Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (18 page)

 
Jolly closed his file abruptly and left the podium. Brant made for the exit just as quickly, but was intercepted by the captain as he made a hasty retreat. From the corner of his eye, he caught a broad smirk on Clatterback’s face.

 
``What’s the status of the Carswell investigation?’’ Jolly asked when he had him cornered.

``Making progress, sir,’’ Brant said.

 
``Define progress.’’

 
``We have leads. The roommate filled in some of Carswell’s details and we have a strong belief that she recently had a child. We’re pursuing the father in hopes that he can tell us a bit more about her. Heinz recovered a bullet from the skull. Firearm Analysis is conducting tests. We’re reasonably confident they’ll be able to give us a good idea of what kind of firearm was used to kill her.’’

 
``Interviews?’’

 
``Clatterback has pulled CCTV footage and he and Malloy have been doing preliminary interviews with some of the merchants in the area where the body was found. We recovered some documentation from Carswell’s apartment, which we’re reviewing.’’

 
``What kind of documents?’’

 
Brant shifted his weight. It wasn’t that he was intimidated by Jolly, but he was nervous all the same. The captain had that effect on people.

 
``Some phone records. She had a collection of data CDs near her computer. We’re still working on her password for better access to her electronic files.’’

 
``Where’d she work?’’ Jolly asked, a glimmer of interest flicking across his face.

 
``A place called Genepro Molecular. She was some kind of scientist or researcher.’’

 
``Do you really think the baby will lead you anywhere?’’

 
Brant shrugged. ``It’s worth a try.’’

 
Jolly puffed his cheeks. ``This is a high-profile case. Lot of interested parties, Jonas. The Mayor’s office. The press. The brass. See that you do everything by the book.’’

 
Jonas. When was the last time Jolly had called him by his first name? An ominous sign to be sure. Nothing good could come of that, Brant thought as he made to leave.

 
``By the book, sir. You know me.’’

 
``Yes, I do,’’ Jolly said, his voice flat and emotionless.
 

They reconvened in the squad room. Jolly had decamped for the day, summoned to City Hall. Budget committee hearings were planned to last well into the night. All agreed the news was not good. Whatever Jolly was to be confronted with by their paymasters would eventually become their problems as well.

 
``I thought the budget had been set,’’ Clatterback said.

 
``That was this year’s budget,’’ Brant said, raising a mug of coffee to his lips. ``Process starts all over again as soon as they sign off on this year’s. It’s never ending.’’

 
Dennis Tate nodded in their direction as he made his way between a row of desks. A uniform named Gillihar followed. Gillihar was old-school, tough as nails and just as sharp. He’d seen action in Desert Storm as a Navy navigator stationed on the U.S.S. Lincoln.

 
``What are you ladies up to?’’ Gillihar asked when he saw Brant and the two other detectives huddling over their coffee.

 
``Staying out of sight of your ugly mug, that’s for sure,’’ Brant said in response.
 

 
He liked Gillihar, rough edges and all. The cop knew his stuff and suffered fools lightly. He’d locked horns with Jolly on more than one occasion, which made him a hero of sorts in Brant’s books.
 

 
Gillihar smiled in response.

 
``See you later at the Tam?’’

 
``Not if I’m lucky, Gillihar.’’

 
``Suit yourself. I suppose brass rails and ferns are more your style anyway, Brant.’’

 
The Tam was a dive bar on Tremont Street. Among Gillihar and his cohorts, the Tam was legendary. Many a wake had been held at the Tam, followed by a late-night curry at an Indian place down the street. At the Tam, the drinks were strong. The smell of urine and vomit near the bar was even stronger. Just the thought of the place made Brant’s stomach turn.

 
``You two have fun at McGreevy’s?’’ he’d asked when Tate and Gillihar had left the room. Clatterback and Malloy reddened on cue.
 

 
``Good to see you’re getting along,’’ he said to ease the tension.
 

 
``What was that about with Gillihar?’’ Malloy asked in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

 
``Gillihar? He likes to pull my chain. Good guy, though. You should get to know him.’’

 
``Looks a bit past it to me,’’ Clatterback said.

 
Brant shot the younger man an angry look.

 
``I’d be careful on that one,’’ he said. ``The uniforms may be the grunts around here, but you don’t want to get on their wrong side.’’

 
``And you speak from experience?’’

 
``I do. And not all of it good. Just trust me. The uniforms are your friends. Even when they’re not.’’

 
``What the hell’s that suppose to mean?’’ Clatterback asked.

 
Brant shrugged. ``Just as it sounds.’’

 
When they had the room to themselves once more, Brant pulled out a stack of documents.

 
``So you had something for me?’’

 
``John and I’ll check out South Shore. With any luck we’ll find someone who remembers Carswell. Maybe they’ll even be able to tell us if she came in with the father.’’

 
Brant nodded. ``That makes sense. Keep following that lead. I don’t think it’s wrong.’’

 
``What about you?’’ Clatterback asked. ``What are you doing while we’re knocking on hospital doors?’’

 
``Me? I’m going to follow up on the company Allison Carswell worked for. I want to find out as much about it as I possibly can. What about Meredith Financial, Junior? Did you get anything on it?’’

 
Clatterback shook his head. ``I did an EDGAR search and I contacted the state securities regulator. Nothing on EDGAR. I’m still waiting to hear back from the regulator.’’

 
``Good, keep at it.’’

 
``Where shall we meet?’’ Malloy asked. ``I mean after all this detective work?’’

 
Brant smiled. ``McGreevy’s is as good a place as any, I suppose. That is unless you two have plans? I mean, I wouldn’t want to get in the way.’’

