Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (40 page)

 
``You must be upset by Franz’s death,’’ Brant said. He was curious to see her reaction. He’d seen the look on her face when he’d arrived. She was a hard nut. Difficult to crack. Tears would come seldom and not without thorough provocation.

 
Mallek shrugged. ``We only worked together this summer. I didn’t know him very well.’’

 
``Tell me, what was he like? By the way, please have a seat. You’re making me nervous standing there.’’

 
Reluctantly, she entered the room and took the offered seat. It was a brown leather lounge chair set in the corner. A rice paper reading lamp had been placed beside the lounger. The lamp had been turned on, providing a warm glow to the room’s interior.
 

 
Brant sat at the end of the bed. Mallek eyed him warily.

 
``So am I being interrogated?’’

 
``Call it whatever you want. I’m sure you don’t mind.’’

 
Mallek shrugged. ``Fire away.’’

 
``I’ll repeat the question. What was Franz like?’’

 
Mallek sucked air in through her teeth. ``He was an asshat. Abrasive. Obnoxious. Narcissistic.’’

 
``Is that all?’’

 
``You want more?’’ Mallek looked at him, staring him down with her inquisitive eyes. When Brant failed to blink, she continued.

 
``He was your typical jock. Aggressive. Confident. Full of himself. He showed no interest in anyone but himself. He had to be the center of attention. He was a bully. And he was likely a sociopath. How those sides of his personality reconcile with each other is up to you. Otherwise, he was a stellar guy. Top of the class.’’

 
``How was he with the guests?’’ Brant asked, without missing a beat. ``With the female guests in particular?’’

 
``Do you mean did he sleep with them? Yes, I suppose he did though I can’t tell you with any degree of certainty. But anecdotal evidence would seem to suggest that was the case.’’

 
``So a model employee?’’

 
``If your model is Ted Bundy.’’

 
Brant smiled at the reference despite himself.

 
``Seems a bit harsh, isn’t it?’’

 
Mallek shrugged. ``We weren’t the best of friends. I guess you can tell.’’

 
``You seem to have strong feelings. Maybe there’s something you want to tell me?’’

 
Like most women accused of infidelity, Mallek bristled. Embarrassed, her face turned red before she set her lips into a firm grimace.

 
``Are you asking me if we slept together?’’

 
``If we’re going to work together, we’re going to have to be honest with each other.’’

 
``Honest as in why is some cop holed up in a shack by a lake in Maine all by himself?’’

 
``Is there any other kind?’’ Brant asked, ignoring the accusation for a moment. He’d have to feel out Mallek first before confiding anything about the real purpose that had brought him to the cabin and to Eichel.

 
Mallek crossed her legs and gazed at him, cold and hard. Brant stared back, unblinking and unfriendly. He really wanted to like Christine Mallek. She was smart. She was attractive. She crackled with intensity.
 

 
``It would seem we’re at an impasse,’’ she said.

 
``I guess we are. Only I’m asking nicely. You’re being a pain in the ass. I don’t know which is more annoying — my attempts at best behavior or your attempts to avoid the question.’’

 
``Your hunch is correct,’’ Mallek finally said. ``Franz and I slept together at the beginning of the summer. It lasted for about a week.’’

 
``There, that wasn’t so hard now, was it? What happened?’’

 
Mallek shrugged as she blew a loose strand of hair from her face. ``What always happens in these kinds of situations, I suppose. He dropped me the minute the next woman came along. He was a democrat like that. An equal opportunity philanderer.’’
 

 
``I see.’’

 
``But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.’’

 
``That’s not what I’m thinking,’’ Brant said.
 

 
``So what are you thinking?’’ Mallek asked.

 
``If Eichel was the man you say he was, doesn’t it seem odd to you that he’d kill himself? Suicide doesn’t fit the picture. Not for someone who has everything going for him. Alpha males typically don’t take their own lives. They take out others. Not themselves.’’

 
``I thought the same thing,’’ Mallek said. ``We’re lucky to have such a talented detective on our doorstep. You’ll be able to help us get to the bottom of this…mystery.’’

 
``Not without your help.’’

 
``I’m all yours,’’ Mallek said. She smiled at him teasingly. ``Is there anything else you want to know about Eichel?’’

 
``What can you tell me?’’ Now it was Brant’s turn to cross his legs. The bed was uncomfortable. His back ached. He would have preferred to be sitting at his chair but he’d be damned if he was going to lose the momentum of the interview.

 
``He spent a lot of time on the lake by himself.’’

 
``In what way?’’

 
``Every morning. Before he took his customers out. He’d go out for an hour or so.’’

 
``What’s odd about that? He was quite the Bear Grylls from what I can tell. Is it really that surprising?’’

 
``I thought you might like to know, that’s all.’’

 
``It’s good you kept such close tabs on him. Observations like that can be helpful.’’ Brant said, doing his best to be as sarcastic as possible.

 
Mallek shrugged and rolled her eyes. She had the power to disarm with a single look. He’d known women like her in the past and he decided she’d make a hell of a doctor.

 
``Are we almost done?’’

 
``Am I making you uncomfortable?’’

 
Mallek shook her head so that the fringe of her hair brushed past her carefully drawn eyebrows. ``Not at all. We’re colleagues now I suppose. But you really need to consider how you’re going to approach the others. You may think you’re being cute, but the others may not take it in the spirit you intend. Especially Burnard. You’re going to have a difficult time with that one. It’s a good thing you have me by your side.’’

 
``I’ll try my best not to be so cute. But I have one other question.’’

 
``Sure.’’

 
``Why work with me? What’s in it for you?’’

