Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (51 page)

 
``Yes, I suppose so.’’
 

 
King stepped down onto the gravel driveway, crunching his boots into the pebbly surface. ``When do you plan on leaving?’’

 
``I hadn’t really thought about it,’’ Brant said.

 
``You’re welcome to stay here for a few more days. It’s end of season but I’ll still be here for a few more weeks.’’

 
``What would I do?’’

 
``Whatever you want. And I could use some help with the kayaks. They still need to be moved to the barn for the winter. The more hands, the better.’’

 
``I have to get home,’’ Brant said, extending his hand to the other man in friendship.

 
The two men shook.
 

 
King, lost in thought, looked off toward the lake and the broad, flat disc of water.
 

He found her in his room after he’d finished with King. She’d changed and showered. Her short hair was wet and she wore a simple white t-shirt and jeans.
 

 
``You’ll want this,’’ she said, handing him the nylon belt buckle he’d used to tie Ingrid King’s hands.
 

 
``Thanks.’’

 
``These all your books?’’ she asked, indicating the open box at the foot of the bed. She’d taken a volume or two out of the box and had cracked open the spine on one of the leather-bound tomes.

 
``Not all. I borrowed some.’’

 
``How’s your head?’’

 
``I’ll live.’’

 
``You need an MRI. My father can recommend a good neurosurgeon if you’re looking for one.’’

 
``I’ve got one.’’

 
``You need to see the best. We can arrange something.’’

 
``I’ll think about it.’’

 
Mallek thumbed the cover of the book she’d picked from the box. ``Epictetus. Sounds old and boring.’’

 
Brant took the book from her and flipped to the front.

 
``Epictetus was a Stoic philosopher.’’

 
``Stoic?’’

 
``Hmmmm. It’s a school of Hellenistic philosophy. Epictetus believed that happiness comes from virtue, that self control and fortitude can be enough to overcome any obstacle. It’s a comforting thought, don’t you think?’’

 
``That’s not how I want to live my life.’’

 
Brant returned the book to its box.
 

 
``You were very good out there, very calm. You’d make a good Stoic.’’

 
Mallek shook her head in distaste. ``Not my style by the sound of it.’’

 
``Well, to each his or her own, I suppose.’’

 
``What are you going to do now?’’

 
``I want to sleep to be honest.’’

 
She smiled. ``That sounds wonderful. Are you going back to the cabin?’’

 
Brant shook his head. ``John offered the run of the lodge for the rest of the week but I have to get back home.’’

 
``You’ll see a doctor when you get back to the city?’’

 
He raised his hands in surrender. ``Promise.’’

 
Mallek looked around the room, resting her eyes once again on the books and the leather spines.

 
``You’re not what I expected in a cop.’’

 
``No? Why’s that?’’

 
``I don’t know too many cops that read philosophy for one.’’

 
``And you know a lot of cops, do you?’’

 
Mallek smiled guiltily. She didn’t need to answer.

 
``Give me your cellphone will you.’’

 
She handed over her handset. He checked the screen for the five bars indicating a signal at full strength. A moment later he had Ben on the line. The young boy squealed in delight at some unseen pleasure. Brant smiled at the thought of his son bounding across a playground.
 

 
``Ben, it’s Dad. What are you doing?’’

 
``Daddy!’’ Ben’s voice boomed across the airwaves with a joy that was hard to contain. ``Are you enjoying your rest?’’

 
``I’m actually not on vacation, Benji.’’

 
``But you’ll come home soon?’’

 
``A couple of days, yes.’’

 
Ben rang off without saying goodbye. Brant imagined him chasing butterflies in the park, his Aunt Marcellus watching nearby.

 
``My son,’’ he said as he returned the cellphone.
 

 
``How old?’’

 
``He’ll be five in October.’’

 
``You have my home number in your phone now. Call if you want to.’’

 
Mallek smiled.

 
Spontaneously, Brant embraced her in a hug, mouthing ``thank you’’ as he pulled her close. Outside, the afternoon was fading to early evening. Silvery leaves fluttered in the breeze. A loon’s plaintive call echoed across the open expanse of the darkened lake. Above the shoreline, ragged clouds burned pink and orange as the sun sparked a final gasp.

 
He said nothing more as his body lightly trembled.

A stop at headquarters to file his report. A gray sky. Hint of rain. A radio report said to expect an early autumn; the forecast for winter was long and cold. Ben loved the snow. Brant? He could do without the salted roads, the bone-chilling temperatures, the early mornings standing in the driveway clearing snow and ice from the windshield of his car.

 
The plan was to debrief Jolly in person, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

 
``Probably at another budget committee hearing,’’ Katy Malloy said when Brant asked where he could be found.

 
``Tell him I stopped by.’’

 
``He’ll be thrilled. I think March is around.’’

 
``It can wait,’’ Brant said. ``What’s this?’’

 
A package from FedEx sat on the middle of his desk. He took the notecard attached and opened it. Cursive handwriting. The penmanship was beautiful. Malloy shrugged when he shot her a look.

 
I thought you might like this. Susan.

He opened the package. Nestled among a collection of balled newspapers was the King James Bible that Allison Carswell had kept on her nightstand. He picked it up, weighed it, ran his finger along the outer edge of the pages.

 
``A present?’’ Katy Malloy asked, fixing him with a questioning look.

 
``It’s the Bible that Allison Carswell kept on her nightstand. She underlined a passage, a quote really. It was significant to her.’’

 
``What quote?’’ Malloy asked. She’d left her desk and was standing behind him as he thumbed through the pages.

