Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  ``You have my word.’’

  As they turned to leave, the door to the restaurant opened. Two men stood in the doorway. Each wore olive green military-style pants. One had a tight white t-shirt, revealing bulging biceps and a well-defined chest. The second was slighter. His frame was lean and hungry-looking, with wide shoulders and a tapered torso leading to a trim waste. Both men wore a haggard, threatening look.

  ``My associates,’’ Volodin said when the door had closed, shutting out the sound of traffic. ``The Dimitrovs. Also known as the Dimitri twins.’’

  Brant looked the pair over a second time. If they were twins, he couldn’t tell. Save the pants, little about the two struck him as similar in any way. Muscles had a long face, and pitted skin. Hungry was better-looking. He had fair hair, a high forehead and chiseled cheek bones.

  Both men grunted a greeting as they made for a table farthest from the door.

  ``Associates?’’

  ``Workers,’’ Volodin said. ``Message boys. They do whatever is needed. Very useful.’’

  ``I’ll bet.’’

  Volodin pulled a hand through his thinning hair. ``So our business is done?’’

  ``For now,’’ Brant said as he and Malloy made a hasty retreat.

  ``That guy gives me the creeps,’’ Malloy said when they were clear of the restaurant.

  They were standing on Beach Street. A busload of Chinese tourists had stopped in front of the Hot Pot Buffet. A uniform waved a half-hearted greeting as he drove by in a patrol car. To their right, a dozen or so old men played Chinese board games on folding tables set up under a canopy of trees.

  The day had brightened. A break in the clouds revealed a light blue sky.

  ``You’re not wrong,’’ Brant said. ``You’ve got good instincts.’’

  ``Do you believe him? That he doesn’t know anything about Carswell or Genepro? Beyond the fact he rented the place, that is?’’

  ``I’m not the believing type,’’ Brant said. ``I’m hungry. You want to grab some food?’’

  ``Why didn’t we get something back at the restaurant?’’

  ``And give Volodin the satisfaction?’’ Brant shook his head. ``Everything about that meeting was calculated. He was trying hard to keep the upper hand with that little display of glutinous excess. Besides, cops don’t eat with thugs. Remember that.’’

  ``Okay. But I’m hungry, too. And we still have to check out Genepro.’’

  ``There’s a place not far from here.’’

  ``Chinese?’’

  Brant made a face.

  ``Okay, where then?’’

  ``Follow me.’’

  They ate at a 24-hour diner on Kneeland near Atlantic. Afterward, they headed to Genepro in Brant’s Hyundai.

  ``So who looks after your son when you’re working?’’ Malloy asked when they’d hit the Turnpike and settled in behind a convoy of slow-moving trucks.

  ``A sitter comes in whenever I need her. Costs a fortune but what can you do, right?’’

  ``Does your son go to school?’’

  ``Daycare.’’

  ``And you take him and pick him up?’’

  ``When I can, yes. My sister’s staying with us at the moment, so she’s helping out.’’

  ``I’m not going to have kids,’’ Malloy said after Brant had signaled and moved into the fast lane behind a silver Audi. The John Hancock Tower loomed on the horizon.

  ``Why do you say that?’’

  ``It all seems such a hassle. I mean the juggling. All that bullshit. Besides, it’s a career killer.’’

  ``I wouldn’t say that,’’ Brant said.

  ``No? You’re a man. It’s different.’’

  ``I’m a single father. Why’s it different for me?’’

  ``It just is,’’ Malloy said with determination. ``Jolly looks at you and he sees a cop with hangups. He looks at me and he’s thinking `I wonder when she’s going to pop out a few kids and I’m going to have to replace her.’ I know that’s what you think.’’

  ``You? You’re grouping me with Jolly?’’

  ``You know what I mean. All this life work balance crap. There’s no such thing. You can’t tell me there is.’’

  ``It’s a struggle,’’ Brant said, conceding the point. ``But you’re young. Maybe you’ll change your mind.’’

  ``I don’t think so.’’

  ``Maybe. Maybe not.’’

