Free Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller by Phillip Wilson Page A

telephones rang, keyboards clattered and an endless parade of detectives, uniforms and dark suits hovered, sauntered and meandered.  
      ``This is interesting,’’ Brant said to Malloy as Deputy Superintendent Manny Pinkus strode into the squad room with an immaculately dressed woman one step behind. Brant recognized her in an instant as Jill Larson, director of public information.  
      Pinkus and Larson stopped, took their bearings then made directly for Jolly’s office. All eyes turned to the deputy superintendent, who gazed straight ahead with a steely, fixed stare.  
      ``Big time brass,’’ Malloy said, puffing her cheeks and grinning. ``Wouldn’t want to be in Jolly’s office at the moment.’’  
      As if on cue, Julian March rose from his chair and made for the door. March offered a quick nod as he stood aside, clearing the way for Pinkus and Larson. Jolly greeted them each with a handshake and a smile.
      ``What was that all about?’’ Brant asked March when he’d cleared the room.  
      ``Hell if I know.’’ The senior detective scowled. ``And even if I did, Brant, I wouldn’t be telling you.’’
      March grabbed a folder from atop one of the desks and made for the exit. Brant’s cellphone rang. Unknown Number flashed in bold letters on the device’s screen.
      ``Brant.’’
      ``Timmy said you were looking for something on Genepro Molecular.’’
      Timmy? Brant’s mind was a blank as he struggled to recognize the voice. A woman, for sure. A smoker by the sound of it. Confident. Assured. And she knew he was on the Carswell case. Then it hit him. He’d been looking for something more on Genepro Molecular and had called a journalist at the Boston Globe earlier in the day.  
      ``You’re Tim Mathers’s friend?’’
      ``Colleague. I wouldn’t call us friends,’’ came the answer.
      ``So who am I speaking to?’’ Brant asked into his handset.
      ``Not over the phone. There’s a cafe around the corner from your station.’’
      ``The Starbucks?’’
      A wicked, derisive laugh. He pictured her face contorting into a look of disgust.  
      ``Leon’s. Best coffee in the neighborhood. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.’’
      ``I…,’’ Brant was about to say he’d need at least ten minutes when she hung up, leaving him speaking into empty airspace. ``Damn.’’
      ``Problem?’’ Malloy asked.  
      Brant looked at his watch. ``Got a lead I need to follow. Cover me in case Jolly needs us. And see if you can find out where Junior is.’’

    Leon’s buzzed. Office workers formed a line behind a chrome countertop. Others stood to the side of the cash register awaiting their orders, casually flipping through a collection of newspapers and magazines lying on a table running the length of a window. The tables appeared to be occupied mostly by students tapping at laptops, tablets and smartphones. The barista, cashier and servers were all related, or at least it appeared that way based on the coloring of their skin, caps of black hair and the oval, Mediterranean appearance of their faces.
      The cafe was retro modern — if such a description existed. Chrome, steel and aluminum mixed easily with lava lamps, teardrop globes and plastic ceiling fixtures of white plastic. The walls were faux wood panelling. Color-changing LED strip lights painted a riot of reds, purples and blues along the length of the serving bar. A glass case illuminated from within offered an assortment of pastries, each laid out individually on silver platters. Ambient lighting was provided by three chrome bubble lights affixed to a silver ceiling. The whoosh and hiss of a Rancilio espresso machine interrupted the hushed murmurs of office gossip and louder critiques of this year’s Sox lineup. On the sound system, Nina Simone served as the soundtrack for the day. A bus passed by on the street outside, shaking the windows as it threw up a plume of gritty exhaust.
      Brant smiled in spite