Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  ``So what’s with you, sir?’’

  ``Explain.’’

  It was after 2 a.m. The sky was at its darkest, the world a cocoon of silence filled occasionally by the call of a cricket hidden away somewhere in a tuft of grass. There’d been no action for hours. Susan Chua’s apartment remained lit up like a Christmas tree.

  ``You and Jolly don’t seem to get along.’’

  ``Ah, no,’’ Brant said puffing his cheeks.

  ``So what’s the story? Why the animosity?’’

  Brant thought the question over for a moment. Why indeed? It wasn’t like he’d set out to make enemies with Oliver. The relationship had evolved through incidents and misunderstandings. One day he’d been on the up and coming and then he wasn’t.

  ``The absurdities of life,’’ Brant said finally, wondering if Clatterback would appreciate what he was saying. ``I guess I just decided at some point that the game is bullshit.’’

  ``They say you served in Afghanistan.’’

  ``Who’s they?’’ Brant asked, making air quotes around the words.

  Clatterback shrugged. ``The guys in the squad room. Same ones that call you the professor.’’

  Brant smiled, tongue firmly in cheek. ``Is that so?’’

  ``Is it true?’’

  ``What, that I was in Afghanistan?’’

  ``That you served, yeah.’’

  ``I’ve been to Afghanistan, yes.’’

  ``That’s not what I asked, sir.’’

  ``I know, Junior.’’

  ``Have it your way,’’ Clatterback said finally in a huff.

  ``Word of advice, don’t believe all the rumors,’’ Brant said in response, his voice weary and laced with exhaustion. It’d been a long week. Marcellus’s arrival had eased the burden of caring for Ben, but it’d come with other challenges. ``You don’t want to fall into that abyss.’’

  ``I’ll keep that in mind,’’ Clatterback said as he settled into the driver’s seat. ``Thanks for opening up.’’

  ``You know the saying, right?’’

  ``No, sir. What’s the saying?’’

  Brant shook his head, his face breaking into the semblance of an ironic smile. ``Look, I could tell you about Afghanistan, but then I’d have to kill you.’’

  ``Yeah, sure,’’ Clatterback replied, unsure whether his senior officer was being ironic, playful or serious.

  ``As to being called the professor, I hate that so don’t use it around me.’’

  ``Doesn’t seem so bad.’’

  ``It’s not, but it’s what it implies.’’

  ``What’s that?’’

  ``There’s the unspoken assumption that most cops are lumbering Neanderthals, that we somehow enjoy bashing heads, that there’s a thin line between the bad guys and us.’’

  ``And you don’t buy that?’’

  ``I don’t think it has to be that way.’’

  ``But it is that way. I mean at the moment, right?’’

  Brant considered the point. There’d been a shooting in Baltimore the previous day. A cop had shot and killed a 17-year-old boy as he’d stood in the doorway of a convenience store. A video of the shooting had gone viral. Baltimore was about to burn.

  ``We can do better,’’ Brant finally said. ``We NEED to do better. What about you, Junior? Jolly told me about your dear old dad.’’

  Clatterback shrugged. ``Only a matter of time. All I ask is that you judge me on merit. If I’m crap, then I’m crap. I just want an opportunity to do it myself, to be myself. You have no idea how hard that can be when you have all these family ties weighing you down.’’

  ``I think I understand.’’

  After 3 a.m. No sign of life. The Aberdeen was quiet, most of the apartments cast in darkness. A delivery truck had appeared around 3:30 a.m., stopped briefly, backed into the Aberdeen’s driveway then sped off in the opposite direction.

  It was close to 4 a.m. when a black Mercedes pulled up to the Aberdeen, its hood glittering under the streetlights. Two men dressed in tuxedos emerged from the back of the Merc. The taller of the two held onto the rear passenger side door as he leaned into the car. The driver acknowledged whatever had been said, flicked his hand into the air in irritation and drove off.

  ``You get the license plate, Junior.’’

  ``Running it now.’’

  ``Here we go.’’

  Brant sat upright, primed for action. The two men slumped against each other as they stumbled toward the Aberdeen’s foyer. The shorter of the two took something out of his pocket. A rectangle of light shone into his face.

