Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

Brant shook his head. He had no recollection. He’d had a vague sense of movement, but nothing in which to anchor him to a specific moment or action.

  ``The scans came back. You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Brant. The bullet hasn’t shifted.’’

  The doctor slapped the MRI films securely into a lightbox at the side of Brant’s bed.

  ``This white object in the scan, that’s the bullet.’’

  The doctor ran his finger along the outline of a white shadow set against the darkened folds of Brant’s brain. His eyes were two white orbs dangling grotesquely from stocks attached to the right and left hemispheres. A white border was the bony container of his skull — impossibly thin and delicate.

  ``The bullet is sitting in this fissure here. It’s not doing any damage at the moment but there’s always a risk it will shift. Maybe not today, or tomorrow. But sometime in the future this is going to cause problems. I don’t see any cranial nerve damage. Do you have headaches?’’

  ``Some, yes.’’

  ``I’m not surprised. I can refer you to a neurosurgeon. We have a very good team here at the hospital.’’

  ``No surgery,’’ Brant said gravely. ``You say it’s not doing anything? Let’s leave it alone.’’

  The doctor turned solemn. ``It’s a tough decision.’’

  ``Not really.’’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  He was released later that afternoon. Marcellus drove. Ben sat in the back, staring wordlessly out the window. They’d given Brant painkillers and something for the nausea.

  Good to his word, the doctor had attributed his injuries to an accident. No medical investigation report would be filed.

  ``Your insurance company won’t like it,’’ the doctor had said as Brant dressed to leave.

  ``Leave that with me.’’

  Marcellus sulked. She was pissed. At what, he had no clue.

  Vintage 80s on the car sound system. Marcellus had found an old CD in the glove compartment. `Right Here Waiting’ by Richard Marx played, lulling him into a stupor with the soft opening cords.

  ``Is it worth it?’’ Marcellus asked as they turned on to Providence Street.

  ``Is what worth it?’’

  ``This job. It’s killing you.’’

  Brant considered the question. So that was what was bothering her. She’d always had a problem with his decision to become a cop. She’d said he could do better, could aspire to something more. How could he explain the seductive lure of the job, of the possibilities it offered to make a difference.

  ``It’s complicated, Marcellus.’’

  ``You seem to want to hurt yourself. It’s an obsession.’’

  ``You’re being unfair,’’ Brant said gently. ``I’m trying to do better.’’

  ``Show me you mean it.’’

  ``What do you want me to do?’’ he asked.

  ``Whatever this case is, drop it.’’

  ``I can’t do that.’’

  ``Then don’t expect me to pick you up from the hospital next time.’’

  They drove on, neither saying a word. Brant stared out at the passing blur of buildings as she turned onto Newbury Street. Shoppers lined the sidewalks. A chocolatier had set up a stand on the pavement. Kids with balloons danced in circles while young couples pushed babies in strollers.

  He turned to Ben in the backseat. The little guy turned his head away as a rebuke. The kid had been crying and his eyes were puffy and red. Ben’s lower lip quivered as he fought to keep the tears at bay. Brant’s heart ached. How could he explain that this is what his father did, that there were bad people in the world who thought nothing of hurting another?

  ``Who’s Sergei?’’ Marcellus asked unprompted.

  ``Sergei?’’

  ``Some flowers arrived yesterday. The card was from Sergei. He says he hopes you get better soon.’’

  Brant fumed. The bastard. He was being taunted, played. He’d somehow fallen into a dangerous orbit with Volodin at the center.

  ``He’s an old friend,’’ Brant finally said in reply to his sister’s question.

  ``How did he know you were in the hospital?’’

  Brant shrugged. Pain radiated from his shoulder as his neck ached.

  ``I have no idea.’’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  He returned to the office the next day, battered and slightly bruised but feeling remarkably fit for all the trauma. His shoulder was tender and his neck pinched. A dull pain gripped his temples, mediated by medication.

  Dennis Tate sat in the adjoining cubicle, eyeing him warily as he flicked through the pages of a book Brant had left lying on his desk. Clatterback and Malloy had been sent for coffee.

