Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (19 page)

 
Ritchie frowned. ``I’m not sure yet. I need to think about this and work on it a bit more. You get a chance to dig into that name at Genepro Molecular that I gave you?’’

 
``I did a quick search but nothing really came up.’’

 
``I’m not surprised. You don’t have any idea what they do, do you?’’

 
Brant’s face betrayed him. He’d Googled Markus Schroder, but had come up empty. At least empty in the tradition sense of a police search. The man behind Genepro had no priors. A documents search had pulled up academic papers on a range of subjects, all of which had proved beyond his understanding.

 
``Yeah, I figured,’’ Ritchie said when she saw his face. ``Maybe this’ll be more useful.’’

 
She slid a piece of paper across the table. Wide-eyed, Brant took the offering.

 
``Where’d you get this?’’ he asked as his eyes darted over the document.

 
``Thought you might be interested,’’ Ritchie said with a smile.
 

 
Brant scrutinized the paper a second time.
 

 
``Genepro Molecular rents its office space from a company called Medsync Inc.’’

 
``Never heard of it.’’

 
``No, you wouldn’t have. Medsync Inc. is a shell company based in the Virgin Islands. I did a bit of digging through some regulatory filings to find out more about it. Something caught my eye.’’

 
``Something?’’

 
``Well, a name. It’s right there at the bottom.’’

 
Brant’s eyes ran to the final entry on the paper. His mouth dropped as his fingers ran over the name of Medsync’s chief executive officer.

 
``Exactly,’’ Ritchie said when she saw his reaction.
   

 
``When did you last eat?’’

 
Sergei Volodin smiled. He was a big man, with a round fleshy face and soft features. His hands were dainty, his skin pink and polished. He had broad shoulders, a sloping forehead and a cap of thin brown hair. An angry red scar marred the left side of his face from his cheek bone down to his chin. He wheezed when he breathed.

 
``One must eat, no?’’ Volodin waved a pair of chopsticks in Brant’s direction. ``You don’t eat, detective? I’m afraid I have a hard time trusting a man who doesn’t like his food.’’

 
A thin sheen of sweat marked the big man’s forehead. He was unshaven and wore a shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal a patch of graying chest hair. Volodin had loaded his plate from the buffet. The table had been filled with plates of stir-fried rice, breaded chicken balls, deep-fried spring rolls and an unrecognizable soggy mass of green vegetables.

 
He speared a chicken ball with the end of a chopstick and smiled. The man was a brute, but in a slightly effeminate way.

 
They were in a Chinese restaurant near the corner of Oxford and Beach streets. The dining room was basic. White-washed walls, cheap wooden tables covered with simple white tablecloths, red paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Waitresses dressed in traditional Chinese dress floated throughout the room as they went from table to table.

 
``Well, if you aren’t going to eat, perhaps we should get down to business.’’ Volodin wiped his mouth with a paper napkin as he pushed away a plate of half-eaten rice.

 
Katy Malloy sat at the edge of the table, eyeing one of the waitresses dressed in a black dress buttoned tight around the throat. The waitress smiled as she poured tea into a small porcelain cup for the older Chinese man and his wife sitting at a neighboring table.

 
``Who is your lovely associate?’’ Volodin asked when the plates had been cleared.

 
``Detective Malloy is working with me at the moment.’’

 
``Is that so?’’ Volodin’s eyes bugged out of his face as he considered Malloy. ``And what is it that you think I can do for you?’’

 
``You can cut the bullshit for one,’’ Brant said, barely hiding his disdain for the man.
 

 
Volodin frowned in mock disappointment. Not for the first time when they were together, Brant fought the urge to reach over and wring the other’s neck until his eyes popped out.
 

 
But Sergei Volodin was not to be underestimated. He may have looked like an art dealer or an accountant gone to seed, but he was neither. Instead, he was a thug, a crook, a gang leader and a dangerous man. Volodin was a new breed. He’d arrived in Boston penniless, a son of Russian immigrants who’d been driven from the old country at the end of the Cold War. As a young man, Volodin had proven adept at navigating a path between Boston’s warring gangs. He’d started out hawking cheap electronics — mostly stolen — on the streets to unsuspecting tourists. Next came muggings, petty theft and drugstore holdups. He’d hit the big time when he was nominated as a drug runner for a gang in South Boston. Drugs quickly escalated to more sophisticated operations - racketeering, money laundering, cyber fraud. He was a man of many talents.

 
The Russian had picked up baggage along the way. There was the deep scar marking his face. His skin was sallow and thinning. His eyes, though sharp and shrewd, betrayed a weariness and caution earned only from years on the street. Volodin had been lucky in his rise to the top, but luck ran only so far.

 
``Genepro Molecular.’’

 
Volodin shrugged, a look of bored indifference in his dulled eyes.

 
``Name doesn’t ring a bell?’’

 
``Should it?’’ Volodin signaled to a passing waitress who blushed as she poured a cup of tea. The dainty cup looked child-like in the big gangster’s hand as he lifted it to his lips.

 
``Your shell company, Medsync, owns the building that Genepro operates out of. I have the documentation so no need to act stupid.’’

 
``Can you believe this guy?’’ Volodin directed the comment to Malloy. ``Barges in here to my place of business with wild accusations.’’

 
Brant smiled sarcastically as he glanced around the restaurant.
 
With the departure of the elderly Chinese couple, they had the place to themselves. ``Some place of business. Overhead must be low, though.’’

 
``What is the saying? Location is everything?’’