  ``Did you get a look at the guy’s face.’’

  ``Not really….He was wearing a tuxedo.’’

  ``Very good, Junior.’’

  The man with the cellphone returned the device to his pocket. The two stood in the shadows of the Aberdeen’s foyer, conveniently outside the reach of the CCTV camera.

  ``They’re being cautious,’’ Clatterback said.

  ``I wonder why that is.’’

  The tall one leaned against the Aberdeen’s intercom system, pressing frantically at the buzzer. Holding his head in his hands, the man leaned forward and vomited. His companion jumped, narrowly missing the steady stream. The Aberdeen’s door slid open and the two men fell forward, emerging on the other side of the glass partition and the building’s protected lobby.

  ``Jesus, did you see that?’’ Clatterback asked, incredulous.

  ``I saw it. You get anything on the license plate yet?’’

  ``It’s coming through now.’’

  Clatterback tapped at the laptop’s keyboard, throwing up a screen of information.

  ``A 2014 Mercedes Maybach, S600 series.’’ Clatterback’s face lit up. ``That’s an expensive ride. Probably $200,000.’’

  ``Who’s it registered to?’’

  ``Corporate registration. Meredith Financial Services. Isn’t that the place where Chua works?’’

  ``It is,’’ Brant said as he directed the binoculars to the woman’s apartment once again. A figure appeared briefly on the balcony before turning and reentering the apartment. Someone quickly closed the curtains and turned out the lights.

  ``Think she has company?’’

  ``Good guess,’’ Brant said. ``Put a call out for that Merc. See if we can get something more on it. I want to know who’s driving.’’

  Clatterback picked up the radio and called it in, describing the Merc and the nature of Brant’s request. It wouldn’t be hard to pull the Merc over. Maybe the driver would run a stop sign. Maybe the rear tail light would be flickering. Perhaps the driver would be behaving erratically.

  Twenty minutes later, the call came in. A uniform on Washington Street had pulled the car over for speeding. Five miles over the limit in a school zone. The uniform was a lieutenant named Gomez, a broad-shouldered guy with a square jaw, bulging waistline and thinning hair. Brant had seen him at roll call a few weeks earlier.

  ``Guy’s raising a hell of a stink,’’ Gomez said, his deep baritone reverberating over the airwaves. ``What’s up with this guy?’’

  ``You get an ID?’’ Brant asked into the radio as he stared out into the dark. Chua’s apartment had gone quiet.

  ``Mark Simpson. License and registration check out. You want me to hold him till you get here? Maybe exigent circumstances?’’

  Brant considered the offer. Exigent circumstances meant Gomez could hold the driver and execute a warrantless search as long as he could prove he suspected that evidence of some sort was about to be destroyed. It’d be difficult to prove — and even more difficult to make it stick if they were to find something. It’d be even worse when Simpson’s lawyers got involved, and Brant had every confidence of that happening. Whoever was financing Meredith Financial had deep pockets.

  ``What’s Mr. Simpson’s story?’’ Brant asked.

  ``Says he’s a contract driver. Works for some company called Meredith Financial. Apparently he ferries all the big dicks around, taking them into the office, out to
the airport, whatever they need.’’

  ``And what about tonight? You ask him about the Aberdeen?’’ Brant had briefed the other officer on Chua and the Aberdeen in the space of time the Mercedes had been identified and pulled over.

  ``I did,’’ Gomez said. ``Says he has no idea who the gentlemen were. Some out-of-town executives.’’

  ``Who directed him to take them to the Aberdeen?’’

  ``He got a text from someone at Meredith Financial alerting him to the pickup and drop off. Otherwise the guy seems pretty straight.’’

  ``And he doesn’t know who sent the text?’’

  ``No idea. Says he’s never met anyone from Meredith. It’s all done over the Internet and through text messages. Look, you want me to pull this guy in or what?’’

  Brant considered his options. Movement in the Aberdeen’s lobby provided the answer. The elevator door opened, ushering Susan Chua and the two tuxedoed men out into the building’s foyer. Chua leaned toward one of the men and embraced him warmly as she planted a wet kiss on his lips.

