Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (2 page)

 
The comment was from Dennis Tate.
 

 
``I got it where it counts.’’

 
Tate’s face broke into a broad smile. ``And where’s that Brant?’’

 
``Screw you,’’ he said, lightheartedly waving the other man away.
 

Tate was a homicide detective like Brant. They’d shared an office in B-2 on Washington Street in Roxbury. Tate had his rough edges, but he was fair and level-headed. Most important, he was honest, which was a lot more than Brant could say for some of the detectives in homicide.

 
``You see the press conference?’’ Tate asked.
 

 
He’d meant the news conference the Mayor had held earlier that morning to announce the latest round of impending job cuts. Homicide would likely be spared the worst. The Crime Laboratory Unit was said to be in the firing line. The cuts would be deep. To the marrow.

 
Maggie had had a friend in CLU. Cassie Chalmers. Brant wondered whether she’d get the axe. Better her than me, he thought, instantly admonishing himself for being so cold.
 

 
``Politics. Makes me sick,’’ Brant said.

 
``So run for office. I can see it now. His Honor Jonas Brant. Or is it the Right Honorable Jonas Brant? Suits you. Gets your nose out of those things.’’

 
Tate pointed at the leather-bound books on Brant’s desk.

 
``Someone’s gotta educate the rest of you Luddites.’’

 
Tate shot him a quizzical look.

 
``Someone opposed to change, especially if it involves technology.’’

 
``Gee, thanks professor. I’ll have to remember that.’’

 
Leaning against Brant’s desk, Tate picked up one of the books, studied the title and made a face.
Why Nations Fail
.
 

 
``You actually read this crap?’’

``Careful,’’ Brant said, playfully admonishing the other detective.

 
Brant retrieved the book. Luddites indeed, he thought.
 

 
A cop shop could be many things. At its best, it crackled with energy. It could be an exhilarating, important place to work. The kind of job and life that made a difference, could change lives. But it was no bastion of intellectual rigor.
 

 
Not a popular thought, at least not among Brant’s fellow officers in homicide or elsewhere. But an opinion he couldn’t keep to himself, regardless of how hard he tried. And it was yet another reason he’d been cast as the `other’ in a department where anything short of uniformity was itself a crime.

 
He knew it didn’t make him popular. But life was more than being liked, right? It was about doing what mattered, about doing what made the most sense. He had a moral compass and had always prided himself on doing the right thing. That was what mattered most after all, wasn’t it?

 
Danny Kim looked up from his computer. Kim was a sergeant on loan from the division serving Jamaica Plain.
 

 
``What are you complaining about, Tate?’’

 
``I was just telling the lieutenant here he should run for office,’’ Tate said in response.

 
``You a wonk, Brant?’’

 
``A wonk?’’

 
``Forget it, Tate,’’ Kim said. ``I know big words give you a headache.’’

 
Kim winked in Brant’s direction as he returned to his computer.

 
``What are you working on, Danny boy?’’ Tate asked in response, his face suddenly flush from Kim’s rebuke.

 
``Assault complaint at the House of Blues last night.’’

 
``Better call forensics, Danny me son.’’
 

 
Now it was Tate’s turn to wink.

 
``A formal complaint was filed by the woman who called it in. Says the officer on the scene was more interested in flirting with a drunk sorority girl than taking her seriously. You wouldn’t know anything about that kind of behavior, would you Tate?’’

 
``Go fuck yourself, Danny boy.’’
 

 
Brant finished the last of his scone, rolled up the paper bag it had come in and sent it sailing for the garbage can. This time he hit. A rim shot tipped in his favor.

 
Tate shrugged.

 
``You’re still a terrible shot.’’

 
``Again, and I say this with meaning Tate, screw you.’’

 
At that moment, an alert flashed on Brant’s computer monitor. The sender’s name blinked red. He’d set the color the previous year at the height of the Casson investigation.
 

 
Tate puffed his cheeks when he saw the notification in the screen’s corner.

 
``You’re wanted.’’

Captain Gareth Oliver stood with his back to the room. A younger man — all legs and arms — sat in one of the two chairs in front of Oliver’s desk.

 
``Sit down but don’t make yourself too comfortable.’’

 
Brant took the second empty seat.
 

 
Oliver made a wheezing sound as he turned, paced the room a few steps, then approached his desk. He was a big man and he carried the weight with unease. Steadying himself against the back of his leather desk chair, he stood for a moment as he considered where to settle himself. Finally, he pulled the chair back and sat down.
 

 
Brant caught a sly glance and the beginnings of a smirk from the other man as he watched the chief’s lumbering ballet.

 
Gareth Oliver. Jolly Olly. Dick head.
 

 
Brant and his cohorts had many names for the big man. None were kind. Some were disparaging. Most were just juvenile. Brant preferred Jolly. Something about the lack of humor in the man’s dull, lifeless eyes. If ever there was an individual devoid of jollity, Gareth Oliver would have to be that person.

 
Jolly’s leather chair creaked in protest as he reached for a folder. Lips pursed, he flipped through the contents.

 
``Lieutenant Jonas Brant, meet detective John Clatterback,’’ Jolly said, nodding toward the other officer. ``You’ll be working with him.’’

 
``I thought my new partner hadn’t been assigned,’’ Brant said.

 
``He has now. We have a situation you’re not going to like.’’

 
``Try me,’’ Brant said, concerned. Warning lights flashed red. When had he last been summoned to the inner sanctum? Not since the Casson case a year earlier. The memory brought a stab of pain to Brant’s temple.
 

