Measure of Darkness (8 page)

T
he first time I saw Naomi destroy one of her beautiful watercolors, I screamed for her to stop. She gave me a look as flat as Death Valley and kept slowly and methodically shredding the damp paper.

“Get used to it,” she said.

Three years, close to a thousand attempts at perfection, and I'm still not used to it.

Here's the deal. Almost every day at 3:00 p.m., boss lady goes to the ground-floor solarium, which has the requisite northern lighting, and arranges a still life on a small table kept there for that purpose. Could be cut flowers, or an antique cream pitcher, or a found object, or all three. When she has the arrangement just so, she tapes a heavy, pre-cut sheet of Arches watercolor paper on to a small, horizontally-tilted drawing table. She selects her brushes and colors. She takes a deep breath and does some sort of Zen thing that involves closing her eyes and holding her hands out, palms up. Then she sets a timer for thirty minutes and gets to work. First a quick pencil sketch. That never takes more than a minute or two. Then she wets her brushes and begins. Sometimes the mistake happens right away, in the first pass
of the brush. More often the timer will ding and she'll step back, look at the still-life arrangement, glance at her painted version—almost always lovely, in my opinion—and then calmly peel it away from the drawing board, tear it into strips and feed the pieces into a paper shredder.

Zzzt, zzzt, zzzt.
It's gotten to be a sound that makes my teeth hurt.

Today is no different, except that the arrangement involves a folding carpenter's ruler, a combination square and a brass bevel, donated to the cause by Danny Bechst, who once told me, in confidence, that Naomi was like van Gogh, except better looking and with two ears. Apparently van Gogh wrecked a lot of his paintings, too. A fact you wouldn't expect the average carpenter to know, but in Boston there are no average carpenters. Most of them seem to have Ph.D.'s. Anyhow, Danny isn't as appalled by the daily destruction as I am. Says he understands a quest for perfection and that one of these days when the bell dings, voilà, a flawless masterpiece.

As for Naomi, you'd think that failing on a daily basis would bother her, but she insists that the process is relaxing. Indeed, she always appears to be calm as she methodically destroys her creation. Maybe driving me crazy makes her feel serene. All part of the unwritten job description.

Today the shredder sounds about twenty minutes into the process, cuing me to enter the studio with the latest update on the investigation. Naomi, breaking down the still life, looks up, raises an eyebrow.

“Dane called,” I tell her. “Shuttle delayed out of Reagan National, but they should be wheels down at Logan by five. She has some interesting tidbits about possible evildoers, but nothing solid.”

“Evildoers?”

“Dane does enjoy the evocative phrase.”

“Worth the trip, just to show the flag.”

“Jack's day has been more productive. He interviewed Jonny Bing, the venture capitalist, and formed, he says, ‘an opinion.' Declined to specify what opinion, exactly. Before that he made a quick run up to New Hampshire to talk to the foster care folks about Joseph Keener's childhood. Said he uncovered some ‘facts of interest.' He'll fill us in tonight.”

“Our first formal case dinner,” Naomi says. “I'm looking forward to it. Beasley always outdoes herself.”

“Speaking of which, Jack is relaying a request from the operative who infiltrated QuantaGate. The Invisible Man? His name is Milton Bean and he wants to make his report in person this evening.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Apparently, while some men dream of virgins awaiting them in heaven, or winning the Powerball, Milton Bean dreams of having dinner with Naomi Nantz.”

“Ah.”

“Decision, please, so I can inform Beasley if necessary.”

“He's freelanced for us, what, four times?”

“If you know, and you always do, why do you ask?”

As usual Naomi ignores my wisecracks. “Issue him an invitation. I'm curious to see what the Invisible Man looks like.”

I bow and scrape.

T
eddy, having scanned a folded menu card, sidles up to me and whispers, “‘Beet' carpaccio? ‘Shivered' scallions? Are those typos or what?”

