned. He knew how to play a reporter, how the quid pro quo of the journalist/source relationship worked. Then again, he’d been burned once or twice and wasn’t likely to give much in the way of useful information to this woman — at least not until she could prove her use.
``Let’s see how it goes,’’ Brant said.
``See, that’s not really the answer I was looking for, but I guess it’ll have to do for now. You understand I’m a business reporter, right? Wall Street’s more my thing.’’
``Mathers mentioned it.’’
Ritchie, pausing to collect her thoughts, took a second sip of coffee. Nina had been replaced by Miles Davis.
``This Genepro Molecular. Why the interest?’’
``It’s part of a case.’’
``What case?’’
Brant took a bite of his scone as he considered how much to reveal. ``An ongoing investigation.’’
Ritchie frowned. ``Not very convincing.’’
``You wouldn’t want me to give up the cherry quite that fast, would you?’’
Ritchie assessed him. Brant could almost see the wheels turning in the woman’s head as she sized him up, as she quickly evaluated his usefulness and worth to her at the moment and into the future.
``Alright, I’ll play for now. But you know how it works, right? I mean sometime down the line I’ll be calling.’’
``I get it,’’ Brant said without hesitation. ``Now, Genepro Molecular.’’
``It’s an interesting company,’’ Ritchie said as she retrieved a set of documents from her canvas bag. ``I did a basic Google search, of course, but didn’t really find out very much. It doesn’t have a website. We don’t have anything in our archives at the Globe and I haven’t found any other newspaper clippings. It’s a private company, which is a problem.’’
``How so?’’ Brant asked.
Ritchie retrieved a pair of glasses from her bag and placed them on the bridge of her nose. ``I made some copies for you. These are screenshots off the Reuters and Bloomberg terminals. As you can see, there isn’t much to go on here. Since Genepro Molecular is a private company, it doesn’t need to disclose very much in the way of earnings statements or company announcements. That kind of thing can create a pretty compelling paper trail if you know where to look.’’
``But there’s no paper trail here?’’
Ritchie shook her head.
``So what can you do?’’
``Keep digging. I found a company in Hong Kong called GenePro Technology. They specialize in molecular diagnostic systems and molecular testing services.’’
``Which means?’’
``Paternity testing.’’
``Ah,’’ Brant said. ``Any chance this GenePro Technology is the same company?’’
``I don’t think so,’’ Ritchie said, shaking her head. ``GenePro Technology was listed on the Hang Seng a couple of years after it was founded, but it declared bankruptcy three years ago and was delisted. I called our northeast Asia bureau chief. He’d never heard of the company.’’
``That doesn’t mean it couldn’t have left Hong Kong and set up shop here,’’ Brant said, warming to the subject. ``There’s a certain amount of sense in that.’’
``True, that might be the case. But I did a bit more digging. I figure a company like this is most likely local and the medical community in Boston is pretty small. Everyone knows each other. I contacted a VC I know and she was able to give me something.’’
``VC?’’
``Venture capitalist. You do know what that means, right?’’
``I’ve heard the term once or twice,’’ Brant said, scowling.
``So my VC friend tells me Genepro Molecular is a biotech startup located in Watertown. They raised about $10 million in seed-stage financing a year ago. Here’s an announcement they put out when the round was completed successfully.’’
Ritchie handed a document to Brant.
``That was issued on PRNewswire. I was confused because it should have come up when I did the Google search or when I looked at the news database on Bloomberg. But it didn’t because the release was pulled.’’
``Pulled?’’
``Deleted.’’
``Does that happen very often?’’
Ritchie shook her head. ``These releases are the beginning of a paper trail. They don’t often get purged without reason.’’
``What does your source say?’’
Ritchie shrugged. ``She wasn’t involved in the seed funding so she doesn’t know anything more.’’
``Why didn’t she invest?’’ Brant asked out of curiosity. It wasn’t likely relevant, but the question was worth asking.
``She wasn’t impressed with the technology they were using…or the business plan.’’
``Which was?’’
``Drug design. More specifically, tailoring a drug to the specific genetic makeup of a patient’s individual needs.’’
``What kind of treatments are we talking about,’’ asked Brant.
