Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (15 page)

 
``I told you to wait in the car.’’

 
``Like shit I will.’’

 
``Junior!’’

 
``Enough with the Junior, sir.’’

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 windows. 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.

 
``I don’t have a lot of time, so let’s just get to it. You got a name for those two men?’’

 
``I’ll get in a lot of trouble. They’re our best clients.’’

 
``High net worth, eh?’’ Clatterback asked, smirking childishly in the process.

 
``Screw you, freak.’’

 
Chua grimaced, bringing her hand to her cheek and the mark left by Shorty.

 
``Was Allison involved?’’ Brant asked.

 
``Involved in what?’’

 
``I’m assuming by client relations, you mean prostitution?’’

 
Chua said nothing, her attention suddenly turning to the grapefruit the waitress had placed in front of her.

 
``What are you afraid of?’’

 
Chua shrugged. Her face had grown hard.

 
``Who’s Meredith Financial?’’

 
``What do you mean?’’

 
``Who’s behind Meredith Financial?’’ Clatterback asked.

 
``What relevance is that to anything?’’

 
``Could be very relevant,’’ Brant said as he drained his coffee and signaled to the waitress for the bill.

 
``It’s not an easy situation,’’ Chua said, her voice wavering slightly. ``You have no idea. And those two men. Leave them out of it, okay. It was a play act. They like it rough. It’s all theater, okay. No one was going to get hurt.’’

 
``I think I’m getting the picture.’’

 
``No, you aren’t.’’

 
``Enlighten me.’’

 
Chua pursed her lips but said nothing. An icy look took hold.

 
``It’s not what you think. And, besides, Allison was clueless about any of it.’’

 
``I don’t believe that,’’ Brant said.

 
Chua shrugged in defiance. So confident, so misguided, Brant thought to himself.

 
``This isn’t over,’’ he said, standing to leave. ``Come on, Junior. Ms. Chua’s got some thinking to do.’’

 
``I haven’t had breakfast yet,’’ Clatterback said, his voice plaintive.
 

 
``I’ll buy you a McMuffin on the way home.’’

 
``Call me if you want,’’ Brant said, directing the comments to Chua in the hope that she’d see reason.

 
The young woman slumped deeper into the embrace of her seat and smiled weakly at the two police officers. Brant threw a twenty dollar bill to the table.

 
``I can pay for my own breakfast,’’ Chua said, spitting the words in his direction.

 
``I know you can.’’

 
``So take the money.’’

 
``It’s for a cab. Go home.’’

 
``My Bimmer’s parked around the corner.’’

 
``Take the money,’’ Brant said, forcing the point.

 
Chua pocketed the bill without saying a word.
 

Breakfast at the IHOP off Soldier Field Road. The day had turned out clear skied and bright with the feeling of summer, beaches and the ocean in the air. A carpet of shriveled American elm leaves scattered the ground separating the restaurant parking lot from the neighboring asphalt highway. Passing cars and trucks stirred the foliage into riotous clouds. Ben laughed as he stretched his tiny arms out the back window of Marcellus's Mercedes in an effort to capture one of the leaves.

 
``Careful Ben,'' Brant said. ``Don't want to get your arm cut off.''

 
Chastened, the young boy pulled his hands back into the car, inspecting them for good measure. The smile on his small face quickly turned to a pout.

 
``Now why would you say that?'' Marcellus turned to her brother in the passenger seat. ``Do you always have to be the cop?''

 
Brant glanced out the window. They were in a parking space at the back of the building well away from the traffic and any dangers.
 

A dust-covered Chevy pulled into the space next to them. Silver duct tape held the car's front bumper in place. The driver's side door was scratched and dented. The driver, an obese middle-aged woman wearing blue stretch pants and a thin brown t-shirt, climbed laboriously from the front seat, three glum-faced children in tow.

``Can we just get breakfast?''

``You think the car'll be safe here?''

Brant turned to take in the parking lot.

``Stop being a snob.''

Marcellus turned to her nephew in the back seat. Ben had shifted his attention to a packet of crayons and a coloring book -- a present from his aunt earlier that morning.
 

 
``You alright back there, Benji?''

 
The boy smiled without saying a word. Marcellus reached for her handbag as she took the keys from the ignition.

 
``Let's go get some pancakes.''

 
``Can I get chocolate chip?''

 
``You can get whatever you want. Your daddy won't mind.''

 
Marcellus looked at her brother for support. Brant sat, impassive and determined, unwilling to yield an inch. Not today. Not while he dreaded the hours that were to come. It would be a long day.

An hour and a half later they were on the road again heading south on the Southeast Expressway, the landscape framed by squat low-rise buildings of red brick on their right, the open waters and tree-lined shores of Old Harbor on their left. Traffic was light as Marcellus shifted with ease from lane to lane, pushing the Mercedes. The car, heavy and solid, ran smooth over the cracked and pitted expressway. The Mercedes rocked slightly in the wake of passing trucks, forcing Marcellus into the slipstream of the passing vehicles.
 
Twenty minutes on the expressway and they’d put the city behind them.
 

 
``You may want to take it easy,’’ Brant said. ``We aren’t in a race.’’

 
``Yes, sir.’’
 

 
Marcellus smiled as she teased her brother. She’d turned on the radio, guiding the station selection from the steering wheel. Duran Duran played from the back speakers. The sound was immaculate. Deep and resonant in places, sharp and crystal clear in others.

 
``Do you mind? Ben’s hearing is sensitive.’’

 
``Jesus, Jonas. What crawled up your ass and died?’’

 
Marcellus glanced at her nephew’s image in the rearview mirror. Ben sat in the child’s seat, transfixed by the ever-changing scenery of passing trees and wood-framed houses.

 
``You okay back there Ben?’’

 
Ben beamed. ``I like it when we go fast. Can we go faster?’’

 
``We can,’’ Marcellus said, continuing to speak into the rearview mirror. ``I don’t think your Dad would like it though. We’ll be there soon. You looking forward to seeing your gramps?’’

 
The smile on Ben’s round face widened in anticipation.
 

Marcellus pulled the Mercedes into the exit lane and onto Granite Street. The scenery changed yet again. The peaked roof of South Shore Plaza rose up from the barrier of shrubbery separating the side roads from the highway. For a moment, the sun disappeared behind a passing cloud.

Ben rocked in his restraints as he signaled out the window at the approaching yellow and white wood-framed building. Marcellus pulled the car into the driveway, stopping in front of an entryway topped by a pitched roof of green aluminum sheet held up by thick white columns. A red banner hanging from the entryway moved lazily in the soft breeze. After putting the car into park, Marcellus turned to look into her brother’s face.

 
``Don’t be like him,’’ she said, nodding in the direction of the lobby. ``I can’t take two of you.’’