Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (8 page)

``What the…?’’ Clatterback said aloud.

``Not exactly the kind of thing you’d find in a Sunday afternoon prayer group,’’ Brant said, eyeing the 9 mm and its empty magazine.

``My thoughts exactly.’’

 
``Bag it. We’ll need to trace the registration.’’

 
Clatterback eyed the Ruger as if Brant had said something particularly offensive.
 

``Any luck with the password?’’ Brant asked after the other detective had placed the Ruger in an evidence bag.

Clatterback opened the leather notebook and began flipping through its pages. ``This could take a long time.’’

``You won’t find it.’’

Susan Chua stood in the doorway. Her eyes widened when she saw the Ruger. She held a mug in her right hand.

``What makes you so sure she didn’t write it down on a post-it note or the back of an envelope?’’ Brant asked.

``She’d become pretty paranoid the last week or so.’’

``Paranoid? How?’’

``She’d grab her cellphone pretty quickly when it rang, as if she didn’t want me to see who was calling. I came in here a couple of times and she’d turn the monitor off as soon as I entered the room. She didn’t show up to work about a week ago and when I asked her where she’d been she avoided the question.’’

 
``Did you know about this?’’ Brant asked, indicating the plastic evidence bag and the Ruger.
 

 
Chua’s eyes widened for a second time. ``I had no idea. And if I did, I think I’d have asked her to move out. That gives me the creeps.’’

 
Chua took a sip of whatever was in the mug.

 
``What about these?’’ Brant asked, pointing to a tray of CDs he’d found among Carswell’s books. Chua shrugged.

 
``Probably music CDs.’’

 
``They aren’t marked.’’

 
``So?’’

 
``Isn’t it standard practice to label CDs once they’re burned?’’

 
Chua looked from one detective to the other. She’d placed her empty mug on the floor and had crossed her arms.
 

 
``Take them. You’re likely wasting your time.’’

 
``You don’t have any idea about the password?’’

 
Chua smiled. ``No.’’

 
``Why do I get the sense you’re holding something back, Ms. Chua?’’

 
``And why would I do that?’’ she asked, her gaze hardening.

 
``Well, that’s the interesting part, isn’t it?’’

 
``I think I’m starting to resent you being here, going through Allison’s things like this,’’ Chua replied, almost biting the words. ``I may even have to ask you to leave.’’

 
``We’ll be out of your way in a minute,’’ Brant said, ignoring the outburst. He’d all but given up any hope that they’d find the password. They might have better luck in the pile of envelopes and documents Carswell had kept by the computer.
 

 
``This might be of some use,’’ Brant said, producing a piece of paper from the pile as if on cue. He handed the paper to Clatterback, who looked at it intently. Allison Carswell’s mobile phone bill from the previous month, and not for the Samsung. She’d obviously had a second phone, which struck him as odd. A quick survey of the bill showed a breakdown of the charges, clearly indicating heavy data usage. The Samsung was an older model with a small, gray screen barely larger than a postage stamp. She wouldn’t have done much texting from the older handset.

 
``Did Allison have an iPhone?’ Brant asked.

 
``I think so, yes. Either that or a Blackberry.’’

 
``Do you know where she kept it?’’

 
Chua shrugged a reply.

``You’ve been very helpful,’’ Brant said, barely concealing his sarcasm. ``Her parents will need to know. Someone will be in touch.’’

 
Chua shook her head and looked down at her feet, doing her best to avoid his eyes.
 

 
Brant retrieved the phone bill from Clatterback, placed it into his hip pocket then gathered the half dozen CDs into their carrying case.

 
``I’m going to call this in,’’ Brant said to Chua, taking in the room with a nod of his head. ``The computer will need to be analyzed at the station. Someone’ll be in touch.’’

``That was productive,’’ Brant said, dipping a chicken tender into a pot of honey mustard sauce and popping it into his mouth. ``We’re getting somewhere.’’

 
``You rattled her at the end.’’

 
``Did I?’’ Brant replied, smirking.
 

 
They were sitting in an Irish pub a stone’s throw from Haymarket Square. The afternoon had turned into early evening. The financial district had emptied. Brant had phoned Mrs. Rodrigues to check on Ben. He’d heard Ben in the background and the sound of pots and pans crashing together.

 
``Put him on please,’’ he said to Mrs. Rodrigues.

 
``We’re cooking.’’
 

 
``What are you making?’’

 
``Pasta.’’

 
``That’s good. You like pasta.’’

 
``When are you coming home?’’

 
``In a bit, buddy. I’m still at work.’’

 
``Did you catch any bad people today?’’

 
``Not yet. But I’m doing my best.’’

 
``Stevie says policemen kill people. Have you killed anyone, Daddy?’’

 
Brant thought the question over, unsure how to reply.
 

 
``Sometimes policemen have to do difficult things to protect the good people,’’ he finally said, doing his best to be truthful. ``Put Mrs. Rodrigues back on the phone please.’’

 
``He’s a good boy Mr. Jonas. Smart too.’’

 
``Thanks for picking Ben up. I’m still downtown.’’

 
The pub was located in the bottom level of a renovated office building. They’d taken a booth at the back and away from the bar where the usual gaggle of office workers congregated. Brant sat with his back to the wood-paneled wall, affording him a view of the restaurant area and the bar. The place was busy when they’d arrived and was getting more crowded by the minute. He’d been in the place a few times and recognized some of the usual crowd. Broad-shouldered young men stood in packs by the bar. Four flat-screen monitors hung from brackets affixed to a dropped ceiling painted bright red and accented by strips of blue LED lighting. A basketball game played on one of the screens. Local newscasts and a baseball game filled the others.

 
``Everything ok?’’ Clatterback asked, sucking his Guinness and wiping the foam from its head with his sleeve. ``What’s with the kid? You married?’’

