Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  Brant paused, playing the conversation over in his mind.

  ``Do we know what they were talking about?’’ Clatterback asked. ``What’s going to set them up for life?’’

  Brant demurred, unwilling to play his hand for fear of involving Clatterback and Malloy too deeply in Volodin’s machinations.

  ``Is this the only disc you were able to save?’’

  ``The one and only,’’ Clatterback said, his voiced tinged by defeat.

  ``Get a transcript made. I want to see this written down.’’

  ``Okay. What next?’’

  ``I’ve been thinking about what Ray said the other day,’’ Brant said. ``When Carswell’s body was dumped.’’

  ``And.’’

  ``I have an idea, but it involves some risk.’’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ``This place smells like old socks.’’

  Brant took a seat across the table from Pyotr Dimitri. They were in the lounge of a fitness center on Washington Street, the sound of crashing weights filling the background. Pyotr wore workout gear, a muscle shirt, baggy pants and New Balance trainers. A dragon etched in ink curled seductively around the man's heavily veined forearm, engorging on sinewy muscle.

  ``It’s invigorating, don’t you think?’’ Pyotr said, his voice flat and emotionless. ``How is your health, lieutenant? You didn’t seem well the last time we parted company.’’

  ``You would know,’’ Brant said. ``You had something to do with that.’’

  Pyotr flashed a toothy grin, proudly displaying the gap at the edge of his smile.

  Brant nodded as an attendant placed a banana smoothie on the table. Pyotr tipped his head and drained the last of a chocolate protein shake from a plastic tumbler. He’d been working out. His shoulders and biceps glistened with sweat. His face was flush.

  ``Yes, last time was fun,’’ Pyotr said as he made a fist and punched the air. ``You like a little bit of rock and roll from time to time?’’

  ``Don’t worry, Pyotr. The day will come when I even the score.’’

  The Russian raised an eyebrow as he noisily licked the rim of the plastic tumbler.

  ``Is that so?’’

  ``I want to talk about a gun and a woman.’’

  ``A woman?’’

  `` You like this place?'' Brant asked, eyeing the girl behind the cafe bar. She was about twenty and wore tight jeans. Her hair was pulled into a bun.

  Confused, Pyotr shrugged.

  "Why do you care?''

  "You see a lot of action here, Pyotr? I mean, are you lucky with the ladies? Or maybe the boys are your style. Is that it, Pyotr? Are you a homosexual?''

  Pyotr Dimitri looked at Brant with dead eyes. "I won't rise to your provocation.''

  Brant paused. "Provocation? And I thought I was just stating a fact. I mean, this is where you homos come to hang out, isn't it, Pyotr?''

  The big Russian signaled for the bill.

  "I'm leaving now,'' he said. "Whatever it is, you're wasting your time. You can go fuck your mother for all I care, lieutenant.''

  Pyotr rose to leave.

  "Sit down,'' Brant said, biting the words for effect.

  ``Why?’’

  ``Because we’re not done talking.’’

  Reluctantly, Pyotr resumed his seat.

  ``A gun was found in Allison Carswell’s apartment. In the bedside table. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?’’

  Pyotr frowned in concentration.

  ``A 9 mm Ruger semi automatic. And the funny thing is, the gun was registered in your name. Now why would Allison Carswell have your piece? Care to explain?’’

  Pyotr shrugged.

  ``There’s something else you might find interesting. Allison’s roommate, Susan Chua. You know her, right?’’

  Pyotr focused hooded eyes on Brant.

  ``Never heard of her.’’

  ``No? She seems to think she knows who you are,’’ Brant lied.

  The Russian’s frown tightened.

  ``Susan saw you with Allison a few days before she turned up dead,’’ Brant said, continuing the ruse in the hopes of shaking the other man. ``We also have an eyewitness who can put you near the alley where Allison’s body was discovered.

  ``I spoke to one of my detectives the other day,’’ Brant continued, doing his best to sound as convincing as possible. ``Seems that a CCTV camera in the area where we found Allison Carswell’s body caught the image of a man that looked remarkably similar to you. Same height. Same build. So, you see, Pyotr, it would seem you have a bit of a problem.’’

