Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  ``University? She was working at a place called Genepro when she was killed. That name never came up?’’

  McNaught furrowed his brow. ``Not that I recall. She told me she was a researcher on some project at Tufts. At the school of medicine. Afraid I don’t know anything about Genepro.’’

  ``But you were a couple? I mean you were together?’’

  ``I suppose so. But as I said, Allison really kept her head down. She was very intelligent and she was dedicated. But she could be pretty evasive. She didn’t tell me much about what she was researching. I just know it was some kind of biomedical stuff.’’

  Brant took a notepad from his pocket. ``Did she speak much about her family or her upbringing?’’

  ``I know she has a mother and father somewhere in upstate New York. She didn’t say very much about them. I figured there was bad blood there so I didn’t pry. I knew she was religious. It’s not my thing, but she was into her Bible. I got the sense it was the Catholic thing that caused the problems with her parents.’’

  ``In what way?’’

  McNaught had unfurled a sail and was searching through a bag for something. A smile crossed his face as he found what he’d been looking for.

  ``What is it?’’ Brant asked when McNaught had collected several strips of thin fiberglass.

  ``Battens. We usually lose a couple every session. You were asking about Allison’s beliefs?’’

  ``You said she’d had problems with her parents over religion?’’

  ``Not her religion. The baby.’’

  Brant stopped scribbling and glanced up at McNaught, fighting to keep his look from betraying his surprise. ``You knew she’d had a child?’’

  ``Knew? I was there when she gave birth. I mean right there in the room. It was a tough delivery, too. She was screaming like a banshee.’’

  Brant couldn’t believe his luck, couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

  ``You said you’d been seeing her for about six months. Maybe I’m not understanding the timeline. When did you meet? When did you start going out?’’

  ``Timeline? What do you mean?’’ McNaught stared at Brant, perplexed. ``Oh, I see. You think I was the father. No, no. Not at all. She was pregnant when I met her. That would have been November last year. She had the kid in March. Late March. I have no idea who the father was and she didn’t tell me. It’s one of the reasons we stopped seeing each other. She was always evasive that way. I could never get a straight answer out of her. Eventually, I just got tired and told her to go screw herself. I mean, the last thing I wanted was a kid, right? We saw each other for the last time in June.’’

  ``So you don’t know who the father is?’’

  McNaught shook his head. ``Sorry, can’t help you there. Is it relevant to her murder? Do you think the guy came back and killed her for some reason?’’

  ``It might be relevant. We’re still working it out. Ms. Carswell seems an enigma. Did you know she kept a gun in the side table by her bed?’’

  McNaught smiled as he shook his head in mock despair. ``Lieutenant, nothing shocks me these days. Yeah, I’m surprised to hear that. I guess you can add that to the puzzle. More I think of it, more I realize she was one screwed up chick. Know what I mean?’’

  ``Did she have any friends? Anyone she spent time with?’’

  McNaught bit the inside of his cheek as he considered the question. ``You mean outside of work?’’

  ``That’s the general idea.’’

  ``I couldn’t help you there. She didn’t mention anyone.’’

  ``You said something about her work. Did she talk to you much about what she was researching?’’

  ``She may have, but to be honest I didn’t pay much attention to that kind of stuff. It was all over my head. She’d sometimes come over to my place and work on the computer.’’

  ``Really? That’s interesting.’’ Brant scribbled in his notebook. ``She didn’t have a laptop or anything?’’

  McNaught shrugged. ``Not that I recall.’’

  ``Well, if you can think of anything new, give me a call.’’

  Brant fished a business card from his pocket. McNaught scrutinized the embossed lettering before placing the card in his own pocket.

  A yellow school bus had pulled into the parking lot not far from Brant’s car. A gaggle of kids poured out of the bus and made their way for the dock. Riotous sounds of laughter punctuated the air.

  ``My next class,’’ McNaught said with a wry smile. ``I’m going to earn my pay today.’’

  Brant looked out at the flat waters of the bay as small waves rolled, caressing the beach. Castle Island loomed in the distance. There were tougher ways to make a living, he supposed.

  ``The office view isn’t so bad,’’ he said.