  ``Jesus, you look terrible,’’ Tate said when Brant grimaced at a twinge of pain. ``What happened?’’

  ``Squash.’’

  ``Like in the game?’’

  ``I took a tumble on the court.’’

  ``Ah, sure,’’ Tate said skeptically, not believing him but not wanting to pursue the matter. He returned to the book.

  The office hummed. Julian March had called roll. Some uniforms had begun to gather in the briefing room. Tate abandoned the book for a day-old copy of the Boston Globe.

  ``What the fuck.’’

  ``What’s wrong with you?’’ Brant asked of the other officer.

  ``The news makes me so frickin’ depressed.’’

  ``Need help with some big words?’’

  ``Hah, hah. You’re a frickin comedian, Brant.’’

  Brant leaned back in his chair as he watched a convoy of uniforms head toward roll call. A clipboard-wielding sergeant by the name of Johnny Dunlap led the way.

  ``Says here the Chinese spent $22 billion on residential real estate in the U.S. last year. What the fuck’s up with that?’’

  ``What’s up with the language?’’

  ``Huh?’’

  ``Frick and fuck. You can’t seem to make up your mind.’’

  ``Family stuff, Brant. Wife’s on my case ‘cause the kids are swearing like sailors.’’

  ``Wonder where they get it from.’’

  ``Yeah, like you give a fuck, right Brant?’’

  ``What’s got you so riled up about the Chinese? You in the market for a new house?’’ Brant asked, pointing his chin at the newspaper.

  ``You’d think a lieutenant’s salary’d buy you a nice place, right? But these Chinese, see, they’re moving in and buying up everything they can get their hands on. The fuckers don’t have anything else to do with the money, so they come over here.’’

  ``Just a question of supply and demand,’’ Brant said. ``What do you want? You want to close the market?’’

  ``Not a bad idea,’’ Tate said. ``Give some of us little guys a chance to move up, like.’’

  ``I thought you were a Republican?’’

  ``What does that matter?’’

  Brant shrugged. ``Your party doesn’t exactly support capital controls. Bad for foreign investment. Could scare them away. Then who’d buy all our debt?’’

  ``Why do you have to talk like such a damned professor, Brant? I’m just saying these Chinese are bad news. They’re killing the housing market.’’

  Brant pressed his lips together. Clatterback and Malloy had returned. Malloy handed him a grande latte.

  ``How much do I owe you?’’

  Malloy waved him away. ``That’s okay, boss. Junior bought.’’

  ``And don’t forget it,’’ Clatterback said as he fell into the chair opposite Brant. ``It’s hot out there. I don’t know how you can stomach a hot drink.’’

  ``Habit.’’

  ``What are we talking about?’’ Malloy asked as she took the remaining seat.

  ``Tate’s giving me his views on the macroeconomy.’’

  Dennis Tate arched his eyebrows. ``The macro what? Look, all’s I’m saying is all this money from China, it’s dirty as hell, see. So no way should they be allowed to buy up all our houses. Send them back home.’’

  ``Charming thought,�
�’ Brant said without much emotion.

  ``Place in my neighborhood sold for $175,000 over asking after three days on the market,’’ Clatterback said. ``Good thing I’m already in the market.’’

  ``Since when did cops get obsessed with real estate?’’ Malloy asked in response. ``You sound like a bunch of ladies who lunch. Or worse, bankers.’’

  ``She’s got a point,’’ Brant said.

  ``Easy for you to say,’’ Tate said. ``How’s the place in Back Bay, Brant? You have the designers come in to redecorate lately?’’

  ``Screw you, Tate.’’

  Dennis Tate smiled broadly. ``Ah, see. We got us a sore point, folks.’’

  ``You live in Back Bay?’’ Clatterback asked. ``That’s a nice area. What’d that set you back?’’

  ``It belonged to my wife,’’ Brant said defensively. ``And we’re done with this.’’

  Brant turned to the stack of paper on his desk. Folder after folder of interview transcripts, autopsy reports, crime scene photos. He fished the Carswell case from the stack, opening it to the most recent entry.