 
Malloy frowned. ``McGreevy’s is fine by me.’’

 
``Me too,’’ Clatterback said almost too eagerly.

 
``And since you’re the senior officer, you can buy the first round,’’ Malloy added.

 
``That’s fair.’’

 
``What about your son?’’

 
Brant shook his head. ``Too young. He’d get carded.’’

 
``I mean don’t you have to go home and feed him or something?’’

 
``You have a son? I didn’t know that.’’

 
``He’s four, almost five,’’ Brant answered in response to Malloy’s query. ``And no, I’m okay. My sister’s in town for a few nights. She’s looking after Ben.’’

 
``So it’s boys and girls night out,’’ Clatterback said, holding his fist in the air as an offer for Brant to give him a bump. Brant shot a skeptical look in the detective’s direction and shook his head in mock disgust.

 
``What? I was only having fun,’’ Clatterback said as Malloy grabbed his arm.
 

 
``Let’s go, Junior.’’

 
The two detectives turned to leave.

 
``There is one other thing,’’ Brant said as they made for the door. ``Your father worked in A-7, right Malloy?’’

 
He meant District A-7 in East Boston. Malloy’s father was a big wig in the Human Trafficking Unit.
 

 
``Yes, why?’’ Malloy asked, a cautionary sounding note to her voice.

 
``I’ve got a favor.
 
Matty Luceno. He lives around there, right?’’

 
Malloy appraised Brant with a look that spoke volumes.
   

``What do you want Luceno for, sir?’’

 
Brant shrugged, perhaps a little too casually. ``I’m trying to do a friend a favor.’’

 
``A friend, huh?’’

 
``Yeah, why the look?’’

 
Malloy frowned. ``Luceno’s a powerful man, sir. You don’t want to be messing with him.’’

 
``And why’s that?’’

 
``That’s all I’m saying, sir.’’

 
``But your father knows him?’’

 
``Everyone at East Boston knows Matty Luceno.’’

 
Brant sucked air in through his teeth. ``Yeah, that’s what I thought. Thanks.’’

 
Malloy turned to leave. Clatterback followed.

``You were right about Luceno,’’ Brant said into his cellphone.

 
He was standing on the sidewalk outside headquarters. A bus rumbled by, spewing a cloud of black exhaust in its wake. Brant swatted with his hand to clear the air.

 
``So you have something for me?’’

 
``Like I said, you were right about Luceno.’’

 
The clatter of a keyboard filled the distance separating Brant from the journalist.
 

 
``Don’t mind me, I’m just typing notes.’’

 
``You understand you didn’t get this from me.’’

 
``Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.’’

 
``No, I mean it. Under no circumstance is my name to be associated with this.’’

 
Silence filled the void. More tapping at the keyboard.

 
``I get it lieutenant. No one will know. What else do you have?’’

 
``What do you mean what else?’’

 
``I mean if I’m going to use an anonymous source, I’ve gotta get some pretty good stuff. This is just the start.’’

 
Brant sighed into his handset.

 
``You wanted confirmation something was up with Luceno. You have your confirmation.’’

 
``So you saw a report?’’

 
``There is no report.’’

 
``There’s no report?’’

 
``That’s what I said. There’s no report.’’

 
Now it was Sheila Ritchie’s turn to sigh. Brant watched, bemused, as a cab almost rear-ended a late model Mercedes. The driver of the Merc pulled ahead with seconds to spare, avoiding what could have been a nasty collision.

 
``Are we gonna do this dance all day?’’

 
``I’m going out on a limb here,’’ Brant said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard. ``Maybe we should meet. Leon’s?’’

Leon’s again. Drizzle continued to fall, discouraging some of the workers from the nearby office buildings to venture out.
 

 
Hootie and the Blowfish played on the sound system. He hadn’t heard them in years. He’d taken Maggie to see them play at the Paradise Rock Club before they’d hit it big. He’d been the same age as most of the BU students in the audience, but had nonetheless felt out of place, as if in a foreign land.

 
``I have a couple of minutes,’’ Sheila Ritchie said, settling into the seat across from Brant.

 
``You want anything to eat? How about a coffee?’’

 
The journalist waved him away. She’d taken a notebook from her bag.

 
``Mind if I make notes?’’

 
``Yes.’’ Brant watched for a reaction.

 
Chastened, Sheila Ritchie returned the notebook to its place among the other tools of her trade. She made a steeple of her fingers as she placed her elbows on the table.

 
``Well then?’’

 
``I spoke to a buddy who worked at A-7 years ago. Retired now but he still keeps in contact with the guys. It’s an open secret that Matty Luceno has friends in high places.’’

 
``I told you, he’s an at-large councillor.’’

 
Brant ignored the sharpness of her voice. ``Anyway, Luceno was out boozing one night with some of the boys in the Mayor’s office. Irish pub on Columbus. Seems he had a bit too much and started punching above his weight.’’

 
``Meaning?’’

 
``He was aiming for a fight. Spewing out all kinds of crap about the Mayor being dirty, about how he could bring city hall to its knees, about how he could even blow a hole through the Democratic Party in Washington. He may even have mentioned Bill and Hillary.’’

 
``And this was in the police report?’’

 
Brant shook his head. ``Couple uniforms interviewed some students that overheard as they were walking past. Luceno was taken in but a phone call came in from the Mayor’s office and he was let out before any of the paperwork could be entered into the computer system. So, no paperwork, no crime, nothing to report. Move on.’’

 
Brant leaned back. He hadn’t realized it, but he’d been leaning over the table speaking in hushed tones.

 
``Interesting. That certainly lines up with what I’ve got.’’

 
``What is it?’’ Brant asked. ``What’s going on?’’