  ``You’re right there.’’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lunch was a hotdog and cola from a food truck parked on the other side of the parking lot from the sailing school. He consumed the dog and the bun in gulps. The proprietor, a middle aged man with dark skin and a pitted complexion, watched with a look of mild admiration as Brant inhaled the food.

  ``You may want to go easy there buddy. Better yet, want another?’’

  ``Nah, this is fine,’’ Brant said, holding the dog aloft as ketchup dribbled onto his hand. ``You got another napkin?’’

  ``Here.’’

  Brant wiped his fingers and tossed the soiled napkin into the garbage can beside the truck. Warm air billowed from the open grill. The owner wiped his hands on a greasy apron.

  ``Gonna go to 90. This place’ll be butt cheek to butt cheek in another hour or so. You police?’’

  Brant smiled. ``How’d you know?’’

  The other man shrugged. ``You cops. You’re all the same. It’s the way you walk. You know, like you own the place or something.’’

  ``Is that right?’’

  ``Sure. I see it all the time. Not that it does any good around here.’’

  Brant appraised the man. ``What do you mean?’’

  ``Kid got shot right over there last week.’’ The man pointed in the direction of the lifeguard stand. ``You guys show up half an hour later, take a couple statements, then that’s it. Nothing else. Meanwhile, we locals go back to business as usual, like nothing ever happened. It’s not right.’’

  ``No, it’s not right,’’ Brant agreed. ``It’s not right at all.’’

  ``So what do we do?’’ The man shrugged, a gesture meant to convey a feeling of futility. Brant conceded the point. ``Right. Nothing. We just go on. Crazy.’’

  ``It’s the summer season,’’ Brant said by way of explanation. ``Kids out of school. Nowhere to go. Parents at work. They get into trouble. In my day we’d fire off cap guns or water rockets. Stakes are a bit higher now.’’

  The other man smiled wearily. ``It’s guns. Pure and simple. Don’t take no genius to figure that out.’’

  ``Well, I agree. But try telling that to the NRA. I doubt they’d agree.’’

  ``Yeah? The NRA can suck my balls. Tell ‘em to come down here and see what’s happening to this place.’’

  ``I don’t disagree,’’ Brant said.

  ``You got a card or something? Maybe I’ll give you a call next time something comes up. You’ll be like my go to guy.’’

  Brant handed the man his contact details. The man looked at the card, paying particular attention to Brant’s name and division.

  ``Jonas, huh?’’

  ``That’s right. Jonas Brant.’’

  The man smiled. ``Sounds kind of biblical. Like you’re a hundred years old or something. Hey, you want another dog? I got a couple just about done.’’

  Brant shrugged. Why not. God only knew when he’d have another chance to eat. He reached into his pocket for a couple of singles. The man refused.

  ``On the house. Just answer the phone when I call, okay?’’

  His cellphone rang as he made his way back to the car. A black Ford had pulled in beside his Hyundai, leaving little space t
o maneuver. A mid-sized SUV made a beeline for one of the last remaining spaces. A woman and two children hopped out of the vehicle. A cooler, floating rings, beach towels, umbrellas and chairs followed.

  Brant shaded his phone’s screen with his hand to better see the identity of the caller. Marcellus.

  ``I’m so angry. I could spit bullets.’’

  Brant shifted the handset to his other ear as he wedged himself into the space between his Hyundai and the neighboring car.

  ``What’s going on, Marcellus? Why are you so angry?’’

  ``I got served. Can you believe it? That shit actually served me with papers.’’

  ``Calm down. Who are we talking about? David?’’

  A television played in the background, filling the air between brother and sister. Brant imagined Marcellus reclining on the sofa as she twirled her hair and made plans to throttle her husband.

  ``Papers, Jonas! Goddamned papers! We’ve been married for fifteen years and I’m told by some snot-nosed bicycle messenger dressed in lycra that my marriage has ended.’’

  Brant slid into the driver’s seat of his car. The black leather steering wheel was hot to the touch. He fumbled for his keys.

  ``I thought that’s what you wanted,’’ Brant said as he turned the air conditioner to full. ``You said the other night that you’d left him.’’