  ``Forget it for now,’’ Brant said to Gomez. ``Give the guy a warning and get his details.’’

  ``Your call,’’ Gomez said as he disconnected.

  ``You sure about that?’’ Clatterback asked as Brant replaced the portable radio’s handset to its cradle on the car’s dashboard.

  ``The driver’s a sideshow,’’ Brant said with confidence. ``He won’t lead us to where we want to go. Ms. Chua on the other hand….’’

  Brant didn’t need to finish the thought. Chua and the two men had already left the Aberdeen and made their way to a white BMW parked under a lamp on the street running alongside the apartment building. Chua took something from her pocket and pointed it in the direction of the car. A chirp broke the night’s silence as the BMW’s lights flashed red.

  ``Do we follow?’’ Clatterback asked, his face a question mark.

  ``We follow,’’ Brant said in reply. ``Do me a favor by the way, dig into Meredith Financial when you get back to the squad room on Monday. I want to know everything there is to know. Location, telephone number, type of business, ownership, any earnings reports, whether it’s listed, a clipping file. Whatever you can find, let me know.’’

  ``Yes sir,’’ Clatterback said, half saluting as he watched the two men climb in beside Chua. The taller of the two took the back seat.

  ``How long should I wait?’’

  ``Give them a couple of minutes. Pull out when you see them hit the intersection,’’ Brant said, pointing with his index finger in the direction of the distant stoplight.

  Clatterback did as he was told. Moments later they were tailing the BMW with the junior officer maintaining a discrete distance in the hope they’d remain undetected.

  The pursuit took them through city streets cloaked in darkness and mostly silent, though the longer they drove, the closer they got to morning. Leaves blew over streets scrubbed clean. In the distance, the city’s downtown loomed, the darkened outlines of skyscrapers painted fresh against a canvas of lightening gray. Above the skyline, the first signs of a nascent morning. Black fading to nothing, a promise of scattered clouds, ribbons of red burning ever brighter, and then the first hint of the rising sun.

  ``Jesus, I love mornings,’’ Clatterback said as he pointed the nose of the car down Dorchester. They were heading back toward the Aberdeen, the pursuit of Chua and her guests having taken them full circle.

  ``Why’s that, Junior?’’

  ``The promise of the day. So uncorrupted. New starts, you know.’’

  ``Yeah, I know,’’ Brant said, noting Clatterback’s elegant use of language with a wry smile. Uncorrupted. Such a good way to describe a beginning.

  ``You don’t think she made us, do you?’’

  ``We would have known if she had.’’

  Chua pulled the BMW in front of a building on Dorchester, an old firehall converted into loft apartments. The BMW’s flashers flicked on as Chua opened the driver’s side door and bounded toward the loft’s entrance, a white door framed by faux doric columns. The woman giggled brightly as she threw her head back and tussled her hair. The two men got out of the car, each taking her in their arms and guiding her toward the building. Suddenly, Chua reared back and slapped one of the men across the jaw with an open palm. The man stumbled, shooting an aggrieved look in his partner’s direction.

  Brant looked up and down the street. Dorchester was a graveyard. Suddenly and without warning, Chua’s altercation with the two men took a violent turn. One pinned her arms behind her while the second, the shorter of the two, slapped her hard across the side of the face. Chua’s muffled screams rang out in vain as one of the men placed his free hand over her mouth. She seemed to fight, rolling her head from side to side in a fruitless effort to break free.

  ``What the…,’’ Clatterback said as he killed the ignition. ``What is she doing?’’

  ``Wait here.’’

  Without warning, Brant was out of the car and crossing Dorchester. Behind his back, Clatterback had left the car and was joining the chase.

  ``I told you to wait in the car.’’

  ``Like shit I will.’’

  ``Junior!’’

  ``Enough with the Junior, sir.’’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The sky was filled with early-morning haze. Brant checked up and down the length of Dorchester, unthinking as he raced toward Chua and the men holding her.

  His heart pounded, each step more energetic than the one before. He’d made the decision to pursue with haste. Behind him, Clatterback gasped, his breathing short and ragged.

