Measure of Darkness (2 page)

T
he first time I ever laid eyes on Naomi Nantz she had a bad toothache. I was the office manager for an association of dentists in Cambridge and she came in as an emergency appointment. Barely got through the door before fainting from the pain. By which I mean she stated her name and then her eyes rolled up and she dropped to the floor. Apparently she'd been ignoring a deep abscess in a lower left premolar for a couple of weeks, due to being involved in a case, and finally her body said that's enough, we're turning off the lights. That's how Dr. Pavi, our really excellent oral surgeon, explained the situation when she regained consciousness. Then he ever so gently put her back under, did whatever he needed to do, successfully and with a minimum of fuss. From then on Naomi Nantz was one of our loyal patients. Came in every three months for a deep cleaning and, because she misses nothing, apparently took notice of how I managed the office. One time her appointment coincided with me having red eyes from days (and nights) of crying and she asked what was wrong and for some reason I told her, which was strictly against the office rules (written by me) of sharing personal or family troubles with patients
(we were there to serve, not kvetch), and Naomi said she'd see what she could do, and I said my husband has vanished and my savings account is empty, what can you possibly do?

She'd smiled and said, let me get back to you.

Two days later she called me into the Back Bay residence—sent a driver for me, actually—had me take a seat and then proceeded to explain, very calmly and deliberately, that my husband wasn't the man I thought he was, and for that matter my marriage had never been legal. The man I knew as Robinson “Robbie” Reynolds was in reality a handsome, charismatic con artist born William J. Crockett—“Wedding Willy” to the bunco squads—who wooed and married two or three victims at a time, then drained their assets. My assets had been a personal savings account (fairly substantial because I'm very careful with money and always keep to a budget) and my parents' four-bedroom home in Newton, which I'd been managing as a rental since Mom died, the income being split between my sister and me. Somehow or other Robbie had got my signature on a legal document and he'd sold the big house in Newton, as well as our small but very comfortable condo in Arlington, cleared the bank accounts and then vanished. Leaving me more or less homeless and with my sister ready to kill me because she'd “always known Robbie was bad news,” although I'd never noticed that, what with her giggly jokes that were variations on “if you ever get sick of my little sister, you know where to find me!” Can't blame her, really, Robbie was irresistible. I'm the living proof.

Anyhow, Naomi saw to it that he'd been arrested in Toronto on a similar charge—yet another “marriage”—where he's currently serving time and supposedly writ
ing a book about his exploits. None of the money was ever recovered because aside from his habit of proposing to foolish females who had a few bucks socked away, Robbie liked to trade on the currency markets, highly leveraged, and he lost every penny.

So, that's my sad little story, and the upshot is that Naomi offered me a job managing
her
office, at twice the salary and double the benefits, and that's how I happened to find myself face to the floor, and boss lady somewhere above me demanding, “Show us the warrant! Where's the paper?”

During and after the snatch-and-grab of Randall Shane, Naomi Nantz is highly indignant, demanding legal justification for the home invasion. None is forthcoming, because no one on the assault squad ever says a word. They simply do not respond. Not a word. Not to Naomi, not to anyone. That kind of black-masked silence is truly scary, in a way much scarier than the invasion itself.

The only good thing about the whole awful mess is that it's over in less than two minutes. They break in through the windows, seize our client and seemingly vanish into thin air, back out the same way they came in. By the time we call Beacon Hill Security and tell them not to bother sending a car, the crisis is already over.

As the security alarms cease whooping, I get up from the floor, still shaking. “Where'd they go? For that matter, where'd they come from?”

When Jack Delancey finally speaks—not a peep of protest out of him during the snatch, and no show of resistance—he says, tersely, “Had to be stealth helicopters. No other explanation.”

Naomi grunts, as if she hates the very idea.

“Hey! What happened?”

Standing in the doorway, looking as befuddled as a child, is our resident computer genius, Teddy Boyle, his ungelled Mohawk sadly drooping. Apparently he fell asleep wearing headphones and consequently didn't hear a thing.

