Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (6 page)

 
Clatterback shrugged. ``I guess you’d know better than me. I’m just along for the ride.’’

 
``No, I’ve decided you’re going to pay your way. Now tell me something about shoes.’’

``A handful of boutiques sell Jimmy Choos in Boston. You were right,’’ Clatterback said.

 
``Don’t forget it,’’ Brant snorted.
 

 
To make the search easier, they decided to focus on the downtown and a narrowly defined zone in close proximity to where the body had been found.
 

 
The thinking was simple. First, they’d spend time checking the obvious places, the high-end shopping streets and more exclusive shops in a narrowly defined area near Back Bay and in spitting distance of Copley Place. If that failed, they’d widen the net.

The first two stores were time squandered. In each case, the shopkeepers were reluctant to make the connection.
 

 
Their first stop had been a boutique off Boylston Street hidden amongst a warren of glass and steel office buildings. A ponderous woman took an inordinate amount of time searching a catalog of customer names and invoices before throwing her hands in the air in frustration.
 

 
The second store was little better. A prissy middle-aged man had stared at them over the rims of his tortoise shell eyeglasses and shook his head almost immediately.
 

 
They were third-time lucky. A woman working the front counter in a boutique off Washington Street displayed a glimmer of recognition when shown the picture of the shoes worn by the dead woman.

 
``We sell those here,’’ she’d said, scrutinizing the photos on Clatterback’s phone with a look of determination.
 

She was standing behind a glass display. Shoes of various sizes shone under halogen lights. Red velvet lined the shelves. Around them, sharply dressed women floated from counter to counter. Men in dark suits wore looks of bored indifference. Marble floors and high ceilings adorned with plaster moldings cried out money.

``Perhaps we could step into the back room,’’ the girl said in soft, hushed tones when she saw Brant reach for his notebook. ``We can speak more freely.’’

 
She was about twenty, dark-skinned and classically beautiful. She wore a black oversized sweater. Cream-colored pants hugged her thighs, emphasizing the shape of her body with tasteful discretion. High heels made her appear tall but not overly so.

 
She led the way, guiding them into a room filled with shelves stacked with binders and books. A row of filing cabinets lined the far wall. In the corner, file folders had been placed neatly atop a battered wooden desk.
 

 
``May I see the picture again.’’ She extended her hand to take the handset. A gold Rolex hung loosely on a thin wrist.
 

 
Clatterback flipped through the pictures on his mobile phone, pausing and enlarging the snapshot they’d taken of the shoes. The girl took the phone, examined the photo and pressed her lips together.

 
``There’s a good chance that’s from us.’’

 
``How can you be sure?’’ Clatterback asked. Brant shot a warning in the other detective’s direction. ``Sorry for being stupid, but shoes seem pretty much the same to me.’’

 
``Are you married?’’ The girl let the question hang for a moment. ``No, I didn’t think so.’’

 
She crossed to one of the filing cabinets, pulled a drawer open and began searching through a dozen or so folders.
 

 
``Here we are,’’ she said finally, a triumphal note in her voice. ``Yes, this is it.’’

 
Brant took the folder.
 

 
``They’re called the Nanson Flat. Your basic black handle from last year’s spring collection. Not the most expensive, but practical. They were popular last season. We were one of the only stores to carry them.’’

 
Brant examined the colored photocopy the girl had pulled from the file. She was right. The photocopy of the flat leather sandal called the Nanson Flat was identical to the shoes they’d found on the dead girl.

``And how much do these cost?’’

 
The girl retrieved the folder.
 

``Just shy of $1,000.’’
 

 
Brant turned back to the photo on Clatterback’s mobile phone.

 
``So you’d know who bought these shoes?’’ Clatterback asked. ``Is there a serial number or something?’’

 
``We don’t computerize much around here as you can probably tell,’’ she said. ``The owner likes the personal touch. Says it makes the customers feel like they’re getting a more intimate experience.’’

 
``How well do you recognize your customers?’’ Brant asked.

 
``As I said, the owner likes the personal touch, and many of our customers are regulars. Has something happened? What’s all this about?’’

 
Brant handed the girl a printout, a hard copy of the photo they’d taken of the woman’s face.
 

 
``This won’t be easy to see,’’ he said with sympathy.

 
The girl’s face fell flat as her eyes set on the beaten face, the bloated cheeks and the purple bruises.
 

 
``She comes in every couple of weeks. My God, how did she end up like that?’’ The girl gasped, her voice a conspiratorial hush as a hand went to her mouth in horror.
 

``You’re absolutely sure she’s a customer?’’ Brant asked again, marveling at their luck.

 
``I can’t be certain, but I’m fairly confident she’s a regular.’’

``Does she come in by herself,’’ Clatterback asked.

 
``Alone?’’ The girl frowned dismissively. ``Oh no. She was accompanied by a gentleman.’’

 
``Do you know this woman’s name? What about the man?’’ Brant asked, his voice hopeful as the thrill of the chase began to build.
 

 
``Sorry, I don’t know them by name.’’

 
``Can you describe the man?’’ Brant asked.
 

 
``Athletic. Maybe younger than most of the men we get.’’

 
``So not your typical male customer?’’

 
The girl shook her head. ``No, not typical at all. Most are executives and a bit older. This gentleman was much younger.’’

 
``Would you recognize him if you saw him again?’’

 
The girl furrowed her brow in consideration as she brushed a lock of hair from her eyes.

 
``Maybe. I can’t be sure. I might have something that can help.’’
 

