Chris Jordan - Measure of Darkness

“That’s my assumption.”

“But the murder weapon is still out there.”

“So far.”

Naomi announces, “Excellent case briefing.”

To an outside observer she might seem inordinately pleased, considering the subject matter, but that’s the way she rolls. “We’ll assume for now that Shane is alive and being held in some unknown location for purposes of interrogation, pretty much as he predicted. If they’d wanted to kill him they would have done so, rather than go to the trouble of seizing him from this residence. Dane, you’ll work your sources at the Justice Department, see if there’s any scuttlebutt on Randall Shane, or any known involvement by a covert security agency.”

“Whatever this is, it’s buried deeper than deep,” Dane says. “I think a personal appearance is warranted. Show the flag.”

“Agreed,” Naomi says. “Take the shuttle.”

Dane pouts. “I was thinking the Gulfstream.”

Naomi, very firm: “Not warranted.”

“But the Benefactor is always very generous with his-”

“Shuttle. End of discussion.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Dane, crossing her arms across her chest. “Ma’am” being what she calls boss lady when she doesn’t get her way.

Naomi ignores the attorney being spoiled and childish-the Benefactor’s personal Gulfstream is indeed at our disposal, but only for exigent circumstances-and turns to the elder male in our presence, the handsome alpha dog.

“Jack, you’ll turn up whatever you can on additional background on the victim and his theoretical son. And see about infiltrating QuantaGate.”

“Budget considerations?” he asks, looking up from his notebook with a furtive glance at the still-pouting Dane.

“Whoever it takes.”

“Great. I’ll go with the Invisible Man. Assuming he’s available.”

The Invisible Man is an operative Jack has used in the past. None of us have ever seen him. I’m assuming he’s not actually invisible.

“Use whatever operatives you see fit,” Naomi says. “And there may be another line of inquiry worth pursuing. As I recall, QuantaGate was financed by local venture capitalist Jonny Bing. Who I believe is an acquaintance of yours, Dane.”

Dane, startled, bursts out laughing. “You recalled or you Googled?”

“I recall,” Naomi says firmly. “Am I wrong?”

“We partied once or twice a few years ago,” Dane admits. “You remember Sasha? The party planner? When Sash and I were having our little thing, one of her top clients was Jonny Bing. Sash always called him Jonny Bling, which I thought was pretty cute. Of course at the time I thought everything she did and said was cute. Anyhow, Jonny had these amazing parties on his yacht. Looked more like a cruise ship to me, but you know how that goes. For an egocentric billionaire, he’s really kind of cool. Wild sense of humor, and he likes to see that a good time is had by all. If you want, I can call his people, see if he’ll consent to an interview.”

“Absolutely. Do it,” Naomi says. “Are the assignments clear? Dane? Jack? Alice? Yes? Teddy, you will continue to mine data but will steer clear of the Department of Defense. I remind you all that certain agencies within the national security community have been known to run covert operations under the Patriot Act, answerable to basically no one. At this time we’ll continue to keep a low profile with local law enforcement, and allow them to proceed on the murder case unhindered. Our primary task is to determine if the victim has a child, as Shane apparently believed, and if that child is in fact missing, and, if so, to recover the boy alive. Anything else is secondary, including, at the moment, the safe return of Randall Shane-and that’s the way he’d want it, I’m sure. Clear? Good. We’ll reconvene at 7:00 a.m. for the morning brief. Jack, given the early kickoff tomorrow morning, you may want to spend the night at the residence.”

“Only if there’s a chocolate mint under my pillow.”

“Always. Further thoughts, anyone?”

Jack impishly raises his hand. “Comment on ‘Ironic,’ the so-called pop song by Alanis What’s-her-face. A traffic jam when you’re already late is not ironic, it’s maddening or unfortunate. Red Sox beating Baltimore seventeen to ten and Don Orsillo announcing, ‘This is a real pitcher’s battle.’ That’s irony. Case closed.”

Naomi rolls her eyes.

An invitation to meet a source at a certain upscale lounge on Boylston Street means dressing for the occasion. In this case, for Jack Delancey, that means slightly down. He has changed into an off-the-rack JoS. A. Bank blue blazer, one that dry-cleans easily, and a pair of light, cotton twill dress slacks with knife-sharp creases. Top-Sider shoes, ever so slightly scuffed, because the outfit is already kind of boaty, so why not go all the way?

Upon entering the retail area of the cigar store, Jack is waved past the bar and through into the lounge. Not a large venue by any means, but nicely furnished, and one of the few places in the city where a man-or a woman, for that matter-can legally enjoy an alcoholic beverage and a tobacco product at the same time, in a nonfurtive manner. The source awaits him, puffing on a fat Padron Maduro, a snifter of port at his side. He doesn’t bother to rise. “Hey, Jacko. Very sporty.”

Jack adjusts his slacks and takes a seat in a very comfortable leather chair, not far from the fireplace, directly opposite the source. “Captain Tolliver, my pleasure.”

Glenn Tolliver, a captain of detectives with the Massachusetts State Police, chuckles. “If we’re going to be formal, guess I’ll have to address you as Special Asshole in Charge.”

“Special Asshole, Retired. Or resigned. I’m too young to retire, right?”

“You smokin’ tonight, kid?”

“That’s a Padron 1926 you got there? What is it, thirty-five bucks?”

“A little more. Live a little-I already started your tab. The way I figure, if I’m going for the most expensive drink in the joint, I might as well have the most expensive cigar. Especially if my hotshot pal from the private sector is paying.”

“So, how is the port?”

“Excellent. Dow’s 30 Year, Tawny. Maybe when I’m retired or resigned, or whatever it is you are, I’ll be able to afford a place like this. You think your boss would hire me?”

“Wouldn’t count on it.”

“Not as long as she has you, is that it?”

“Something like that.”

Jack decides what the hell, he should be able to expense this somehow, so he orders what Tolliver is having. Soon enough they’re puffing like a couple of locomotives, snug in the luxuriant stink of fine tobacco, and Jack thinks, not for the first time, that sometimes in life you get what you pay for. Which in this case includes a high-ranking detective in the state police. No one has dared call him Piggy (on account of his slightly upturned nose) since his days as a linebacker for Boston College. In his mid-forties now, and somewhat florid of face, Tolliver still has the military bearing of a uniform trooper, and the cool, calculating eyes of a man who has observed the worst of human behavior, from careless murder to child abuse. As is so often the case, his response has been to develop a sense of humor so deep and dark and apparently careless that it can frighten civilians.

“Ah,” says Tolliver, exuding a plume of smoke from the pricey cigar. “Thank God the man got murdered on the left side of the river. If it was Boston we couldn’t touch it. Murder is like real estate: location, location, location.”

“I’m sure the good professor was happy to oblige.”

“Poor bastard. All those brains and they end up all over the floor.”