Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (21 page)

Brant nodded in agreement. ``I think I’m getting the picture.’’

``Genepro is no more. Finished. The money is all gone. I have no budget. Do you know how hard it is to keep researchers when you can’t pay them? No? Well, let me tell you, it’s bloody difficult. Impossible, really. All I have left is these boxes of binders and research papers. It’s a crying shame. The work we did here was absolutely first class. Top notch. All we needed was a few more years and you would have seen the results. I’m not going to go as far as to say we would have produced a cure for cancer…but we were getting pretty bloody close. We were moving in the right direction. What is it they say about a journey of a thousand miles beginning with a single step? Sorry, my English isn’t perfect. Maybe that is an awkward cliche. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.’’

Schroder sighed as he threw up his hands in despair.

``You’ve lost me,’’ Brant said.
 

``Oh, what does it matter, it’ll all come out in the end,’’ Schroder said with finality. He’d leaned forward and was propping his head up with his right hand. He looked over to Brant, locking him in his gaze.

 
``Have you ever heard the name Sergei Volodin?’’ Brant asked.

 
``Yes, why do you ask?’’ Schroder’s voice was suddenly hard and snappish, defensive even. He’d obviously anticipated the question.

 
``He owns this building.’’

 
``His real estate company does, yes.’’

 
``Anything else we should know about your relationship with him?’’

 
Schroder furrowed his brow in thought, considering the question with a severe look on his face. Finally, the older man assumed a look of arrogance, superiority even. Brant had seen the visage worn on other men in times of stress, when they were backed into corners with nothing to lose. It was a dangerous look.
 

 
``I met him about five years ago through a mutual acquaintance,’’ Schroder said, straightening his back as he spoke. ``I was told he was interested in my work and in what we were doing with individual cancer treatments targeted at the molecular level. I was very impressed with his knowledge. I’d never met someone who wasn’t a scientist who had the ability to process our research on such a detailed level.’’

``So you became friends?’’

Schroder nodded. ``I was very flattered. I didn’t know anything about finance, you see. Volodin offered to help us raise the money we needed to continue operating. The financial crash was…how do you say it in English…a kick in the pants?’’

Brant smiled. ``I think you mean a kick in the gut.’’

``A kick in the gut, yes of course. We had been relying on grants from the National Institutes of Health to our investigators. The advantage is that a company like this,’’ Schroder gazed at his office’s walls, ``we don’t have to deal with all the bullshit at a university. The teaching responsibilities and the bureaucratic infighting to begin with. The tradeoff is that we also don’t have a steady source of funding. When Volodin heard about our problems after the financial crisis, he offered to help.’’

``I’m guessing he didn’t make good on that promise.’’

Schroder chuckled. ``Does this look like someplace with money to spare? No, Sergei Volodin didn’t fulfill his part of the bargain.’’
 

``What did Volodin get out of it?’’

``Out of his backing? Do you have any idea how much money is spent every year on cancer treatments?’’

Brant didn’t and conceded as much.

``The numbers will astound you. We are spending billions of dollars every year. Billions and we are failing to improve outcomes with any degree of significance. But there is another way. Just wait until we get to the molecular level. The team that can customize treatments for cancer to the point where they’re affordable. Well, that is the holy grail, isn’t it?’’

Schroder’s eyes twinkled.
 

``You know Sergei Volodin is bad news?’’ Brant asked.

 
Schroder nodded. ``Yes, I knew. One deals with the devil, yes?’’

 
``Not exactly a name that attracts potential investors. Isn’t cancer research like kittens?’’

Schroder scrunched his face in a quizzical frown, indicating confusion. ``I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re getting at.’’

Brant shrugged. ``Well, everyone loves kittens. Same with cancer research, right? It’s all good. All pink ribbons and such. I can’t imagine anyone being criticized for their good intentions.’’

Schroder chuckled. ``I see, yes, kittens. I suppose you have a point.’’

``Volodin isn’t exactly a kitten is he? More like a steaming pile of shit.’’

 
``Well, that is a very crude way of putting it.’’

 
``Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?’’

 
Schroder shrugged. ``Mr. Volodin is a silent investor. No one knows about his backing of Genepro. At least that’s what I thought. Maybe I have been misinformed. Anyway, it is irrelevant. Genepro is dead. Ms. Carswell is dead. I’m an old man. Perhaps I will be dead soon too, eh?’’

 
The old man smiled half-heartedly at his own joke. Brant and Malloy glanced at each other.

 
``Did Volodin ever meet Ms. Carswell? Did they know each other?’’

 
``Not that I’m aware of. He never came to the labs.’’

 
``Did he show any interest in the progress of your research?’’

 
``Of course,’’ Schroder said. ``Don’t be deceived by Mr. Volodin. He has a very sharp mind.’’

 
``What happens now?’’ Malloy asked.

 
``Now?’’

 
``With Genepro? With the research?’’

 
Schroder glanced around his office at the boxes, the documents and a computer monitor sitting on the edge of his desk. A cursor blinked intermittently on the screen, taunting and enticing at the same time.

 
``Perhaps you want to buy a used computer?’’ Schroder asked. ``Or how about a sequencing machine? I can give you one. Cheap. Bargain basement.’’

They stopped for food, a quick pitstop at a burger place near Fenway. Malloy had called Clatterback. The other detective had taken over the hospital search and had spent much of the day combing through computer records.
 

 
They agreed to meet for a drink at a pub on Boylston. It would have to be quick. Brant would have to pick Ben up from daycare. Marcellus was at home and her mood had turned dark. She’d become less helpful where Ben was concerned.

 
``Do you want the good news?’’ Clatterback asked when they were seated.

 
The pub was a dive. The tabletops were sticky. The place smelled of stale beer. The Arctic Monkeys played on a jukebox in the corner.
 