 
Brant shook his head. ``Widowed, I guess, if that’s still an acceptable word. And the kid is my son, Ben. He’s four.’’

``So what happened to your old lady?’’

 
``Geez Cluster, not too subtle are you?’’

 
``You haven’t decided yet, huh?’’ Clatterback asked with a playful twinkle in his eye.

 
``What are you talking about?’’

 
``Junior. Cluster. You keep switching between the two.’’

 
``More I get to know you Clatterback, I’m starting to like Junior. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’’

 
Clatterback shrugged.
 

 
``And if you really must know, my wife was killed in a car accident about two years back.’’

 
``She driving or was it one of those taxis that got sideswiped and the passenger gets killed. I’ve heard a lot about those lately,’’ Clatterback said without hesitation and without thinking.

 
Brant smiled weakly in frustration at the line of questioning. Even years later, Maggie’s death was a sore point. He was still raw, but damned if he was going to wear his emotions in the open.
 

 
``Sideswiped at an intersection,’’ he said, finally. ``She was getting milk and a newspaper.’’

 
``Damn. They ever catch the shit?’’

 
``Nineteen-year-old kid from Philly. Blew two times over the limit.’’

 
``Where is he now? The kid, I mean.’’

 
``I know what you mean,’’ Brant said as he reached for another piece of chicken.
 

 
``It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,’’ Clatterback said as he read the look on Brant’s face.

 
``It’s fine,’’ Brant responded. ``Kid got 20 years. He’s in Norfolk.

 
Clatterback puffed out his cheeks. The eye twinkle had dimmed slightly, replaced by something else. A touch of sympathy perhaps, Brant thought as he weighed the reaction of his new partner to the intimacies he’d just been told.

``That’s medium security isn’t it?’’
 

``Yes, it is.’’

 
Brant lifted his Guinness and they toasted each other.

 
``So what about you, Junior? What’s your story? I mean now that we’re sharing our most heart-felt secrets.’’

 
``Not much to tell,’’ Clatterback said. ``I’m just trying to make my way in the world.’’

 
Brant shot an appraising look. ``Ah, try again. There’s something about you I can’t quite place. You got friends in high places or something, right?’’

 
Clatterback shrugged. ``Don’t think so. Not unless I have an uncle or an aunt that I don’t know about who’s some kind of billionaire. Besides, a name like Clatterback. Not exactly common, is it?’’

 
Brant had to concede the point. In truth, he’d done a quick Goggle search the previous night, but had come up largely empty. Just the usual academy training, mention in a community newspaper a year ago and nothing else.

 
``Suit yourself,’’ Brant said. ``I’m agnostic. Just watch your step and don’t get yourself killed. More importantly, don’t get me killed.’’

Clatterback nodded a greeting to a waitress, a woman in her twenties who’d glanced in their direction. He’d ordered a plate of cod and chips but was still waiting for his meal. The waitress caught the meaning and mouthed a response. Yes, it was coming and would be there in a moment, she’d seemed to say.
 

 
``What?’’

 
``Just thinking.’’

 
``That can be dangerous,’’ Brant replied, finishing the last of the chicken and wiping his fingers on the paper napkin sitting at the side of the basket.
 

 
``So I’m told. No, I was actually thinking about this pub. Look at them at the bar, all the punters. That’s what they were called back in the day, right? I’ll bet all of them now are computer jockeys working on some trading floor or Internet startup. This is playtime for them. Not like it used to be. And this place. An affront to Irish pubs everywhere.’’

 
``What would you know about any of that, Junior,’’ Brant asked, warming to the term. ``You’re a frickin’ millennial. You’re one of them.’’

 
Clatterback shook his head.
 

 
``I’m older than I look, but you know what I’m talking about. And I despise that word.’’

 
``What word?’’

 
``The M word. It’s usually laced with the assumption that we’re all lazy, entitled and pampered. Maybe we are, maybe we’re not, but for God’s sake, give us a chance to mess up just like your generation. Know what I mean?’’

 
Brant nodded in response, but said nothing.

 
Clatterback smiled over the rim of his Guinness as his order arrived. ``Guess I’m just showing my age. Old at 24. Kinda sad.’’

 
``You are but I know what you mean. And these finance guys…I just don’t get it. I mean I understand what they do on a basic level, but ask me to explain it in any detail and I’m lost.’’

 
A fiddler had started up at the front of the bar. There were shouts of encouragement and a smattering of half-hearted claps trying to match the beat. On one of the flat screens, the one with the Sox playing, a run had been scored and the bar momentarily erupted in cheers and high fives. Brant drained his Guinness.
 

``You might want to go easy,’’ Clatterback said with a wry grin.

 
``Thanks, dad.’’

 
``Just some advice.’’

 
``So what did you think of Chua?’’ Brant asked, his thoughts turning back to the day’s work.
 

 
``Maybe she knows more about this boyfriend than she’s letting on.’’

 
``I thought the same,’’ Brant said. ``She had a pretty good recollection of the car he drove. I’m surprised she wouldn’t have pressed Carswell for more details.’’

 
``Maybe she already knows who the boyfriend is.’’

 
``What about the place where Carswell worked?’’ Brant retrieved the dead woman’s business card and fingered the edge as he read the name aloud. ``Genepro Molecular. Ever heard of it?’’

 
Clatterback shrugged a no.

 
``I’ll check it out. Build up a dossier. I want to know everything we can find out about this company.’’

 
``You mean like what it makes, the financials? That kind of stuff?’’

 
``Whatever we can find out,’’ Brant said.

 
``Why don’t we find out now?’’

Clatterback had taken his mobile phone out of his pocket and keyed the name into the search window. He repeated the search with variations of spelling when nothing had resulted from his first attempts.