Measure of Darkness (16 page)

“Same thing happens on a football field when a player get injured,” says Jack. “Nobody wants to look at the injured guy, or talk to him, like it might be catching.”

Naomi, who normally loathes sports analogies, does not object. She's more interested in the timing. “For purposes of this investigation let's work from the assumption that Kathleen Mancero was somehow drawn into
this case by subterfuge. Her connection to Shane is clear, and very public. There are two possible explanations. Either Randall Shane is himself involved in the kidnapping of Joey Keener and involved Mrs. Mancero as an accomplice, or he has very powerful enemies who went to great lengths to link him to this case. Any thoughts?”

“No way Shane is a kidnapper or a killer. Cross it off the list,” Jack says adamantly.

“I tend to agree,” Naomi says. “Shane as villain has always been a low probability. At this point we'll proceed on the theory that Shane has a powerful enemy, one willing and able to frame him as a kidnapper/killer. Our task is to identify this enemy and that will lead us to the boy, if he still lives. Are we in agreement?”

We all agree.

Naomi says, “Teddy, Jack, we need to go deeper into Shane's past. A client who holds him responsible for a child's death, or his failure to solve a case. Someone in a high government position who feels threatened by him. A friend who believes himself or herself betrayed. Someone who hates him enough to take great risks. Someone with power enough to do the types of things we've been witness to of late.”

Teddy hunches over his keyboard, fingers flying.

Jack closes his notebook, and prepares to leave the command center, cell in hand. He pauses, gives boss lady a sideways look. “On the subject of enemies in high places, have we been swept recently?” he asks, holding up his phone.

Naomi cocks an eyebrow. “This morning, as a matter of fact. Just as a precaution.”

“And?”

“As expected, your pals in the helicopter left a few presents behind. Also as expected, none of the devices
were able to broadcast. Bear in mind that cell phone calls originating outside of the residence have no such expectation of privacy.”

“Big bro could be listening.”

“Always best to proceed under that assumption.”

Which makes me feel all warm and virtuous for having taken such precautions in the last few hours while out in the field, acting like a real investigator. Shaking tails, locating lost laptops, helping to break the case wide open. Until, moments later, I realize that unlike Teddy and Jack, I haven't been given an assignment.

“Hey,” I say. “What about me?”

“Case notes,” boss lady says, without hesitation. “Bring the timeline up to date. It's crucial that at this juncture we remain organized and coherent in our purpose.”

“So you want me to be a secretary,” I say, not sure whether to be indignant, insulted or disappointed, or a combination of all three.

“Recording secretary and chief factotum,” Naomi says with the hint of a smile. “None better. Now get to work.”

The Murder of Joseph Vincent Keener,

Ph.D. Investigation Timeline, updated:

O
kay, maybe not so boring. And laid out like that, hour for hour, it does give me a much clearer picture of what
has transpired since the case first began, and where the ongoing investigation has taken us. At a glance, the most important break in the case by far is the identification of Kathleen Mancero. As Naomi was quick to point out, that's a game changer. Establishing a connection between Randall Shane and a woman involved in an abduction means one of two things. Either the legendary kid finder is up to his neck in a murder/kidnapping—guilty as sin itself—or he's an innocent victim with a very powerful enemy who wants to destroy everything he stands for.

“We don't know if this enemy is also responsible for Professor Keener's murder, or if he simply seized on the opportunity to do Shane further harm,” Naomi says as she looks over the updated timeline. “We don't know if those who interrogated Shane were involved in the assassination, or if they were simply doing what covert agencies do, investigating a possible security breach. Much is yet to be determined.”

“Or she,” I say, just to be snippy.

“Excuse me?”

“You said ‘he.' ‘He' framed Shane. Why couldn't it be a she? Hell hath no fury like, that sort of thing.”

Boss lady nods agreeably. “I stand corrected. He or she. Either is plausible, assuming that whoever has done this has attained a position of power, enabling them to orchestrate or take advantage. Mrs. Mancero doesn't seem to have that much power at first glance.” Naomi pauses, gives me a thoughtful look. “It might be useful if you make a list of what we know and what we don't.”