I smile and shake my head. “It's Beasley having fun. But I'm impressed that you even know that carpaccio is usually beef.”

“I know a lot of weird stuff.”

“Indeed. And very useful it proves to be, too.”

This will be our first formal evening meal of the case, therefore a “working dinner” and as is Naomi's habit—she and our supremely gifted chef always consult over the selections—the food will be light but interesting. Hence the playful but undoubtedly delicious opening course; shivered scallions indeed.

Case dinners are usually seated at 7:00 p.m., to allow
plenty of time for informed discussion between courses, and this evening's meal is no exception. The formal dining room is exactly large enough to accommodate a table for eight, a couple of narrow but highly functional sideboards and a pair of simple but elegant Waterford crystal chandeliers gifted to the residence by a satisfied client. There are three high-set windows that have a view of the sky in the winter months, or a heavily leafed beech tree in season, but which ensure street-view privacy when guests are seated at the table. Near the sideboards, an ancient but still functional dumbwaiter brings goodies up from Mrs. Beasley's kitchen. On the northern wall hang stunning reproductions of Naomi's three favorite Sargent watercolors. Stunning not just because of their subject matter—sunlight on dappled walls—but because they look good and true enough to be the originals, although Naomi swears they're not, the Benefactor's generosity notwithstanding.

First to arrive is Jack Delancey, accompanied by his special guest, the operative he sometimes refers to as the Invisible Man. Otherwise known as Mr. Milton Bean. Not invisible this evening, but carefully presented in Brooks Brothers gray slacks and a blue blazer with four brass buttons on each sleeve. Purchased for the occasion under Jack's expert tutelage, if I'm not mistaken. Like bringing a date home to Mother, they both want to make a good impression.

Last in house, our land shark lawyer Dane Porter, who, from the slightly damp look of her scruffed pixie hairdo, barely had time to shower and change after her much delayed flight from Washington.

When we're all assembled, Naomi appears, regal in a dark crimson silk blouse and ankle-length black silk skirt. Leading us into the formal dining room, where two
bottles of the excellent condrieu have already been decanted, she pours generously. When we all have glasses in hand, she proposes a toast:

“To the son of Joseph Keener. May he be recovered alive and well.”

We sip dutifully—oh my God, the wine is fabulous—but boss lady isn't done raising her glass.

“To Randall Shane,” she intones, with a glance at Jack. “May his innocence be proved, if true, and may he be returned to his exemplary life.”

Another careful sip. Mustn't rush a condrieu of this quality. Speaking as one who, prior to my association with Naomi Nantz, thought Trader Joe's wine selection was the height of sophistication, I don't have anything against Charles Shaw, but really, you can't keep a girl swilling Two Buck Chuck once she's tasted the best of Paree. Or Sonoma Valley, for that matter. In matters of the vine I remain a neophyte, easily dazzled, but can't help noticing that the Invisible Man's eyes have gotten very round and large.

“Wow,” he says.

“Mr. Bean, welcome.”

The bland gentleman dips his unremarkable head. “Honored, ma'am.”

“‘Ma'am' is the queen of England. My name is Naomi, and you're welcome to use it.”

“Sorry. Didn't mean to offend. The wine is… I've never had anything quite like it. Amazingly, uh, amazing.”

“Great vineyard, great vintage, perfect temperature,” Naomi purrs. “Now, as to our protocol for case dinners. You're among trusted colleagues who will be sharing privileged information and you are expected to participate, withholding not even the smallest detail. That's how
we do it around here. So please keep that in mind as you enjoy our hospitality. I will call upon you in turn.”

A small rodent might assume an expression something like Mr. Bean's, having discovered his cheese-seeking paw firmly pinned in a trap. He shoots Jack a look that says “help me, please” and is studiously ignored. Having begged for an invitation, the no-longer-invisible man is on his own and will have to suffer the consequences.

“Alice? You go first. Bring us up to speed on Professor Keener's neighborhood.”

