Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (32 page)

 
``Community outreach is the lifeblood of this department,’’ Woodbridge said as she bore into Brant. ``That kind of flippant attitude doesn’t help.’’

 
``Yes sir,’’ Brant said.

 
``I’m not a sir,’’ Woodbridge said.
 

 
``Sorry,’’ a sheepish Brant said.

 
``Captain Oliver, you need to do a better job of controlling your officers.’’

 
``I’ll see to it,’’ Jolly said, fixing Brant and Vasquez with a dangerous look of his own as he made his way into the cafe.
 

 
``We’ll speak after the meeting,’’ Woodbridge said to Brant as she waved him in. ``Later.’’

 
``What would you prefer?’’

 
``What was that?’’ Woodbridge asked, pausing and turning her head.

 
``Protocol. What should I address you as?’’

 
Woodbridge smiled.
 

 
``Superintendent-in-chief would do.’’

 
``Seems a bit formal, don’t you think?’’

 
``It does, doesn’t it.’’ Woodbridge’s face softened, but just a tad. ``How about you call me Ma’am, lieutenant. Will that do?’’

 
``Seems fine by me….Ma’am.’’

 
``Good, I’m glad that’s settled. Now let’s get on with this. I only have an hour and then I have meetings downtown.’’

The organizers had reserved the center table. It was double-length, made of reclaimed walnut and polished to a sheen. Ten chairs had been arranged, the head of the table given over to the Superintendent-in-Chief. The atmosphere was cozy. On the walls, black and white framed photos depicted random scenes — a bull rider in mid-flight, a surfer standing on the beach, her backside turned to the camera, a man in vintage dress hoisting an American flag aloft while sitting on the hood of a truck. Two brown leather recliners had been placed against the far wall.
 

 
``This is very nice,’’ Woodbridge said as she took her seat and ordered a coffee.
 

 
The waitress asked if she wanted food.

 
``These’ll do,’’ Woodbridge said, indicating a plate of chocolate-chip scones drizzled with sugared icing in the center of the table. ``Please, everyone sit.’’

 
They took their positions, all nine of them. Vasquez, Brant and Jolly were seated apart from each other. Better to create a relaxed atmosphere, Brant had been told earlier.

 
Coffee with a Cop could easily become a bitching session. Woodbridge had made it plain she would look unkindly if that were to happen this time.

 
``What do you do?’’

 
The question, directed at Brant, came from the middle-aged black man sitting beside him. The man wore thick-lensed glasses. His hands shook when he reached for his coffee mug.

 
``I’m a lieutenant in District A.’’

 
``The one on New Sudbury Street?’’

 
Brant shook his head. ``No. Tremont Street.’’

 
``District A, you said?’’

 
``That’s right. A-2.’’

 
``Oh, I see. That building on New Sudbury. That’s the ugliest motherfucker I’ve ever seen.’’

 
``I can’t disagree with you there,’’ Brant said in response.
 

 
``Were you involved in that shooting in Mattapan?’’

 
``Mattapan? No, that was handled by B-3.’’

 
The man shook his head, sadness darkening his face. ``Young people. It’s crazy, all the guns on the streets. We’re killing ourselves from inside. It’s like a wound that’s eating us up. Warren Dixon, by the way. I’m headmaster at BCLA.’’

 
The man held out his hand.
 

 
``BCLA?’’

 
``Boston Community Leadership Academy. We’re a pilot school within the public school system. Do you have children, lieutenant?’’

 
Brant nodded. ``One. A boy.’’

 
``Maybe he’d like to try BCLA.’’

 
``He’s four. Almost five.’’

 
Warren Dixon pursed his lips. ``Yes, a bit young for us at the moment. Still, maybe one day.’’

 
``You were saying something about guns?’’

 
``The young people I come into contact with on a daily basis are far more impressive than we give them credit for. They are motivated, intelligent, engaged in the community. The cliches we see in the media ever day are just not true and we are doing a great disservice to our future generation when we paint all of them with the same broad brush. But what isn’t a cliche is guns and gun violence. I am just growing so weary of all the shootings, all the killings, all the senseless violence. We’re supposed to be a great nation, and yet some days I’m embarrassed to call this country home.’’

 
Dixon’s voice rose as he spoke, filling the room with his rhetoric and passion. The man’s face had become animated as he stabbed at the table with his forefinger to emphasize his points.

 
``I couldn’t agree more, Warren,’’ Luis Woodbridge said from the head of the table. ``We do have to do better.’’

 
``You got your own problems, though. Rogue cops for one.’’

 
``Rogue cops?’’

 
Woodbridge turned to the woman who’d spoken. She was a small-boned Hispanic in her twenties. She wore cut-off jeans and a white collarless blouse. Curly black hair seemed to fly uncontrolled in every direction.

 
``You know what I’m talking about. All those cops just itching to pull out their gun and bash some heads. There’s a reckoning coming, and it’s not gonna be pretty. You cops got a lot to answer for. Our communities are tired of being harassed. It’s not just blacks. It’s the Hispanics and the Asians, too. Every part of the community feels under fire.’’

 
``Here, here.’’ A chorus of voices agreed with the woman. Brant looked toward Woodbridge, who stared stonily at the speaker.
 

 
``I can appreciate the feeling, Gabriela. That’s why these meetings are so important, to give you an opportunity to put a face to the police. We don’t want the only point of contact to be negative and confrontational.’’

 
``Bullshit,’’ the woman named Gabriela said as she slumped in her seat. ``Ain’t nothing going to change, and you know it.’’

 
``I think what the Superintendent is trying to say…,’’ Jolly said, instantly winning a withering look from Woodbridge.

 
``I know what she’s saying,’’ Gabriela shot back. ``But you gotta listen. We don’t want to hear what you have to say anymore. That’s the point.’’