I'm still in a mood, and therefore resist. “
We can't know what we don't know.
Quoting the great philosopher Donald Rumsfeld.”

“Not even slightly true,” Naomi says, amused. “I've just pointed out a couple of things we don't know. There
are many more, and they're all pertinent to the case and may help clear the way to a solution. Right and left columns, please.”

“You're serious.”

This warrants a stern look. “When am I not?”

True enough. Fully aware there is merit to her suggestion, I begin to lay out the knowns and unknowns.

KNOWN

UNKNOWN

Very discouraging. Listed like this it makes it look like we don't know much of anything worth knowing, but that can't be true, can it? Surely it matters that we've identified the mystery woman, that we're virtually certain Randall Shane has been framed by powerful enemies, that the boy is alive, that…wait, hold on.

Going back to the boy, five-year-old Joey, my pencil hesitates over his name like a nervous dowsing rod. Alive? Do we know that? We know he was alive when the video was shot, but that was before the professor was executed in his own home. At which point everything changed, did it not? With the father dead, is there any reason to keep the boy alive? Whatever leverage the child may have represented, surely that no longer applies. Would he not be expendable?

Taking my shorthand pad, I quick-walk back to the command center, drop it on Naomi's desk. Busy at the phone, she barely gives me a glance.

“Alive or dead, your call.”

She looks up, cups her hand to the phone. “Alice?”

“Joey Keener, age five. Which column? Alive or dead?”

Naomi hangs up with a crisp “I'll get back to you.” She glances at the shorthand notebook, which I'm ninety percent sure she can't decipher, and leans back in her seat, signaling me to continue.

I say, “Whoever took the boy had a reason. To pry secrets out of his father, to make him cooperate, whatever. Didn't that reason end when Keener died?”

“Quite possibly, but we knew that. We've known it all along. Nothing has changed.” Naomi's expression remains maddeningly neutral, as if the subject under discussion is purely theoretical. “Not an hour ago, when we were discussing recent developments I said, ‘if he still lives,' in reference to the boy. Odds for his survival can't be calculated. He is either in one state or the other, alive or dead, and speculation on our part will have no effect on his survival. True, we have not yet established a scenario in which it makes logical sense for the abductors to keep the boy alive. Also true, we do not know the precise motivations for kidnapping the child in the first place, therefore our predictive results may be flawed. And the third truth, the one I suggest you cling to, is that Randall Shane believes the boy is alive. Those were among his very first words, upon regaining consciousness.”

“But the poor man had been
drugged out of his mind,
” I say, voice rising. “He'd been beaten by experts. He thinks they
bored into his skull
with a power drill and
cut out part of his brain!
”

“Nevertheless,” Naomi says, exuding patience, “everything we've learned about Randall Shane indicates that saving children is at the core of what keeps him alive. Even damaged, having survived the cruelest form
of torture, he believes at the very center of his being that the boy survives. Further, we have established that he refuses to accept truly hopeless cases because he understands that peering into the abyss of endless grief is, for him, particularly dangerous. Therefore his certainty about the child is based on something solid, something real, some knowledge he has about the case that we've not yet been able to discern, and which he has not yet been able to communicate.”

“But you just said—”

“I know what I said,” she says, cutting me off. “And I know what Shane said. Forget the odds. Forget logic. This isn't a quantum calculation. This is human hope, a form of energy that doesn't conform to rules, or laws of nature.”

“So you're saying, assume the boy is alive and go from there.”

She nods. “Trust Shane. Avoid the abyss.”

D
ane finally shows up just before dinner, looking all flushed and claiming she can't stay for the meal (main course: broiled filet of wahoo) much to her regret. Not that she actually seems to be experiencing regret. Quite the opposite. It seems there's this newbie attorney who just started working for the Middlesex District Attorney's Office, and she and Dane think they have a lot in common, a possibility that simply has to be explored over an intimate dinner at Aujourd'hui, scheduled to begin in less than an hour, and Dane still needs to shower and change.

