Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (53 page)

 
That day would come soon.

 
U.S. law dictated that any deposit over a certain amount be reported to the Feds, meaning the IRS and the FBI would be on to him before the end of the week. The requirement was known as Form 8300. Passed in 2001 as part of the Patriot Act, it meant any payment of $10,000 or more in a single transaction had to be reported. The form was part of the laws enacted to help trace funds used for terrorism, but could also be used to track large cash payments being laundered from illegal activities. Volodin would have known this, which meant the transaction and the amount had been intended to draw the attention of the
 
Feds, to entangle Brant in a money-laundering investigation. A form of entrapment. Nice and clean.

 
But why involve himself? Didn’t Volodin’s plan mean that he’d also be investigated? There was little doubt where the money had come from. Little doubt the Russian gangster would also have to answer to the Feds.

 
A sign, perhaps. A signal. A message so brazen, so bold there could be only one reading. Volodin didn’t care. He was above the law. The Feds could investigate, but they wouldn’t find anything on the gangster. Whatever the outcome, Brant had been set up as the fall guy, the rube who’d blundered into the trap. He’d be able to explain the money away, of course, but the damage would be done, the question of Jonas’s integrity would be left to linger. Regardless of the investigation’s outcome, doubts would always persist. Not a good outcome in a post-911 world where all were suspect, all were guilty.

 
So, if the FBI was to be involved, shouldn’t he reach out first, explain the situation? Shit. Nothing was palatable. He was sitting on a bomb and he knew it. Volodin knew it, too, which infuriated him all the more.

 
He'd have to call Jolly and explain, hope that reason would prevail and that they'd be able to undo whatever schemes Volodin had orchestrated. Not a call that he wanted to make. A conversation he could do without having. But one that he'd have to have all the same. Another day.

The sky was gray, the air chilly when he arrived home. Volodin had gotten his prize. Brant had gotten his, too, in a way. Pyotr Dimitri had been arrested and the Sig tested.

 
``The striations on the fragment are an exact match,’’ Clatterback said. He was calling from the bowels of the forensics lab. ``His DNA matches the skin found under her fingernails.’’

 
``Volodin?’’

 
``Nowhere to be found. There’s something else.’’

 
``Yes?’’

 
``Remember Meredith Financial?’’

 
``What about it?’’

 
``I got a buddy who works at a company called Kroll to do a forensic investigation on Meredith and the paper trail using the documents Chua gave us.’’

 
``And you found something?’’

 
``You’ll never guess who the trail leads to.’’

 
``Volodin?’’

 
``Even better.’’

 
``I’m waiting,’’ Brant said, intrigued but irritated by Clatterback’s spoon-feeding.

 
``Matty Luceno.’’

 
``Luceno?’’

 
``The one and only.’’

 
Brant smacked his lips at the revelation. Sheila Ritchie would love this one. He couldn’t wait to tell her, couldn’t wait to see Luceno’s name plastered again on the front pages. The story would play for days. Maybe he’d be able to find some leverage with Volodin after all. Dig deep enough and there was a good chance the two men were connected.

 
``Do me a favor,’’ Brant said finally as he switched his handset from one ear to the other. ``Take Malloy out for dinner. Send me the bill.’’

 
``You’re not going to celebrate with us?’’

 
Brant considered the offer.

 
``You two have fun,’’ he said finally before disconnecting.

 
He called Marcellus, then he went for a walk, ending up by the edge of a wooded ravine alongside a neighborhood park. His sister arrived later with Ben in tow. After a welcome hug, Ben headed to his room to play.
 

 
``Where are the boys?’’ Brant asked as he cleared the dining room table of clutter.

 
``I dropped them off with their father. I thought that would give us some time to have dinner.’’

 
``You and David made up?’’

 
``A truce, at least for the moment.’’

 
Marcellus had stopped by the grocery store on the way to the house. She’d started unpacking, leaving aside the ingredients she would need for the meal.

 
``You okay with lasagna and salad?’’

 
``Perfect,’’ Brant said, meaning it. He could think of nothing better than to sit down for a home cooked meal with the people he loved most in the world.

 
``What is it? What’s happened?’’ Marcellus asked when they were seated at the kitchen table, the tomato sauce bubbling happily away on the stove.

 
``You can tell?’’

 
``I know something’s happened. I can see by the look on your face and those bruises.’’

 
Brant slumped in the dining room chair as he explained the events of the week. Involuntarily, he flexed his hand as he worked through a tightness gripping the shoulder and neck muscles.

 
``You have issues to deal with little brother,’’ Marcellus said without grace or softness. ``That bullet in your brain left more than a physical injury. You’re suffering and it isn’t just about the bullet or your shoulder.’’

 
``It’s not as bad as before.’’

 
``Jonas, this is me you’re talking to. I know things. I know your history. You can’t brush me off like you can everyone else. Tell me what’s really going on.’’

 
``I can handle it,’’ Brant said, pushing his sister away.
 

 
``I don’t think you can. I don’t think you’re handling it at all. You need to see a psychologist to talk through that Casson case. At least see a doctor about your physical injuries.’’

 
Marcellus rummaged through her purse.

 
``What’s this?’’ Brant asked as she handed him a business card.

 
``I’m told he’s one of the best neurosurgeons in the country. He’s in Baltimore, so he’s close.’’

 
Brant looked at the card, running his fingers over the gold embossed lettering.

 
``I’ll think about it,’’ he said, finally.

 
``If not for yourself, for Ben. That boy deserves a father and you’re risking his future by not getting that bullet in your head attended to. Promise me you’ll do something about it?’’