 
Clatterback reached for a Buffalo chicken wing and attacked. Grease dribbled down his chin, which he wiped with a paper napkin. Brant’s stomach turned.

 
``You’re making me sick.’’

 
Clatterback shrugged as he reached for another wing. ``What? These? They’re good. Not the best but not bad.’’

 
``Let’s just get on with it. I have to get Ben.’’

 
Clatterback threw a desiccated chicken bone into a bowl and took a sip of beer. Malloy rolled her eyes. She’d taken one look at the place and refused all offer of food. Mostly because they’d already eaten, but also because she’d decided the place appeared to violate all manner of health code. Good to see she had standards, Brant thought silently to himself.

 
``Chua called when you were on your sightseeing tour,’’ Clatterback said.

 
``We were following a lead,’’ Malloy said in defense.
 

 
``Yeah, whatever.’’ Clatterback shrugged.
 

 
``What about Chua?’’ Brant asked.

 
``The boyfriend. She gave me a name and a contact. He didn’t know she’d been killed and when he found out he went crazy. Least that’s what Chua said.’’

 
``I thought she didn’t know who he was?’’ Malloy said.

 
Clatterback reached for the last of the wings.

 
``She didn’t. The guy walked right up to the door. Pretty ballsy move if you ask me.’’

 
``How’s that?’’ Brant asked.

 
``Carswell held her cards close. No one knows about the kid. Chua doesn’t know anything about the parents, or her job. She’d never met the boyfriend when they were going out.’’

 
``And the gun. Don’t forget the gun,’’ Malloy said.

 
``That’s been bothering me, too,’’ Brant said after he’d thought for a moment. ``So you have this mystery boyfriend’s number?’’

 
Clatterback wiped his fingers and retrieved a notebook from his back pocket.
 

 
Brant wrote the details in his own notebook. For safekeeping, he tapped them in to his smartphone to ensure they wouldn’t be lost.

 
``So what’s this guy’s story?’’ he asked as he readied to leave.

 
``I did a quick search. The guy works with underprivileged kids at a sailing center at Castle Island. A real do-gooder. You’d like him, sir.’’

 
Brant ignored the jab. ``You contact him yet?’’

 
Clatterback nodded his head.
 

 
``Good work, Junior. With any luck this boyfriend will know something about the baby, but I wouldn’t bet the farm on it. It’d be good to have some documentation. What about the hospital records?’’

 
``I’m working on it,’’ Clatterback said.
 

 
A waitress dressed in cut-off jeans and a tank top short enough to expose a toned set of abs dropped the bill onto the table.

 
``This is a classy place,’’ Brant said when the waitress had gone. ``You hang here much, Junior?’’

 
Clatterback smiled. ``One of my favorites. You have this right?’’

 
Brant shook his head in wonder at the junior officer’s bravado. Clatterback could be bold, surprisingly so. Brant was beginning to warm to him.
 

 
The Arctic Monkeys had finished. Faith Hill boomed.

 
``How’s the mood back home?’’ Brant said as he reached for his wallet.
 

 
``Tense,’’ Clatterback said. ``Jolly came back an hour or so ago. Looked like he’d eaten a turd.’’

 
``No doubt,’’ Brant said. ``Did he ask where we were?’’

 
Clatterback shook his head. ``I get the impression his mind’s on other things.’’

 
``You’re probably right. Anyway, good work with the boyfriend. Keep working the records.’’

 
``What about me?’’ Malloy asked.

 
``I have a small side job.’’

 
``How did I know that was coming?’’

 
Brant raised his hands defensively. ``A small job. Won’t take long.’’

 
``And what is this small job?’’ Malloy made air quotes with her fingers around the word `small.’

 
``Matty Luceno.’’

 
Malloy rolled her eyes in frustration.

 
``I told you. That’s dangerous. You’re going to get me into trouble.’’

 
``This won’t take anything. I just need a name.’’

 
``A name?’’ Malloy shot him an appraising look.

 
``I spoke to an old buddy I know at Roxbury. Luceno got into trouble a few weeks back. Doesn’t sound serious, but he was taken in for questioning. Nothing came of it. I want to know why.’’

 
``You think my father’s going to help you?’’

 
Brant shook his head. ``No, I just want to speak to the officer who interviewed Luceno.’’

 
``You can’t get that from the report?’’

 
``There is no report.’’

 
``Oh.’’ Malloy’s eyes widened. ``I think I’m seeing the problem.’’

 
``So all I need is a name.’’

 
``I’ll see what I can do.’’

 
``I knew you would.’’

Ben was down for the night. He’d fought like a tiger. He’d moaned and complained, squirmed and wrestled. Finally, after an hour of bribery -- yes, we’ll go to the zoo -- and a final goodnight kiss, he’d given in.
 

 
``Is he asleep?’’ Marcellus asked when Brant returned to the living room.
 

 
``Finally.’’

 
Marcellus smiled. She looked tired and she’d been crying. She wore dark rings under her eyes. Jack Johnson moaned in the background. Something about losing hope being easy when a friend is gone. Cheery stuff.

 
``How’d the day go?’’ he asked, wanting but not wanting to ask what was bothering her.

 
``I spoke to the daycare people. They’re concerned about him. But you know that already.’’

 
``I’ve heard.’’

He turned the volume on the stereo to low. Jack Johnson disappeared into the background. Brant took a second look at his sister. She’d aged since he’d last seen her. She’d cut her hair. The shorter style suited her, made her look more her age. She had a broad face, their father’s straight nose and their mother’s pale blue eyes. Though three years his senior, she’d managed to retain a trim, fit figure.

 
He poured her a glass of white wine.
 
Outside, rain tapped at the window. A tree had come down on Marlborough Street, cutting power to half the neighborhood but they’d been spared.