Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (23 page)

 
``I couldn’t help you there. She didn’t mention anyone.’’

 
``You said something about her work. Did she talk to you much about what she was researching?’’

 
``She may have, but to be honest I didn’t pay much attention to that kind of stuff. It was all over my head. She’d sometimes come over to my place and work on the computer.’’

 
``Really? That’s interesting.’’ Brant scribbled in his notebook. ``She didn’t have a laptop or anything?’’

 
McNaught shrugged. ``Not that I recall.’’

 
``Well, if you can think of anything new, give me a call.’’

 
Brant fished a business card from his pocket. McNaught scrutinized the embossed lettering before placing the card in his own pocket.

 
A yellow school bus had pulled into the parking lot not far from Brant’s car. A gaggle of kids poured out of the bus and made their way for the dock. Riotous sounds of laughter punctuated the air.

 
``My next class,’’ McNaught said with a wry smile. ``I’m going to earn my pay today.’’

 
Brant looked out at the flat waters of the bay as small waves rolled, caressing the beach. Castle Island loomed in the distance. There were tougher ways to make a living, he supposed.
 

 
``The office view isn’t so bad,’’ he said.

 
``You’re right there.’’

 
Lunch was a hotdog and cola from a food truck parked on the other side of the parking lot from the sailing school. He consumed the dog and the bun in gulps. The proprietor, a middle aged man with dark skin and a pitted complexion, watched with a look of mild admiration as Brant inhaled the food.

 
``You may want to go easy there buddy. Better yet, want another?’’

 
``Nah, this is fine,’’ Brant said, holding the dog aloft as ketchup dribbled onto his hand. ``You got another napkin?’’

 
``Here.’’

 
Brant wiped his fingers and tossed the soiled napkin into the garbage can beside the truck. Warm air billowed from the open grill. The owner wiped his hands on a greasy apron.

 
``Gonna go to 90. This place’ll be butt cheek to butt cheek in another hour or so. You police?’’

 
Brant smiled. ``How’d you know?’’

 
The other man shrugged. ``You cops. You’re all the same. It’s the way you walk. You know, like you own the place or something.’’

 
``Is that right?’’

 
``Sure. I see it all the time. Not that it does any good around here.’’

 
Brant appraised the man. ``What do you mean?’’

 
``Kid got shot right over there last week.’’ The man pointed in the direction of the lifeguard stand. ``You guys show up half an hour later, take a couple statements, then that’s it. Nothing else. Meanwhile, we locals go back to business as usual, like nothing ever happened. It’s not right.’’

 
``No, it’s not right,’’ Brant agreed. ``It’s not right at all.’’

 
``So what do we do?’’ The man shrugged, a gesture meant to convey a feeling of futility. Brant conceded the point. ``Right. Nothing. We just go on. Crazy.’’

 
``It’s the summer season,’’ Brant said by way of explanation. ``Kids out of school. Nowhere to go. Parents at work. They get into trouble. In my day we’d fire off cap guns or water rockets. Stakes are a bit higher now.’’

 
The other man smiled wearily. ``It’s guns. Pure and simple. Don’t take no genius to figure that out.’’

 
``Well, I agree. But try telling that to the NRA. I doubt they’d agree.’’

 
``Yeah? The NRA can suck my balls. Tell ‘em to come down here and see what’s happening to this place.’’

 
``I don’t disagree,’’ Brant said.
 

 
``You got a card or something? Maybe I’ll give you a call next time something comes up. You’ll be like my go to guy.’’

 
Brant handed the man his contact details. The man looked at the card, paying particular attention to Brant’s name and division.

 
``Jonas, huh?’’

 
``That’s right. Jonas Brant.’’

 
The man smiled. ``Sounds kind of biblical. Like you’re a hundred years old or something. Hey, you want another dog? I got a couple just about done.’’

 
Brant shrugged. Why not. God only knew when he’d have another chance to eat. He reached into his pocket for a couple of singles. The man refused.

 
``On the house. Just answer the phone when I call, okay?’’

His cellphone rang as he made his way back to the car. A black Ford had pulled in beside his Hyundai, leaving little space to maneuver. A mid-sized SUV made a beeline for one of the last remaining spaces. A woman and two children hopped out of the vehicle. A cooler, floating rings, beach towels, umbrellas and chairs followed.
 

 
Brant shaded his phone’s screen with his hand to better see the identity of the caller. Marcellus.

 
``I’m so angry. I could spit bullets.’’

 
Brant shifted the handset to his other ear as he wedged himself into the space between his Hyundai and the neighboring car.

 
``What’s going on, Marcellus? Why are you so angry?’’

 
``I got served. Can you believe it? That shit actually served me with papers.’’

 
``Calm down. Who are we talking about? David?’’

 
A television played in the background, filling the air between brother and sister. Brant imagined Marcellus reclining on the sofa as she twirled her hair and made plans to throttle her husband.

 
``Papers, Jonas! Goddamned papers! We’ve been married for fifteen years and I’m told by some snot-nosed bicycle messenger dressed in lycra that my marriage has ended.’’

 
Brant slid into the driver’s seat of his car. The black leather steering wheel was hot to the touch. He fumbled for his keys.
 

 
``I thought that’s what you wanted,’’ Brant said as he turned the air conditioner to full. ``You said the other night that you’d left him.’’

 
Marcellus began to sob. Brant rolled his eyes. He was embarrassed for her, but it pained him nonetheless to hear her in such a state.

 
``I’m just so furious,’’ she said, resolve and determination finally taking hold. ``Well, if it’s a fight he wants, I’ll give it to him. What time are you coming home?’’