 
Brant made a scratch in his notebook while he waited. The girl seemed to be considering something. Finally, she produced a spreadsheet. One column was filled with the names and descriptions of each pair of shoes sold within a specified time. The dates ranged back at least two years. A second column included the purchase price. The remainder of the spreadsheet contained names, telephone numbers, email addresses and any other pieces of information the customer had been willing to give.

 
``Here it is,’’ she said, pointing with the tip of a pen to an entry in the middle of the spreadsheet. ``Allison Carswell. She bought a pair two months ago. Cash.’’

 
``Would you have an address for Ms. Carswell?’’ Brant asked.

 
``There it is in the last column. The Aberdeen Lofts. Near the Broadway T Stop.’’

``Yes?’’
 

 
The voice on the other side of the door was muffled but hard. A female’s voice but tough nonetheless, like its owner had been chewing on glass.

 
``Police. We have some questions.’’

 
A lock unlatched, then another. Finally, the door cracked open wide enough to reveal a pair of eyes and the hint of a face. Brant produced his badge and waved it in front of the sliver of open space. The woman cleared her throat.

 
``How’d you get up here?’’

 
``The doorman let us in.’’ Brant withdrew his ID. ``This would be a lot easier if you’d open the door.’’

 
``Why do you want to talk to me?’’

 
Brant let the question hang. ``Allison Carswell,’’ he said finally.

The door closed. There was the sound of a chain sliding along its track and the door swung open.

The face that belonged to the voice was a surprise. He’d expected a middle-aged woman. Instead, they were greeted by an Asian woman in her mid twenties dressed in a pair of jeans and angora sweater. The sweater hung casually on broad, athletic shoulders. The woman had high cheek bones, an oval face and an aquiline nose. She had full red lips and straight black hair that fell to her shoulders in a stylish cut.

 
``What’s happened to Allison?’’ the woman asked, a wary tone to her voice.
 

 
``May we?’’ Brant said, asking for permission to enter with the wave of his hand.

 
The woman stood aside, ushering them into the apartment.

 
The Aberdeen was a newly constructed building of loft apartments in South Boston. Real estate agents would describe the neighborhood as up-and-coming or trendy and hip.
 
Brant saw it for what it was — a modest working-class neighborhood sucked under by a developer’s hungry eye and insatiable thirst for cheap land to build cookie-cutter condos that could be flipped at double the price of construction. Long-time residents, meantime, would be priced out and pushed away, forced to vacate homes they could no longer afford. He’d seen it before and it made him angry. Yet another inequity in a city and country that had become immune to the plight of the working class. Why cater to the ninety nine percent when the one percent controlled the wealth and the means of creating it.
 

 
Brant had more than a passing interest in the area. His parents had grown up not far from the Aberdeen in a part of South Boston known as Dorchester Heights. His mother had been a beauty from the Lithuanian community, his father the rare Protestant in a neighborhood best known as working class Irish American. It’d been a rough neighborhood of small clapboard houses, alcoholic fathers, June Cleaver housewives and crushing poverty.

 
The Brants had been one of the early ones to escape Dorchester Heights. Brant’s father had served in the Korean War and upon his return home had enrolled in local college. University followed, then onto the State Department where Brant Sr. got a job as a foreign service officer. Brant had been born in South Boston, but had only lived in the two-storey wood-framed terrace home they’d owned at No. 36 Story Street for three years before the family took up their first posting abroad in Malaysia.
 

 
Though he had little memory of growing up in the neighborhood, Brant still felt a deep affinity for the area. Which made the recent gentrification all the more difficult to watch as row after row of homes succumbed to the wrecking ball.

Still, there was no denying the Aberdeen was impressive. It had a pink marble facade topped by a cap of gray. The building’s prow thrust upward with the confidence of a ship’s bow, then tapered in steps. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered city views while outdoor balconies offered that rarity of rarities in the city center — access to a private patio.

 
``I’m Lieutenant Jonas Brant. This is my partner, John Clatterback.’’

 
The woman dismissed Brant’s introduction with a nod of her head.
 

 
``Susan Chua. Now what’s happened to Allison?’’

 
``You haven’t seen her today?’’

 
The woman shrugged. ``We work different schedules.’’

 
``So you’re…’’

 
``Roommates. We share the apartment.’’

 
``And how long have you lived here?’’

 
``A couple of months. Maybe three. Is Allison in some kind of trouble?’’
 

 
``You’d better sit down, Miss Chua.’’

 
She led them down the hallway and into a lounge. Windows hugged the room in a sweeping curve, framing a view of a neighborhood park with mid-rise buildings beyond. The tops of trees swayed lazily in a strengthening breeze. The Cabot Yard rail facility pulsed with the comings and goings of commuter trains while traffic on Dorchester Avenue flowed in drips as if on intravenous.
 

 
Brant caught Clatterback’s face as he scanned the apartment. The lounge was decorated simply. A beige oval rug had been placed in the center of the room. A sofa and two chairs — white leather cushions on frames of silver chrome — had been placed around a black lacquer coffee table. A small blue vase filled with freshly cut flowers sat atop the table. In the corner of the room, an oversized ceramic holder contained a leafy plant. Four framed oversized posters of women dressed in period fashion hung along a far wall. The remaining walls were white and devoid of artwork. Simple but elegant — and expensive.

 
``Something’s happened.’’

 
Brant took the cellphone from his pocket and passed it to Chua. The woman took the handset and began flipping through the photos.

 
``That’s your roommate? Miss Carswell?’’

 
Chua’s face turned gray. ``I think I’m going to be sick.’’

 
The young woman gagged as beads of sweat formed on her brow. A look of disgust formed as she puckered her mouth.