 
Another round of support to Gabriela.

 
And so it went for the next hour, each of the participants trading shots and countershots, each invested in their own point of view. None seemed to have much time or inclination to hear their peers.

``That was difficult,’’ Woodbridge said to Brant when the meeting was over. They were walking side by side, heading for the parking lot at the rear of the cafe.
 

 
The day was warming, the sun a fireball racing to its daily apex. Across the street, a digger clawed at the fresh-cut soil of an abandoned concrete pit. Industrial fencing blocked entry to whatever had once occupied the site.

 
``Are they always like that?’’

 
``Most, yes,’’ Woodbridge said, smiling. ``Still, we have to start somewhere. Every story that hits the national media about a cop shooting a black kid sets us back. It’s not very sexy, is it?’’

 
``No, it isn’t, Ma’am.’’

 
Woodbridge chuckled. ``I’ll bet you became a cop to chase the bad guys, isn’t that right, lieutenant? Bet you never thought you’d be sitting on a committee holed up in some dead suburb.’’

 
``I hadn’t really thought of it that way,’’ Brant said with honesty.

 
``I’ve heard about you,’’ Woodbridge said. ``Not all good, by the way.’’

 
Brant shrugged. ``Sorry, I can’t do anything about what other people think.’’

 
``You were shot in the Casson case, yes? How’s the head?’’

 
``Good, the headaches aren’t as bad as before.’’

 
``That’s good,’’ Woodbridge said. They’d reached her car, a BMW 7 Series. Embarrassed, Brant sized up the vehicle, comparing it with his Hyundai. ``I’m told you’re called the Professor. Why is that, lieutenant?’’

 
Brant shrugged. There was that moniker again. A thing to shake. But how? ``I like to read.’’

 
``That’s very good,’’ Woodbridge said without pause. ``I want rounded cops in this department. It’s the only way to get around some of the biases Gabriela was talking about back there. What did you think about her, by the way?’’

 
``She was certainly passionate.’’

 
``She’s a firebrand. We have to keep her on our side.’’

 
``Is she? On our side I mean?’’

 
``Maybe. I can’t be too sure. You can never be certain with these social justice people. Speaking of being onside, are you making progress in the Carswell shooting?’’

 
Brant paused. What had she meant by on side? He brushed the thought away. ``Some progress, yes.’’

 
``I read the latest briefings. Keep at it. The Mayor wants that one wrapped up quickly. What’s the next step?’’

 
``The roommate. Something doesn’t add up. I want to see Carswell’s room again.’’

 
``What about this DNA stuff. I think the company she worked for was Genepro? Do you think there’s any connection?’’

 
``I haven’t figured that out yet,’’ Brant said, doing his best to hide the lie.

 
The CD fit neatly into its platter. A gentle nudge and the tray retracted noisily into the innards of Brant’s desktop computer. The disc spun as the data spilled forth.
 

 
``These things are ancient,’’ Clatterback said, eyeing the Dell and its blackened keyboard. ``I’m surprised we found a computer with a CD-ROM. It’s a good thing you’re sentimental, sir.’’

 
``It’s a gift,’’ Brant said.

 
The Dell’s screen came to life. Brant clicked on the CD’s icon, bringing up a list of files.

 
``I’m impressed you were able to save any of the files.’’

 
``I’d have drilled a hole through the disc if I’d wanted to destroy the data for good,’’ Clatterback said.

 
``Lucky for us,’’ Malloy said.

 
They were sitting at Brant’s desk, all eyes on the desktop. Clatterback had called an hour earlier, breathless with the news that one of the CDs found in Carswell’s apartment had been salvaged, its data recovered. Brant was cautiously hopeful as he clicked into a file. The result was a surprise. The files were digital recordings of phone conversations.

 
``Ally, you know me, you know how much I love you. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.’’
 

 
A male voice, strong and forceful but pleading.
 

 
He clicked on another file. A woman’s voice filled the speakers.

 
``I’m the one taking all the risks here. I don’t understand why you can’t see that. You can’t just walk into a lab and take any piece of equipment you need. I have to be careful. It’s going to take time. Anyway, I’m saving it on a memory stick. When can we meet?’’

 
``I can’t get away. Can you send it to me?’’

 
A pause. Static filled the speakers.

 
``I’ll send it.’’

Brant looked at the two younger detectives, his body buzzing with excitement. Suddenly, Allison Carswell was alive, speaking to them from beyond the grave. He clicked another file.

 
``You’re so good, Ally. No one can do what you do. I’ve never met anyone like you. We’re going to be so happy together when this is all over. I promise you. For the rest of our lives, we’ll be set.’’

 
``You can’t say that. You don’t know that it’ll work.’’

 
``I know it’ll work. I know it. Did you get the email? The longs and shorts?’’

 
``Yes, I got the email. But you’re forgetting about Volodin. That creep has his body guard watching me night and day. I can’t shake the guy.’’

 
``What do you want me to do?’’
 

 
``You need to come here and take care of him.’’

 
``Volodin?’’

 
``No, the bodyguard.’’

 
``That’s going to be tough.’’

 
``Enough excuses.’’

 
The media player’s counter froze, meaning the file had ended. Brant turned to Malloy and Clatterback.

 
``Is this everything?’’

 
Clatterback nodded.

 
``So Carswell and some guy. They were working together.’’

 
``Sounds like it,’’ Malloy said. ``She isn’t what I expected.’’

 
``The guy sounds like a bit of a pussy,’’ Clatterback said as he retrieved the disc. ``She’s barking instructions at him and he just seems to be taking it.’’

 
Brant paused, playing the conversation over in his mind.
 

 
``Do we know what they were talking about?’’ Clatterback asked. ``What’s going to set them up for life?’’