 
Brant looked at his watch. It was almost 11:30 a.m. Another 20 minutes or so and the beach would be heaving.

 
``I’ll try to be early. You want me to talk to David, see what I can do?’’

 
Silence filled the airwaves. The opening jingle to the theme song for The Price Is Right spilled out.

 
``Marcellus? Are you still there?’’

 
``Oh God, please stay away, Jonas. Please, please, please tell me you aren’t going to do anything? Okay?’’

 
Brant adjusted the Hyundai’s rearview mirror. A candy red Saab had pulled into the spot behind him. A blonde checked herself in the mirror before reaching into her backseat for an oversized beach bag.

 
``Why did you call, Marcellus, if you don’t want me to do anything about it? I mean, what exactly do you want me to say?’’

 
``It’s just…forget it, okay. It was a mistake. Look, I have to go. I promised Benji I’d make him something special for dinner and I have to do some grocery shopping. You won’t talk to him, right Jonas?’’

 
``I’ll do whatever you want, Marcellus. I’ve got to go, too. See you tonight.’’

 
The phone line disconnected. Brant looked in his rearview mirror a second time. The blonde had disappeared.

 
The offices of Sutton Davidson Levinson and Gregg were on the 30
th
floor of the Prudential Tower.

 
The elevator he’d taken from the lobby opened onto an airy reception with a panoramic view of the old town and the Charles River. Jazz played through black Bose speakers. A thick white shag carpet sat squarely in the center of the room. Two black leather sofas had been placed to each side of a glass table. A walnut-finished reception desk ran along one wall. The lighting was subtle and discreet.

 
``Can I help you?’’

 
The question came from a middle aged Asian woman wearing a light gray suit. The cut of her black hair fell casually across perfectly kept eyebrows.
 

 
``David Sutton.’’

 
``Do you have an appointment?’’
 

 
The woman tapped at the keyboard of a brushed aluminum-encased iMac sitting on her desk.
 

 
``Tell him Jonas is here.’’

 
The woman looked up from the screen. ``So no appointment?’’

 
``Just tell him Jonas is here.’’

 
``Sorry, I’m going to need something more. Jonas who exactly?’’

 
``Jonas Brant.’’

 
``Oh.’’ A hint of recognition played across the woman’s face as she pressed her lips together. ``Please take a seat.’’

 
Brant did as he was told. A copy of the day’s Boston Globe sat beside a collection of architectural magazines. He took the paper in hand, flipping through to the local news section. Nothing on Luceno. Whatever Sheila Ritchie had been up to had yet to yield publishable results.
 

 
Ten minutes passed. Brant stared out at the shifting clouds and the sprawling cityscape beyond.
 

 
David Sutton appeared out of nowhere. He wore a solid blue Armani suit, crisp white shirt and silk tie. His shoes were polished to a blinding shine. His youthful face was deeply tanned in a healthy way. A lawyer from casting central.

 
``Jonas!’’ he said, extending his hand in greeting as a smile spread from ear to ear.

 
Smarmy bastard, Brant thought as he returned the handshake. They’d had a rocky relationship in the past. Sutton was a conservative Republican in the truest sense, a fact he wore on his pinstriped suits with resolute pride. While Brant could excuse the man his politics, he couldn’t abide the barely concealed contempt Sutton showed for other people and their views. His was an arrogance worn like a badge.

 
``I had no idea you were coming. I’m glad you stopped by. Let’s go into my office. We’ll have more privacy back there.’’

 
Sutton led him through a set of double doors and into the inner sanctum of offices. No one looked up from their desks. An inner calm seemed pervasive. Brant caught a glimpse of a glass-walled conference room and a group huddled around a massive oval table. A huge flat-screen monitor had been positioned against the far wall. A camera atop the screen broadcast the meeting to whoever was on the other end of the line. The screen showed a woman sitting in a similar-looking room. The backdrop was of a glittering skyline at night and a blackened harbor beyond. One of the buildings behind the woman’s left shoulder rose into mist.

 
``Our Hong Kong office,’’ Sutton said when he saw the direction of Brant’s gaze. ``You wouldn’t believe the amount of business we’re doing overseas these days. Hot money out of China. I saw an estimate the other day that said something like $300 billion flowed out of the mainland in just the past six months. That’s a lot of dim sum, eh?’’

 
Sutton laughed crassly at his racist joke. He was the kind of man who’d charm one moment and eviscerate the next. He was super intelligent, sharp-tongued and ruthless. In other words, the perfect lawyer. Brant hated him for it.

 
``Here we are.’’

 
They entered a large corner office with a view of the Charles. Sutton’s desk was largely paper-free. A framed portrait photograph of Sutton, Marcellus and their two boys sat to the side of the desk. A set of walnut bookshelves dominated one wall. The furnishings were traditional, solid-looking and expensive.

 
``Do you want tea or coffee? No? Have a seat.’’

 
Brant took one of two leather chairs, while Sutton took the other. A hardwood coffee table separated them.

 
``I know why you’re here and let me explain,’’ Sutton began preemptively. He had unbuttoned his jacket and crossed his legs. Short of urinating in the corner, he was marking his space, letting Brant know this was his domain.
 

 
``David, cut the crap,’’ Brant said, anger creeping into his voice. He’d promised himself the talk would be civil, that he’d hear Sutton out. Now he wondered whether he’d be able to live up to that pledge.

 
``You know what she’s like, Jonas. This has been building for a long time.’’

 
``You’re provoking her.’’

 
Sutton shrugged and smiled. ``Jonas, you have no idea what you’re talking about. This is between Marcellus and me.’’

 
``Marcellus is my sister. Are you forgetting?’’

 
``Oh no, I’d never forget something like that. How could I?’’