 
``Something like that.’’

 
Volodin leaned back in his chair. A waitress approached with a refill of tea but he shooed her away. ``Now, what can Sergei do about this Genepro Molecular? You say it’s part of my real estate portfolio?’’

 
``Rented through Medsync. Only thing is, the ties linking you to Medsync are pretty loose.’’

 
Volodin shrugged casually. ``It’s a big portfolio. I guess you might be right. Of course I would never contradict the police. I’m a big supporter of the Boston Police Detectives Benevolent Society. Did you know that?’’

 
Brant smiled. ``I had no idea you were so charitable. All the same, you’re not really answering the question.’’

 
``I didn’t know there was a question.’’

 
Brant looked Volodin up and down. The big man was unrattled, even casual. If he’d hit a nerve, Volodin wasn’t showing it.

 
``A young woman who worked at Genepro Molecular, an Allison Carswell, was found shot to death in an alleyway near Copley the other day. We did some digging and up pops your name linked to Genepro. A hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?’’

 
Volodin’s face broadened as he broke into a smile. ``Officers, this is absurd. Look, I’m a nice guy, right, so I’m not going to get offended. But if I was the kind of person to…what’s the phrase…call a spade a spade, I would say this is harassment.’’

 
``You’re not answering the question.’’

 
``Do I have to? I mean, when is it a crime in this country to own real estate?’’

 
Brant shrugged as Volodin shook his head in mock sadness. The big man sighed.

 
``I suppose poor old Sergei is going to be harassed until I give you whatever it is you want,’’ he said with resign in his voice. ``You have a picture of this woman? What was her name?’’

 
``Allison Carswell.’’

 
``Hmmmmm. Carswell. I’m afraid the name isn’t familiar.’’

 
Brant handed Volodin a snapshot of the dead woman that he’d had made from the photos he’d taken with his phone. Volodin quickly scanned the image before handing the print back.

 
``Never seen her. If you don’t mind my saying, she is a rather plain one. Or maybe it’s just the way her face has been beaten to a pulp. Not my kind of work by the way.’’

 
Brant ignored the editorial comment on Carswell’s appearance.

 
``That’s not very helpful.’’

 
``She was a molecular biologist,’’ Katy Malloy said.

 
``Is that so? And you say she worked at Genepro?’’

 
``That’s right.’’

 
``Have you spoken to her coworkers? Maybe I do your job for you and help you draw up a list of who to speak with before you come to me. Yes?’’

 
``We’re heading out there now,’’ Brant said a little too quickly.

 
Volodin frowned. ``I will admit this one thing. You are right. I know this Genepro Molecular. They came to me and they say, `Sergei, we need a place to do some high-level work on DNA sequencing and genetic testing. What do you have that we can use?’ So I find them a building. That’s it. I don’t know anything about this woman. Full disclosure.’’

 
Brant doubted it but didn’t say so. His understanding of Volodin was deep. They’d had past dealings, none of which had turned out well in the end. Volodin played the simpleton with the panache of an actor, but Brant knew better. He knew to tread carefully.

 
``You’ll call us if you think of anything?’’ Brant and Malloy rose to leave. Brant fished a business card from his pocket and handed it to the other man. Volodin inspected the card before placing it in a small leather cardholder.
 

 
``You have my word.’’

 
As they turned to leave, the door to the restaurant opened. Two men stood in the doorway. Each wore olive green military-style pants. One had a tight white t-shirt, revealing bulging biceps and a well-defined chest. The second was slighter. His frame was lean and hungry-looking, with wide shoulders and a tapered torso leading to a trim waste. Both men wore a haggard, threatening look.

 
``My associates,’’ Volodin said when the door had closed, shutting out the sound of traffic. ``The Dimitrovs. Also known as the Dimitri twins.’’

 
Brant looked the pair over a second time. If they were twins, he couldn’t tell. Save the pants, little about the two struck him as similar in any way. Muscles had a long face, and pitted skin. Hungry was better-looking. He had fair hair, a high forehead and chiseled cheek bones.

 
Both men grunted a greeting as they made for a table farthest from the door.

 
``Associates?’’

 
``Workers,’’ Volodin said. ``Message boys. They do whatever is needed. Very useful.’’

 
``I’ll bet.’’

 
Volodin pulled a hand through his thinning hair. ``So our business is done?’’
 

 
``For now,’’ Brant said as he and Malloy made a hasty retreat.

``That guy gives me the creeps,’’ Malloy said when they were clear of the restaurant.

 
They were standing on Beach Street. A busload of Chinese tourists had stopped in front of the Hot Pot Buffet. A uniform waved a half-hearted greeting as he drove by in a patrol car. To their right, a dozen or so old men played Chinese board games on folding tables set up under a canopy of trees.

 
The day had brightened. A break in the clouds revealed a light blue sky.

 
``You’re not wrong,’’ Brant said. ``You’ve got good instincts.’’

 
``Do you believe him? That he doesn’t know anything about Carswell or Genepro? Beyond the fact he rented the place, that is?’’

``I’m not the believing type,’’ Brant said. ``I’m hungry. You want to grab some food?’’

 
``Why didn’t we get something back at the restaurant?’’

 
``And give Volodin the satisfaction?’’ Brant shook his head. ``Everything about that meeting was calculated. He was trying hard to keep the upper hand with that little display of glutinous excess. Besides, cops don’t eat with thugs. Remember that.’’

 
``Okay. But I’m hungry, too. And we still have to check out Genepro.’’