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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.
Chapter Three
The Very Private Investigator
“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.”
Chapter Four
The Rest of Forever
Gradually he awakens, becomes aware on some primitive level that is sentient. At first there is no sense of self. He’s no more than an assemblage of pain, nerves firing from various locations on his large body, defining a vague shape. Hands painfully cramped, feet aching, joints smoldering. Something in the middle makes itself known, unpleasantly. A sack of bubbling acid? No, a stomach, seething. At one end, pounding, a brain held like a bruised yolk inside a damaged shell.
He has a name, if only he can find it.
Halfway to forever, the name finally surfaces, drifting lazily around the brain. He claims it, holds it tight. At some point Shane realizes that his eyes are open and the darkness is an actual darkness. His limbs are restrained by something soft and unyielding. He’s strapped down, elaborately, on a padded table. Testing the restraints, he measures his own unnatural weakness and surmises that he’s been heavily drugged, possibly with muscle relaxants. They’ll be watching, whoever “they” are. Darkness being no barrier with the right equipment. He stops struggling and waits, knowing they will come, eventually, and that he must prepare himself.
The rest of forever goes by. As more memories surface he replays recent conversations, examines decisions, finds himself wanting. How could he have been so wrong?
At last, from deep inside the darkness, a voice. “Joseph Keener.”
Behind him somewhere, and then closer, much closer. Close enough to feel the air move in a reedy whisper. “Professor Joseph Keener. What did he know?”
Shane attempts to speak, discovers that his tongue will not respond.
Louder. “What did Joe know?”
Eventually it becomes a kind of chant.
Chapter Five
Free Thought Radicals
At 6:00 p.m. precisely we convene in the library for the first case briefing, which is always a big deal. Naomi is a stickler for being on time, so the protocol is to show up a minute or two early, take your seat and try to sit up straight. Boss lady is never there to begin with; she always makes an entrance, and this evening is no exception. The other notable entrance of the evening belongs to Dane Porter, our attorney. Dane is five foot nothing, but feisty, and has a legal mind that’s the antidote to every blond joke. How many blond lawyers does it take to keep Naomi Nantz and her team out of jail when they overstep the bounds? Exactly one.
“Sorry I missed all the excitement,” Dane says, sauntering in on spike heels that should be registered as weapons. She’s wearing a hand-tailored power suit—wide pinstripes on a dark blue background, trim lapels, a tight-vested waist—and a custom-made handbag given to her by a female hip-hop artist (a famous one, who shall remain nameless here because she likes handguns) who happens to dance to the same music as the lovely lawyer.
“Was it really a helicopter attack? Men on ropes?” she asks Jack, who is busy examining his well-buffed nails.
“That’s affirmative,” he says.
“Alice?” Dane says, flashing me a radiant smile. “Tell me lover boy is joking.”
“Never saw the helicopter,” I say, “but there were definitely men on ropes. With guns.”
“How exciting!”
“Good evening, Counselor,” says Naomi, entering with laptop in hand. She takes the temporary command seat, directly across the table from me.
As usual it will be my job to take meticulous notes in my personal shorthand, in a form known only to myself, and to keep a precise chronology of the ongoing investigation, updated on a daily and sometimes hourly basis. The active case briefings are never, ever electronically recorded for a variety of reasons, legal and otherwise. The idea is to prevent criminals we might be investigating—or interested law enforcement agencies—from hacking into our system and determining what we know at any given moment. It’s not paranoia, because it actually happened on an earlier case, hence the precautions.
“We convene this evening in extraordinary circumstances,” Naomi begins. “A man was kidnapped from this premises by agents unknown, possibly for the purposes of enhanced interrogation. We have as yet no clue as to his whereabouts, his state of health or who, exactly, is holding him. This is intolerable, and tonight we begin the process of finding out what happened and why. Teddy, you’ll present first. Start with the murder victim.”
Teddy’s hands shake slightly as he presses a key on his laptop. An image lights up the screen. “Joseph Vincent Keener,” he announces, gathering confidence. “Age forty-two. Born, Hanover, New Hampshire.”
We’re looking at a head shot of Joseph Keener, wearing an ill-fitting suit and tie. A round, unremarkable face. Heavy black-rimmed glasses and just a hint of jowls, despite a scrawny neck that doesn’t quite fill his shirt collar. High forehead with the beginnings of pattern baldness thinning his light brown hair. His ears stick out, making him look oddly vulnerable. He’s not smiling and was glancing to the side and slightly down when the shutter clicked. Even in a formal head shot with studio lighting he seems to be lost in a world of his own.
There’s a moment of awkward silence. We’re looking at a dead man.
Teddy says, “Keener was a ward of the state—his parents, both talented musicians, died in an accident—and he was raised in a succession of foster homes from infancy. Somehow he managed to get himself enrolled at Caltech, age fifteen, which pretty much says it all. Language skills pretty average, but mathematical concepts and theoretical geometry are off the charts. When Shane called him a genius he wasn’t exaggerating. After Caltech, Joseph Keener came back East to pursue doctoral studies in quantum physics at MIT and was eventually made a full professor. There’s no mention of a marriage, or indeed of any family at all. Professor Keener is widely published, and considered something of a recluse with a possible social interaction deficit, but at MIT that’s not exactly unusual. His lectures are well attended, and despite a shyness that causes him to avert his eyes while in conversation, Professor Keener is able to take questions and lead discussions with his brilliant and often challenging students. That’s a quote, more or less.”
“A quote,” Jack says, puzzled. “Where’d you get it? You didn’t leave the residence, correct? Didn’t interview any associates?”
“There’s a site for student evals.”