  ``Why’d you ask me along anyway?’’ Malloy asked as she toggled the radio dial in search of a decent station. ``Why not John? This seems more his thing.’’

  Brant shrugged. ``I haven’t figured Clatterback out yet. Besides, I thought you might like to get out of the office.’’

  ``You’re right there.’’

  Brant smiled in response.

  Genepro was a 45-minute drive away in Watertown. He turned onto the Eliot Bridge and crossed the Charles River as he headed out of the city. To their right sat a high-rise of ugly brown and white brick, the outline of buildings comprising Mt. Auburn Hospital and, closer to the bridge, the white and gray of the Cambridge Boat Club. The flat, placid Charles River glittered to their left.

  Randy Travis on the radio. Diggin’ Up Bones. Something about dredging up old memories. Brant shook his head as he switched to a different station, chuckling to himself as he recalled his country and western period. Outlaw country had been his favorite. He’d driven his father nuts. Willie Nelson. Ray Price. Roger Miller.

  Genepro was located in a red brick building near an industrial park about five minutes from the center of town. It was an area of industrial dry cleaners, shipping companies and party supply vendors. The area had seen better days. Not exactly a wasteland but far from the gleaming white buildings, manicured lawns and sprawling campus he’d expected when he’d first heard the name. The road leading to the company took them past building after building built from the same red brick. The message was clear. This was business, pure and simple. No artifice. No attempt to impress.

  The tires of Brant’s Hyundai crunched as he pulled into the gravel parking lot. Signs painted gunmetal gray with blue lettering urged visitors to check in at the front office. A narrow driveway led down an incline to a larger parking area where the view was of the neighboring building — more red brick — and five industrial vats painted fluorescent yellow.

  Brant pulled the Hyundai into a parking space and got out to stretch. Short though the ride was, his back ached and his shoulder had stiffened.

  ``Still pretty bad, huh?’’ Malloy asked when she saw him try to stretch.

  ``Good days and bad days.’’

  A security guard approached the car as Brant closed the door and inhaled a lungful of fresh air.

  The guard was a bull of a man, solid and sturdy but sharp eyed. He was tall, almost six feet, two inches, and had the shoulders of a defensive tackle who’d seen better days.

  ``I wouldn’t bother if I was you,’’ the guard said with a nod back toward the car.

  ``We’re looking for a Dr. Markus Schroder. We were told we could find him here.’’

  ``Yeah? Who told you that?’’ the guard asked, a sharper edge to his voice this time.

  ``We just want to ask some questions. Half an hour.’’

  ``You got a warrant or something? You wanna make this official?’’

  ``Now why would I want to do that?’’ Brant asked, hands in the air in surrender. A meeting between friends and no more, he seemed to be saying. ``As I said, half an hour.’’

  The guard seemed to consider the request and the consequences if he refused. After a moment, he relinquished.

  ``Second floor office on the right. Half an hour. After that, come back with an arrest warrant.’’

  Brant smiled as he tapped the guard on the shoulder in mock gratitude. ``Thanks, sweets. Now go chase some cars.’’

  The guard scowled. Malloy suppressed a giggle.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Schroder’s office was past a reception desk manned by empty loose-leaf binders a
nd boxes of printing paper. The building was almost empty. Lights had been dimmed or turned off. A fish tank had been drained and emptied. A cleaner, working the controls of a carpet shampoo machine, looked up from her work as they approached.

  ``Dr. Schroder?’’

  The cleaner shrugged and returned to her work, fighting to erase any signs of a gray water stain. They continued down a narrow hallway until they came to an office at the rear of the building. Fluorescent lights hummed in tune to a paper shredder working overtime. An old man stood by the shredder, feeding the machine a steady supply of documents. Brant knocked on the doorframe, drawing his attention.

  ``Who are you?’’

  ``Lieutenant Jonas Brant and this is detective Katy Malloy. We’re from the Boston Police Department. We’d like to talk to you about a former employee. Allison Carswell.’’

  Brant offered his business card. Malloy did the same.

  Out in the reception area, the carpet shampoo machine shuddered, forcing a sharp rebuke from the cleaner. Schroder nodded in the direction of a chair occupied by cardboard boxes filled with books and documents bound into reports.