  Marcellus began to sob. Brant rolled his eyes. He was embarrassed for her, but it pained him nonetheless to hear her in such a state.

  ``I’m just so furious,’’ she said, resolve and determination finally taking hold. ``Well, if it’s a fight he wants, I’ll give it to him. What time are you coming home?’’

  Brant looked at his watch. It was almost 11:30 a.m. Another 20 minutes or so and the beach would be heaving.

  ``I’ll try to be early. You want me to talk to David, see what I can do?’’

  Silence filled the airwaves. The opening jingle to the theme song for The Price Is Right spilled out.

  ``Marcellus? Are you still there?’’

  ``Oh God, please stay away, Jonas. Please, please, please tell me you aren’t going to do anything? Okay?’’

  Brant adjusted the Hyundai’s rearview mirror. A candy red Saab had pulled into the spot behind him. A blonde checked herself in the mirror before reaching into her backseat for an oversized beach bag.

  ``Why did you call, Marcellus, if you don’t want me to do anything about it? I mean, what exactly do you want me to say?’’

  ``It’s just…forget it, okay. It was a mistake. Look, I have to go. I promised Benji I’d make him something special for dinner and I have to do some grocery shopping. You won’t talk to him, right Jonas?’’

  ``I’ll do whatever you want, Marcellus. I’ve got to go, too. See you tonight.’’

  The phone line disconnected. Brant looked in his rearview mirror a second time. The blonde had disappeared.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The offices of Sutton Davidson Levinson and Gregg were on the 30th floor of the Prudential Tower.

  The elevator he’d taken from the lobby opened onto an airy reception with a panoramic view of the old town and the Charles River. Jazz played through black Bose speakers. A thick white shag carpet sat squarely in the center of the room. Two black leather sofas had been placed to each side of a glass table. A walnut-finished reception desk ran along one wall. The lighting was subtle and discreet.

  ``Can I help you?’’

  The question came from a middle aged Asian woman wearing a light gray suit. The cut of her black hair fell casually across perfectly kept eyebrows.

  ``David Sutton.’’

  ``Do you have an appointment?’’

  The woman tapped at the keyboard of a brushed aluminum-encased iMac sitting on her desk.

  ``Tell him Jonas is here.’’

  The woman looked up from the screen. ``So no appointment?’’

  ``Just tell him Jonas is here.’’

  ``Sorry, I’m going to need something more. Jonas who exactly?’’

  ``Jonas Brant.’’

  ``Oh.’’ A hint of recognition played across the woman’s face as she pressed her lips together. ``Please take a seat.’’

  Brant did as he was told. A copy of the day’s Boston Globe sat beside a collection of architectural magazines. He took the paper in hand, flipping through to the local news section. Nothing on Luceno. Whatever Sheila Ritchie had been up to had yet to yield publishable results.

  Ten minutes passed. Brant stared out at the shifting clouds and the sprawling cityscape beyond.

  David Sutton appeared out of nowhere. He wore a solid blue Armani suit, crisp white shirt and silk tie. His shoes were polished to a blinding shine. His youthful face was deeply tanned in a healthy way. A lawyer from casting central.

  ``Jonas!’’ he said, extending his hand in greeting as a smile spread from ear to ear.

  Smarmy bastard, Brant thought as he returned the handshake. They’d had a rocky relationship in the past. Sutton was a conservative Republican in the truest sense, a fact he wore on his pinstriped suits with resolute pride. While Brant could excuse the man his politics, he couldn’t abide the barely concealed contempt Sutton showed for other people and their views. His was an arrogance worn like a badge.

  ``I had no idea you were coming. I’m glad you stopped by. Let’s go into my office. We’ll have more privacy back there.’’

  Sutton led him through a set of double doors and into the inner sanctum of offices. No one looked up from their desks. An inner calm seemed pervasive. Brant caught a glimpse of a glass-walled conference room and a group huddled around a massive oval table. A huge flat-screen monitor had been positioned against the far wall. A camera atop the screen broadcast the meeting to whoever was on the other end of the line. The screen showed a woman sitting in a similar-looking room. The backdrop was of a glittering skyline at night and a blackened harbor beyond. One of the buildings behind the woman’s left shoulder rose into mist.

