Measure Of Darkness. Chris Jordan
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in the Asian Gallery, not to be confused with the modern, picnic-friendly version located outside in the museum courtyard. According to Jack, who was already here when I came on board, the exact reproduction of the ancient garden was a gift of the Benefactor, who had loved it as a child. That’s his theory—when asked, Naomi manages to be quite vague on how the garden happened to move from the museum to the residence. Vague or not, she frequently seeks a kind of meditation there, although she refuses to use the word.
Relaxing, she calls it. Thinking.
And there she is in her favorite silk kimono, sitting on a stone bench in the lotus position, scratching in the recently raked sand with a long stick. Nocturnal lights of the city shaft through the skylights, softening the shadows. Already I’m feeling a little more relaxed, knowing that boss lady is adhering to routine, finding a pattern.
“Welcome,” she says, not the least surprised to see me wandering the residence at this time of night. “Be seated.”
“Ah,” I sigh, and park my butt on the unforgiving stone. “Have you ever considered cushions?”
“It’s more comfortable cross-legged.”
“Sorry, I don’t pretzel.”
“You need to learn to relax, my dear.”
“I need to know if there’s a missing kid. If there isn’t, I can relax. If there is, I relax by getting to work. Either way, I need the knowing.”
Naomi takes a long, slow inhale, as if savoring the slightly minty air, then exhales slowly, deliberately. “Me, too,” she says. “We’ll know more tomorrow but for now I’m thinking, yes, there is a missing child, based on nothing more than gut instinct.”
“How so?”
“I’ve been going over all the stuff Teddy found on Randall Shane. Shane doesn’t seem to be the type who is easily fooled. Quite the opposite. Plus he’s always been discerning, not to say cold-blooded, about the cases he agrees to work. If he’s not convinced a child is alive, he won’t proceed. Really, it’s the only way to fly. Otherwise you get sucked into the vortex of desperate parents who cling to hope, despite all evidence to the contrary.”
The way she says it makes me think, for a moment, that she’s been there, in the vortex. Then in the darkness she smiles and the certainty dissipates. She’s merely speaking from professional experience. Nobody is as cool and calculated about accepting cases as Naomi Nantz, who I have seen turn down weeping mothers camped out on the doorstep, begging for help. Generally speaking, a case must first be brought to Dane Porter, where it gets rigorously vetted as to merit and the possibility of success. Often there’s nothing to be done, or we can’t improve on what’s already being accomplished through normal law enforcement channels. But every now and then, a glimmer of hope shines through, and that seems to be happening now, based on nothing more than experience and judgment of character.
“I want in on this,” I say. “I want to help.”
“You’re always helpful, Alice. That’s why I hired you.”
“I mean out in the field.”
Her left eyebrow arches slightly. “What did you have in mind?”
“Let me chat with the neighbors. If the professor ever had a kid around, somebody must have noticed. Jack has more than enough ground to cover—this is something I can handle. Just chatting.”
Naomi draws a few more lines with her funny little rake. Looking up to meet my eyes she finally says, “Why not? You don’t look like a typical cop or an investigator and that may prove useful. Just be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Except when you aren’t,” she says with a smile.
There’s no reason at all that our brief conversation should help ease me into sleep, but for some reason it does. That and the sense, mostly unspoken, that if a child is missing, we’ll work the case until the child is found, or the sun goes cold, whichever comes first.
Chapter Eight
The Bad Boys Club
Taylor Gatling, Jr., the young founder and CEO of Gatling Security Group, likes to think that no matter how rich he gets, how much wealth and power he accumulates, a man should still empty his own spittoon. Unpleasant as it might be—and the thing has a vile smell, no question—it’s not a job to be delegated. Even if the man happens to have thousands of employees depending on his every whim, some of whom would no doubt consider it an honor to flush away the boss’s effluents, and scour the antique brass receptacle, and return it with a snappy salute and a brisk “Yes, sir! No problem, sir!”
Nope. He’ll handle the spittoon himself, thank you very much. A leader has to take responsibility for certain unpleasant tasks, something his own father never quite learned. And in this case it means he gets to spend a few moments by himself, out on his boathouse deck in New Castle, New Hampshire, overlooking the deep and roiled waters of the Piscataqua River, racing in the moonlight like a band of undulating mercury. Across the broad tidal river, shadowed and stark on its own few acres of island, rises the concrete carcass of the old Portsmouth Naval Prison, now abandoned, a fairy-tale castle with towers and turrets. Beyond that, the spiky tree line of the farther shore, interrupted by the occasional and very tasteful colonial mansions peeking out at the water from behind ancient guardians of spruce and fir. Elegant yachts moored in the cove, masts tick-tocking as hulls absorb the swell. Gatling smiles to himself when he recalls the real estate agent who handled the sale standing in this very spot and saying, “You can’t buy a view like this.” Pure salesman’s babble, and nonsense, because of course that’s exactly what Gatling was doing, he was buying the view. At the time the original century-old boathouse was falling into the mud, and would take half a million or so to restore to the current state of comfortably rustic, his own personal and very unofficial bad boys club. A luxury shack, lovingly restored, where he and his buds gather late into the night, playing poker, drinking and jubilantly spitting dip into their personally inscribed spittoons.
From inside comes a roar of laughter. A filthy joke has been told and celebrated. Gatling upends the spittoon, dumping the noxious contents into the tidal currents that curl around the deck pilings. No doubt in violation of some law of the current nanny state. No spitting in the river. Lift the seat before peeing. Women allowed everywhere. Not here, though. No wives, no girlfriends. Y chromosomes required, no exceptions.
When he steps into the card room, all eyes meet his. Taylor A. Gatling is the alpha wolf in this particular setting, well aware of his status. Thirty-eight years of age and just recently edged over into the billionaire level. Fit and trim, focused and self-contained, confident of his rarely expressed but deeply felt opinions. This is his place, his party, and the endless ribbing and mutual insults are all part of the camaraderie. The world being what it is, he keeps a security detail outside on the grounds, but here in the boathouse he’s just one of the boys, and he’s careful never to play at being the owner, or to show his cards unless called.
“You in?” asks one of his boys, dealing smartly, snapping the cards.
“Next game. I need a refill.”
He puts down the spittoon to mark his seat—that’s become the tradition—and heads over to the bar. Nothing fancy about it. Just a thick mahogany plank, three feet wide—hewn from a single tree, of course—a few wooden stools, a standard bar cooler for beer, a shelf of liquor displayed against a mirrored backing. Mostly high-end vodkas and some ridiculously overpriced bottles, a few oddly shaped, of single malt Scotch. Gatling pours two fingers of Macallan 18 into a fat-bottomed glass, and is about to return to the table—Jake the Snake is calling five card, jacks or better—when Lee Shipley sidles up the bar, puts a hand on his arm, briefly.
Lee, a retired New Castle cop old enough to be his father, keeps his raspy voice low and says, “Something you should know.”
Gatling sips from the glass. “Lay it on me, Chief,” he says, ready to make