He’d requisitioned a white board from supplies. Jolly had agreed they could have one of the spare conference rooms, if not for the duration of the investigation then at least until they could get the ball rolling. Some cops preferred to create a link chart on a computer. Not Brant. Even if it took up more space in the squad room, he preferred the old-fashioned approach.
``The players so far,’’ Brant said, affixing photocopies of Allison Carswell and Susan Chua to the board.
Next, he wrote the names Genepro Molecular Inc. and Meredith Financial Services in black ink, circled and connected them to the two women. More names and circles filled the board as he wrote down the evidence collected so far, including the Bible quote they’d found underlined by Carswell, the handgun they’d found by her bedside, the telephone bills, and the computer CDs. More bubbles were reserved for other players, including Carswell’s unknown boyfriend and the fact that she’d had a baby. Hospital records warranted a separate bubble.
``What’d the gun tell us?’’ Clatterback asked.
``Not much. We pulled one set of prints and they belonged to Carswell,’’ Brant said. ``It’s stored in evidence. We need to run it through the registry, find out where she got it.’’
``You think she was scared and that’s why she had the gun?’’ Malloy asked.
``Could be. What are we missing?’’ Brant asked when he’d finished a few more lines on the whiteboard.
``The shoes,’’ Clatterback said without hesitation.
``What about them?’’ Malloy asked.
``How’d she pay for them? That deserves a bubble, don’t you think?’’
``Good point, Junior,’’ Brant said, scribbling the name of the shoe store and the type of shoes Carswell had worn onto the white board. Clatterback smiled broadly, obviously pleased with himself.
``This is just like Law and Order,’’ Clatterback said with enthusiasm. Malloy rolled her eyes.
``Hold that thought, Junior,’’ Brant said, gently admonishing the younger detective. ``What else?’’
``What do we know about Genepro?’’ Malloy asked as she rapped the board with her knuckles.
``We know the founder,’’ Brant said. He retrieved the business card given by Sheila Ritchie and wrote the name Markus Schroder on the board beside the company’s title. ``We know they were working on targeted cancer therapies. We also know they were short on money.’’
Brant wrote a dollar sign in a bubble next to the one he’d drawn for Genepro. He filled the space between the two with an oversized question mark.
``What about Carswell’s background?’’
``Right.’’
Brant scribbled annotations, adding Carswell’s parents, her Catholic background and the timeline of her involvement with Genepro to the board.
``Where was she before Genepro?’’ Malloy asked.
``That’s a good question. Where? We don’t know that yet.’’
Brant drew a line at the bottom of the whiteboard in black ink and stood back, admiring his handiwork.
``That’s the timeline. We’ll fill it in as we get more information. Any other links in the chart, we’ll add those as we get them. This’ll do for now.’’
The squad room began to fill with more arrivals as the day shift gathered speed. Julian March appeared from nowhere, surveyed the squad room as if taking notes and made an immediate beeline for the conference room.
``What does he want?’’ Clatterback asked as he watched March approach.
``Probably has the conference room booked,’’ Malloy said.
``He can have it as long as he doesn’t mess with my whiteboard,’’ Brant said, stone faced and serious. Julian March was the last of his worries at the moment.
March tapped on the edge of doorframe for effect. ``Jolly wants to see you. Pronto.’’
``What have I done?’’ Brant asked.
``Wrong question. What haven’t you done is more like it.’’
The basement seemed as good a place as any for the division gym. It was a windowless, lifeless place with fluorescent lighting, exposed ductwork and concrete walls. The equipment was equally as spare. A lat machine, dumbbells, a fixed weight bar, a squat stand and two lifecycles. The air was stale and tinged with body odor. A modern-day torture chamber.
``Twenty years on the department,’’ Jolly said, wheezing as sweat dripped from his forehead onto the floor. ``You’d think politics would be my only impediment to the big house. But fitness? Life isn’t fair.’’