``Cancer mostly. You take a bunch of cancerous cells from a patient’s tumor and then you test them to see if they e
xpress certain proteins that aren’t found in normal cells. If you get lucky, you find a mutant gene that drives division within the cell. Then it’s just a matter of developing a drug that’s able to disable that protein.’’
``Sounds interesting,’’ Brant said.
Ritchie nodded. ``It is. And promising. Targeted cancer therapies can be much more effective than chemotherapy because they work on specific molecular targets. Chemotherapy, on the other hand, is like carpet bombing.’’
``So why’d the VC guys pass?’’ Brant asked.
``Money. What else? These kinds of therapies are still new, and they’re expensive to develop. Some of the side effects can be nasty and in the worst case, the target for the treatment can mutate, essentially making the cancer cell resistant.’’
``Someone’s been doing their homework,’’ Brant said, assessing Ritchie anew over the rim of his coffee cup. ``Can you tell me anything else?’’
Ritchie folded her documents and returned them to her bag, but not before handing a copy of the papers to Brant. ``That’s it for now. I can keep digging, but it won’t be cheap.’’
``What is it you want?’’ Brant asked, instantly regretting the question.
``Now we’re talking,’’ Ritchie said, almost licking her lips with glee. ``There’s an at-large councillor on city council named Matty Luceno. You heard of him?’’
Brant nodded wearily. He could taste where the conversation was headed, and he didn’t like it.
``Little bird tells me Luceno’s been sticking his wick in where it doesn’t belong.’’
``Meaning?’’
``Meaning your folks pulled him in for a drunk and disorderly a few weeks back. Seems no charges were ever laid and no report was made.’’
``And you know this how?’’ Brant asked.
``I got a source,’’ Ritchie said, holding her cards close to her chest. ``A solid gold source.’’
``What do you want me to do if you already have a source?’’
``Confirmation. That’s all I’m looking for. Just confirmation.’’
Brant thought for a moment.
``Why the interest in Luceno?’’ he asked finally.
``I’m working on something. Maybe it’s nothing. I’m building the file.’’
Brant sucked air in through his nose as he considered the request. He stood to leave.
``I’m not promising anything. But I’ll give it some thought.’’
``Is there anything else?’’ Ritchie asked.
``Do you have any idea who’s behind Genepro Molecular?’’
``Thought you’d never ask,’’ Ritchie said as she retrieved a business card from a leather holder.
She handed the card to Brant. Their eyes met as he placed the card in his wallet.
``The founder is a guy named Dr. Markus Schroder. Big time resume.’’
``Where’d you get this?’’ Brant asked.
``My VC pal. She doesn’t know why I was interested, so if it’s all the same to you we’ll leave her out of it.’’
``I owe you one,’’ he said with a nod of appreciation.
``You do and I’ll remember it,’’ Ritchie said as she turned to leave.
Outside, an earlier threat of rain had failed to materialize. Though the wind blew off the harbor, the sun shone warmly on city streets and sidewalks brought to life anew by the change in weather. Brant walked, gripping his wallet tightly as he crossed the street, dodging cars and buses, eventually making his way to the front of Faneuil Hall where a group of schoolchildren had gathered at the Samuel Adams statue. Falling into step behind them, he began to follow along as the tour guide pointed out one historical site after another. He’d eventually break from the group and double back toward the station and whatever drama awaited. For the moment, he was content to drift and to ponder what he’d just been told.
He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with fresh air. Inside the hip pocket of his pants, the weight of his wallet offered promise and a path forward. He smiled at the thought, turned from the group and headed toward Atlantic Avenue. Ahead of him, the gray, hard disc of the harbor churned and heaved. The sun slipped behind a cloud, leaving the afternoon dull once more.
``I thought I’d lost you, Junior.’’
Clatterback scowled. He’d spent the better part of the morning combing through phone records. It had been a thankless task that had yielded little in usable information.
They were back in the squad room. The television monitor mounted high in the corner of the room played a closed-circuit image of a conference room on the other side of the building. A dais, a microphone and a blue background emblazoned with the Boston Police Department logo filled the screen. Flags framed each side of the screen.
``You have any idea how tight the phone companies are with records? I spent the morning sweet-talking some sister at Sprint. Waste of time if you ask me.’’
``So you got nothing?’’
