Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (25 page)

 
``We should find out when that game was played. That way we’ll at least be able to place him in Boston at a specific time.’’
 

 
``That’s doable,’’ Clatterback said. ``At least we can get a pretty close approximation.’’

 
``And how do you figure that?’’ Malloy asked. ``The Red Sox play the Orioles dozens of times during the season. You’d be guessing.’’

 
``Not necessarily,’’ Clatterback said, reorienting the screen and blowing up the section of the scoreboard to display the score. ``This is the bottom of the sixth. Won’t be too hard to trace the score back if I download this season’s stats to an Excel spreadsheet.’’

 
``What if it wasn’t this season?’’ Malloy asked. ``Carswell had the kid awhile ago. That means they had to have gotten together at least a year ago if we think she had the baby before she joined Genepro. Remember, the guy at Genepro said he wasn’t aware she’d had a kid. And the roommate was clueless, too.’’

 
``The other boyfriend said she’d had the baby in March. They broke up in June. They were going out for about six months but it seems to have been an off and off thing.’’

 
``Other boyfriend?’’ Malloy asked.

 
``I spoke to him out by Pleasure Bay,’’ Brant said. ``That’s where I was this morning. It didn’t yield much but it gives me a much better idea of the timeline. I’m going to guess, but if Eichel is the father, then she was seeing him before she hooked up with the sailing guy. That means she stopped seeing Eichel before November. She wasn’t working at Genepro at the time. In fact, we know she wasn’t working at Genepro until after she had the baby.’’

 
``Where was she before that?’’ Malloy asked.

 
``Tufts,’’ Brant said without missing a beat. ``The old boyfriend says she was a researcher at the school of medicine. Something about biomedical research. Junior, see if you can find any research Carswell got published. Maybe an academic paper or an article somewhere.’’

 
Clatterback closed Eichel’s Twitter feed and pulled up a second tab on the browser. A few taps of the keyboard and he was on Google, navigating through a screen of hyperlinks. He appeared to grow more irritated the longer he navigated.
 

 
``Only one mention on Google scholar,’’ he said finally.
 

 
``Goggle scholar?’’ Brant sighed. He really had to get up to speed on the Internet. Its value to investigations had become central almost overnight and he’d failed to keep current. A potentially fatal gap in his skill set.

 
``Jesus, sir. You really are clueless. Sorry to be blunt.’’

 
``Just…tell us what you found.’’

 
``Google scholar’s essentially a filter to search academic papers. You can also use it to check out who’s citing your work, or to keep up on developments in a specific area of research. I searched for Carswell and Tufts. She’s the co-author of one paper, but that’s it so far. Here’s the link.’’

 
``This should be interesting,’’ Brant said as he took control of the screen and clicked into the link highlighted in blue at the top of the search window.
 

 
``Electroporation: theory and methods, perspectives for drug delivery, gene therapy and research,’’ Brant said, reading the title aloud.

 
``That’s certainly a mouthful. Wonder what it means.’’

 
``If I’m reading this right, the abstract says electroporation is some kind of way to overcome the barrier of the cell membrane.’’ Brant made quote marks around the words he read directly from the screen.

 
``Whatever that means,’’ Malloy said.
 

 
``There’s more,’’ Brant said as he scrolled further down the screen. ``Sounds like some kind of electrical field is applied to a cell’s membrane to break it down so `the permeabilized state can be used to load cells with a variety of different molecules.’’’

 
``Whoa,’’ Clatterback said. ``I didn’t do too badly in biology at school but I’m getting lost.’’

 
``I’m with you,’’ Brant said. ``I’m not exactly sure what this all means but if I remember my high school biology correctly…and I think I do…this electroporation stuff is a way to get things into a cell.’’

 
``You think?’’ Clatterback asked, barely concealing his sarcasm. ``I mean that’s pretty basic, right?’’

 
``Basic enough,’’ Brant admitted. ``But why?’’

