We sip dutifully—oh my God, the wine is fabulous—but boss lady isn’t done raising her glass.

“To Randall Shane,” she intones, with a glance at Jack. “May his innocence be proved, if true, and may he be returned to his exemplary life.”

Another careful sip. Mustn’t rush a condrieu of this quality. Speaking as one who, prior to my association with Naomi Nantz, thought Trader Joe’s wine selection was the height of sophistication, I don’t have anything against Charles Shaw, but really, you can’t keep a girl swilling Two Buck Chuck once she’s tasted the best of Paree. Or Sonoma Valley, for that matter. In matters of the vine I remain a neophyte, easily dazzled, but can’t help noticing that the Invisible Man’s eyes have gotten very round and large.

“Wow,” he says.

“Mr. Bean, welcome.”

The bland gentleman dips his unremarkable head. “Honored, ma’am.”

“‘Ma’am’ is the queen of England. My name is Naomi, and you’re welcome to use it.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend. The wine is… I’ve never had anything quite like it. Amazingly, uh, amazing.”

“Great vineyard, great vintage, perfect temperature,” Naomi purrs. “Now, as to our protocol for case dinners. You’re among trusted colleagues who will be sharing privileged information and you are expected to participate, withholding not even the smallest detail. That’s how we do it around here. So please keep that in mind as you enjoy our hospitality. I will call upon you in turn.”

A small rodent might assume an expression something like Mr. Bean’s, having discovered his cheese-seeking paw firmly pinned in a trap. He shoots Jack a look that says “help me, please” and is studiously ignored. Having begged for an invitation, the no-longer-invisible man is on his own and will have to suffer the consequences.

“Alice? You go first. Bring us up to speed on Professor Keener’s neighborhood.”

My description of the encounter with Toni Jo Nadeau concludes as the first course is being served. Paper-thin golden beets garnished with capers, minced chives and the mouth-intriguing “shivered” scallions. Which according to Beasley are briefly soaked in ice-cold seawater before being tossed into hot olive oil. Imagine if popcorn was tiny little onions, only way, way better.

“Keyboard kid?” Jack says, probing the details of my report. “That was the phrase?”

“That’s how Mrs. Nadeau remembers it.”

“And the mother impressed her as being native-born Chinese?”

“Mrs. Nadeau said she spoke very little English, wore what she described as ‘those formal Chinese dresses.’ The silk kind with embroidered patterns. Quite old-fashioned, really. Most of the Chinese-American women I see around town wear designer jeans.”

“The supposition being, someone from Hong Kong or mainland China.”

“That was her impression, yes.”

Jack puts down his salad fork, rubs his hand on his jaw. “I don’t get it. The guy has a baby out of wedlock, so what? Why the big secret? In this day and age? Unless it has to do with the mother.”

“Go on,” Naomi says.

“I’m just riffing here, but what if the big secret is that she was already married to someone else? The professor has a torrid affair with a married woman, she gets pregnant and lets her husband think the kid is his. Along those lines. Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.”

“Or the ten millionth,” Dane adds knowingly.

Naomi says, “It’s a theory, based entirely on supposition, but interesting nonetheless. Are you thinking this could be the spouse of a colleague? A visiting professor?”

“That, or maybe a diplomat’s wife…” Jack says. “Stationed at the Boston consulate maybe? That might explain the traditional dress.”

Naomi shakes her head. “There are Chinese consulates in New York, Washington, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco and Houston, but not Boston.”

Jack grins. “Off the top of your head?”

“Just something I know.”

“Okay, so maybe she takes the Amtrak up from New York. Maybe not. I’m not married to the idea she’s a diplomat’s wife—pun intended, by the way—but my gut tells me the mother is key, and could be connected to someone very powerful and/or dangerous. Hence the need for secrecy, and possibly kidnapping. And maybe hence the need to murder.”

“One of the tongs?” Teddy suggests, his voice barely audible.

“Strictly speaking, tongs are American, not Chinese,” Naomi says. “But I take your point. What if the mystery woman is the gun moll of a gang leader? How would that play out?”

“I never said ‘gun moll,’ whatever that is,” Teddy objects. “And what do you mean tongs are not Chinese?”

Naomi lapses into her dinner lecture mode. “Not, technically, any more than Italian-American crime syndicates are the same as the Italian Mafia. Tongs are a distinctly Western version of the Tiandihui, the original secret criminal societies in China, today known as triads. First established in San Francisco in the nineteenth century, when many Chinese arrived to labor on the railroads, and began to organize themselves for protection. Still very powerful, but quite staid and old-fashioned as modern gangs go. The tong presence here in Boston has a hand in gambling, extortion and loan shark rackets, but only rarely resorts to murder. The Hong Kong–based triads tend to be more deadly than the American tongs, and from what I hear the local Vietnamese gangs, if not more powerful, are certainly younger, more violent and much more dangerous.”

“So maybe she’s Vietnamese,” Teddy insists, a little louder and a lot more stubborn. “Why not? The neighbor is probably not being specific, saying ‘Chinese.’”

Naomi looks pleased. This is the kind of give-and-take that she encourages, and which Teddy hasn’t much engaged in until very recently. “Well argued. Regardless of ethnicity or country of origin, the notion of a criminal or gang connection has to be taken into account,” Naomi assures him. “Jack?”

“I’ll ask around.”

“Excellent. Tell us about Mr. Bing.”

“Quite the character,” Jack says. “I rather like him. Not at all what I expected.”

Jack would be a great storyteller if he didn’t keep reverting to cop speak. Even with the stilted phrases, he paints an intriguing picture of the young venture capitalist luxuriating in splendid isolation on his enormous yacht, explaining his decision to invest in Joseph Keener as a business opportunity, and as a friend of sorts, in hopes that the victim’s understanding of light might one day prove to be immensely profitable.

“My impression is he’s telling the truth, mostly. In the sense that he genuinely liked and admired the professor, and has some interesting insights into what made him tick. But he’s lying about not knowing about the Chinese girlfriend, and the fact they had a kid.”

“Your gut?”

Jack nods.

“Good enough. So why is Mr. Bing lying? What’s his motive?”

“If I had to guess, he may think he’s protecting Keener’s reputation, or the boy, or both. I’m going to give him a day to think about it, then go back at him.”

While we digest Jack’s presentation, Beasley serves the second course, a sliced grilled sausage stuffed with shrimp and mushrooms and various secret ingredients that can’t be pried out of her with any sort of bribe, or even the threat of waterboarding. The merest hint of cardamom, obviously, and at least one of us (me) detects black truffle lurking among the shiitake, but beyond that the chef’s unsmiling lips are sealed.

“Teddy? Your turn. Please bring us all up to date.”

“Um, there’s not really a lot to report yet. With Mr. Bean’s help—he placed a memory stick into one of their computers, uploading this really cool program—ah, we established mirrored access to the QuantaGate office computer system. We’ll just have to wait until something interesting pops.”

Naomi favors him with an indulgent smile. “Explain mirrored access, for those who might not be familiar.”