 
Mallek shrugged. ``I read a lot of Patricia Cornwell when I was a kid. I thought it might be fun to be a sleuth.’’

When Mallek and Brant reached the dining room, they found King and the others sitting at a wooden bench. No one spoke. A roaring fire sputtered and sparked at the end of the hall.
 

The room was warm and cozy but dampness hung heavy. Lunch had been served. The dishes had been cleared. A few of the gathered nursed mugs of coffee or tea. Brant’s stomach began to rumble.
 

 
King rose to greet them.

 
``This is everyone. Well, almost everyone. We had a caretaker who left before the weather started to change.’’

 
``So yesterday?’’

 
``Yesterday afternoon.’’

 
``Okay, we’ll follow up with him later.’’

 
``Her. It’s a woman. She wasn’t here when the accident happened.’’

 
``We should get started.’’

 
``Mr. Brant is a police lieutenant with the Boston Police Department and will be conducting an investigation of the…death…of Franz Eichl,’’ King said, addressing the group.

 
``I thought the roads were closed.’’ The comment came from a middle-aged man at the back of the room. The father of the family that had been staying at the lodge, Brant guessed.

 
``The lieutenant was staying at the cabin down the road. I’ve asked him to relocate to the lodge for the remainder of the investigation.’’

 
Mark Burnard studied Brant with the look of a chef whose cooking had suddenly turned to disaster.

 
``Lucky for us.’’
 

 
Brant ignored the comment.

 
``This is such bullshit.’’ Burnard rose to leave. The mood in the room lightened when he’d stormed out.

 
``Is it something I said?’’ Brant asked, turning to King.

 
``Mark was close to Franz. He’s upset.’’

 
``He has a strange way of showing it. If they were friends, I would have thought he’d do everything he could to help.’’

 
``You saw them go at it last night. I wouldn’t exactly call them friends.’’

 
``So what were they then?’’

 
``Rivals and colleagues. That seems a bit weak but it’s the best I can think of at the moment.’’

 
``Mark is the life of the party,’’ Mallek said, interjecting herself into the conversation for the first time.

 
``Ms. Mallek will be helping me by the way,’’ King said, again directing his comments to the others seated throughout the room. ``If she asks to speak to you, she carries my authority.’’

 
``That’s reassuring.’’ The father at the back of the dining room crossed his arms in a defensive measure. Brant made note.

 
``It goes without saying that everyone here will do their best to give you whatever help you need,’’ King said, sounding eager.

 
Brant remembered a sign on the main road. Warnings of rock slides, hairpin turns and roaming wildlife. Bears and moose had featured prominently on the black and red triangles affixed to telephone poles and roadside sheds. Black bears were known to roam the woods in the vicinity of the lodge. He’d been warned to wear a bell on his belt buckle or attached to his backpack so as to make enough noise that a bear wouldn’t be startled should he stumble across one of the beasts. Perhaps, he thought as he considered the Eichel investigation, the bell wasn’t such a stupid idea.
 

Brant returned to his room. The electric heater installed at the base of the wall burned orange, leaving the small space in a funk. The smells of cedar and cinnamon seemed to mix with day-old socks and sodden wool. Through the window, he could see that the rain had stopped but the day remained dark and dreary. Low, dirty clouds seemed to skirt the treetops outside the lodge. The clouds moved fast and ragged, as if they’d been ripped apart and hastily rearranged.
 

 
He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling with the door closed. Somewhere in another part of the lodge, a radio played. A local newscaster droned on about road closures, delays and alternative garbage collection schedules. His mind raced. Try as he might, he had difficulty slowing his thoughts to keep pace with the slow, methodical movements of his body.
 

 
He gave up on rest and went out into the hallway where he bumped into Christine Mallek. The younger woman was carrying a box of latex gloves and jumped in surprise as they rubbed shoulders.

 
``I was looking for you.’’

 
``What’s going on?’’

 
``Ablen was able to get a call in over the radio. He wants an autopsy.’’

 
``An autopsy?’’ Brant fixed Mallek with a skeptical look. Ablen wasn’t likely to have asked a medical student to perform anything close to an autopsy on Eichl’s body.
 

 
``Maybe not those exact words. He wants the body examined. I was on my way.’’

 
``And you were coming to get me?’’

 
``You probably have the most experience with dead bodies.’’

 
``I seem to attract them like flies. Or maybe it’s iron filings and I’m a magnet.’’

 
Mallek shook her head.
 

 
``Whatever you say.’’

 
``I want to see his room again first.’’

Eichel’s room was a mirror. It had the same rustic, lived-in quality, the same basic bed, side table and bookshelves. Even the smell of hickory and cedar permeating the air seemed familiar. Had it not been for the unmade bed, the disheveled bed sheets and the blood-spattered wall, Brant could have mistaken the room for his own.

 
Though the body had been removed, the room bore the unmistakable impression of its former occupant.
 

 
As Brant crossed the threshold, a darkness seemed to enfold him, bleak and unpleasant yet slightly familiar. He thought of Maggie and the phantom that had seemed to stalk their home in the aftermath of her death. In the early days, he’d made a habit of pacing their room, lifting her clothes to his cheek, running his fingers over the bottles and potions she had kept on the bed stand. Often, he would sit on the bed and inhale slowly, believing that in time, if he was lucky, he would consume enough of her presence to remind him of who and what she had been.
 

At the foot of the bed, he pivoted back toward Mallek. The younger woman had followed him in and was standing two steps back, assessing the room with an admirable detached and almost clinical eye. Maggie had been the same. She’d watch him out of the corner of her eye, measuring his movements, recording his habits and ticks, his imperfections. But never judging.