''Did you say anything to Allison?''
Park nodded. ''I told her about my sister. I was hoping she'd open up if she thought we had something in common. It didn't work out that way. She seemed to retreat into her shell and she wouldn't talk about it.''
Brant wrote a note to himself at the bottom of his notebook.
''What about the boyfriend? Did she mention him again? Did she show you any pictures?''
''No. That was it. I got the feeling that the guy was one of those super controlling freaks who watched everything she did, but it was just a feeling. Nothing more.''
''When was this?''
''A month or so before she left.''
''You didn't stay in contact after she quit?''
''We'd already started growing apart. She didn't make any attempt and neither did I.''
''That could be very helpful,'' Brant said as he closed his notebook. ''If you can think of anything else....''
Park bit her lip again in contemplation. She's scared, Brant thought, wondering how he could draw her out without sending her fleeing to the exits.
''There was one other thing.''
''Yes?''
''It's probably nothing and it's probably unrelated but I've been bothered by this for some time.''
''What is it? What's on your mind?''
''It's about the lab. As you can see, we have quite a lot of equipment.''
Park took the room in with a sweep of her hand.
''What about the lab?'' Brant asked.
''Some of the equipment went missing when Allison left.''
''Missing? As in stolen?''
''Yes, I think so,'' Park said, rubbing her hands together nervously.
''What kind of equipment?''
``Some flasks, a microbiology safety cabinet, pipettes, some culture medium.’’
``And you suspected Allison? Did you say anything to anyone?’’
Park looked sheepish.
``I didn’t want her to get into trouble. None of the equipment was very expensive.’’
``Why do you think she would take it?’’
``The equipment?’’
``Yes.’’
Park looked at her hands in contemplation. ``I can’t think of a good reason.’’
``Let me ask it another way. What would she do with such equipment?’’
Park shrugged. ``I don’t know. Not unless she was setting up her own lab, but that’s crazy.’’
Brant made a note to himself. ``Can you give me a full list of everything in the lab you think she took?’’
``It’ll take some time.’’
``But you can do it?’’
``Yes.’’
``Here’s my email address. Please send it to me as soon as you finish.’’
Brant handed his business card to the young woman. Park played nervously with the nylon band holding her pony tail in place, alternately loosening and tightening it.
``You’ll be okay?’’
The young woman nodded.
``Call me if you think of anything else that could possibly be relevant to Allison’s murder.’’
His cell rang on the way to the car. Clatterback’s name rolled across the screen.
``Good news I hope,’’ he said.
``CCTV footage confirms it,’’ Clatterback said, his voice slightly breathless with excitement. ``Ray was right. Male. Seen near the alleyway where we found Allison Carswell’s body.’’
``What time?’’ Brant asked, calculating the timeline in his mind.
``CCTV footage shows it at four o’clock in the morning. The image isn’t great. More a shadow.’’
``Where was the camera?’’
``The camera’s operated by the Metro Boston Office of Homeland Security.’’
``Yeah, but where’s the camera located?’’
``Let me see.’’ Sounds filled the airspace as Clatterback consulted his notes. ``Lamp post at the corner of Dartmouth and Boylston.’’
``That’s on the other side of the road from where we found the body. Any facial features recognizable?’’
``Afraid not,’’ Clatterback said. ``Just the general build of the dude.’’
Brant considered the finding. ``Okay, good work. Make a hard copy and file it in the murder book.’’
``What’s the next step?’’
Brant looked at his watch.
``I’m going home to cook dinner for my son. Tomorrow, I have a commitment to fill.’’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Fuel America was located in a strip mall near Boston College’s Brighton Campus. The morning had brought sunshine, blue skies and a smattering of ragged clouds.
``Ready?’’ Vasquez asked Brant as they stood on the sidewalk outside.
``It’s not like I have anything better to do,’’ Brant said, sarcasm lacing his answer.