My description of the encounter with Toni Jo Nadeau concludes as the first course is being served. Paper-thin golden beets garnished with capers, minced chives and the mouth-intriguing “shivered” scallions. Which according to Beasley are briefly soaked in ice-cold seawater before being tossed into hot olive oil. Imagine if popcorn was tiny little onions, only way, way better.

“Keyboard kid?” Jack says, probing the details of my report. “That was the phrase?”

“That's how Mrs. Nadeau remembers it.”

“And the mother impressed her as being native-born Chinese?”

“Mrs. Nadeau said she spoke very little English, wore what she described as ‘those formal Chinese dresses.' The silk kind with embroidered patterns. Quite old-fashioned, really. Most of the Chinese-American women I see around town wear designer jeans.”

“The supposition being, someone from Hong Kong or mainland China.”

“That was her impression, yes.”

Jack puts down his salad fork, rubs his hand on his jaw. “I don't get it. The guy has a baby out of wedlock, so what? Why the big secret? In this day and age? Unless it has to do with the mother.”

“Go on,” Naomi says.

“I'm just riffing here, but what if the big secret is that she was already married to someone else? The professor has a torrid affair with a married woman, she gets pregnant and lets her husband think the kid is his. Along those lines. Wouldn't be the first time it's happened.”

“Or the ten millionth,” Dane adds knowingly.

Naomi says, “It's a theory, based entirely on supposition, but interesting nonetheless. Are you thinking this could be the spouse of a colleague? A visiting professor?”

“That, or maybe a diplomat's wife…” Jack says. “Stationed at the Boston consulate maybe? That might explain the traditional dress.”

Naomi shakes her head. “There are Chinese consulates in New York, Washington, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco and Houston, but not Boston.”

Jack grins. “Off the top of your head?”

“Just something I know.”

“Okay, so maybe she takes the Amtrak up from New York. Maybe not. I'm not married to the idea she's a diplomat's wife—pun
intended,
by the way—but my gut tells me the mother is key, and could be connected to someone very powerful and/or dangerous. Hence the need for secrecy, and possibly kidnapping. And maybe hence the need to murder.”

“One of the tongs?” Teddy suggests, his voice barely audible.

“Strictly speaking, tongs are American, not Chinese,” Naomi says. “But I take your point. What if the mystery woman is the gun moll of a gang leader? How would that play out?”

“I never said ‘gun moll,' whatever that is,” Teddy objects. “And what do you mean tongs are not Chinese?”

Naomi lapses into her dinner lecture mode. “Not, technically, any more than Italian-American crime syndicates are the same as the Italian Mafia. Tongs are a distinctly Western version of the Tiandihui, the original secret criminal societies in China, today known as triads. First established in San Francisco in the nineteenth century, when many Chinese arrived to labor on the railroads, and began to organize themselves for protection. Still very powerful, but quite staid and old-fashioned as modern gangs go. The tong presence here in Boston has a hand in gambling, extortion and loan shark rackets, but only rarely resorts to murder. The Hong Kong–based triads tend to be more deadly than the American tongs, and from what I hear the local Vietnamese gangs, if not more powerful, are certainly younger, more violent and much more dangerous.”

“So maybe she's Vietnamese,” Teddy insists, a little louder and a lot more stubborn. “Why not? The neighbor is probably not being specific, saying ‘Chinese.'”

Naomi looks pleased. This is the kind of give-and-take that she encourages, and which Teddy hasn't much engaged in until very recently. “Well argued. Regardless of ethnicity or country of origin, the notion of a criminal or gang connection has to be taken into account,” Naomi assures him. “Jack?”

“I'll ask around.”

“Excellent. Tell us about Mr. Bing.”

“Quite the character,” Jack says. “I rather like him. Not at all what I expected.”

Jack would be a great storyteller if he didn't keep reverting to cop speak. Even with the stilted phrases, he paints an intriguing picture of the young venture capitalist luxuriating in splendid isolation on his enormous yacht, explaining his decision to invest in Joseph Keener
as a business opportunity, and as a friend of sorts, in hopes that the victim's understanding of light might one day prove to be immensely profitable.