 
``Where do we go from here?’’ Malloy asked.

 
``I think another visit to Genepro is in order.’’

 
``Want company?’’ Clatterback asked. He was chomping at the bit, playing the part of the overenthusiastic puppy.

 
``I’ll take this one alone,’’ Brant said, reigning him in. ``Better you spend your time placing Eichel in Boston.’’

 
``Errr, about that,’’ Malloy said. ``I think I can already do that.’’

 
``How so?’’

 
``Look at Eichel’s Twitter page again.’’

 
Malloy had reopened Franz Eichel’s Twitter feed and clicked back into a second photograph of the Red Sox game. She placed the cursor to the far left corner of the screen and clicked.
 

 
``We were so focused on the scoreboard. This one shows the Jumbotron.’’

 
Brant and Clatterback looked at each other, the stupidity of their earlier actions dawning on them. The enlarged photograph clearly displayed the date and time at the top of the Jumbotron’s screen. Below, the two flags of the opposing teams seemed to flutter in an imagined breeze.

 
``May 22,’’ Brant said, writing the date onto the timeline on the whiteboard before standing back and admiring his handiwork. ``At least we know when he was in Boston. The timeline’s filling out nicely.’’

 
``Maybe he’s still here,’’ Malloy said.

 
Clatterback shook his head. ``Nothing in the city directories. I haven’t found a cellphone number yet. The last Twitter entry says `Going north.’’’

 
``When was that?’’ Brant asked.

 
Clatterback scrolled to the top of the screen and Eichel’s final entry. ``May 24.’’

 
``Two days after the Sox game. Which also means that he was probably seeing Carswell at the same time as the other boyfriend. Is it possible they wouldn’t know about each other?’’

 
Brant turned to Malloy. ``Don’t look at me. How am I supposed to know?’’

 
``I figured you’d be a better shot than Junior here. He doesn’t strike me as particularly adept in the romance department.’’

 
``Hey!’’

 
``Sorry, it’s just an observation.’’

 
``It’s entirely possible they were clueless of each other. But I don’t know how she’d have the time. That’s a lot of work. Having a kid. Holding down a job. Juggling a career. The woman seems to have been pretty active.’’

 
``Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too,’’ Brant said. ``There also the issue of the apartment she shared with Chua. How does a university researcher afford something like that? What’s the monthly rent, do you think?’’

 
``At least a couple thousand a month,’’ Clatterback said. ``Maybe more in that neighborhood. Those fittings in that apartment weren’t cheap. I’m guessing at least $4,000 a month. Probably higher.’’

 
``And a medical researcher makes what? Maybe $50,000?’’

 
``If she was a postdoctoral fellow. Lower probably if she wasn’t post doc.’’

 
``Don’t forget she was sharing,’’ Malloy said.

 
``Yeah, maybe,’’ Brant replied. ``But even then, it’s still almost $25,000 in rent a year. That would be half her salary. So where’s the money coming from and what’s she living on?’’

 
``And then there’s the shoes,’’ Clatterback said.

 
``Shoes?’’

 
``The Jimmy Choos. They weren’t cheap.’’

 
Brant had moved to the conference table and began tapping at the laptop’s keyboard in contemplation. ``Maybe she came from money?’’

 
Clatterback shook his head. ``Father’s a retired clerk in the local village office. Mother’s a housewife. I don’t think they’d be in a position to subsidize her. Besides, weren’t they estranged?’’

 
``They were,’’ Brant admitted. ``Which leaves us with a bit of a mystery. Or at least a loose end. But I have a thought. What if Carswell was doing a bit of freelance hooking on the side?’’

 
``What? You mean like Chua?’’ Clatterback asked.

 
``Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. Did you get anything else on Meredith?’’

 
Clatterback turned sheepish. ``Remember, the EDGAR search came up dry. The state regulator doesn’t know anything either. It’s as if the company doesn’t exist. I’m still working on it but I think you’re right. I think it’s safe to say we can consider it a front for prostitution.’’