  ``What the hell really happened to your face Brant?’’ Tate asked. ``You look like shit. And don’t tell me it was squash.’’

  ``I was going to ask the same,’’ Clatterback said. ``Two days off doesn’t seem to have done much for you.’’

  Brant shuffled the papers from the Carswell file. He’d told them he’d needed to take time off. Family issues. His father had been giving him problems and he’d needed time to deal with the old man before the home threw him out. A white lie to cover his tracks. He was loathe to involve either of them with Volodin. Better to keep the Russian and his threats to himself. Even Marcellus remained in the dark. As far as she knew, Volodin was a concerned friend and former colleague.

  ``Can we get back to work?’’ Brant asked, brushing the matter away and pointing to the Carswell folder.

  ``I’d love to help you ladies, but I got stuff of my own to take care of. March is gonna assign me to street patrol if I don’t watch my back. Caio.’’

  Tate rose to leave, taking the book he’d found on Brant’s desk with him.

  ``The book?’’ Brant asked.

  ``I can’t borrow it?’’

  ``You can but you never return them. Hand it over.’’

  Tate handed the book to Brant, a look of wounded pride playing across his face.

  ``What did I miss?’’ he asked when Tate had left.

  ``You see yesterday’s Globe?’’ Malloy asked without hesitation.

  ``I read the front page. What was I supposed to see?’’

  ``Front of the local section. Lead item. There was a short piece on Luceno. Seems he got arrested a few weeks back but some of the goons from the Mayor’s office moved in and broke him out before the paperwork was filed. Now council wants to launch an investigation. There’s talk they might haul the commissioner in front of the council for an explanation.’’

  ``Luceno, huh?’’ Brant frowned. He understood the implications immediately. ``I’m sorry.’’

  ``You better tell that to my dad, sir. He thinks I was the leak. Now I’m shit on a stick.’’

  ``I’ll make it right,’’ Brant said, meaning it. ``What about Jolly?’’

  ``What about him?’’

  ``He doesn’t think you told the journo does he?’’

  Malloy shook her head. ``Far as I know, he has no clue we were asking about Luceno. You ever talk to Cicca?’’

  ``Didn’t have time. Ritchie didn’t get the name from me. Whatever she got, she pieced most of it together by herself.’’

  ``She going to be a problem?’’ Clatterback asked.

  ``No, I don’t think so. Now that she’s gotten her scoop, I doubt we’ll see much more of her.’’

  ``What’d you find at Genepro?’’ Clatterback asked after a moment.

  Brant shrugged. ``Not much. The place was pretty much boxed up when I got there. I think it’s been closed down.’’

  Another lie, but a necessary one to be sure.

  ``Did you find out anything more on Eichel?’’ Brant asked Clatterback.

  ``I did.’’

  ``And?’’

  ``The phone company came through. I got her texts and her call records off the Nokia. She called a number registered to him multiple times in the days before her murder.’’

  ``So where can we find Eichel? Did you find anything else on social media?’’

  Clatterback shook his head. ``He seems to have been careful. Besides Twitter, no more digital tracks. But the phone records were interesting. Eichel’s calls were bouncing off a cell tower up in Maine. I looked it up on the map app on my phone. Here’s the place.’’

  Clatterback placed his handset on the desk and flipped through to a map application. A second tap brought up a display showing crisscrossing lines set against a yellow background. It was a topographical map showing the state of Maine. A red location pin had been placed in the upper right corner of the screen.

  ``Masardis,’’ Brant said as he read aloud the location on the map. ``Ever heard of it?’’

  The two younger detectives shook their heads in unison.

  ``Neither have I. Looks pretty remote. There doesn’t seem to be much of anything around there. What about the texts?’’

  Clatterback reached into the file he’d taken from his desk after they’d returned from the coffee run.

  ``They don’t say much that can help. Just a lot of love crap about how much they miss each other and can’t wait to see each other again.’’

  ``Let me see those,’’ Malloy said as she reached for the transcripts of the texts between Carswell and Eichel. ``It’s going to take some time to go through these. There’s a lot here.’’

