Chapter Fourteen

The Invisible Man Revealed

The 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.

Chapter Fifteen

Mrs. Beasley Presents

yves Cuilleron Condrieu, Les Chaillets 2000

Fresh Beet Carpaccio with Shivered Scallions

Shrimp & Shiitake Sausage

Broiled Swordfish with Potato Dauphin Puree

Honeyed Heart of Endive Salad

Vanilla Ice Cream with Ginger Sauce

Teddy, 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.”