Read Online Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller by Phillip Wilson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Phillip Wilson
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mean?’’
Brant nodded in response, but said nothing.
Clatterback smiled over the rim of his Guinness as his order arrived. ``Guess I’m just showing my age. Old at 24. Kinda sad.’’
``You are but I know what you mean. And these finance guys…I just don’t get it. I mean I understand what they do on a basic level, but ask me to explain it in any detail and I’m lost.’’
A fiddler had started up at the front of the bar. There were shouts of encouragement and a smattering of half-hearted claps trying to match the beat. On one of the flat screens, the one with the Sox playing, a run had been scored and the bar momentarily erupted in cheers and high fives. Brant drained his Guinness.
``You might want to go easy,’’ Clatterback said with a wry grin.
``Thanks, dad.’’
``Just some advice.’’
``So what did you think of Chua?’’ Brant asked, his thoughts turning back to the day’s work.
``Maybe she knows more about this boyfriend than she’s letting on.’’
``I thought the same,’’ Brant said. ``She had a pretty good recollection of the car he drove. I’m surprised she wouldn’t have pressed Carswell for more details.’’
``Maybe she already knows who the boyfriend is.’’
``What about the place where Carswell worked?’’ Brant retrieved the dead woman’s business card and fingered the edge as he read the name aloud. ``Genepro Molecular. Ever heard of it?’’
Clatterback shrugged a no.
``I’ll check it out. Build up a dossier. I want to know everything we can find out about this company.’’
``You mean like what it makes, the financials? That kind of stuff?’’
``Whatever we can find out,’’ Brant said.
``Why don’t we find out now?’’
Clatterback had taken his mobile phone out of his pocket and keyed the name into the search window. He repeated the search with variations of spelling when nothing had resulted from his first attempts.
``No website. No news. There’s a listing for a company by that name in Watertown, just as Chua said.’’
Brant took the handset and flipped through the search screens to satisfy his own curiosity. His efforts produced the same results.
``What about those phone bills,’’ Clatterback asked, nodding in Brant’s direction.
Brant retrieved the phone bill from his back pocket and the two officers made a quick scan of the calls the murdered girl had made and received in the days before her death. For a girl who kept a set of rosary beads in a drawer and a bookmarked Bible by her bed, Allison Carswell had shown a decidedly sociable side. The list of numbers she’d dialed was long, though none of the calls had lasted more than a few minutes. Brant wrote each of the numbers that appeared more than once onto a napkin. One stood out, a Boston number that Carswell had dialed more than a dozen times in one day at the end of the previous month.
He punched the number into the screen of his own phone and pressed ``Call.’’ The other phone rang once before the call was quickly rerouted to an automated answering machine. He hung up without leaving a message.
``A couple of things to follow up,’’ Brant said, handing the napkin and notebook to Clatterback.
A second cheer rose from the bar. Another run had been scored. More high fives. A few fist bumps. The fiddler had picked up the pace and was beginning to work the crowd. The darts machine flashed red as a young woman shouted bullseye, her face all smiles as she turned in victory to the group of women who’d accompanied her to the games floor. Brant leaned in toward Clatterback over the table top, his head swimming slightly as the booze began to bite.
``You work the phone list. I’ll check out Genepro.’’ Brant’s words came out a slur. He hadn’t expected to drink so much. The pub’s noise and the smells had overwhelmed him more than he’d realized.
``I’ll call you a cab. Your
Brant nodded in response, but said nothing.
Clatterback smiled over the rim of his Guinness as his order arrived. ``Guess I’m just showing my age. Old at 24. Kinda sad.’’
``You are but I know what you mean. And these finance guys…I just don’t get it. I mean I understand what they do on a basic level, but ask me to explain it in any detail and I’m lost.’’
A fiddler had started up at the front of the bar. There were shouts of encouragement and a smattering of half-hearted claps trying to match the beat. On one of the flat screens, the one with the Sox playing, a run had been scored and the bar momentarily erupted in cheers and high fives. Brant drained his Guinness.
``You might want to go easy,’’ Clatterback said with a wry grin.
``Thanks, dad.’’
``Just some advice.’’
``So what did you think of Chua?’’ Brant asked, his thoughts turning back to the day’s work.
``Maybe she knows more about this boyfriend than she’s letting on.’’
``I thought the same,’’ Brant said. ``She had a pretty good recollection of the car he drove. I’m surprised she wouldn’t have pressed Carswell for more details.’’
``Maybe she already knows who the boyfriend is.’’
``What about the place where Carswell worked?’’ Brant retrieved the dead woman’s business card and fingered the edge as he read the name aloud. ``Genepro Molecular. Ever heard of it?’’
Clatterback shrugged a no.
``I’ll check it out. Build up a dossier. I want to know everything we can find out about this company.’’
``You mean like what it makes, the financials? That kind of stuff?’’
``Whatever we can find out,’’ Brant said.
``Why don’t we find out now?’’
Clatterback had taken his mobile phone out of his pocket and keyed the name into the search window. He repeated the search with variations of spelling when nothing had resulted from his first attempts.
``No website. No news. There’s a listing for a company by that name in Watertown, just as Chua said.’’
Brant took the handset and flipped through the search screens to satisfy his own curiosity. His efforts produced the same results.
``What about those phone bills,’’ Clatterback asked, nodding in Brant’s direction.
Brant retrieved the phone bill from his back pocket and the two officers made a quick scan of the calls the murdered girl had made and received in the days before her death. For a girl who kept a set of rosary beads in a drawer and a bookmarked Bible by her bed, Allison Carswell had shown a decidedly sociable side. The list of numbers she’d dialed was long, though none of the calls had lasted more than a few minutes. Brant wrote each of the numbers that appeared more than once onto a napkin. One stood out, a Boston number that Carswell had dialed more than a dozen times in one day at the end of the previous month.
He punched the number into the screen of his own phone and pressed ``Call.’’ The other phone rang once before the call was quickly rerouted to an automated answering machine. He hung up without leaving a message.
``A couple of things to follow up,’’ Brant said, handing the napkin and notebook to Clatterback.
A second cheer rose from the bar. Another run had been scored. More high fives. A few fist bumps. The fiddler had picked up the pace and was beginning to work the crowd. The darts machine flashed red as a young woman shouted bullseye, her face all smiles as she turned in victory to the group of women who’d accompanied her to the games floor. Brant leaned in toward Clatterback over the table top, his head swimming slightly as the booze began to bite.
``You work the phone list. I’ll check out Genepro.’’ Brant’s words came out a slur. He hadn’t expected to drink so much. The pub’s noise and the smells had overwhelmed him more than he’d realized.
``I’ll call you a cab. Your
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