Paul Casson had been a Master of the Universe with a trophy wife, an expensive townhouse on Beacon Street, a property in the country and more enemies than friends.
 

He’d been found early one morning, his body splayed across the steps of the Boston Common bandshell with a bullet to the head and his brains scattered like scramble eggs. The investigation had been difficult. In the end, Brant had ended up getting shot twice. The first bullet grazed his left shoulder. The second had lodged itself into his brain, somewhere between the temporal and parietal lobes where it still sat.
 

 
Brant had been lucky. The bullet’s trajectory had been confined to one side, meaning the right hemisphere had been left intact. The brain stem and midbrain were untouched. The ventricles had also been missed, reducing the risk of complications from infection or swelling. Finally, the bullet had been fired from a small-caliber handgun, meaning it had been slow and relatively benign.

``There’s a woman in an alleyway off Copley Square,’’ Jolly said without preamble. ``She seems to have her head bashed in. I want you to take Junior here and investigate.’’

 
``Understood,’’ Brant said, glancing anew at the other man. ``What else do we know about this woman? Identification?’’

 
``If I knew I would have told you,’’ Jolly said sharply, waving his hand in the direction of the folder. ``What I DO know is this isn’t going to go down well.’’

 
Jolly raised and furrowed his eyebrows. Brant took in the meaning. A corpse turning up near the steps of the city’s power base looked bad, regardless of the circumstances. The political fallout would be severe, especially since the Mayor had put the police department’s payroll in his crosshairs.
 

 
``Anything you want me to do?’’
 

 
``Just get over there as quick as you can.’’

 
``You said it was a woman, chief?’’

 
``Yes, I said a woman.’’ Jolly’s face flushed red out of frustration. ``It’s probably just some gang banger caught in the crossfire or a drug deal gone bad. Either way, just get over there and get it resolved. Keep it simple. But get it done.’’

 
Brant straightened in his chair. He didn’t like being admonished by Jolly. That the man would do it in front of another officer stung deep.
 

 
The other man drew his hands through a head of thick brown hair as he shot a meaningful glance at Jolly. The captain had turned his back.

``He always like that?’’

 
They were standing on the sidewalk. Cars rumbled down Tremont Street, throwing grit into the air. Gray clouds seemed to brush the tops of the adjacent buildings.
 

 
``Pretty much.’’

 
``I’d heard he was difficult.’’

 
Brant nodded.
 

 
Division A-2 of the Boston Police Department was located south of Northeastern University near Camden in a lively section of the city’s South End. The building was a converted meatpacking factory, two storeys of red brick with windows looking onto Tremont. The squad room was in the back with a view of the neighboring church. The building on the opposite of Tremont was an old piano factory converted to lofts with exposed brick and oversized windows.

 
Despite the heat, Brant had thrown on a light windbreaker, which he wore unzipped and open. The other man wore a white polo shirt, tan pants, a brown leather belt and brown leather shoes, pointed and polished to a shine. He carried no gun, which was probably for the best, Brant guessed.

 
``John Clatterback, huh? Why haven’t I seen you before?’’

 
The other detective shrugged.
 

 
``You’re new?’’

 
``Graduated last year. I’ve been working out of Hyde Park.’’

 
``So what do I call you? How about Cluster?’’

 
The semblance of a smile crossed the junior man’s face. He’d heard it before, no doubt. Many times and in many iterations.
 

 
``You couldn’t think of anything more original?’’

 
``I’ll work on it. Give me some time.’’

 
A uniform pulled up to the curb with a sedan from the car pool, stepped out and tossed the keys to Brant.

``Screw that,’’ Brant said as he passed the set over to his new partner. ``You know where Copley Square is Clatterbuck?’’

 
``Clatterback.’’

 
``How about I just stick with Cluster?’’

The younger officer made a face as if he’d eaten something rancid. ``Any way I can stop you?’’

 
``No.’’

 
``It’s better than the alternative, I suppose. And, yeah, I can drive.’’
 

 
They sat in silence, the city slipping by unnoticed and unremarkable. The day had turned humid. The heat pressed down on the city, heavy and omnipresent.
 

 
Not much action, the streets mostly vacant.

 
There were exceptions. A vagrant on Tremont pushing a shopping cart full of cans and bottles. An obese woman waiting alone at a bus stop on Camden, her shirt one size too small, her gut spilling out for all to see. A gaggle of young girls eyeing them from a 7-Eleven parking lot, their faces feral masks weary and threatening at the same time.

 
Clatterback fixed his eyes on the road as he changed lanes. He drove with ease, relaxed and confident.

 
``So what’s your story, Cluster?’’

 
``My story?’’

 
``Why are we working together?’’

 
Clatterback flicked the left indicator and turned onto Massachusetts Avenue.

 
``What makes you think I have a story?’’

 
``Everyone has a story. You’re too young to be in homicide. So that either means you’re some kind of genius, or you have family connections. I’m going with family connections. You don’t look like a boy wonder to me.’’

 
Clatterback smiled.

 
``You’re some kind of detective, eh?’’

 
``I do my best. You ever been involved in a murder investigation before?’’

 
Clatterback deflected the question.

 
``You worked with Simon Harvey, right?’’

 
Brant nodded.
 

 
``I was sorry to hear about his death.’’

 
``It’s what you do with the time when you’re here that counts.’’

 
``What is that, some kind of quote?’’