  ``Circumstantial evidence,’’ Pyotr said with a shrug. ``Isn’t that what they say in the American cop shows?’’

  ``I have a theory,’’ Brant continued, ignoring the Russian’s rebuke. ``Volodin assigned you to keep watch on Carswell. He knew she had designs on whatever it was they’d cooked up in the Genepro labs, or maybe it was at Tufts where she did the real work. The point is, Volodin knew what she was doing and the best way to protect his investment was to make sure he knew where she was. He’s too slimy to do that kind of thing himself, so he gets one of the hired hands to do it. That would be you, by the way. How am I doing? No? Yes?’’

  Pyotr said nothing.

  ``So, everything’s going fine. You’re happy. Volodin’s happy. Hell, maybe even Carswell’s happy. She’d just been through a break up. She’d had a baby, gave it up for adoption, dumped the father. She was probably feeling pretty insecure. Yes?’’

  Again, Pyotr remained silent.

  ``Maybe Carswell included you in whatever it was she was doing,’’ Brant continued. ``Maybe she offered to give you a cut if you’d protect her from Volodin. Was that it, Pyotr? Because if that was it and Volodin were to have found out, I’d say you have a lot more than me and a murder investigation to worry about. Yes?’’

  ``Circumstantial,’’ Pyotr said, his face turning slightly red as he emphasized the point.

  ``I still can’t figure out why you’d give her the gun, though,’’ Brant said.

  Pyotr glowered.

  ``Oh, you didn’t give her the gun,’’ Brant said, realization hitting him. ``She took the gun. Didn’t she? That’s why it was reported stolen. Tsk. Tsk. What a stupid boy you’ve been, Pyotr. What would the boss do if he were to find out. He wouldn’t be very happy, would he?’’

  Brant rose to leave, reasonably sure he’d accomplished what he intended. Pyotr’s face remained flush, his eyes hooded and wary.

  ``A little bit to think about, eh?’’ Brant said as he reached over to tap the Russian on the knee. ``Call me once Volodin’s done with you.’’

  ``Well?’’

  Brant turned to Clatterback. They were sitting in his Hyundai, the engine running. Ray was in the back, eyes trained on the entrance to the fitness center.

  ``What about it, Ray?’’

  ``Damn, that is one fine looking woman,’’ Ray said in response, watching intently as a woman dressed in black tights and a sports bra emerged from the building.

  ``Yeah, but what about the Russian guy? You get a good look when he left?’’

  Ray pressed his lips together. He’d been drinking. Piss and beer smells filled the Hyundai’s interior.

  The arrangement had been simple. Clatterback and Ray would remain parked outside while Brant confronted Pyotr Dimitri. As Pyotr left, Ray would see if the Russian’s body type matched the man he’d seen dump Carswell’s body. Ray’s role would be off the books, at least until they had enough evidence on Pyotr to make an arrest.

  ``Like I said before, brothers, it was dark,’’ Ray said after thinking over Clatterback’s question. ``The mind isn’t as sharp as it used to be. Know what I’m saying?’’

  ``Anything you can give us helps, Ray,’’ Brant said, turning around to face his passenger. ``This is very important.’’

  Ray shook his head in thought. He was wearing the same chinos and soiled shirt he’d had the previous day. The stubble had turned into the beginnings of a ful
l beard. The gash under his eye had started to heal.

  ``I’m hungry, officers. You think we could get something to eat? A man needs something in his stomach. Otherwise he can’t function properly, isn’t that right?’’

  ``What do you need, Ray?’’ Brant asked.

  ``One of them egg Mcmuffin things would be good. Maybe a hot coffee.’’

  ``There’s a McDonald’s near Franklin. We’ll get you something when we’re finished. How’s that Ray? But you have to do some work first.’’

  Ray smiled, his face brightening at the prospect of a meal.

  ``I hear you, brother. And I ain’t asking for no free ride. No, that’s not what I want at all.’’

  ``Well, what do you think Ray? Did you recognize the man we saw leave that building over there?’’

