Read Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller for Free Online Page B

reluctant to make the connection.  
      Their first stop had been a boutique off Boylston Street hidden amongst a warren of glass and steel office buildings. A ponderous woman took an inordinate amount of time searching a catalog of customer names and invoices before throwing her hands in the air in frustration.  
      The second store was little better. A prissy middle-aged man had stared at them over the rims of his tortoise shell eyeglasses and shook his head almost immediately.  
      They were third-time lucky. A woman working the front counter in a boutique off Washington Street displayed a glimmer of recognition when shown the picture of the shoes worn by the dead woman.
      ``We sell those here,’’ she’d said, scrutinizing the photos on Clatterback’s phone with a look of determination.  
    She was standing behind a glass display. Shoes of various sizes shone under halogen lights. Red velvet lined the shelves. Around them, sharply dressed women floated from counter to counter. Men in dark suits wore looks of bored indifference. Marble floors and high ceilings adorned with plaster moldings cried out money.
    ``Perhaps we could step into the back room,’’ the girl said in soft, hushed tones when she saw Brant reach for his notebook. ``We can speak more freely.’’
      She was about twenty, dark-skinned and classically beautiful. She wore a black oversized sweater. Cream-colored pants hugged her thighs, emphasizing the shape of her body with tasteful discretion. High heels made her appear tall but not overly so.
      She led the way, guiding them into a room filled with shelves stacked with binders and books. A row of filing cabinets lined the far wall. In the corner, file folders had been placed neatly atop a battered wooden desk.  
      ``May I see the picture again.’’ She extended her hand to take the handset. A gold Rolex hung loosely on a thin wrist.  
      Clatterback flipped through the pictures on his mobile phone, pausing and enlarging the snapshot they’d taken of the shoes. The girl took the phone, examined the photo and pressed her lips together.
      ``There’s a good chance that’s from us.’’
      ``How can you be sure?’’ Clatterback asked. Brant shot a warning in the other detective’s direction. ``Sorry for being stupid, but shoes seem pretty much the same to me.’’
      ``Are you married?’’ The girl let the question hang for a moment. ``No, I didn’t think so.’’
      She crossed to one of the filing cabinets, pulled a drawer open and began searching through a dozen or so folders.  
      ``Here we are,’’ she said finally, a triumphal note in her voice. ``Yes, this is it.’’
      Brant took the folder.  
      ``They’re called the Nanson Flat. Your basic black handle from last year’s spring collection. Not the most expensive, but practical. They were popular last season. We were one of the only stores to carry them.’’
      Brant examined the colored photocopy the girl had pulled from the file. She was right. The photocopy of the flat leather sandal called the Nanson Flat was identical to the shoes they’d found on the dead girl.
    ``And how much do these cost?’’
      The girl retrieved the folder.  
    ``Just shy of $1,000.’’  
      Brant turned back to the photo on Clatterback’s mobile phone.
      ``So you’d know who bought these shoes?’’ Clatterback asked. ``Is there a serial number or something?’’
      ``We don’t computerize much around here as you can probably tell,’’ she said. ``The owner likes the personal touch. Says it makes the customers feel like they’re getting a more intimate experience.’’
      ``How well do you recognize your customers?’’ Brant asked.
      ``As I said, the owner likes the personal touch, and many of our customers are regulars. Has something happened? What’s all this about?’’
      Brant handed the girl a printout, a hard copy of the photo they’d taken of the woman’s face.  
      ``This won’t