  ``Sit,’’ Schroder said, following his own advice and taking the Areon office chair behind a solid-looking desk of polished mahogany. The old man leaned back in the chair and began stroking his chin with his left hand. He wore a tired, deflated look as if bits of his life had been sucked away.

  ``Poor Allison. I was shocked when I heard what happened.’’

  He spoke in a slow, measured cadence. His voice was deep and rich with the hint of an accent. Perhaps German. Maybe East European.

  Schroder took his head in his hands. Brant was afraid the old man would break into tears. Suddenly, the room seemed small and intimate, their presence a violation.

  ``Sorry for the loss,’’ Brant said. Malloy looked in his direction, instantly admonishing the half-hearted attempt he’d made to make the other man more comfortable.

  ``What?’’ he responded with a shrug of the shoulders as he caught her gaze. Malloy rolled her eyes.

  ``Yes, well.’’ Schroder stiffened as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. ``Life goes on. I suppose you have questions for me.’’

  ``That’s why we’re here,’’ Malloy said.

  ``I won’t be much help. I didn’t know her well.’’

  Schroder folded and replaced the handkerchief.

  ``But she worked for you?’’ Malloy asked.

  Schroder nodded. ``Yes, she was a researcher here. Damned good, too.’’

  ``What exactly was it she was researching?’’

  ``Ah, this is very interesting,’’ Schroder said, reaching for a file folder. ``Ms. Carswell was doing work in genomics.’’

  ``Genomics?’’ Brant asked.

  ``Variations in the human genome. She was helping to develop analytical tools that would help to understand the genetic basis for disease and to move genes around.’’

  ``Sounds complicated.’’

  ``Oh, it is. And difficult. We’ve spent a great deal of time trying to decipher what genes do and what they code for. It’s not enough to know what the human genome looks like. We have to be able to determine what it actually does.’’

  ``I see,’’ Brant said. ``And Ms. Carswell. She was a lab assistant or something?’’

  Schroder shook his head. ``She was a lead researcher. She was working on a kind of tool to identify genes that play a role in cancer development. But I don’t really see that this is any relevance to her murder. I was told she was killed in a random attack.’’

  ``We don’t know that yet,’’ Brant said. ``Did you know she had a child? Did she take any time off work recently?’’

  Schroder pressed his lips together in thought. ``No, not that I’m aware.’’

  ``When did she join Genepro?’’ Malloy asked.

  ``A few months ago. Maybe six.’’

  ``And you got to know her how?’’

  Schroder paused momentarily. ``I’d read some of her research papers. I called around. One of our angel investors knew her.’’

  ``So she came recommended, is that right?’’

  ``Yes, something like that.’’

  Brant tapped his pen against his teeth. He was running out of questions. Allison Carswell’s work was interesting, but relevant to her murder? Brant wondered.

  ``When did you see her last?’’ Malloy asked.

  ``Last Friday.’’

  Four days before she’d turned up dead.

  ``You weren’t concerned when she didn’t come in to work?’’

  Schroder shrugged. ``Millennials. They have a different work ethic. Besides, I had my mind on other things. I’ve been in meetings with creditors for the past couple days.’’

  ``So you didn’t try to contact her?’’ Malloy asked.

  Schroder shook his head. ``No. I’ve been so distracted.’’

  ``Did she speak about anyone in her personal life?’’ Brant asked, hopeful that Schroder might provide a better sense of who Carswell had been seeing.

  Unlikely she’d confide in someone like Schroder, but you never knew. An older man. Father figure. Countless hours in the lab together. They had to speak about something.

  ``Allison kept very much to herself. I’m sorry. I don’t seem to be much help. I really don’t have any idea what her life was like outside this building.’’

  ``You mentioned your backers,’’ Brant said, changing course. ``Where does the money come from? I imagine this kind of thing isn’t cheap.’’

  ``Oh, you imagine correctly. It’s time consuming and financially draining.’’

  ``But you have backing, is that right?’’

  ``HAD backing,’’ Schroder corrected.