  As Brant reached the curb, he stumbled. He regained momentum, pivoted and lunged, reaching first for the smaller of the two men.

  He caught them by surprise, laying thick into Shorty with a quick, punishing jab to the head. The man reared back in surprise, momentarily shocked at the blow and its ferocity.

  Shorty called out. Brant answered with more blows, his fists balled tight.

  Susan Chua had broken free, a startled look on her face. A look of surprise, of concern, and something else. Was it hatred? Was it relief?

  ``What are you doing?’’ Chua finally cried out in panic. ``Leave them alone for God’s sake.’’

  ``Who are these two?’’ Brant called out, casting for answers in Chua’s direction.

  The answer was a jab to the back. In the confusion over Chua’s outburst, Shorty had rounded on Brant, delivering a punch to the kidney. By reflex, Brant doubled over in pain. Reaching to defend himself from another painful blow, he stumbled and fell to his knees. Clatterback stood rigid, slack jawed and motionless.

  ``No, don’t.’’

  Susan Chua was on top of him, clawing at his hands in protest, pleading for him to stop.

  As quickly as it had begun, the two men were gone, but not before the taller of the two rounded on Brant, delivering a kick to the gut. Brant grunted as he fell once more to the ground, his face bloodied, spittle running down his chin.

  ``You looked like you were in danger,’’ Brant said between breaths as he recovered in fits and starts. He remained on his knees, winded, his pride bruised. Clatterback stood off to the side, momentarily confused.

  ``Do I look like I need help?’’ Chua asked.

  ``I don’t….’’

  ``Please, just get away from me.’’

  Chua’s voice was pitched, her tone bordering on the hysterical.

  ``But I….’’

  ``You what? I was working you idiot.’’

  ``Working?’’ Clatterback turned to face Chua, recognition falling over his face like a mask.

  Brant wheezed, his breathing shallow and ragged. ``I thought you were being raped, that you were going to be hurt.’’

  Susan Chua struck a defiant stance as she smoothed her skirt and stared down the two police officers. Shaking her head, she began to laugh.

  They found an all-night diner on Dorchester near Thomas Park. Early morning sunlight shone through a wall of w
indows. The coffee machine hissed while a radio played the beginnings of a morning drive show. A jogger in black compression tights and a red windbreaker waited impatiently at the front counter for her latte and bagel.

  ``So what, you want a medal or something?’’

  Susan Chua frowned. In the scuffle, her face had been scratched. Blood stained the neckline of her white cocktail dress. The clasp on her gold Rolex had been broken.

  ``Honestly, we thought you were in serious trouble,’’ Brant said, almost pleading.

  ``I can take care of myself.’’

  ``I can see that,’’ Brant said as he massaged his shoulder. One of Shorty’s jabs had hit ground zero, sending tendrils of pain down the length of his left arm.

  The three of them sat in silence, the morning sun creeping with stealth along the diner’s floor. In search of relief from the pain, Brant had ordered the biggest coffee he could find on the menu. Caffeine. The ideal elixir to sharpen the senses.

  ``Mind telling us what that was about?’’ Brant said finally, pushing Chua’s dark attitude aside.

  ``I told you, I was working.’’

  ``We heard,’’ Brant said, sipping from his mug of coffee.

  The jogger had left. In her place stood a middle aged man navigating a baby stroller through the diner’s entranceway.

  Chua’s gaze alternated between the two detectives. Without thought, she brushed an unseen strand of hair from her face.

  ``You’re both such idiots.’’

  ``I know a lot of people who would agree,’’ Brant said.

  ``We were only trying to help,’’ Clatterback said out of desperation.

  ``That worked out real well, didn’t it? Is there a waitress around here or what?’’

  Chua looked impatiently over her shoulder as she fought for the attention of the older woman behind the counter.

  ``Awful late for financial services business,’’ Brant finally said. ``I didn’t exactly see any spreadsheets.’’

  ``I told you, I’m in client relations.’’

  The waitress arrived, refilled Brant’s coffee and took their breakfast orders. Brant declined, remembering the promise he’d made earlier to his sister about breakfast.