``That’s just the kind of attitude we don’t need,’’ Jolly said, fixing Brant with a look of admonition.
The captain had appeared from nowhere. One minute, it was Brant and Vasquez huddling conspiratorially outside the coffee shop’s main door. The next, they were surrounded by brass.
``Gentlemen.’’ The superintendent-in-chief had a sullen look on her face as she opened the door for the two junior officers. ``I trust this will be instructive. Captain Oliver tells me you’re both quite enthusiastic.’’
Luis Woodbridge narrowed her eyes. Woodbridge was in her late fifties. She had a head of thick brown hair, a smooth complexion and perfect teeth. She wore full uniform. A cap sat on her head.
Woodbridge reported directly to the police commissioner, which made her the highest-ranking police officer in the department. She had a reputation for being tough. Fair but rigid. A figure to be feared. Coffee with a Cop had been Woodbridge’s brainchild.
``Community outreach is the lifeblood of this department,’’ Woodbridge said as she bore into Brant. ``That kind of flippant attitude doesn’t help.’’
``Yes sir,’’ Brant said.
``I’m not a sir,’’ Woodbridge said.
``Sorry,’’ a sheepish Brant said.
``Captain Oliver, you need to do a better job of controlling your officers.’’
``I’ll see to it,’’ Jolly said, fixing Brant and Vasquez with a dangerous look of his own as he made his way into the cafe.
``We’ll speak after the meeting,’’ Woodbridge said to Brant as she waved him in. ``Later.’’
``What would you prefer?’’
``What was that?’’ Woodbridge asked, pausing and turning her head.
``Protocol. What should I address you as?’’
Woodbridge smiled.
``Superintendent-in-chief would do.’’
``Seems a bit formal, don’t you think?’’
``It does, doesn’t it.’’ Woodbridge’s face softened, but just a tad. ``How about you call me Ma’am, lieutenant. Will that do?’’
``Seems fine by me….Ma’am.’’
``Good, I’m glad that’s settled. Now let’s get on with this. I only have an hour and then I have meetings downtown.’’
The organizers had reserved the center table. It was double-length, made of reclaimed walnut and polished to a sheen. Ten chairs had been arranged, the head of the table given over to the Superintendent-in-Chief. The atmosphere was cozy. On the walls, black and white framed photos depicted random scenes — a bull rider in mid-flight, a surfer standing on the beach, her backside turned to the camera, a man in vintage dress hoisting an American flag aloft while sitting on the hood of a truck. Two brown leather recliners had been placed against the far wall.
``This is very nice,’’ Woodbridge said as she took her seat and ordered a coffee.
The waitress asked if she wanted food.
``These’ll do,’’ Woodbridge said, indicating a plate of chocolate-chip scones drizzled with sugared icing in the center of the table. ``Please, everyone sit.’’
They took their positions, all nine of them. Vasquez, Brant and Jolly were seated apart fr
om each other. Better to create a relaxed atmosphere, Brant had been told earlier.
Coffee with a Cop could easily become a bitching session. Woodbridge had made it plain she would look unkindly if that were to happen this time.
``What do you do?’’
The question, directed at Brant, came from the middle-aged black man sitting beside him. The man wore thick-lensed glasses. His hands shook when he reached for his coffee mug.
``I’m a lieutenant in District A.’’
``The one on New Sudbury Street?’’
Brant shook his head. ``No. Tremont Street.’’
``District A, you said?’’
``That’s right. A-2.’’
``Oh, I see. That building on New Sudbury. That’s the ugliest motherfucker I’ve ever seen.’’
``I can’t disagree with you there,’’ Brant said in response.
``Were you involved in that shooting in Mattapan?’’
``Mattapan? No, that was handled by B-3.’’
The man shook his head, sadness darkening his face. ``Young people. It’s crazy, all the guns on the streets. We’re killing ourselves from inside. It’s like a wound that’s eating us up. Warren Dixon, by the way. I’m headmaster at BCLA.’’