  The older man smiled weakly as he cast his eyes around the office, settling on a framed picture hanging on the far wall. Brant hadn’t noticed the photograph when he’d entered and he admonished himself for the oversight. In the photo, a smiling Markus Schroder grasped the hand of an older man with exuberance and enthusiasm. Both men gazed directly into the camera. Schroder looked the younger of the two despite his thinning white hair and drooping eyelids. Wavy, wild hair peaked out from under a black cap worn rakishly by the second of the two men.

  ``Linus Pauling,’’ Schroder said finally. ``He won a Nobel Prize in 1954 and again nine years later for his antinuclear activism. That’s us at a conference in Geneva. I had just presented a paper on the genetic mechanisms of cancer and Linus was curious to learn more.’’

  ``Interesting.’’

  ``Interesting? Such a wasted, lazy word.’’ Schroder shook his head. ``You’re wasting your time. I can’t tell you anything about Ms. Carswell.’’

  ``Nothing at all?’’ Malloy asked out of hope.

  Schroder sat forward in his chair. ``Look around you. Tell me what you see.’’

  ``I don’t see much of anything,’’ Malloy said after a moment.

  Schroder smiled, again weakly and without much warmth. ``You’re getting good at this.’’

  ``I’m trying.’’

  Schroder shook his head. ``The fish were the last to go. The reception went first, then the secretaries. The equipment was pulled out last week. The researchers went one by one. Better offers from universities and colleges with government grant money. Allison was one of the last.’’

  Brant nodded in agreement. ``I think I’m getting the picture.’’

  ``Genepro is no more. Finished. The money is all gone. I have no budget. Do you know how hard it is to keep researchers when you can’t pay them? No? Well, let me tell you, it’s bloody difficult. Impossible, really. All I have left is these boxes of binders and research papers. It’s a crying shame. The work we did here was absolutely first class. Top notch. All we needed was a few more years and you would have seen the results. I’m not going to go as far as to say we would have produced a cure for cancer…but we were getting pretty bloody close. We were moving in the right direction. What is it they say about a journey of a thousand miles b
eginning with a single step? Sorry, my English isn’t perfect. Maybe that is an awkward cliche. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.’’

  Schroder sighed as he threw up his hands in despair.

  ``You’ve lost me,’’ Brant said.

  ``Oh, what does it matter, it’ll all come out in the end,’’ Schroder said with finality. He’d leaned forward and was propping his head up with his right hand. He looked over to Brant, locking him in his gaze.

  ``Have you ever heard the name Sergei Volodin?’’ Brant asked.

  ``Yes, why do you ask?’’ Schroder’s voice was suddenly hard and snappish, defensive even. He’d obviously anticipated the question.

  ``He owns this building.’’

  ``His real estate company does, yes.’’

  ``Anything else we should know about your relationship with him?’’

  Schroder furrowed his brow in thought, considering the question with a severe look on his face. Finally, the older man assumed a look of arrogance, superiority even. Brant had seen the visage worn on other men in times of stress, when they were backed into corners with nothing to lose. It was a dangerous look.

  ``I met him about five years ago through a mutual acquaintance,’’ Schroder said, straightening his back as he spoke. ``I was told he was interested in my work and in what we were doing with individual cancer treatments targeted at the molecular level. I was very impressed with his knowledge. I’d never met someone who wasn’t a scientist who had the ability to process our research on such a detailed level.’’

  ``So you became friends?’’

  Schroder nodded. ``I was very flattered. I didn’t know anything about finance, you see. Volodin offered to help us raise the money we needed to continue operating. The financial crash was…how do you say it in English…a kick in the pants?’’

  Brant smiled. ``I think you mean a kick in the gut.’’

  ``A kick in the gut, yes of course. We had been relying on grants from the National Institutes of Health to our investigators. The advantage is that a company like this,’’ Schroder gazed at his office’s walls, ``we don’t have to deal with all the bullshit at a university. The teaching responsibilities and the bureaucratic infighting to begin with. The tradeoff is that we also don’t have a steady source of funding. When Volodin heard about our problems after the financial crisis, he offered to help.’’