Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

  ``I’m guessing he didn’t make good on that promise.’’

  Schroder chuckled. ``Does this look like someplace with money to spare? No, Sergei Volodin didn’t fulfill his part of the bargain.’’

  ``What did Volodin get out of it?’’

  ``Out of his backing? Do you have any idea how much money is spent every year on cancer treatments?’’

  Brant didn’t and conceded as much.

  ``The numbers will astound you. We are spending billions of dollars every year. Billions and we are failing to improve outcomes with any degree of significance. But there is another way. Just wait until we get to the molecular level. The team that can customize treatments for cancer to the point where they’re affordable. Well, that is the holy grail, isn’t it?’’

  Schroder’s eyes twinkled.

  ``You know Sergei Volodin is bad news?’’ Brant asked.

  Schroder nodded. ``Yes, I knew. One deals with the devil, yes?’’

  ``Not exactly a name that attracts potential investors. Isn’t cancer research like kittens?’’

  Schroder scrunched his face in a quizzical frown, indicating confusion. ``I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re getting at.’’

  Brant shrugged. ``Well, everyone loves kittens. Same with cancer research, right? It’s all good. All pink ribbons and such. I can’t imagine anyone being criticized for their good intentions.’’

  Schroder chuckled. ``I see, yes, kittens. I suppose you have a point.’’

  ``Volodin isn’t exactly a kitten is he? More like a steaming pile of shit.’’

  ``Well, that is a very crude way of putting it.’’

  ``Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?’’

  Schroder shrugged. ``Mr. Volodin is a silent investor. No one knows about his backing of Genepro. At least that’s what I thought. Maybe I have been misinformed. Anyway, it is irrelevant. Genepro is dead. Ms. Carswell is dead. I’m an old man. Perhaps I will be dead soon too, eh?’’

  The old man smiled half-heartedly at his own joke. Brant and Malloy glanced at each other.

  ``Did Volodin ever meet Ms. Carswell? Did they know each other?’’

  ``Not that I’m aware of. He never came to the labs.’’

  ``Did he show any interest in the progress of your research?’’

  ``Of course,’’ Schroder said. ``Don’t be deceived by Mr. Volodin. He has a very sharp mind.’’

  ``What happens now?’’ Malloy asked.

  ``Now?’’

  ``With Genepro? With the research?’’

  Schroder glanced around his office at the boxes, the documents and a computer monitor sitting on the edge of his desk. A cursor blinked intermittently on the screen, taunting and enticing at the same time.

  ``Perhaps you want to buy a used computer?’’ Schroder asked. ``Or how about a sequencing machine? I can give you one. Cheap. Bargain basement.’’

  They stopped for food, a quick pitstop at a burger place near Fenway. Malloy had called Clatterback. The other detective had taken over the hospital search and had spent much of the day combing through computer records.

  They agreed to meet for a drink at a pub on Boylston. It would have to be quick. Brant would have to pick Ben up from daycare. Marcellus was at home and her mood had turned dark. She’d become less helpful where Ben was concerned.

  ``Do you want the good news?’’ Clatterback asked when they were seated.

  The pub was a dive. The tabletops were sticky. The place smelled of stale beer. The Arctic Monkeys played on a jukebox in the corner.

  Clatterback reached for a Buffalo chicken wing and attacked. Grease dribbled down his chin, which he wiped with a paper napkin. Brant’s stomach turned.

  ``You’re making me sick.’’

  Clatterback shrugged as he reached for another wing. ``What? These? They’re good. Not the best but not bad.’’

  ``Let’s just get on with it. I have to get Ben.’’

  Clatterback threw a desiccated chicken bone into a bowl and took a sip of beer. Malloy rolled her eyes. She’d taken one look at the place and refused all offer of food. Mostly because they’d already eaten, but also because she’d decided the place appeared to violate all manner of health code. Good to see she had standards, Brant thought silently to himself.

  ``Chua called when you were on your sightseeing tour,’’ Clatterback said.

  ``We were following a lead,’’ Malloy said in defense.

