“Too bad he isn’t still around,” I say, musing. “We could use a guy who can stop bullets.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rumors of Interest

Dane Porter has excellent thumbs, and if there is ever to be a contest for dexterous and speedy texting, she feels confident that she’d win. Her client, Randall Shane, is conked out for the moment, and in any event isn’t likely to complain if she parks her butt on the windowsill of his private—and very secure—room and brings her BlackBerry up to date. Legal matters, social engagements and enough gossip to fuel a reality show, if only they knew. Which they probably do, given that her list of correspondents includes a number of media-savvy individuals otherwise known as celebrities.

She’s bouncing flirts off an old girlfriend when a tall, broad-shouldered woman ducks in, having flashed an ID at the police officer stationed just outside the door.

“Monica?”

The assistant director ignores her greeting, heads straight for the patient. Right, Dane thinks, old pals, possibly lovers. Bevins touches Randall Shane’s hand, cupping it gently in both her own, but the big guy remains unconscious, submerged in deep sleep.

Dane remains perched on the windowsill, not wanting to intrude, but not wanting to disturb the moment by leaving, either. And when the attending physician enters to offer a consult, and Dane makes her move to exit, Bevins locks eyes with her, indicates that she should stay.

Three minutes later, the doctor having slipped away, Monica Bevins picks up a chair in one hand, quietly positions it next to the windowsill and sinks her long and large frame onto the seat with a sigh.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” the big woman says, her voice barely above a whisper. “We need to talk.”

Dane is a bit surprised by the opening gambit, but then she gets it. “Assistant Director Bevins, you know I can’t disclose anything the suspect may have said to me in confidence. Lawyer/client privilege.”

If it’s possible to snort quietly, that’s what the FBI agent does. “Lawyers,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I’m here as a friend, you idiot. Not to build a case against a man I love like a brother. Give me a freakin’ break.”

“Sorry. My mistake.”

Bevins sighs, glances at the man in the bed, her eyes moist. “My God, look at him,” she says. “I bet he hasn’t slept that good, or that deeply, since the accident. You know about that, of course.”

“His wife and daughter. Yes.”

Bevins nods. “The doc says what he’s doing, he’s catching up. That whatever was done to him, it involved keeping him awake in a heavily drugged state for days. That, combined with his existing sleep disorder, may have deeply affected his memory.”

Dane checks to make sure the police officer remains on the far side of the open door, unable to overhear their whispered conversation. That was part of the deal, along with the handcuff to the bed rail, that the door would have to remain open, to prevent what the custody detectives called “any funny stuff.” There’s the usual ambient noise of a hospital, plus the urban symphony of perpetual construction—jackhammers rattling in the distance—and the hiss and moan of traffic on Storrow Drive. Dane concludes that as long as they keep it low, there’s no way they can be overheard.

“He remembers that Joey is alive,” Dane confides. “The professor’s missing son.”

Bevins instantly perks up. “Location?”

“Unknown. But Joey was spotted in the vicinity.” She explains that in a moment of apparent lucidity, Shane recalled having seen a video of Joey taken on a bridge crossing the Charles River.

“A ransom clip?”

“Possibly. He didn’t say. That was earlier today, we’re trying to run it down.”

“And you’ve shared this information with who?”

Dane shrugs. “With my boss.”

“Not with the authorities?”

Dane gives her a level look. “It was the ‘authorities’ who did this to him. Look, he’s been interrogated for seventy-two hours straight and then discarded. The ‘authorities,’ which happen to include you, have already been alerted to the possibility of a kidnapped child. We informed the Boston cops, the Cambridge cops and the local field office of the FBI, as I’m sure you know. The reaction? Professor Keener didn’t have a child, so how could a kid that doesn’t exist be missing or abducted?”

Bevins’s smile is grim, acknowledging the truth of what Dane is saying.

“Mostly I didn’t want a goon squad of macho detectives in here interrogating him yet again. The poor guy already thinks somebody removed part of his brain.”

Bevins winces. “Dr. Gallagher mentioned that that will pass.”

“Let’s hope she’s right. Meantime, Naomi Nantz is on the case. No small thing.”

“And you think having your boss in the hunt, that’s better than any of these ‘authorities’ you so clearly mistrust?”

“Absolutely. The local cops have already decided he’s a stone killer and your FBI colleagues in the Boston office have yet to respond to our inquiries. We don’t expect them to. The Bureau never shares, not with civilians.”

Bevins glances at the open doorway again, her eyes calculating. “I’m about to share, but it can’t have come from me, do you understand? At this point I can’t be seen conferring with a private investigator. Which is why I was hoping to catch you here at the hospital. I’m logged as visiting a sick friend, period.”

“Understood.”

The agent takes a breath, hesitates.

“Naomi is famous for her discretion,” Dane assures her. “You must know that.”

“Yeah,” Bevins says. “But what about you?”

“I’d pretend to be insulted but, really, what’s the point?”

“Okay, fine. If you work for Nantz you must be okay. Here’s the deal. When I spoke to you in Washington, I was under the impression that the Bureau never had Professor Keener on its radar, and that we certainly had nothing to do with Shane’s rendition, if that’s what it was. The latter is still true, but I was mistaken about Keener. He’s been a subject of interest.”

Instantly, Dane focuses. “In what way a subject of interest?”

“An anonymous memo came through Homeland, alerting the Bureau to the fact that Keener, whose company is apparently involved in top-secret research, had made at least two unexplained visits to China. The inference being, he might be passing information to Chinese intelligence agents.”

“And was he?”

Bevins shrugs her wide shoulders. “I have no way of knowing. The Bureau did due diligence, concluded the subject had no contact with foreign agents. He’d been seen conversing with quite a number of Chinese people—not exactly surprising if you’re visiting China—but none were identified as agents of the Chinese government. Therefore no evidence that he was passing secrets, either in China or here in the U.S., and therefore no further action was warranted. That information was bounced back to Homeland, as required, and there it stayed, with access restricted to the highest levels.”

“So the professor was no longer under surveillance?”

“Not by the Bureau, no. It’s still within FBI purview to take the lead in espionage cases, but in the real world, post-911, and with the exception of the odd batch of Russians infiltrating the suburbs, the emphasis has been on counterterrorism, not spy catching. We’re focused on the guy with the bomb strapped to his underwear, not the scientist with the laptop full of data. That’s just how it is.”

“So the Bureau isn’t interested, but others might be. Are you saying Professor Keener was under investigation by another agency? Can you be more specific?”