“We're not even a little bit interested in your social life,” Naomi says, speaking for herself alone. “If you've left Shane unattended and are deigning to make a pit stop here, you must have something to relate. Please do so.”

You've probably guessed as much, but Naomi hates last-minute dinner cancellations. She's also not keen on Dane's self-acknowledged promiscuity, although she's never said so, not in so many words. But it's out there, her disapproval, and remains an interesting point of contention between two extremely willful and confident people.

Hands on her petite hips, Dane gives Naomi a look. “My, my,” she says. “I'll bet your ancestors came over on the
Mayflower
. Being such Puritans.”

“I think you mean Pilgrims.”

“I know what I said. Puritans, the stuffy, stuck-up, disapproving kind who probably had sex fully clothed, if at all.”

“So you're here to discuss sex?” Naomi says, ignoring the taunt.

“I came to discuss the arrangement I just finalized with Tommy Costello. You know, the D.A. who has been threatening to have Randall Shane thrown in a cell with actual criminals?”

“Fine,” says Naomi with a small smile. “You're forgiven for skipping dinner, okay? Please give us the details. Alice will take notes.”

Dane plops into one of the little decorative chairs that line the hallway—chairs much too narrow for the average human derriere—and gives us the gist of it.

“It's a big profile case, founder of QuantaGate murdered in his own home, so naturally Tommy wants to make the most of it. In case you didn't know, he's planning a run for governor. Anyhow, we've been fencing over this—he's all parry and no thrust, is Tommy Boy—and he finally came around to seeing it my way. Our way. That there's a possibility it will all blow up in his face—the whole covert security angle, Shane being framed and so on—and that he therefore needs to be careful, which means not sticking Randall Shane, a certified hero, into the Middlesex County holding cells without bail. How would it look, if he eventually is proven innocent, if the man who saved untold numbers of children gets stuck with a shiv by some low-life child molester, which they happen to have a surfeit of at the moment, at the Mid
dlesex, awaiting trial? Disaster, right? So he signed off, did Tommy. Randall Shane remains under the care of his doctors, in a very comfy room at MG—we agreed on the little suite with the fireplace, the one reserved for VIPs—and we'll agree to post a bond in case he attempts to escape. In addition Shane will have access to his full legal team, which means anyone I care to designate, including investigators, which means everybody. So how's that for a good deal? Deserving of a night on the town to celebrate or what?”

“Well done,” Naomi says. “What kind of bond?”

“Nothing special.” Dane pauses. “A million bucks.”

“The fee on a million-dollar bond is a hundred grand, nonrefundable. You agreed to that?”

A firm headshake. “No, I did not. This isn't a bail bond because he isn't being bailed, and therefore the normal fees do not apply. This is a kind of surety bond.”

“What kind, specifically?”

“The kind between three parties—Shane, us and the County of Middlesex. We're the surety party and therefore no bondsman is involved. It only kicks in if Shane escapes custody.”

“You're telling me that as the surety party we'd be responsible for the entire bond. One million dollars.”

Dane shrugs. “That was the deal. I took it. Is there a problem?”

“You might have called,” Naomi points out, with all the warmth of an iceberg eyeing up a passing cruise ship.

“It just happened within the last fifteen minutes!” Dane says, clearly exasperated. “I repeat, is there a problem? Because I already signed off, and if we need to rescind I'll have to call Tommy, like, right now.”

“You signed in your capacity as legal representative of the corporate entity that funds this enterprise?”

Dane nods. “Yup, I did.”

“That should be okay,” Naomi says, relenting. “You'll regret missing the wahoo.”

Dane pops up from the chair, grinning. “I have no intention of missing the ‘wahoo!' part. It'll just come later, after dessert, and maybe a little cognac. If I get lucky, that—”

“Your business,” Naomi interjects, primly.

Flashing me a conspiratorial grin, Dane makes a dash for the door.

