Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller by Phillip Wilson Read Free Book Online

be easy to see,’’ he said with sympathy.
      The girl’s face fell flat as her eyes set on the beaten face, the bloated cheeks and the purple bruises.  
      ``She comes in every couple of weeks. My God, how did she end up like that?’’ The girl gasped, her voice a conspiratorial hush as a hand went to her mouth in horror.  
    ``You’re absolutely sure she’s a customer?’’ Brant asked again, marveling at their luck.
      ``I can’t be certain, but I’m fairly confident she’s a regular.’’
    ``Does she come in by herself,’’ Clatterback asked.
      ``Alone?’’ The girl frowned dismissively. ``Oh no. She was accompanied by a gentleman.’’
      ``Do you know this woman’s name? What about the man?’’ Brant asked, his voice hopeful as the thrill of the chase began to build.  
      ``Sorry, I don’t know them by name.’’
      ``Can you describe the man?’’ Brant asked.  
      ``Athletic. Maybe younger than most of the men we get.’’
      ``So not your typical male customer?’’
      The girl shook her head. ``No, not typical at all. Most are executives and a bit older. This gentleman was much younger.’’
      ``Would you recognize him if you saw him again?’’
      The girl furrowed her brow in consideration as she brushed a lock of hair from her eyes.
      ``Maybe. I can’t be sure. I might have something that can help.’’  
      Brant made a scratch in his notebook while he waited. The girl seemed to be considering something. Finally, she produced a spreadsheet. One column was filled with the names and descriptions of each pair of shoes sold within a specified time. The dates ranged back at least two years. A second column included the purchase price. The remainder of the spreadsheet contained names, telephone numbers, email addresses and any other pieces of information the customer had been willing to give.
      ``Here it is,’’ she said, pointing with the tip of a pen to an entry in the middle of the spreadsheet. ``Allison Carswell. She bought a pair two months ago. Cash.’’
      ``Would you have an address for Ms. Carswell?’’ Brant asked.
      ``There it is in the last column. The Aberdeen Lofts. Near the Broadway T Stop.’’

C HAPTER S EVEN

    ``Yes?’’  
      The voice on the other side of the door was muffled but hard. A female’s voice but tough nonetheless, like its owner had been chewing on glass.
      ``Police. We have some questions.’’
      A lock unlatched, then another. Finally, the door cracked open wide enough to reveal a pair of eyes and the hint of a face. Brant produced his badge and waved it in front of the sliver of open space. The woman cleared her throat.
      ``How’d you get up here?’’
      ``The doorman let us in.’’ Brant withdrew his ID. ``This would be a lot easier if you’d open the door.’’
      ``Why do you want to talk to me?’’
      Brant let the question hang. ``Allison Carswell,’’ he said finally.
    The door closed. There was the sound of a chain sliding along its track and the door swung open.
    The face that belonged to the voice was a surprise. He’d expected a middle-aged woman. Instead, they were greeted by an Asian woman in her mid twenties dressed in a pair of jeans and angora sweater. The sweater hung casually on broad, athletic shoulders. The woman had high cheek bones, an oval face and an aquiline nose. She had full red lips and straight black hair that fell to her shoulders in a stylish cut.
      ``What’s happened to Allison?’’ the woman asked, a wary tone to her voice.  
      ``May we?’’ Brant said, asking for permission to enter with the wave of his hand.
      The woman stood aside, ushering them into the apartment.
      The Aberdeen was a newly constructed building of loft apartments in South Boston. Real estate agents would describe the neighborhood as up-and-coming or trendy and hip.   Brant saw it for what it was — a modest working-class neighborhood sucked under by a developer’s hungry eye and