``In my experience, that is true,’’ Brant said, almost shouting to be heard over the buzz of a fan.
``Grab a towel. Lift some weights. You look like you could use some exercise.’’
``I’m fine, sir. I like to get outside for my cardio.’’
``Suit yourself.’’
Jolly dipped his head as he pumped. He was sitting in the saddle of a lifecycle, churning furiously as he attacked each pedal stroke with the fervor of a religious convert. He was dressed in sweats and a loose-fitting t-shirt ripped at the collar. A sweatband held back what was left of his hair. A towel draped his neck.
``You didn’t come here to see me punish myself. What do you want?’’
``I thought you wanted me?’’
Jolly raised an eyebrow. ``Did I? So I did.’’
``Is it about the Carswell case?’’
Jolly stopped pedaling and patted his face with the towel. ``See that folder over there?’’
Brant followed the captain’s line of sight to the far wall and a small bookshelf stuffed with magazines and newspapers. A single manila file folder sat on the middle shelf.
``I see it, sir.’’
``Took me some doing to get that file.’’
``I see.’’
``It wasn’t easy. And it isn’t complete.’’
``Is that so?’’
Jolly had abandoned the lifecycle and moved to the free weights. He cradled a 20 pound dumbbell in his left hand and curled. The t-shirt gaped, exposing soft flesh.
``That’s your file. I’d say it makes for interesting reading but I’d be lying.’’
``I’m an open book, sir. If there’s anything you need to know, just ask.’’
``A book that’s missing a few chapters,’’ Jolly said, ignoring Brant’s protestations. ``That’s not your department file. That’s your OMPF.’’
``OMPF?’’
``Official Military Personnel File. Or at least that’s what it’s called by our friends in the army, according to the dickhead who tried to block me from getting it.’’
``You knew I served.’’
Jolly returned the dumbbell to its rack and toweled his face.
``I’m curious why I’m not allowed full access to your background file. I’m curious why said police officer received an honorable discharge after only five years. More importantly, I’m curious what happened to you in Afghanistan.’’
``You might not want to go there, sir. Just a word of advice.’’
``Now you really have my attention. Is there anything you want to tell me?’’
``No.’’
``We’ll leave this for now, but I’m not going to let it drop.’’
``I understand.’’
``I know you think I’m an asshole, Brant, but I’m in your corner. Why do you think I gave you the Carswell case?’’
``I’ve been thinking about that, sir. And Clatterback, too.’’
Jolly’s attention turned from the dumbbells to the stretching matt. The big man lumbered with the easy and grace of a beached whale. Watching him attacked the Downward Dog yoga position would be more than Brant could bear. It was an assault.
``The Carswell case is easy. I want you back in the game after Casson. You took one for the team there and I won’t forget it. But I also know a thing like that can leave an officer fragile, broken. I don’t need broken police officers on my crew. So you need to fix yourself. There’s no better way to get fixed than to get dug into a case. Stop mopping about. Suck it up an
d nail the bastard who killed her. It’s as simple as that.’’
``And Clatterback?’’ Brant asked, marveling at the binary simplicity of Jolly’s thinking.
``Clatterback’s a project. He comes from big time money.’’
Brant saw the point and said so.
``It’s old-time money, which means influence in this city. His father was the founder of a cable TV business. Sold it off for a couple hundred million a decade back. Now he lives on Beacon Hill and gives parties for the one percenters. He’s a big political donor, which means influence. Influence on the national level, but also local politics. He and the Mayor are close, which means when daddy asks the Mayor for a favor getting Junior a job with the cops, things happen. Now you understand what I meant earlier by horses, Brant?’’
``I’m seeing the picture. But why have I never heard of this father?’’
``You don’t move in the right circles, Brant. And Clatterback’ll never tell you. He doesn’t want anyone to know about his family connections and I don’t blame him. The kid wants a break and he wants it on his own terms. I can respect that. Is he a total disaster?’’