At the appointed hour, 7:00 p.m. precisely, having donned a lovely pair of silver wire earrings, Naomi reappears, accompanied by this evening's guest, a slight, distracted-looking young man with myopic, bespectacled eyes, distinctly watery with either a lack of sleep or from the effects of allergies, or both. The guest has long shoulder-length hair, and is dressed perfunctorily in an ill-fitting suit that could have come from the back rack of the local Goodwill and probably did, quite recently. Clean enough—the suit—but a little long in the leg, so that the trouser cuffs bunch over what are obviously a pair of worn but comfortable sneakers.

Sneakers! At one of Mrs. Beasley's formal dinners. The very idea makes me giddy.

“Allow me to present Sherman Elliot,” Naomi says, leading him to his seat at the table. “Mr. Elliot is, or was, one of Professor Keener's graduate students.”

She looks around the table, as if to discourage any possible comment or reaction to the guest's lack of sartorial elegance. It should be noted that for the first month or so in residence, Teddy exhibited a similar resistance to donning proper dinner attire, refusing to knot his tie and so on, and once appeared in shorts and sandals. Only once. Any sort of hairstyle is deemed acceptable at the Nantz table, as are facial tattoos and piercings, but house rules require jacket and tie for males, evening dress for females and what Naomi calls “dress-up shoes” for both genders. My guess is, she somehow wrestled Elliot into a hastily obtained suit, but failed to persuade him to relinquish the sneakers.

When we're all seated, and the first wine course has been poured, boss lady makes an announcement. “Alice has your reports, and the events of the day have been duly noted. We won't be discussing any specifics of the case over dinner, in deference to our special guest.”

We mutter assent. Obviously we don't share the details of any case with any guest not specifically employed—and therefore vetted—by Naomi Nantz. This young gentleman has not only not been vetted, he apparently has an aversion to showers and shampoo, if the dandruff dust on his narrow shoulders is any indication.

All such derogatory and no doubt unfair thoughts vanish as soon as the kid opens his mouth. A character reevaluation is in order: Sherman has the deep, resonant voice of an old-time radio broadcaster, and that kind of confidence in his speaking ability.

“Allow me to apologize,” he begins. “I've spent the last four days sleeping on a friend's couch in a damp
basement. With a large German shepherd named Adolph. I left my own apartment without a change of clothes, or my own phone, and the term ‘sleep' is an exaggeration because I haven't really slept, not since Professor Keener died.
Was killed
is the more accurate term, I suppose, because I wouldn't have had to run away if he'd just, you know, died of natural causes.”

Sherman pauses to take a sip of his wine. Unlike his voice, his smile is shy, unassuming.

“No doubt you'll think I'm being paranoid—I think that myself, when I'm not being afraid—but Professor Keener warned me about them, the men who were out to get him, and once I saw them, I knew he was speaking the truth.”

“And what men would those be?” Naomi asks, by way of prompting him.

“The men who came through the lab the morning he was killed.”

“The lab at QuantaGate?” Jack asks.

“No, at MIT. Keener's teaching lab. Where he keeps the electron gun.”

“Electron gun? Is that a weapon?”

Sherman smiles a little sadly. “I wish. No, Professor Keener used it in his lectures. There's nothing special about an electron gun, anyone can buy one. Any school, I mean, they're pretty expensive. The lab is where we keep all of the toys. The electron gun, a couple of lasers and the single-photon generators. It's all gone. They took everything. He told me they'd be coming but I didn't believe him.”

“Who came, Sherman, can you give us a description?”

He shrugs. “Dudes in uniform. Security guards from his company, they showed up after hours, when nobody was around but me. They marched into the lab and took
everything there. Papers, files, personal computers. Seized for evidence, they said. They packed everything in boxes and took it away. And then one of them, this dude who acted like it was all very amusing, he comes up to me in the lab and he says they'll be wanting to ask me a few questions, and that I'd better tell the truth or I'd end up in Gitmo, and nobody would ever know I was there. And I said I thought Gitmo was closed and he just laughed. That's what really scared me, the way he laughed.”