  Brant pointed toward the fitness center and the main entrance where Pyotr Dimitri had emerged. If Brant’s enquiries had rattled him, the Russian wasn’t showing it. Pyotr had left with the same haughty saunter, squared shoulders and menacing glare he’d had when he’d arrived.

  ``Could be,’’ Ray said, seeming eager to please. ``Same height. I told you he was a big guy. This man, Pyotr, he looks like he could crush cars with his hands, brother.’’

  ``It’s not cars I’m worried about, Ray.’’ Brant said. ``Let’s get you some food. Where do you want dropped off?’’

  Ray smacked his lips. ``That McDonald’s on Franklin sounds fine to me, officers.’’

  ``Done,’’ Brant said as he pulled the Hyundai into the flow of traffic on Washington. ``Junior, I’m taking you back to Tremont after we drop Ray.’’

  ``What about Pyotr?’’

  ``Start a file. I want to know everything. Where he eats. Where he sleeps. Who he sleeps with. Most importantly, I want to know what kind of relationship he had with Allison Carswell. You alright back there, Ray?’’

  ``I’m fine, sir. Thank you.’’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Susan Chua opened the door on his first knock, her face turning gray as recognition hit. She removed the chain and the deadbolt, reluctantly ushering him into the foyer.

  ``You got ID?’’ she asked.

  ``Do we have to do it this way?’’ Brant asked in frustration as he reached for his wallet.

  ``Got to play it by the book, right?’’

  Brant, weary but cautious, handed his wallet over. The last thing he wanted was for Chua to file a harassment report with the department.

  ``What do you want this time?’’ Chua asked, wiping her nose inelegantly with her forefinger. Her voice had a slightly congested quality, as if she’d been fighting a cold. Her eyes were swollen and watery.

  ``I need to see Allison’s room again.’’

  ``You and your people have already been through it. Do you have a search warrant or something?’’

  ``No, but I’d like to see the room,’’ Brant said, fighting to hide his irritation.

  ``Maybe I should call your supervisor.’’

  Chua shifted her weight from her right foot to her left, blocking the foyer and obstructing his view of the apartment.

  ``You could do that, but then you’d also have to tell him about that smear of coke on your nostrils. Or maybe you could tell him about your place of employment Miss Chua, about how your job in client relations is nothing more than a front for a high-class hooker operation.’’

  Darkness clouded Susan Chua’s face. Deflated but petulant, she stepped aside, giving him free access to the apartment.

  ``What do you know about Meredith?’’

  ``Enough.’’

  ``Meaning?’’

  ``You’re dealing with some very dangerous people, Miss Chua.’’

  Chua shrugged. Some of her icy resolve had returned.

  ``Who pays for this apartment?’’

  ``I don’t know,’’ she said with sincerity. ``The agency arranges it. They pay the rent. They also buy us clothes and arrange the clients. It’s all done over the Internet or through text.’’

  ``What about Allison? Was she in on it, too?’’

  ``Allison?’’ Chua shook her head. ``God no, not as far as I know. It was like I said. She was some scientist or something.’’

  Brant shot her an impatient look. ``I don’t believe that for a second. The connections are too strong. How’d you end up as roommates? I don’t suppose you met each other online or something?’’

  ``The agency,’’ Chua admitted with the semblance of a weak smile. ``She just showed up one day with this guy who said she was moving in with me.’’

  Brant’s cellphone pinged indicating the arrival of an email. Reflexively, he took out the handset and swiped through to the email program. Kyungwha Park had made good on her promise. The email contained a list of lab items, complete with brand names and an estimated retail value.

  ``What did the guy look like?’’ Brant asked Chua, bringing his attention back to the other woman as he returned the phone to his pocket. ``Big? Small? Black? White?’’

  ``Biggish, I guess. Pretty muscular. Good looking, too. He had these cheeks.’’

  ``Cheeks?’’

  ``Like he was a model or something. And soft eyes. But he also had this look to him, like he was dangerous, like you didn’t want to mess with him.’’