  ``Yeah, whatever.’’ Clatterback shrugged.

  ``What about Chua?’’ Brant asked.

  ``The boyfriend. She gave me a name and a contact. He didn’t know she’d been killed and when he found out he went crazy. Least that’s what Chua said.’’

  ``I thought she didn’t know who he was?’’ Malloy said.

  Clatterback reached for the last of the wings.

  ``She didn’t. The guy walked right up to the door. Pretty ballsy move if you ask me.’’

  ``How’s that?’’ Brant asked.

  ``Carswell held her cards close. No one knows about the kid. Chua doesn’t know anything about the parents, or her job. She’d never met the boyfriend when they were going out.’’

  ``And the gun. Don’t forget the gun,’’ Malloy said.

  ``That’s been bothering me, too,’’ Brant said after he’d thought for a moment. ``So you have this mystery boyfriend’s number?’’

  Clatterback wiped his fingers and retrieved a notebook from his back pocket.

  Brant wrote the details in his own notebook. For safekeeping, he tapped them in to his smartphone to ensure they wouldn’t be lost.

  ``So what’s this guy’s story?’’ he asked as he readied to leave.

  ``I did a quick search. The guy works with underprivileged kids at a sailing center at Castle Island. A real do-gooder. You’d like him, sir.’’

  Brant ignored the jab. ``You contact him yet?’’

  Clatterback nodded his head.

  ``Good work, Junior. With any luck this boyfriend will know something about the baby, but I wouldn’t bet the farm on it. It’d be good to have some documentation. What about the hospital records?’’

  ``I’m working on it,’’ Clatterback said.

  A waitress dressed in cut-off jeans and a tank top short enough to expose a toned set of abs dropped the bill onto the table.

  ``This is a classy place,’’ Brant said when the waitress had gone. ``You hang here much, Junior?’’

  Clatterback smiled. ``One of my favorites. You have this right?’’

  Brant shook his head in wonder at the junior officer’s bravado. Clatterback could be bold, surprisingly so. Brant was beginning to warm to him.

  The Arctic Monkeys had finished. Faith Hill boomed.

  ``How’s the mood back home?’’ Brant said as he reached for his wallet.

  ``Tense,’’ Clatterback said. ``Jolly came back an hour or so ago. Looked like he’d eaten a turd.’’

  ``No doubt,’’ Brant said. ``Did he ask where we were?’’

  Clatterback shook his head. ``I get the impression his mind’s on other things.’’

  ``You’re probably right. Anyway, good work with the boyfriend. Keep working the records.’’

  ``What about me?’’ Malloy asked.

  ``I have a small side job.’’

  ``How did I know that was coming?’’

  Brant raised his hands defensively. ``A small job. Won’t take long.’’

  ``And what is this small job?’’ Malloy made air quotes with her fingers around the word `small.’

  ``Matty Luceno.’’

  Malloy rolled her eyes in frustration.

  ``I told you. That’s dangerous. You’re going to get me into trouble.’’

  ``This won’t take anything. I just need a name.’’

  ``A name?’’ Malloy shot him an appraising look.

  ``I spoke to an old buddy I know at Roxbury. Luceno got into trouble a few weeks back. Doesn’t sound serious, but he was taken in for questioning. Noth
ing came of it. I want to know why.’’

  ``You think my father’s going to help you?’’

  Brant shook his head. ``No, I just want to speak to the officer who interviewed Luceno.’’

  ``You can’t get that from the report?’’

  ``There is no report.’’

  ``Oh.’’ Malloy’s eyes widened. ``I think I’m seeing the problem.’’

  ``So all I need is a name.’’

  ``I’ll see what I can do.’’

  ``I knew you would.’’

  Ben was down for the night. He’d fought like a tiger. He’d moaned and complained, squirmed and wrestled. Finally, after an hour of bribery -- yes, we’ll go to the zoo -- and a final goodnight kiss, he’d given in.

  ``Is he asleep?’’ Marcellus asked when Brant returned to the living room.