``Not total. He’s actually pretty sharp. And eager.’’
``That’s good.’’
``Speaking of files, I checked up on him but I didn’t see anything about his family.’’
``And you won’t,’’ Jolly said as he lowered himself onto the stretching matt. ``The father was mostly a silent partner in the cable business and he likes his privacy. These people with money are different, Brant. For every Larry Ellison in this world, there’s a dozen Viniks.’’
``Viniks?’’
``Jeffrey Vinik. The Magellan Fund. Ever heard of him?’’
Brant dismissed the idea with a shake of his head.
``Exactly my point.’’
The rest of the day passed without progress. Much of the time was spent on the phone, checking records, chasing leads or reviewing interview transcripts.
At least they’d done well with the onsite interviews. The evidence was a stack of papers sitting unread in Brant’s inbox. The task would fall to Malloy to comb through the witness statements in search of a nugget or morsel of evidence that Carswell was seen in the area before her murder. CCTV footage of the corner near the alleyway had proven more problematic. No definite time of death meant hours of scanning through mundane scenes of sidewalks and meandering tourists. It would be a long slog.
``What are your plans tonight, Junior,’’ Brant asked when they’d wrapped for the day. Clatterback smiled broadly. Malloy had left earlier, leaving them alone for the moment.
``Chinese takeout and nothing special. Why, you asking me out on a date?’’
``How’d you like to do some real police work?’’
Clatterback’s eyes flashed at the thought. ``What’d you have in mind?’’
``You drive,’’ Brant said, throwing the younger detective a set of keys for a car he’d requisitioned earlier in the afternoon from the carpool. ``But first, let’s get that takeout.’’
``What about Malloy?’’ Clatterback asked, pocketing the keys.
``Katy’s busy. Unlike you, I think she actually has a life.’’
Clatterback frowned. ``And this is you asking for a favor?’’
``This is me doing you a favor.’’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Lucky Boston Chinese Restaurant was on Washington Street. They ordered while en route, pulling up outside the storefront eatery twenty minutes later.
``This place is a dump,’’ Clatterback said as he made a quick survey of the restaurant and its surroundings.
``Better than that place you wanted,’’ Brant said, recalling the takeaway in Chinatown Clatterback had first suggested.
``I hope it’s good.’’
``It is.’’
``Come on. Let’s go.’’
Lucky Boston was housed in a drab strip mall, its next door neighbor a liquor store. On the other side of a narrow alley was a falafel joint. They’d found an open parking spot in front.
``I thought we were getting takeout,’’ Clatterback said when they’d paid for the order and had taken one of the tables next to the vending machine.
``I don’t want the car getting stunk up.’’
``Didn’t realize you were so precious,’’ Clatterback said with a wink.
``I’m not, but we’re going to be spending some time together tonight in close quarters.’’
The younger detective smiled nervously, unsure how to read Brant’s expression or intent.
The interior was basic. Formica table tops, plastic chairs, a linoleum floor, a street side window festooned with a collection of paper lanterns. A small fan, locked away in a metal cage installed in the rear corner, whined. A plastic cat sat on the counter next to the cash register, greeting customers with a wave as they arrived.
``Every Chinese place I’ve ever been in has one of those things,’’ Clatterback said, pointing his chin in the direction of the cat. ``What is it with the Chinese?’’
``It’s not Chinese,’’ Brant said. ``That’s a maneki-neko.’’
``A what?’’
``It’s Japanese. The literal translation is beckoning cat. It’s a good luck token.’’
``So what’s it doing in a Chinese restaurant if it’s Japanese?’’
Brant shrugged. ``I guess you could say the Chinese have adopted it, but I can tell you it’s Japanese. My son, Ben, has a children’s book called I Am Tama, Lucky Cat.’’
``Okay.’’
A waitress, a kindly older woman wearing an apron, filled their water glasses, returning moments later with their food. When she’d left, Clatterback wrinkled his nose as he wiped the tabletop’s surface with a moistened paper napkin.