  He had little doubt she’d just described Pyotr Dimitri. If that was true, the Volodin connection grew stronger. He had little doubt the landlord owning the lease on the apartment would most likely have ties to Sergei Volodin.

  ``I want to see Allison’s room.’’

  ``It’s locked.’’

  ``So unlock it.’’

  Chua fumbled for the keys in a ceramic bowl sitting on a shelf by the front door. After a moment, she emerged with the keys in hand.

  ``I’m starting to feel sick,’’ she said, her voice flat and emotionless.

  ``Sit at the dining room table. I’ll get you some water.’’

  Chua waved him away with her hand. ``No, that’s not what I mean. The agency. What will I do?’’

  ``Do you still have my business card?’’

  ``Somewhere, yes.’’

  ``Call me in a few days. If you can’t speak to me, talk to someone else at the station. I’ll help you, but you have to help yourself first.’’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Allison Carswell’s room was a disaster viewed through a funhouse mirror, the image grotesquely distorted, elongated and exaggerated. After he’d turned on the lights, he surveyed his surroundings, making a quick inventory.

  The room had been given the once over. Fingerprint dustings had left smudges of black powder on the bedside table, the computer, the closet door handles. Drawers had been opened, searched and abruptly closed. Clothes had been pulled out of the closet where they’d hung. The bedside lamps had been toppled, bulbs broken, lampshades cracked and damaged.

  Brant’s heart sank. How was he to find anything new among such a mess? Chua stood by the window, looking out morosely at the playground below and the expressway further beyond.

  ``They weren’t as gentle as you and that other guy,’’ she said in a monotone. ``The skinny, creepy guy.’’

  ``Clatterback?’’

  ``Yes, that’s him.’’

  ``Who were they?’’ Brant asked.

  ``What do you mean? They showed their ID.’’

  Brant shook his head. The Crime Scene Response Unit wouldn’t have created such chaos. They work to a system — methodical, precise, measured. Whoever was responsible for trashing Allison Carswell’s room had been in a panic.

  ``They wore uniforms?’’

  Chua nodded.

  ``How many?’’

  Chua thought for a moment. ``Two. Both women. Heavy. One had stringy blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. The other was darker skinned. Round face. Kinda chubby.’’

  ``And they wore uniforms?’’ Brant asked, repeating the question. He knew most of the investigators in CSRU. None matched the litany of features Chua had provided. Alarm bells ran
g.

  ``I said they did.’’

  ``How long were they here?’’

  ``An hour. Maybe an hour and a half. They tore the place apart.’’

  ``Did you stay and watch?’’

  Chua shook her head. ``I didn’t see the point.’’

  Brant ushered Chua from the room and got to work.

  He hadn’t a clue what to look for and was doubtful he’d know if he found it. Nevertheless, he had to try. Of Sergei Volodin’s role he had little doubt. Despite their bargain, it was Volodin’s people who’d ransacked Carswell’s room. He would have bet his life on it.

  They’d been thorough. He’d give them that. Any hint, any lead that could have connected Carswell to Genepro — or to Tufts for that matter — had been obliterated or removed. Photos had been taken down from the wall and removed from their frames. CD cases had been turned inside out, their contents removed or discarded. Carswell’s rolodex had been gutted, the contact cards removed. The documents he’d seen in her inbox had been reduced to a pile of shredded paper. An external hard drive had been unplugged and torn apart, its innards left in a pile by the side of the computer. A desk drawer had been pulled out and turned over.

  And yet the computer had been left untouched, awaiting pickup by forensic services. The screen blinked, taunting him with the secrets it held. A screensaver program displayed a vast starscape, twisting and turning and spinning with all the joy of an amusement ride.

  Brant sat in Carswell’s office chair and ran his hands along the surface of her desk, thinking, pondering, placing himself in her mindset. What would she have used as a password? Would she have used her home computer? If not, where would she have squirreled away whatever Volodin had sought?

  His cellphone rang. Jolly.

  ``Brant, where are you?’’

  ``What have I done?’’

  ``Sheila Ritchie. The Mayor’s office just tore a piece from me. They want to know where the leak on Luceno came from.’’

  ``Sorry, sir. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’’