  ``Finally.’’

  Marcellus smiled. She looked tired and she’d been crying. She wore dark rings under her eyes. Jack Johnson moaned in the background. Something about losing hope being easy when a friend is gone. Cheery stuff.

  ``How’d the day go?’’ he asked, wanting but not wanting to ask what was bothering her.

  ``I spoke to the daycare people. They’re concerned about him. But you know that already.’’

  ``I’ve heard.’’

  He turned the volume on the stereo to low. Jack Johnson disappeared into the background. Brant took a second look at his sister. She’d aged since he’d last seen her. She’d cut her hair. The shorter style suited her, made her look more her age. She had a broad face, their father’s straight nose and their mother’s pale blue eyes. Though three years his senior, she’d managed to retain a trim, fit figure.

  He poured her a glass of white wine. Outside, rain tapped at the window. A tree had come down on Marlborough Street, cutting power to half the neighborhood but they’d been spared.

  ``So what’s going on with David and the kids?’’

  ``They can do without me for awhile.’’

  ``Really?’’

  Brant looked over the rim of his wine glass, appraising his sister.

  ``Don’t give me the cop’s evil eye, Jonas. I’m not a little girl.’’

  ``I didn’t say you were.’’

  ``I can see it in your eyes. You are so goddamned righteous sometimes. You’re judging.’’

  ``I’m not judging,’’ Brant said, his voice raised slightly in protest and defense.

  ``Oh, you are and you know it.’’

  Brant poured another glass of wine for his sister.

  ``Here, this’ll calm you.’’

  ``What makes you think I need to be calm, Jonas?’’

  Marcellus pressed her lips together. A utility truck rumbled past on the street outside, its red lights strobing.

  ``I said I wouldn’t do this, but I’ll speak to him if you want.’’

  ``Who? David?’’

  Brant nodded.

  ``And what are you going to do, Jonas? Are you going to fix things?’’

  Brant shrugged, regretting the offer immediately.

  ``You don’t have to bite my head off,’’ he said finally, his voice betrayed by his irritation.

  ``This is my mess. I’ll fix it.’’

  Brant held his arms out in supplication. ``Look, I’m sorry. It was just a suggestion. Dumb idea.’’

  ``Yes, it was.’’

  Marcellus sipped her wine. He reached for her hand and squeezed. A peace offering.

  The icy look on Marcellus’s face began to thaw.

  ``I need to leave early tomorrow. You okay to take care of Ben?’’

  Marcellus nodded acceptance. A smile began to form.

  ``Where are you going?’’

  ``Sailing.’’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The wind blew hard and steady. Blue skies and a smattering of ragged white clouds replaced the previous night’s rain.

  He woke early and went for a run along Storrow, starting at the overpass and making his way back toward the city with Back Bay on one side and the Charles River on the other. Daybreak glinted off the rippled surface of the Charles. Over the river and along Memorial Drive, the wakening sun bathed the MIT campus in glorious light.

  Brant sucked deep, filling his lungs with life-affirming breaths. He was upset with himself and angry. He hadn’t known what to say to Marcellus. It was a tricky relationship. Always had been. And she’d been right about him wanting to fix things. He shook his head, admonishing himself before pressing on, pumping his arms and legs.

  On his return, he had a shower and ate breakfast. A bagel washed down with black coffee. He ate at a table in the front room beside the bay window. Sunlight streamed in, dappling the carpet and washing the room with the cheeriness of morning.

  He left shortly before 8 and made good time. He was driving against the traffic. Most of the volume was entering the city, but he was heading south. He tuned the car’s radio to a local news station. There’d been a shooting in Dorchester the previous night. A seven-year-old kid had been shot and killed while riding her bicycle home from a church service. A meeting of clergy, community leaders and police was planned for later in the day at a church in Roxbury. To discuss what, Brant wondered? To talk about how they could protect young people from killing each other as sport? To strategize a way to keep guns out of the hands of children? To protest the violence that had become so commonplace? He shook his head in disgust at the needless and endless violence and changed the station.