“Sorry I missed all the fun,” he says, convincing no one.

Mrs. Beasley, coming up to see what set off the alarms, glances at the wreckage of the command center, shakes her head and issues a command of her own. “Tea and scones, kitchen table.”

Like obedient children we all follow her down to the kitchen.

 

When angry I tend to raise my voice. Naomi gets all quiet and focused. Gave me chills at first, watching her cool down over a case. Wouldn't want to be the object of her wrath, because she never, ever gives up. If she fails, and supposedly it has happened now and then—not on my watch, not so far—it's usually because the bad guy has already died, taking essential secrets to his grave. “His” because most of our cases involve males, from my experience, although boss lady has no problem going after female criminals whenever they make the mistake of crossing her path.

Utterly calm, she begins to lay out assignments while we dutifully sip Beasley's perfectly brewed tea and munch on her crumbly, jam-smeared scones. “Jack, everything you know. In order, please.”

Our chief investigator takes a moment, gathering his thoughts. “I was awakened by a phone call at 6:15 a.m. Shane needs my help, can I meet him in Kendall Square? There was the usual early-commuter traffic, so by the time I found him it was 7:10.”

“This was at the crime scene?”

Jack shakes his head. “No. Shane had fled the crime scene. His client, the professor, lives somewhere in Cambridge, not far from MIT.”

Naomi nods, and subtly checks to be sure I'm taking notes, which of course I am. “Joey Keener, the missing child. Any idea how old he is?”

Jack shrugs. “I think Shane said he was five. I'll confirm when I get the murder location from Cambridge P.D.”

“Your friend Shane thinks he's being framed by a ‘covert agency,' possibly part of the Department of Defense or the Department of Homeland Security. Apparently having to do with the fact that his client was working on a top-secret project. Did he give you any hint what that project was about?”

“No. He just said the guy was a genius. Not what he was working on.”

“What made him suspect he was being framed?”

“His gun was missing.”

“Ah,” she says, pursing her lips as she registers the information. “A missing gun. That explains his suspicion about being framed, perhaps, but not why he believes a government agency is responsible.”

Again with the uncomfortable shrug from Jack. He loathes being asked to speculate when he's unsure of the facts. “There wasn't a lot of time for conversation. Shane said words to the effect of his client was a genius—something to do with physics, I think—and somebody must have wanted to shut him up.” Jack clears his throat, meets her eyes. “I'll know a lot more in a couple of hours. After I've got background on the murder and the missing kid.”

Naomi studies him. “In other words you've got more
but you'd rather not share it until you've collected pertinent data, confirming your suspicions.” He nods.

“Fine, we'll get your full report this evening. Plenty for us to do in the meantime.”

Jack gives her a tight smile, thanks Beasley and exits the kitchen, snapping open his cell phone as he goes.

Naomi turns to our young hacker, who looks sleepy no longer. Looking, for that matter, more than a little shell-shocked by what has so suddenly transpired, and having barely touched his scone, much to our chef's clucking disapproval. Six months ago young Mr. Boyle was operating out of a Newbury Street coffeehouse, hacking for cash and sleeping in shelters and all-night cybercafés. All he owned in the world was a battered, customized laptop and the clothes on his back. Oh, and various body piercings of dubious quality, at least one of which looked like an ordinary paper clip hanging from his lower lip. Despite that, or maybe because of it, Naomi had taken notice. She tried him on a fairly easy assignment, and then a more difficult case that involved bending a truly frightening number of laws, and then one day she'd announced that the scruffy teenage hacker would be joining the household on a permanent basis. It was rough for a while—despite his innate politeness, the boy has a feral quality and hates to be confined—but just lately he seems to be acclimating, even blooming under her tutelage. Today his wrinkled black T-shirt says it all: LIFE IS A BITCH—I KNOW BECAUSE I WORK FOR HER. A gift from Naomi, who is not without a sense of humor.

