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

of himself, recalling in the recesses of his memory when getting a coffee meant a trip to 7-Eleven and a weak, tepid cup of brown liquid served in a paper cup for less than a dollar. When had getting a coffee become such a production? When had the coffee culture taken hold and who had been astute enough to convince Americans to pay three dollars for a beverage they could get at home or elsewhere for a fraction of the price? Then again, small indulgences. In times of austerity, it was good to hold onto small luxuries accessible to those on the economic borderline. Like cops.
    ``I’ve got a table in the back.’’
    He turned to face a small woman wearing skinny jeans, a white top and a light green blazer with sleeves extending just below her elbows.
    ``Sheila Ritchie,’’ the woman said as a statement, not as an introduction. ``You must be Lieutenant Brant. I can tell a cop a mile away.’’
      Brant offered his hand in greeting, which was taken without much enthusiasm. Ritchie shouldered a waiter aside as she began to make for a table in the corner that she’d staked out with an oversized canvas bag and laptop computer secured into place with a locking cable.
      Brant guessed Sheila Ritchie to be about forty. She had brown hair cut short in the style of a severe bob. She wore little makeup. Her skin was blemish-free. Wrinkles had begun to form crows feet under sharp, intelligent eyes.  
      He liked her.
      ``Have a seat,’’ she said as she moved her bag to the floor. ``I’ve got a coffee coming. You want something, you better order now. The office drones’ll be breaking for lunch soon. This place gets busy.’’
      He ordered a regular coffee and a scone. The waitress brought the drinks in short order.  
      ``So, you want to know about Genepro Molecular?’’
      ``That was the general idea.’’
      Ritchie took a sip of coffee. ``You got anything for me in return?’’
      ``My undying gratitude?’’
      Ritchie grimaced. ``Going to have to do better.’’
      ``We can arrange something.’’
      ``What’d you have in mind?’’
      Brant grinned. He knew how to play a reporter, how the quid pro quo of the journalist/source relationship worked. Then again, he’d been burned once or twice and wasn’t likely to give much in the way of useful information to this woman — at least not until she could prove her use.
      ``Let’s see how it goes,’’ Brant said.
      ``See, that’s not really the answer I was looking for, but I guess it’ll have to do for now. You understand I’m a business reporter, right? Wall Street’s more my thing.’’
      ``Mathers mentioned it.’’
      Ritchie, pausing to collect her thoughts, took a second sip of coffee. Nina had been replaced by Miles Davis.
      ``This Genepro Molecular. Why the interest?’’
      ``It’s part of a case.’’
      ``What case?’’  
      Brant took a bite of his scone as he considered how much to reveal.   ``An ongoing investigation.’’
      Ritchie frowned. ``Not very convincing.’’
      ``You wouldn’t want me to give up the cherry quite that fast, would you?’’
      Ritchie assessed him. Brant could almost see the wheels turning in the woman’s head as she sized him up, as she quickly evaluated his usefulness and worth to her at the moment and into the future.
      ``Alright, I’ll play for now. But you know how it works, right? I mean sometime down the line I’ll be calling.’’
      ``I get it,’’ Brant said without hesitation. ``Now, Genepro Molecular.’’
    ``It’s an interesting company,’’ Ritchie said as she retrieved a set of documents from her canvas bag. ``I did a basic Google search, of course, but didn’t really find out very much. It doesn’t have a website. We don’t have anything in our archives at the Globe and I haven’t found any other newspaper clippings. It’s a private company, which is a problem.’’
      ``How so?’’ Brant asked.
      Ritchie retrieved a pair of glasses from