“My impression is he's telling the truth, mostly. In the sense that he genuinely liked and admired the professor, and has some interesting insights into what made him tick. But he's lying about not knowing about the Chinese girlfriend, and the fact they had a kid.”

“Your gut?”

Jack nods.

“Good enough. So why is Mr. Bing lying? What's his motive?”

“If I had to guess, he may think he's protecting Keener's reputation, or the boy, or both. I'm going to give him a day to think about it, then go back at him.”

While we digest Jack's presentation, Beasley serves the second course, a sliced grilled sausage stuffed with shrimp and mushrooms and various secret ingredients that can't be pried out of her with any sort of bribe, or even the threat of waterboarding. The merest hint of cardamom, obviously, and at least one of us (me) detects black truffle lurking among the shiitake, but beyond that the chef's unsmiling lips are sealed.

“Teddy? Your turn. Please bring us all up to date.”

“Um, there's not really a lot to report yet. With Mr. Bean's help—he placed a memory stick into one of their computers, uploading this really cool program—ah, we established mirrored access to the QuantaGate office computer system. We'll just have to wait until something interesting pops.”

Naomi favors him with an indulgent smile. “Explain mirrored access, for those who might not be familiar.”

Teddy shrugs, as if it's no big deal. “Means we're limited to what people are actively keyboarding in real time.
We can't explore the system or access files—that would set off alarm bells—all we can do is follow keystrokes and mouse clicks from stations in the network, but at least we get all of them. That means, during normal work hours, anywhere between sixteen and twenty keyboards clacking away. A lot more data than can be followed by any single observer. So we're feeding all the entries into a developing database, subdivided into categories of interest. Payroll, accounts receivable, inter-staff memos, gossip threads. Like that.”

“And any category or search term we care to add in the future?”

“Right, sure. No problem.”

“Dane? What's our legal exposure on this?”

Our legal eagle rolls her eyes. “Seriously?”

“Confined to prosecutable infractions.”

“Specifically exposure under the U.S. Criminal Code 1030, ‘Fraud and Related Activity in Connection with Computers'?”

“If you say so.”

Dane looks thoughtful, pursing her pretty, plumped lips like a small, dazzling tropical fish. Say a well-coiffed piranha. “I'd say, very serious exposure. Under subhead 5A, the language concerns harm done by unauthorized access of protected computer. So the key to staying out of jail is to do no harm. On the other hand, subhead 2 makes it illegal to obtain protected information from any department or agency of the United States. A zealous prosecutor might well argue that a private company with a contract from the Department of Defense falls under that umbrella. Basically, criminal liability depends on what you do with information obtained. Pass it on to a foreign agent, you'd be facing charges of espionage and/or treason for sure.”

Naomi nods and turns her head. “Teddy? Do you intend to pass information to a foreign agent?”

“No freakin' way! Plus, what we're looking at in the cyber mirror doesn't include whatever system they have in the actual lab. We're culling data from cubicle workers, not scientists. It's strictly look, don't touch.”

Dane remains mildly skeptical. “Then I suppose cogent arguments could be made in favor of the defendant, should an arrest occur. My humble opinion? If the worst happens, felony conviction remains a real possibility.”

Teddy sits up straight, adding about three inches in height. “You mean I might be a defendant?”

“Always possible, given what we do and who we do it to,” Naomi makes clear.

“Cool.”

“No, not cool. Unless by cool you mean you'll take every precaution to make sure you won't get caught.”

“Absolutely, that's what I mean.”

“This isn't a cybercafé. There will soon be powerful forces arrayed against us, if they're not already in place.”

“I get it,” Teddy says, somewhat petulant.

Before he can be further cautioned, the swordfish swims onto our plates, and for a good ten minutes nobody says a word. A few moans of pleasure, but no actual words.