 
Brant nodded as he thought over what Clatterback had just said. It made perfect sense. The expensive apartment, the clothes, the vacations Carswell had taken, the numerous boyfriends. Susan Chua could protest all she wanted, but Brant was willing to put money on the fact Allison Carswell had at least dabbled in prostitution. Or maybe she’d been an escort, not that there was much difference really.

``Don’t forget the gun belonging to Sergei Volodin’s muscle,’’ Malloy said.
 

 
Brant thought for a moment. ``We’re going to have to talk to Volodin again.’’

 
Brant closed the laptop and rose to leave. Outside, afternoon shadows had begun to play across the neighboring building’s facade.
 

 
``What’s next?’’ Malloy asked.

 
``Genepro.’’

 
``Can you wait until tomorrow?’’

 
``I could. But I’m not going to.’’

He took the Turnpike, driving against the traffic. For the time of day, the roads were remarkably clear. Chalk it up to summer holidays, he thought to himself as he pushed the little Hyundai near its limits. The car whined in complaint, but complied.

 
The same couldn’t be said about Marcellus. His sister had been livid when he’d called to say he’d been held up.

 
``I’m going to kill you, Jonas,’’ she’d said, her fury more than evident even through the vacuum of static between them. ``I TOLD you to leave David alone. Now he thinks I ASKED you to confront him.’’

 
``I was just trying to help, Marcellus,’’ Brant said in defense. ``You sounded so upset on the phone when we spoke. I had to do something. That asshole needs to pay.’’

 
``And he will, but he won’t get what’s coming to him if you behave like a Neanderthal. Jesus, do you ever think through the consequences of your actions?’’

 
Brant let his response hang as he switched lanes, falling in behind a silver Porsche Carerra.

 
``What do you want me to say? This can still be fixed.’’

 
``See, Jonas. That’s the problem. You’re always playing the role of fixer. Ever since we were kids. You were always the one playing the peacemaker on the schoolyard.’’

 
Brant shook his head as he stared at the red glow of the Porsche’s taillights. ``I said I’m sorry,’’ he conceded.
 

 
``Actually, you didn’t. But I’ll take that as a note of contrition. But stop trying to make me whole again, Jonas. You’re not doing a good job.’’

 
The line had gone dead with Marcellus’s promise that she’d take care of Ben for the rest of the evening.
 

 
Brant shook his head again, chastising himself for his haste with David Sutton. The injustice Marcellus faced had proven too much for him and he’d had to act.
 

 
Not that he’d done much good in the end. He sighed.

 
The Hyundai protested a second time. Brant plugged his iPhone into the car’s audio system, scrolled through the screen and settled on Springteen. Live/1975-85. The classic stuff from the late ‘80s, not the crap the Boss had been pumping out lately.
 

 
He settled deeper into his seat, unclenching his jaws as the announcer introduced Springsteen and his E Street Band. The opening piano riff of ``Thunder Road’’ began to play, timeless in its simplicity and clarity.

The Genepro offices were in darkness.
 

 
Brant pulled up to one of the neighboring buildings occupied by a party goods supply company. He parked at the far side of the building, outside the cone of light cast by a streetlamp. The position offered a clear view of Genepro’s entrance while hiding the Hyundai in shadow.

 
He turned the engine off and sat. Clouds gathered against a blackened sky. The moon was a half crescent, luminous and vibrant.
 

 
Brant took out a pair of high-powered binoculars and scanned the road leading up to Genepro. Nothing. No cars. No pedestrians. No delivery trucks or messenger services.

The guard was gone, too. From his vantage, he could see no security of any kind. Which was odd.

 
The security guard had bothered him, but he hadn’t give it much thought. Only later, when he’d heard that Volodin was likely to have known Carswell, did it start to make sense.