The man held out his hand.
``BCLA?’’
``Boston Community Leadership Academy. We’re a pilot school within the public school system. Do you have children, lieutenant?’’
Brant nodded. ``One. A boy.’’
``Maybe he’d like to try BCLA.’’
``He’s four. Almost five.’’
Warren Dixon pursed his lips. ``Yes, a bit young for us at the moment. Still, maybe one day.’’
``You were saying something about guns?’’
``The young people I come into contact with on a daily basis are far more impressive than we give them credit for. They are motivated, intelligent, engaged in the community. The cliches we see in the media ever day are just not true and we are doing a great disservice to our future generation when we paint all of them with the same broad brush. But what isn’t a cliche is guns and gun violence. I am just growing so weary of all the shootings, all the killings, all the senseless violence. We’re supposed to be a great nation, and yet some days I’m embarrassed to call this country home.’’
Dixon’s voice rose as he spoke, filling the room with his rhetoric and passion. The man’s face had become animated as he stabbed at the table with his forefinger to emphasize his points.
``I couldn’t agree more, Warren,’’ Luis Woodbridge said from the head of the table. ``We do have to do better.’’
``You got your own problems, though. Rogue cops for one.’’
``Rogue cops?’’
Woodbridge turned to the woman who’d spoken. She was a small-boned Hispanic in her twenties. She wore cut-off jeans and a white collarless blouse. Curly black hair seemed to fly uncontrolled in every direction.
``You know what I’m talking about. All those cops just itching to pull out their gun and bash some heads. There’s a reckoning coming, and it’s not gonna be pretty. You cops got a lot to answer for. Our communities are tired of being harassed. It’s not just blacks. It’s the Hispanics and the Asians, too. Every part of the community feels under fire.’’
``Here, here.’’ A chorus of voices agreed with the woman. Brant looked toward Woodbridge, who stared stonily at the speaker.
``I can appreciate the feeling, Gabriela. That’s why these meetings are so important, to give you an opportunity to put a face to the police. We don’t want the only point of contact to be negative and confrontational.’’
``Bullshit,’’ the woman named Gabriela said as she slumped in her seat. ``Ain’t nothing going to change, and you know it.’’
``I think what the Superintendent is trying to say…,’’ Jolly said, instantly winning a withering look from Woodbridge.
``I know what she’s saying,’’ Gabriela shot back. ``But you gotta listen. We don’t want to hear what you have to say anymore. That’s the point.’’
Another round of support to Gabriela.
And so it went for the next hour, each of the participants trading shots and countershots, each invested in their own point of view. None seemed to have much time or inclination to hear their peers.
``That was difficult,’’ Woodbridge said to Brant when the meeting was over. They were walking side by side, heading for the parking lot at the rear of the cafe.
The day was warming, the sun a fireball racing to its daily apex. Across the street, a digger clawed at the fresh-cut soil of an abandoned concrete pit. Industrial fencing blocked entry to whatever had once occupied the site.
``Are they always like that?’’
``Most, yes,’’ Woodbridge said, smiling. ``Still, we have to start somewhere. Every story that hits the national media about a cop shooting a black kid sets us back. It’s not very sexy, is it?’’
``No, it isn’t, Ma’am.’’
Woodbridge chuckled. ``I’ll bet you became a cop to chase the bad guys, isn’t that right, lieutenant? Bet you never thought you’d be sitting on a committee holed up in some dead suburb.’’
``I hadn’t really thought of it that way,’’ Brant said with honesty.
``I’ve heard about you,’’ Woodbridge said. ``Not all good, by the way.’’
Brant shrugged. ``Sorry, I can’t do anything about what other people think.’’
``You were shot in the Casson case, yes? How’s the head?’’
``Good, the headaches aren’t as bad as before.’’