 
Brant read the passage and turned to the younger detective when he’d finished.

 
``In the New Testament the sea almost always represents a moment of conversion,’’ he said. ``Only God can control the wind and sea. Jesus shares God’s control. The passage is about Christ’s divine power over nature, but also suggests his power over evil.’’

 
``Was Carswell trying to send a message?’’

 
``Sort of,’’ Brant said as he repackaged the Bible. He had the urge to keep it for himself, but knew he should think better of it. It would only gather dust in his collection. He wasn’t a believer. ``Maybe she was bothered by the research she was doing on gene editing. Maybe the God-like power to manipulate nature ultimately bothered her. It is an awesome power after all.’’

 
``How do you know all this?’’ Malloy asked, arching her eyebrow. ``I didn’t think you were religious.’’

 
``If you want to understand human nature, you need to read the good book,’’ Brant said. ``I’m not religious in the conventional sense, but that doesn’t mean I’m not interested.’’

 
``What do we do with that?’’ she asked, indicating the Bible and the packaging it’d been sent in.

 
``Get forensics to dust it for latents.’’

 
``Then what?’’

 
``Tag it and bag it.’’

 
Brant pocketed the notecard Susan Chua had sent along with the Bible. He’d call and thank her. More than that, he’d need to follow up, to see how she was doing and whether she needed his help with Volodin.

``What have you been doing?’’
 

 
``The case folder on Carswell,’’ she said, indicating a bulging filefolder sitting on his desk. ``All the paperwork. The autopsy reports. The photographs. I was about to add these.’’

 
She handed over a stack of paper. Transcripts of interviews she and Clatterback had conducted while he’d been away.

 
``Those interviews took three days. Two more to type up. Clatterback’s the fastest typist I’ve ever seen by the way.’’

 
``I’ll look at them later,’’ he said, filing the papers in the case folder.
 

 
``John told me what happened in Maine,’’ she said without prompting. ``How are you feeling?’’

 
``Could be better,’’ Brant said, massaging his shoulder. ``Could be worse. Where’s Junior?’’

 
``Shooting last night near Boston U. Some guy waving a knife. Refused to drop it.’’

 
``Who shot him?’’

 
``State Police trooper.’’

 
``Jesus.’’

 
``Yeah, pretty bad. Kid was black. Trooper’s white. CNN’s been playing it all morning on heavy rotation.’’ Malloy nodded in the direction of the flatscreen television in the corner. ``Al Sharpton’s heading over to the scene with the whole freak show. Some lawyer, too. The woman who did the OJ Simpson case.’’

 
``Gloria Allred.’’

 
``That’s the one.’’

 
Brant began rummaging through his desk. When he found the slip of paper from the evidence log, he placed it in his pocket. Malloy watched with keen eyes.

 
``How are things with your dad?’’

 
Malloy glared. She’d been playing with an iPad. She stopped what she’d been doing and handed him the device.

 
Brant glanced at the screen. A front-page story in the Boston Globe on Matty Luceno under Sheila Ritchie’s byline. The story made interesting reading. Ritchie had connected the dots, drawing out a long tale of interconnected deals between Luceno and some of the city’s biggest powerbrokers. Nothing outright illegal, but the message was clear. Luceno was dirty and anyone within his orbit was tainted.

 
Brant handed the iPad back to the younger detective.

 
``She was already onto the story,’’ he said by way of a defense. He’d meant to make good with her, but she and Ritchie had both slipped his mind.
 

 
Malloy’s glare intensified as she returned to the iPad.

 
``What’d you want me to do?’’

 
No answer. A wound to be nursed. He’d have to work on it. Malloy would be a good cop, a valuable member of the team. His team? Maybe. But it all depended on Jolly and whether he’d keep them together or assign them to different units.

 
Yes, a wound needing attention and time to heal. But for now, he had one more stop. Two more, actually. First to the evidence lockers, then a trip downtown.

Chinatown. He parked behind a tour bus on Beach Street.

Sergei Volodin was in the Golden Palace, sipping tea and reading the newspaper.
 
Muscles and Hungry sat by the door, glowering in Brant’s direction.
 

 
``You believe this guy Luceno?’’ Volodin asked as Brant took a seat across the table. ``Says here he has half the council in his pocket.’’

 
A young woman wearing a black Chinese dress approached with a teapot and an extra cup. Volodin eyed the girl as she poured.

 
``You’re a hypocrite, Volodin.’’

 
``What are you suggesting, lieutenant?’’

 
Volodin smiled broadly. He folded the newspaper, placing it to one side of the empty plate in front of him. The waitress returned and he ordered.

 
``The lieutenant won’t be eating,’’ Volodin said, pointing his chin in Brant’s direction. The waitress nodded, bowed and left.

 
``Make sure you don’t choke on any chicken balls. I’d hate to see you have an accident.’’

 
Brant took a sip of his drink. The tea had a bitter bite to it. Not inappropriate given the circumstances, he thought.

 
``Do you have something for me?’’

 
``Yes, some advice. You may want to start looking for another bodyguard.’’

 
Volodin paused, momentarily perplexed.

 
Brant reached into his pocket. Muscles and Hungry watched intently from the nearby table, their hooded eyes trained on his hands. The room tensed, but Volodin waved the two brothers away, telling them with the flick of his finger to remain calm.
 

 
Brant placed an evidence bag on the table. It had been sealed and tagged. Writing scrawled onto the outside provided a history, date of collection, a description of the evidence, the chain of custody.