  ``Don’t waste your time,’’ Clatterback said. ``I’ve already been through the highlights. It’s boring and useless.’’

  ``You’re being hasty, Junior. Katy is right. I want you two to go through these carefully.’’

  ``Maybe Eichel killed her,’’ Malloy said matter of factly.

  ``It’s a possibility. We still don’t know much about him, though. Junior, take Eichel’s picture. Show it to every storekeeper, vagrant, security guard, tour guide…anyone in the vicinity of where Carswell’s body was found. If he was in the neighborhood, I want to know.’’

  ``Want company?’’ Malloy asked.

  ``Best offer I’ve had all day. You okay with that, chief?’’

  ``Who am I to stand in the way?’’

  Neither of the other detectives answered.

  ``I still think we’re missing something.’’ Brant stood as he closed his own file.

  ``Like what?’’

  ``We need to retrace some steps. What about the interviews near Copley, Junior?’’

  Clatterback shook his head. ``Dead ends. Nobody saw anything. Except for a homeless guy but I doubt he’d be much help.’’

  ``Why?’’

  ``The guy’s non compos mentis, if you know what I mean,’’ Clatterback said.

  ``Do you know where we can find him?’’

  ``I do.’’

  ``The texts can wait.’’

  The shopping cart rattled. The plastic seat flap was broken. Crushed beverage cans filled much of the basket.

  ``This is Ray,’’ Clatterback said, pointing indelicately to the cart’s owner.

  ``Last name?’’ Brant asked.

  ``No, man. Just Ray.’’

  Ray’s face broke into a gapped smile. He was an old-timer. Dark leathery skin. Frizzy hair. A tired-looking face. Graying stubble grew on a weak chin.

  The man’s clothes were a mess. He wore stained, oversized chinos. His shoes were black and muddied, too large for his feet. A soiled t-shirt hung loose on a slender frame. The smells of urine and garbage hung over him like a cloud.

  ``You living rough, Ray?’’ Brant asked out of curiosity and sympathy.

  ``No way, my brother. This is my home. I’m free as a bird.’’

  Ray raised his
arms to take in his surroundings. The smile on his face widened.

  They were standing on a sidewalk near Dartmouth Street. Trinity Church was to their back. Tourists sat on benches near a stand selling lemonade. A woman had laid out a picnic blanket in the middle of Copley Square. Two children tossed a ball into the air as they ran in circles.

  ``Want me to call Social Services, Ray? Maybe get you a hot meal?’’

  Ray’s face turned petulant as he stamped his feet. ``I TOLD you man, I’m free.’’

  ``Seriously, Ray. We could get you to a doctor, too. That cut on your face looks bad. Where’d that come from anyway?’’

  The man’s hand went to his face and the angry-looking gash below his right eye.

  ``You know what it’s like, officer,’’ Ray said, his voice small and soft, the words slurred. ``Some kids just like to have fun with us old ones. They beat on us like, but it’s okay. I can take care of myself. Really.’’

  ``Here’s my card, Ray. You ever need anything, you give me a call, okay?’’

  The man took the business card Brant had produced from his pocket.

  ``Lieutenant Jonas Brant. Boston Police Department. That’s a nice name officer, biblical like, you know what I mean? Are you a religious man by any chance?’’

  ``Afraid not, Ray. Detective Clatterback tells me you saw something the other night. You want to tell me about it?’’

  The man pressed his lips together as he brought a crooked finger to his lips. ``Now, this is just between the three of us, right? I mean I don’t need to get in no trouble. Life is tough for a black man in America these days, officer. It’s just a citizen has to do his duty. Isn’t that right?’’

  ``That’s right, Ray,’’ Brant said, patting the man gently on the shoulder with affection. ``We need to watch out for each other. That’s why I want you to call me if you get into any trouble out here or if you want to go to a shelter for that hot meal. Now, what was it you saw?’’

  ``Well, it’s like this,’’ Ray said, drawing air in through cracked lips. ``I’m an early riser, you see. Part of the routine, so to speak. The city’s quietest then. And the sunrises. You wouldn’t believe, my brother. God in all his glory. You know what I’m saying?’’