``That’s good,’’ Woodbridge said. They’d reached her car, a BMW 7 Series. Embarrassed, Brant sized up the vehicle, comparing it with his Hyundai. ``I’m told you’re called the Professor. Why is that, lieutenant?’’
Brant shrugged. There was that moniker again. A thing to shake. But how? ``I like to read.’’
``That’s very good,’’ Woodbridge said without pause. ``I want rounded cops in this department. It’s the only way to get around some of the biases Gabriela was talking about back there. What did you think about her, by the way?’’
``She was certainly passionate.’’
``She’s a firebrand. We have to keep her on our side.’’
``Is she? On our side I mean?’’
``Maybe. I can’t be too sure. You can never be certain with these social justice people. Speaking of being onside, are you making progress in the Carswell shooting?’’
Brant paused. What had she meant by on side? He brushed the thought away. ``Some progress, yes.’’
``I read the latest briefings. Keep at it. The Mayor wants that one wrapped up quickly. What’s the next step?’’
``The roommate. Something doesn’t add up. I want to see Carswell’s room again.’’
``What about this DNA stuff. I think the company she worked for was Genepro? Do you think there’s any connection?’’
``I haven’t figured that out yet,’’ Brant said, doing his best to hide the lie.
The CD fit neatly into its platter. A gentle nudge and the tray retracted noisily into the innards of Brant’s desktop computer. The disc spun as the data spilled forth.
``These things are ancient,’’ Clatterback said, eyeing the Dell and its blackened keyboard. ``I’m surprised we found a computer with a CD-ROM. It’s a good thing you’re sentimental, sir.’’
``It’s a gift,’’ Brant said.
The Dell’s screen came to life. Brant clicked on the CD’s icon, bringing up a list of files.
``I’m impressed you were able to save any of the files.’’
``I’d have drilled a hole through the disc if I’d wanted to destroy the data for good,’’ Clatterback said.
``Lucky for us,’’ Malloy said.
They were sitting at Brant’s desk, all eyes on the desktop. Clatterback had called an hour earlier, breathless with the news that one of the CDs found in Carswell’s apartment had been salvaged, its data recovered. Brant was cautiously hopeful as
he clicked into a file. The result was a surprise. The files were digital recordings of phone conversations.
``Ally, you know me, you know how much I love you. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.’’
A male voice, strong and forceful but pleading.
He clicked on another file. A woman’s voice filled the speakers.
``I’m the one taking all the risks here. I don’t understand why you can’t see that. You can’t just walk into a lab and take any piece of equipment you need. I have to be careful. It’s going to take time. Anyway, I’m saving it on a memory stick. When can we meet?’’
``I can’t get away. Can you send it to me?’’
A pause. Static filled the speakers.
``I’ll send it.’’
Brant looked at the two younger detectives, his body buzzing with excitement. Suddenly, Allison Carswell was alive, speaking to them from beyond the grave. He clicked another file.
``You’re so good, Ally. No one can do what you do. I’ve never met anyone like you. We’re going to be so happy together when this is all over. I promise you. For the rest of our lives, we’ll be set.’’
``You can’t say that. You don’t know that it’ll work.’’
``I know it’ll work. I know it. Did you get the email? The longs and shorts?’’
``Yes, I got the email. But you’re forgetting about Volodin. That creep has his body guard watching me night and day. I can’t shake the guy.’’
``What do you want me to do?’’
``You need to come here and take care of him.’’
``Volodin?’’
``No, the bodyguard.’’
``That’s going to be tough.’’
``Enough excuses.’’
The media player’s counter froze, meaning the file had ended. Brant turned to Malloy and Clatterback.
``Is this everything?’’
Clatterback nodded.
``So Carswell and some guy. They were working together.’’
``Sounds like it,’’ Malloy said. ``She isn’t what I expected.’’
``The guy sounds like a bit of a pussy,’’ Clatterback said as he retrieved the disc. ``She’s barking instructions at him and he just seems to be taking it.’’
Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller Page 22