  The sailing center was on Pleasure Bay. He pulled into a parking lot beside a drab-looking building of concrete block painted white. The bay was flat and gray. A concrete wall stretched the perimeter. A narrow wedge of grass led to a sliver of beach.

  Carswell’s boyfriend was named Greg McNaught. He’d been a sailing instructor for five years.

  Brant found him sorting life jackets beside a wooden shed. An American flag fluttered in the breeze.

  ``Not much is it?’’ he asked, looking out at a half dozen white sailboats bobbing in the water at the foot of a concrete dock.

  The boats were training dinghies. Short and squat with the mast set at the front of a blunt bow, they were single handers built for learning.

  ``I’ve never sailed before,’’ Brant said in reply. ``These are for kids?’’

  McNaught nodded. ``They’re called Blue Dragons. We’ve had these for a couple years. They get beaten up pretty badly during the summer.’’

  McNaught was shorter than he’d expected. He had unruly sun-bleached hair and a couple days of stubble. He wore sunglasses on a blue neoprene lanyard around his neck. His lips were covered in metallic sun cream. His hands were those of a much older man — veined, spotted and callused.

  ``We get all kinds of groups out here during the summer. Schools, churches, community centers. You name it and I’ve probably taught them. It’s good for the kids. The city can be tough when their parents don’t give a shit and they don’t have school to keep them occupied. This gives them an outlet. As I said, it doesn’t look like much, but we serve a good purpose.’’

  ``Where do you get your funding?’’ Brant asked.

  ``That’s the thing.’’ McNaught took a lifejacket from a large nylon bag and placed it on a wooden saw horse to dry in the sun. ``We get it from all over. Some from the city, a bit from the state. We’ve got a couple donors. I don’t know how we make it, but every summer we seem to have just enough to cover expenses for the season and then a little bit more.’’

  ``You’ve been doing this a long time?’’

  McNaught nodded. ``Long enough. I’ve been teaching here a couple of years. I used to live in Florida. We had an academy down there.’’

  ``We?’’

  ``My ex. Her father was a big time real estate guy. Bagged it in after he made a couple million and headed south for the sun and the beaches. He set his little princess up with a school of her own.’’

  ``You didn’t get any of it in the divorce?’’

  McNaught smiled. ``Ah, no. D
addy’s lawyers did a pretty good job of making sure that didn’t happen.’’

  ``And here you are.’’

  ``And here I am. Here, can you hold this open for me.’’

  McNaught handed Brant the nylon bag of lifejackets.

  ``What am I supposed to do with this?'' Brant asked as he took the bag.

  ``Hold it open, will you. I want to dry them out before the first class gets here. Some idiot left them out last night."

  ``You seem to be doing okay. I was told you weren't handling Ms. Carswell's death very well.''

  ``You mean her murder?"

  ``Yes, her murder,” Brant said, correcting himself.

  McNaught shrugged. ``Don't get me wrong. Thing like that, kicks you in the gut, you know? But I'm doing okay. I was just surprised. You never expect that to happen to someone you know. So you're investigating her murder?''

  Brant nodded. ``I’m head of the team."

  ``You don't sound like the guy I spoke with on the phone yesterday.''

  ``No, that was another officer. John Clatterback.''

  McNaught shot a wry smile. ``Funny name. Don't think I've ever heard that one before. So you work with him?"

  ``That's right. What can you tell me about Ms. Carswell?"

  ``What do you want to know?''

  McNaught had finished with the lifejackets and moved to the sails. The sails and masts had been laid out in a line on the grass. He kneeled and began uncoiling a length of rope.

  ``You knew her well, did you?’’

  ``Not really. We’d only been going out about six months.’’

  ``Still, that’s fairly long. You must have spent a lot of time together.’’

  McNaught shrugged for a second time. ``It was an on and off kind of thing. I got the sense she didn’t really want a commitment. She was pretty dedicated to her work. Always talking about the lab. It was endless. She was into it deep. Did you talk to any of her coworkers at the university?’’