Chris Jordan - Measure of Darkness

“First, let me state the obvious,” says Naomi, forming a steeple with her elegant fingers. “Two missing persons are the object of our collective concern, three if you count the mother, whose identity and location remain unknown to us. Our primary focus will be upon finding and recovering Joey, the so-called ‘keyboard kid,’ but it is beginning to look as if we’ll have to find Randall Shane first, before we can develop a productive line of inquiry on the child. As to possible motives for Professor Keener’s murder, indications are that he was suspected of espionage. That the mother of the missing boy might be a Chinese national could be crucial. Bear in mind that the Chinese government, working with various Chinese universities not unlike our own MIT, has launched hundreds of cyber attacks in the U.S., including one that triggered a blackout in a major Florida power grid. These assaults are intended to steal our military and industrial secrets, probe our defenses and evaluate how to shut us down if we ever became involved in an active, forces-on-the-ground war with China. Therefore a great deal of emphasis has recently been put on developing new ways to communicate-methods that cannot be compromised or hacked-and we know that Professor Keener has been involved in developing just such a system. That much is public knowledge, and mentioned prominently in the prospectus for QuantaGate.

“Which brings us to the question of who. Who ordered Professor Keener’s execution? Keener may have been killed by someone on our side-it could even be that Randall Shane is guilty-or at the behest of a foreign power, to ensure his silence. Or it may have been personal, or somehow tong related, or both. We are not yet able to rule out any of these possibilities, but I’m confident we’ll do so over the next few days.”

Jack then does the unthinkable. Something remarkable, in fact. Rather vehemently, he interrupts Naomi in the middle of her summation to argue a point. “No way did Shane do it.”

Naomi gives him a cool look. “We won’t argue the point at this time,” she says. “Unlike you, I’m keeping an open mind on the subject.”

Jack opens his mouth to reply, thinks better of it and makes a sign that boss lady should continue.

“Okay,” she says. “As to who seized the suspect-and he does remain a suspect, however much we all may want him to be proved innocent-possible candidates include Central Intelligence Agency, National Security Agency and Defense Intelligence Agency, all of which have assumed extraordinary powers under the Patriot Act. It’s rare that a U.S. citizen be detained under the Patriot Act, but it does happen-and quite possibly more frequently than we know, since the secret court orders are sealed.

“We should bear in mind that there are sixteen named U.S. intelligence agencies, and an unknown number that operate beyond public scrutiny. Plus agencies from any number of foreign governments. Any might be culpable. Or none. A grim reminder that we are in murky, dangerous waters. To my regret, I cannot guarantee the personal safety of anyone associated with our enterprise. Given the obvious danger, if any of you want to resign from this particular case, you have only to ask. No opprobrium attached.”

I break the resultant silence-and the tension-by cracking wise. “Opprobrium?” I say. “Is that a fancy perfume?”

Boss lady ignores me. “Are we all in agreement? We do our best to locate and recover the missing child. If in agreement, please say so. Jack?”

“Yes, agreed.”

“Dane?”

“Against my better judgment, yes.”

“Teddy?”

“Way yes.”

“Mr. Bean?”

“Honored to be included. Yes.”

Saving me for last. “Alice?”

“Where you go, I go. Hell, yes.”

“Good. Settled. And now for the dessert course.”

In communal silence we savor Beasley’s homemade vanilla ice cream with ginger sauce. Hot and cold, sweet and tangy, all in one bite. Imagine the best ice cream you ever had as a child, on an occasion when taste was exalted and joy was pure. Say your tenth birthday.

This is way, way better.

Three steps from the dining room, with the pleasant buzz of ginger still humming in his mouth, Jack Delancey reaches for the cell phone vibrating in his right trouser pocket. An incoming call from Glenn Tolliver, of the Massachusetts State Police. Funny, he was just thinking that the perfect finish to the meal might be a leisurely stroll along Comm Ave while puffing on a short La Gloria. Maybe if Piggy is in town, the better option would be Cigar Masters, with a nice port or cognac.

Jack flips open the phone, effectively wrecking his plans.

“One question,” Tolliver says brusquely, sirens in the background. “Did you happen to drop by Jonny Bing’s boat today? Or his ship or yacht or whatever it is?”

“I did.”

“Good answer. Get down here.”

“The marina? What happened?”

“That’s what you’re going to explain. Pronto, if not sooner.”

“Twenty minutes.”

Some idiot tipped over a box truck on the Southeast Expressway, scattering a few tons of watermelons, so it’s more like forty minutes before Jack eases his boaty Lincoln Town Car into the Quincy Bay Marina visitor’s parking lot. Hard to find a space, what with all the fire trucks and patrol cars. The last flush of late June twilight lingers, so all the flashing lights make for a festive sunset. If he didn’t know better he’d think a traveling carnival had set up along the waterfront, complete with glittering arcs of spray from the fireboats out in the harbor.

The object of all this attention is the Lady Luck . To all outward appearances Bing’s massive yacht is unharmed, but Jack has a pretty good idea this is about more than a false alarm. He finds Glenn Tolliver in uniform, confabbing with plainclothes detectives, state and local. Tolliver catches sight of him and dismisses his troops.

“Hey,” says Jack, trying to sound casual. Captain Tolliver in full regalia is an imposing sight. “What’s with the bag?”

“Never mind my uniform. I want to know everything you know.”

“That’ll take a lifetime.”

“Can the wiseass.”

“Fine. No problem. Is Bing alive or dead?”

“I’m asking the questions. Over there,” he says, jutting his massive chin at a white canvas crime scene tent that’s been staked into the asphalt a few feet from the dock system.

Jack follows him to the tent and sits, as indicated, in one of several folding chairs situated near a portable table equipped with a couple of big coffee urns. Tolliver grabs himself a cup, doesn’t bother offering. Not that Jack, spoiled by the good stuff, has any interest in gray, parboiled caffeine.

Tolliver takes a seat, heaves a sigh. “What a mess,” he says. “I was speaking at a graduation ceremony. Supposed to.”

“Your daughter.”

“My daughter, yeah. Made it through eighth grade. With honors, actually. My ex was there, of course. And I get the call ten minutes before I’m due at the microphone, prepared to drone on about how the future has yet to be made, and how they’ll be making it. Her generation.”

“I thought she was in, like, first grade.”

“She was, seven years ago. Time flies, Jack. They say life is like a roll of toilet paper-the closer you get to the end, the faster it rolls.”

“That’s a lovely image, Glenn. What happened to Bing?”

The big trooper’s smile is thin enough to have been cut with a scalpel. “You first. Your visit with Jonny Bing. Word for word, or as close as you can get.”

“No problem,” says Jack, and begins his recitation.

Fifteen minutes later, Tolliver heaves another sigh. “That’s it?”