  ``Our Hong Kong office,’’ Sutton said when he saw the direction of Brant’s gaze. ``You wouldn’t believe the amount of business we’re doing overseas these days. Hot money out of China. I saw an estimate the other day that said something like $300 billion flowed out of the mainland in just the past six months. That’s a lot of dim sum, eh?’’

  Sutton laughed crassly at his racist joke. He was the kind of man who’d charm one moment and eviscerate the next. He was super intelligent, sharp-tongued and ruthless. In other words, the perfect lawyer. Brant hated him for it.

  ``Here we are.’’

  They entered a large corner office with a view of the Charles. Sutton’s desk was largely paper-free. A framed portrait photograph of Sutton, Marcellus and their two boys sat to the side of the desk. A set of walnut bookshelves dominated one wall. The furnishings were traditional, solid-looking and expensive.

  ``Do you want tea or coffee? No? Have a seat.’’

  Brant took one of two leather chairs, while Sutton took the other. A hardwood coffee table separated them.

  ``I know why you’re here and let me explain,’’ Sutton began preemptively. He had unbuttoned his jacket and crossed his legs. Short of urinating in the corner, he was marking his space, letting Brant know this was his domain.

  ``David, cut the crap,’’ Brant said, anger creeping into his voice. He’d promised himself the talk would be civil, that he’d hear Sutton out. Now he wondered whether he’d be able to live up to that pledge.

  ``You know what she’s like, Jonas. This has been building for a long time.’’

  ``You’re provoking her.’’

  Sutton shrugged and smiled. ``Jonas, you have no idea what you’re talking about. This is between Marcellus and me.’’

  ``Marcellus is my sister. Are you forgetting?’’

  ``Oh no, I’d never forget something like that. How could I?’’

  ``So you’ll understand my interest here.’’

  Sutton’s smile widened as he made a steeple of his fingers. ``Jonas, stay
out of this, okay. I’m saying it as your brother-in-law.’’

  Brant shook his head and glowered. Sutton’s smugness was digging at him and he didn’t like it.

  ``You’re in the wrong here, David. Fucking the secretary. What a pathetic cliche.’’

  ``Is that what she told you?’’

  ``She told me enough. I don’t need the details to know what’s going on.’’

  ``Ah, the detective, eh? Besides, it’s hardly as if Marcellus is the victim here.’’

  ``What’s that supposed to mean?’’

  Sutton untangled his fingers. ``All I’m saying is the breakup of a marriage is a messy business. Marcellus is done with the threats. Now she’s going to find out what it really means to go up against the full force of the law. I’m going to make her pay.’’

  Brant pointed a finger. ``You’re a bigger asshole than I thought, and I thought you were a pretty big asshole to begin with.’’

  Sutton shrugged with indifference. ``Jonas, the protective brother thing is endearing but go back to playing cops and robbers or whatever it is you do. This doesn’t involve you. I don’t want to make you collateral damage.’’

  Brant’s gaze bore a hole through Sutton. ``You’re pissing me off, David. You don’t want to do that.’’

  Sutton smiled. ``Go away, Jonas. Keep the spare bedroom made up for your sister, because when I’m done with her, she’s going to need a place to live.’’

  ``You may know the law, but you don’t want to provoke me, David.’’

  Sutton sat back. ``That sounds like a threat. I don’t like that, Jonas. I mean here I am trying to be a nice guy to you and you come into my place of work and start making…what?…what is it exactly that you’re trying to say? It almost sounds as if you’re going to use your position as a public servant in this city’s fine police department for your own personal gain. Is that what I’m hearing, lieutenant? Is that what you’re trying to say?’’

  Brant held his tongue.

  ``You know, there’s one thing about lawyers. We have a pretty good idea how the police work. I mean, just look at what went down in Baltimore or that shooting out in Washington. You’d like to think the cops are altruistic, right. But you and I know the truth, Jonas. Lots of cops are racist. Lots of cops bend the rules. Lots of cops’ll do anything to prove themselves right. You could even say the time has come when we have to protect ourselves from the very people we’ve entrusted to be our protectors. It’s a difficult time. I don’t envy you, Jonas. You walk a delicate line every day.’’