 
``I’ll call next week when I get back to work.’’

 
Marcellus shot her brother a questioning look.

 
``Honestly, I’ll call,’’ Brant said, defensively.
 

 
``You’re stubborn. Just like dad. I’m not surprised you two don’t get along. You’re the same person when you come right down to it.’’

 
``It’s not stubbornness. It’s persistence. I think it’s what makes me a good cop. I stick with things longer. When everyone else has given up, that’s when I dig in. It’s a virtue.’’

 
Marcellus smiled at him. They sat together at the dining room table in silence as the shadows of late afternoon lengthened and rain drops began to tap at the window.

 
``So are you going to see this Chris Mallek again? She seems to have made an impression.’’
 

 
``I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. She left before we had a chance to discuss what comes next.’’

 
Marcellus smiled as she pulled at a loose thread hanging from the cuff of her blouse.

 
``What?’’

 
``You always pull away at the most critical times. You did it with Maggie. You do it with me. You even have a habit of doing it with Benji.’’

 
``That’s not fair,’’ Brant said in protest. Marcellus shook her head as she turned serious.

 
``No, it’s not. It’s not fair. But, you know, you have a right to be happy little brother. Maggie has been dead for almost two years. At some point you have to go on. I’m not going to say that’s what Maggie would have wanted because I really have no idea what she would want or what she would do if the situation were reversed. But I know you have a little boy who loves you with all his heart and wants you to be happy. I want you to be happy. If this woman could fill even a sliver of the void since Maggie died, well I think you owe it to everyone to see where that leads.’’

 
``I wonder what’s the point,’’ Brant said when he’d considered her words. ``I mean, the energy required for a relationship. It’s daunting. I think sometimes that maybe Ben and I would be just as happy if we just stayed a unit. Just the two of us. No one else.’’

 
``That’s a bunch of crap. You’re being gloomy for the sake of self pity. It’s another thing you and dad have in common. I don’t know if I can stand to be around either one of you when you both talk like this.’’

 
Brant reached out and took his sister’s hand. His heart swelled — for the love of his sister and Benji, for the love he’d had for his wife, even for the contentment he felt for the life he was living and a path he could never have anticipated.

 
``You may not have noticed, but gloomy is something this family does very well. It’s nothing to be ashamed about. What is it they say about a leopard never changing his spots?’’

 
``I don’t know that I accept that,’’ Marcellus said. ``You can be happy or sad. You just need to chose. It’s as simple as that.’’

 
Brant shrugged after a moment of reflection. ``Yes, I suppose maybe it is, but I can’t change who I am or what I feel.’’

 
``But that’s the point. We can all change.’’

 
``I really don’t know about that. But I’ll try.’’

 
They ate together, enjoying the company each offered the other and the fullness of the meal. Even the sound of the rain drumming down on the roof seemed a comfort. After Ben had gone to bed, he and Marcellus talked well into the night.
 

 
Brant couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so comfortable and complete as when he sat across from his sister and watched the candlelight dance in her eyes. For that moment, he was content. He was happy.

Afterword

The age of molecular medicine is upon us. The Human Genome Project, the mapping of the complete human genome, was declared completed in April 2003. Even earlier, trials for gene therapy — the first attempt to fix a genetic-based disease at its source — got underway in 1990 when scientists attempted to replace a defective ADA gene in a four-year-old girl named Ashanti DeSilva. The outcome of that trial is under debate. For an in-depth examination of gene therapy, I recommend
Correcting the Code
by Larry Thompson, a fascinating and comprehensive look at the earliest attempts at fixing faulty genes. From those early days, science has doggedly marched on. Even though gene therapy is still not in wide use, it continues to hold great promise. According to the Journal of Gene Medicine, more than 2,000 gene therapy clinical trials were approved worldwide between 1990 and 2015. A host of diseases ranging from immune deficiencies to Parkinson’s disease are now being treated. The gene-editing technique known as CRISPR-Cas9 is also real.
 

Like anything else, of course, gene therapy and molecular medicine have a dark side. They must first prove to be safe and effective before treatments can be delivered to a broader audience. Then, too, there is the criminal element. Just as any technology can be used for good or bad, the possibility exists that bioengineering could be perverted to suit the needs of the less well intended. In August 2015, when scientists at Stanford University announced they’d created strains of yeast that can produce narcotic drugs, talk turned almost immediately to fears the technology could be more useful to drug traffickers than to pharmaceutical companies. Imagine a future when the bad guys can brew opiates from genetically modified strains of yeast as easily as if they were manufacturing craft beer in their basements. No wonder there are calls for drug enforcement agencies to become better prepared to control this nascent science. Author Marc Goodman explores these subjects and more in greater detail in his book
Future Crimes
.
 

Finally, a note on locations. To the best of my knowledge, the Boston Police Department has no District A-2 on Tremont Street. That is a work of fiction. While many of the locations used in
Even the Wind
also exist in the real world, some reside only in the imagination. Jonas Brant’s townhouse in Back Bay, the apartment Allison Carswell shared with Susan Chua and the restaurant where Sergei Volodin holds court should not be confused with any real world establishments. The lodge and lake in Maine will never host living guests. These settings exist only in the ephemera of the creative cloud. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I thank Alex Adair, who helped edit this book. Olivia and Yee Truong created the artwork for the cover and the back flap. Had it not been for their vision, this book would still be an idea. Olivia’s work can be seen at
www.oliviatruong.ca
. Jeff Wilson read an early draft. His advice and observations were invaluable. Especially, I am indebted to Eriko Amaha and, of course, Aki and Kai. Without them
Even the Wind
would not have happened.