``The phone Carswell called was a burner.’’
``A burner?’’ The question came from Katy Malloy. The junior detective had moved in, claiming desk space next to Brant’s. Her computer had been installed moments earlier.
``You ever watch The Wire?’’ Clatterback asked.
Malloy shrugged.
``Jeez, you’re even greener than me. And that’s saying something.’’
Brant stood. ``Okay, Serpico. Just shut up and stick to the task.’’
``Serpico?’’ Clatterback, his eyes bugging, shot Brant a perplexed look.
Brant shook his head in disgust. ``Movie reference. Look forget it. Let’s just go over what we have. You said the numbers she was calling went to disposable cellphones?’’
Clatterback nodded. ``That’s right. They weren’t used for more than a few days. I should have seen it before. She’d call the same number multiple times, then two days later she’d call a new number. Then the pattern would repeat. She was being careful.’’
``How long did this go on?’’
``Better part of the past two months I’d guess.’’
``And there’s no way to locate the owner or owners of these phones?’’
``Not really. Those disposable thingies are sold through convenience stores or discount electronics stores.’’ Clatterback bristled as he straightened his back. ``Are you both gonna tell me you haven’t seen The Wire?’’
Brant and Malloy looked at each, bewildered and amused. Clatterback was building to a full head of steam, his thin face flush with a look of excitement.
``Best cop show ever. I mean EVER. Tell me you’re pulling my chain, right?’’
``What about you, Ms. Malloy? Any luck?’’
Clatterback’s scowl lengthened as the focus of the conversation turned to the junior investigator.
``A blank so far,’’ Malloy said as she pulled the hospital records from the in-tray on her desk. ``She may have registered under a different name.’’
Clatterback’s attention turned to the television screen where a flurry of activity and motion had caught his eye.
``What’s he up to?’’ Malloy asked.
Jolly appeared in front of the dais. Jill Larson and the Deputy Superintendent, Manny Pinkus, fell in behind. Jolly cleared his throat, paused as he looked down at his notes, then straightened, stared into the camera and began speaking in slow, measured tones.
The pause. It had been a favored stunt perfected by a television reporter at one of the local stations. The reporter, a rotund, short man in his mid-fifties, used the pause as a device to add gravitas to whatever he was about to intone. It had worked. He’d gone on to work at one of the networks.
``See that?’’ Brant asked, referring to the pause.
``See what?’’ Malloy asked.
``That thing he does where he looks down at the paper for a second then stares into the camera. Hollywood all the way. Must be important, whatever it is he’s up to.’’
``Gotta be budget cuts,’’ Clatterback said.
``Mayor announced those
this morning. Could be something else.’’
``No, it’s the cuts,’’ Brant said.
``How can you be sure?’’
``Pinkus and Larson. They’re holding his hand.’’
Brant’s guess was right. Over the next hour, Jolly outlined the latest round of reductions in excruciating, minute detail. When he’d finished, he thanked the reporters for coming, promised that no police services would be compromised, folded his notes and strode from the podium with the panache of a seasoned politician. Larson and Pinkus followed without uttering a single word during the course of the spectacle.
``He really is a turd,’’ Brant said when Jolly’s face had been wiped from the screen. ``An absolute turd.’’
``But didn’t you hear him? No services will be compromised. We will continue to serve the good people of Boston with the professionalism and commitment they’ve come to expect.’’
Clatterback moved his hands in a calculated manner as he matched the measured tone of Jolly’s voice. Brant and Malloy rolled their eyes.
``I’m hungry and it’s getting close to dinner. Anyone care to go across the road and get food?’’ she asked.
Brant looked at his watch. He hadn’t realized the time. Ben’s daycare would be closing in forty-five minutes. Miss the pickup and he’d have to pay for the extended session again.
``Crap,’’ he said reflexively. ``I’ve got to pick up my son. You girls go have your fun. But don’t get too carried away.’’
``What about the leads?’’ Clatterback asked.
``It’s quitting time, Junior. The leads will be there tomorrow. Keep Junior here on a short leash will you,’’ he said to Malloy with a glint of mischief in his eye. ``I don’t think he’s been housebroken yet.’’
Malloy offered a half-hearted salute as Brant grabbed his car keys and made for the door.
Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller Page 7