“Teddy, I want to know everything there is to know about Randall Shane, his alleged victim, Joseph Keener, and the son, Joey. Public, private, personal, professional.
Shane is a legendary kid finder and has worked a number of high-profile cases, so there will be a lot of hits. The juicy stuff will likely be in secure files, and that means take precautions.”

When Teddy rolls his eyes, Naomi hones in with a certain tone. “Young man, I'm aware you take pride in your ability to access data and remain undetected. Pride is good, and you're a valued member of this team because of your talent and your tenacity. But given what just happened here—a man was snatched from this very house by persons unknown, in broad daylight, with clockwork efficiency—a little paranoia is more than justified. We don't yet know who we're dealing with, but make no mistake, there will be people with your skill set on the other side. If you get careless or arrogant or overconfident you could be the next one seized by men in ski masks. Is that understood?”

Teddy nods, looking just a little skinnier and even more tightly wound.

Naomi drains her cup and stands up. “Beasley, you're on standby. No formal lunch today. Sandwiches on request to the library, which will serve as a temporary command center.” She turns to me. “Alice, make arrangements for repairs, completed by end of day if possible. Or, failing that, closed to the weather. And deal with the cops.”

“What cops?”

“The ones who will soon be at the front entrance, wanting to know what happened.”

“What shall I tell them?”

“Whatever you like,” she says. “Just keep them out of my hair and out of my house.”

Right on cue, the doorbell rings, followed shortly thereafter by the pounding of a fist.

“A
movie, huh?” the young patrolwoman says. “So where are they?”

“It was just the one scene. They needed the exterior shot.”

“The witness report said helicopter, unmarked, low altitude. Men swarming down ropes. Some kind of assault type of situation.”

“Stuntmen. Fortunately no one was hurt, and they're paying for the repairs. Part of the contract.”

The patrolwoman makes a note, looks at me doubtfully. “There's nothing about a film permit for this block.”

“Not my department. Up to the movie people.”

“You got a name for the production company?”

“Not me. The property manager might.”

“Name and number?”

I hand her our attorney's card. A perfect endless loop, as the young patrolwoman will discover, if she bothers to follow up. Doubtful, since we're not filing a complaint.

“There's glass all over the sidewalk,” she points out.

“I'll get my broom.”

More notes. The cop gives me a long look, as if trying
to decide if I'm fronting for some criminal activity even now taking place inside the residence. “Must charge a lot, a place like this, to let 'em bust your windows.”

“Again, not my department. But I assume it was a generous offer.”

“What is your department, Ms. Crane?”

“Alice. I'm the caretaker.”

“Uh-huh. Is the owner in residence?”

“As I understand it, the property is owned by a real estate holding company.”

“So this is like, what, an investment kind of deal?”

“Apparently. As I say, I'm only the—”

“Caretaker. Yeah, I got it.” The notebook snaps shut. “We're done. Have a nice day. My advice, take care of the glass. This city, somebody'll sue ya.”

“Thanks, Officer.”

All of the above is conducted on the sidewalk, below the entrance, which rises seven steps from the pavement. Naomi's rules forbid law enforcement officers from entering the premises unless invited. She calls it the vampire rule. Plenty of cops have been invited, over the years, and a chosen few have stayed for dinner, but this is the first full-scale invasion without a warrant. And it wasn't cops this time, not exactly. And maybe not even slightly. More like a paramilitary mission executed with stopwatch precision.

Next task, fix the building. We have a standing arrangement with Danny Bechst. You've probably seen his vans around town, with the Bechst of Boston logo wrapped around the vehicles. The deal is, when we call Danny he drops everything and works the problem until it is completed, around the clock if necessary. For this he gets a very handsome annual retainer plus double the normal hourly rate, so Danny Boy
loves
it when we call.
Included in the compensation package is an understanding that all work be conducted with the utmost regard to privacy and security. His men, and they're all men except for a couple of females on his interior painting crew, are not to stray unchaperoned anywhere on the premises. As far as Danny's crew are aware, the owner is a rich eccentric who treasures her privacy, only the last of which happens to be true, technically. It helps that most of his guys don't speak English and wouldn't know who Naomi Nantz is if they tripped over her, which Danny makes sure they don't. Trip over her, that is.