“A security detail from QuantaGate,” Naomi tells us. “I checked with the university and also with Quanta Gate. Gama Guards security detail was dispatched to seize all computers and equipment associated with Keener's research. Evidence was sealed and placed in the secure labs at QuantaGate, where it remains. Nobody is disputing Mr. Elliot's version of events, except for the part about threatening him with rendition, which they say must have been a misunderstanding.”

“Not the FBI,” Jack says. “This was initiated by the company itself?”

Naomi nods. “Apparently by instruction of the Department of Defense. That's yet to be confirmed, but it sounds right. They'd have been concerned the professor might have brought sensitive materials from the company lab to the university, and wanted to round it all up and keep it in one place, under lock and key.”

“Standard procedure, more or less,” Jack says. “Except I would have expected the FBI to be tasked, not corporate rent-a-cops.”

Sherman pipes up in his resonant voice. “That's who he was afraid of, the professor. He said his own company was spying on him, that they didn't believe him.”

“This is the interesting part,” says Naomi. “Go ahead. Tell us what he said.”

“They didn't believe him about the research. That he'd got it wrong. It was never going to work, you see, because there's no practical application for the theory, that's what he discovered. Not now and maybe not ever.”

Jack puts down his glass of wine, a look of surprise passing over his handsome face. “You're saying that whatever QuantaGate is trying to make for the Defense Department, it isn't working?”

Sherman Elliot nods eagerly. “Exactly,” he says. “Professor Keener managed to pull off an experimental version in the lab, using paired photons over a long distance, but when it comes to a full stream of gated photons, which is what you need for real communication, there's just no way. The method has an inherent flaw that simply can't be overcome, without changing the laws of physics, and no one can do that, not even Joseph Keener.”

Jack puts up a hand, as if stopping traffic. “Hold on there, son. If you're about to divulge secret information, we'd rather you didn't. We're not in the spy business here.”

Young Sherman smiles for the first time in our company, and it's a rather splendid smile. Handsome, almost. “No worries, mate. Isn't that what the Aussies say? Look, I'm a grad student at a university lab. I never worked for QuantaGate, I don't have security clearance and everything I'm telling you has already been published. It's out there. Except the part about it not working. Is that a top secret, if something doesn't work?”

“Actually, it might be,” Jack says. “You already know about this part, right, Naomi?”

“I do,” she says. “The information is not confined to Mr. Elliot. It's been a matter of open speculation on
various scientific forums, dating back several months. Go ahead, Mr. Elliot, explain. As if you're teaching not-very-bright students.”

“Really? Okay. Let me see. You guys know about binary computer language, right? Ones and zeros? When you boil it down to the basics, that's how all software is written, in a string of ones and zeros. Dots and dashes is another way to think about it. No matter how complicated the message, it can be translated into dots and dashes, like in Morse code. Anyhow, the professor had this idea for a practical application, using quantum dots, a particular type of photon. That probably sounds complicated, but really it isn't, not in concept. The laws of quantum physics predict that two photons that have interacted together are somehow bonded forever, by a phenomenon known as ‘entanglement.' That means that if you observe one of the paired photons, the other photon will collapse into the same state as the first, no matter how far away it is.”

“Totally lost,” Jack says. “What's a photon again? Is it like a little flashlight?”

Sherman begins to giggle. A deep giggle, but a giggle just the same. “Sure, why not?” he says. “Like a very small flashlight. The smallest flashlight that can possibly exist. A single quantum of light. Look, you don't have to understand that part, all you have to know is that Keener's Theorem predicts a way to use a stream of entangled photons to communicate over a long distance, without resorting to fiber optic cables, or satellites, or radio waves. According to the theorem, if you typed a message into a quantum computer here in this room, the identical message would appear in an identical quantum computer, a ‘paired' computer, on the other side of the world. Or the other side of the universe, for that matter.
In real time. There would be no possible way to intercept the message. No need for encoded messages or firewalls. Perfect, instantaneous communication that can never be hacked.”