``This place stinks of piss,’’ he said when the waitress was no long in hearing range. ``Can we eat and get out of here?’’
``I had no idea you were such a flower.’’
``I’m not. I just don’t like the idea of dry heaving all night from food poisoning.’’
``We’re not going to get food poisoning,’’ Brant said, rolling his eyes to emphasize his exasperation. ``Eat your food and don’t complain.’’
Concerns aside, Clatterback attacked, shoveling huge amounts of rice into his mouth. Brant had never seen anything like it. The other detective was a marvel, barely coming up for breaths between servings.
``That was actually really good,’’ he said when he’d cleared the last of the plates and was wiping the corners of his mouth with a wet cloth.
``I’m thrilled it met your standards,’’ Brant said, looking at scant leftovers on his own plate. ``Now let’s get to work.’’
``I know this neighborhood.’’
``You should. It’s where Allison Carswell lived with that woman we met the other day, Susan Chua.’’
A smile crossed Clatterback’s face.
They’d parked across from the Aberdeen on a narrow street lined with BMWs and Mercs. Leafy trees swayed in languid appreciation of the late summer breeze. Brant had fixed his binoculars on the upper floor apartment Carswell had shared with Chua.
They were sitting in darkness, well away from the halo of yellow cast off by the lights running the length of the street. It was a quiet section of road in what was a busy part of town. A police siren wailed in the background. Somewhere a car backfired.
``This used to be a bad neighborhood,’’ Clatterback said as the sound reverberated.
``Explain all those very expensive cars on the other side of the street,’’ Brant said, pointing across to the showroom of parked cars.
``Idiots and cars. Some jack-off can be living in a virtual dump, but he’ll still drive a fancy rig. Impresses themselves more than anyone else.’’
``True,’’ Brant said, conceding the point to a degree. ``But somehow I doubt that’s the case here.’’
The wind shifted, buffeting the treetops. The night was bright and virtually cloudless. The moon was a wedge of blu
rred light set high in the sky.
``I don’t see any action,’’ Brant said as he adjusted focus on the binoculars, bringing Chua’s outside balcony into sharper focus.
``Maybe she’s gone.’’
``No, she’s in there. The living room light’s on. She’s watching television.’’
``Let me see.’’
Clatterback took the binoculars from Brant.
``Wheel of Fucking Fortune,’’ Clatterback said, handing the eyepieces back.
``What’d I tell you.’’
The car radio crackled. Brant opened the laptop sitting atop the armrest separating the two front seats.
``So what are we doing here?’’ Clatterback asked when Brant had logged on and was scrolling through a set of screens.
``Everyone has a secret,’’ Brant said. ``We’re here to find Susan Chua’s.’’
``I thought she was smoking hot,’’ Clatterback said after a moment. ``Curious that she’d room with a brainiac, if that’s what Carswell really was.’’
``That’s the point,’’ Brant said, crystalizing the thought firmer in his own mind. Sometimes it helped to talk through the strands of an investigation in the open, even in the early stages and even when the leads were little more than guesses and suppositions.
They sat in silence as the night wore on, each lost in their own thoughts. Passing cars were noted, their license plates photographed, recorded and compared with the database. Nothing came up. Close to midnight, a taxi pulled up in front of the Aberdeen, disgorged its passengers and drove off, its red lights hovering for a moment in the consuming darkness. The three woman who’d emerged from the taxi remained near the Aberdeen’s lobby, talking animately and loudly. Brant photographed the group, noting the time on his watch and logging the entry into the computer. The women chatted for awhile longer, hugged each other and entered the Aberdeen.
``What’s up with that?’’ Clatterback asked, his eyes heavy, a slight slur borne from fatigue marking his words. He’d been dozing, but had been roused by the taxi’s coughing engine.
``I’m not sure,’’ Brant said as the last woman disappeared.
Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller Page 9