I punch Danny's number and in less than an hour a couple of his men, working from the outside, have screwed temporary plywood panels to the broken windows, and Danny himself is inside the command center taking measurements.

“No problem,” he promises. “End of day it'll look like new, only better.”

 

There are a few more things you need to know about boss lady before we can proceed. What I said about how she treasures her privacy, believe me, that's understating. When Naomi Nantz calls herself a “Very Private Investigator” she's not kidding, and she'll do almost anything to keep it that way. Also true, that she's neither rich nor eccentric. Brilliant and difficult is not the same as eccentric. Eccentric is dressing your pets in period costumes; brilliant and difficult means you know exactly how to go about saving an innocent life and/or bringing the guilty to justice, and you don't much care who might get offended or insulted along the way.

The assumption that she must be rich, to live in such a place and undertake cases of her choosing, regardless of recompense, is understandable, but mistaken. I'm in
charge of the operating budget, paying the staff and so on, and I happen to know that she draws a salary like everyone else. Okay, more than everyone else, but still. Nor was I fibbing about the residence being owned by some sort of holding company, and legally managed through a law firm. So it is. As to who is really paying the bills and underwriting the whole enterprise—we call him (or it could be a her) the Benefactor—only Naomi knows the truth of the matter. Or so we all assume. When something extraordinary happens, she's the one who makes contact, so she must know who it is, right?

As to the woman herself, for the past three years I've been working closely with her on a daily basis, and yet I know nothing for certain about her personal history, her family or how she came to be here, doing what she does. I'm not even sure if Naomi Nantz is her birth name. Boss lady is pretty much off grid and I'm inclined to respect that choice.

Up to a point.

With the repairs sorted out, I head down the hall to the library, a large room with tall built-in bookcases on three walls. There's one corner window where if I stand on my tippy-toes I can just glimpse the Charles River. Other than the roof deck and Beasley's kitchen, this is my favorite place in the residence, mostly because it's so rarely used that I usually have it to myself. Not today. Naomi has taken possession of the leather-covered magazine table, setting up a laptop, a broadband phone with a couple of open lines and a secure line hardwired into a satellite phone antenna. I let her know where we stand, cop-wise and repair-wise, and she motions to a rail-back chair as she finishes her call.

“You'll be writing up your notes for the daily meeting, of course.”

“Of course. That's why you pay me the big bucks.”

“Probably don't have a lot to write up, just yet.”

“Not just yet. There'll be a lot more when Jack and Teddy report.”

Naomi nods to herself, musing, and I can almost hear her brain humming as she shifts through scenarios and alternatives. “This is a bit delicate, but there's something we need to keep in mind.” She hesitates.

“Shoot,” I urge her. “I'm a big girl, I can take it.”

“My concern is with Jack Delancey. He'll be our main investigator on this case—he expects no less—but the circumstances are such that he may be compromised.”

“Excuse me?”

“Friendship can do that. He and Shane go way back, and Jack holds him in the highest regard. Clearly he can't bring himself to consider the possibility that Randall Shane might be playing us.”

“Wait. You really think he killed this professor guy?”

“I've no idea, but I'm keeping an open mind. The facts must lead us, not our hearts.”

“So why aren't you telling this to Jack instead of me?”

Naomi grimaces slightly, as if made uneasy by what she's about to say. “Because I want you to keep your eyes open. If you think Jack misses something crucial, whether accidentally or on purpose, you will report to me.”

I'm astonished. “You want me to rat out Jack Delancey?”

“An unfortunate phrase. But yes, if the situation warrants it, that's exactly what I expect.”