“I’m sure you’re right,” I say, grabbing a pencil and a steno pad. “But I prefer to write this down.”

“If you must,” she concedes with a sigh.

Kendall Square. Behind Dumpster. Shane’s laptop. Jack will know.

Naomi’s big brown eyes are suddenly all aglow. This is potentially our biggest break in the case thus far, assuming that the hidden laptop can be recovered. When she gets like this, stoked by her keen intelligence with positive energy, I sometimes get the impression that she’d like to give me a hug, share the glow, but she never does. Touchy-feely is not part of her outward nature, or if it is she manages to keep it firmly under control.

“Okay, we’ll play it your way, on the off chance,” she says, feeding the piece of paper into the shredder. Then she leans out the command center doorway and calls out, loud enough to be heard at the FBI field office at One Center Plaza, with or without bugs. “Teddy! Stop whatever it is you’re doing! Alice wants to take you shopping!”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Soon to Be Swooshed

When it comes to shedding tails, Teddy Boyle is a mere tadpole, but surprisingly enthusiastic at being given the opportunity.

“This is sort of what Matt Damon does,” he confides as we head out on foot.

“Matt Damon has stunt doubles,” I remind him. “He’s not really driving cars a hundred miles an hour on a wrong-way street.”

“Cool,” Teddy says. “But you should know I don’t have a driver’s license.”

“You won’t need one. We won’t be wrecking Lamborghinis or jumping from rooftop to rooftop. All we’re going to do is go into the Nike outlet and shop.”

“That’s it?” he says, sounding disappointed.

“The cool thing about this, you get to buy something, for real. I’m thinking, at the very least, a hoodie and kicks.”

“I hate the swoosh,” he says scornfully.

“Think of it as taking one for Team Nantz.”

So far, the black SUV is hanging back, but I have to assume they’ve got someone cruising the blocks ahead of us as we approach Newbury Street, which is to Boston what Rodeo Drive is to Beverly Hills, except with way less celebrities and movie stars. Way less, but not none—I once spotted the aforementioned Mr. Damon coming out of Daisy Buchanan’s, all on his own, no entourage. Take my word for it, he’s even better looking in person.

“I think I see ’em!” Teddy hisses.

“Pay no attention. We’re almost there.”

I’m not old enough to be Teddy’s mother, but big sister fits comfortably, and that’s the role I assume upon entering Niketown, on the corner of Newbury and Exeter streets. Handing over my own credit card, an act of faith I’m reasonably sure the young hacker won’t abuse. And if he does I’ll cancel his ass so fast he’ll be gulping like a guppy. Actually, he’s quite attentive when I explain the drill.

“’Kay, first I pick out shoes, then we go upstairs and find a hoodie,” he says, repeating the instructions. “Try it on, pay for everything and then leave with the hood up.”

“You got it.”

“And somewhere along the way, you’ll, like, vanish or something.”

“Or something.”

“It’s way too warm for a hoodie.”

“Look around, it’s never too warm for a hoodie. Guys your age wear them down to breakfast while Mom pours the cheery little O’s. Inside, outside, the hood is always up.”

“Guys like that are morons.”

“No argument. But the peepers will think you’re attempting to disguise yourself. They’ll pay attention.”

“Peepers? Is that even a word?”

“Try to stay focused. This is very important.”

No fool, Teddy, when it comes right down to it, he selects a pricey pair of the Zoom Kobes and a green cotton hoodie, one of the retro styles—or as I like to think, timeless—and hands the charge card to a teenage clerk who, from the look in her doelike eyes, finds my little brother totally fascinating, from the tip-top of his gelled hair spikes to his soon-to-be zooming feet. Her glance at me is dismissive—clearly a late-twenties female lacking in neck tattoos is no competition. On the positive side she’s more than willing to clip away the tags so he can wear the product out of the store.

Bambi hands bashful Teddy a bag for the shoes and does everything but roll over with her paws in the air.

When he rejoins me I point out, “All you have to do is whistle.”

“Huh?” he responds, genuinely puzzled. Brilliant as he may be in all things internet, when it comes to girls he’s as pathetically impaired as any teenage male.

“Never mind. We’re going to make one last circuit of this floor, over by that double rack of T-shirts, and then you’re going to put up the hood and head downstairs like you’re in a hurry. Show your receipt if you have to, but when you get out the door, go very quickly up Exeter Street and turn left on Boylston. Look around as if you might be followed, because you will be. Don’t worry about the peepers, even if you do spot them. They’ll hang back. Go one block west to the corner of Dartmouth Street and go down into the T-stop. Take the green line to Park Street, exit onto the Common. Find a bench, sit down and pretend to be waiting for someone important. Give it ten minutes or so, then get all agitated when they don’t show and make your way back to the residence.”

“I could try to lose them in the Public Garden, easy.”

“I don’t want you to lose them. Ready?”

“’Kay, sure.”

He whips up the hood, hurries down the crowded stairway. Meanwhile, I step around the T-shirt display, scoot through a couple of racks in the busiest part of the store and take the staff stairway to the ground floor. Removing a plastic security card from my purse, I disarm the alarm for the door that exits onto the brick alley behind the store (what can I say, once upon a time we did a huge favor for a Nike exec). Crossing the alley I gain access to the Exeter Street parking garage through an unmarked door and meet Jack Delancey on the second floor of the garage.

“Your chariot awaits,” he says with a grin, opening the passenger door to the generic sedan he’s just rented.

Swoosh, we’re out of there, undetected.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Think Like Shane

Before leaving the garage, Jack takes off his tie and blazer, carefully folds both items, places them on the passenger seat, then dons wraparound sunglasses and a Red Sox cap. He suggests that I slump down in the backseat until we’ve cleared the area. A rental car is being utilized for a couple of reasons. First, the working assumption that Jack’s regular ride has been compromised, planted with bugs and/or a tracking device. And more generally because even if that’s not the case, his Town Car has no doubt been visually identified as to make and plate, and would pop on any surveillance team watch list.

“How did you ditch them?” I ask, chin on the floor mat. “The old car wash trick?”

He laughs. “Works every time.”

Jack has an associate—actually an old high school crony—who owns a chain of car washes. All he has to do, show up at one of the venues, swap out drivers while the suds are flying, and Jack’s car drives off in one direction and Jack in another. Simple but effective—and it helps that the same crony also has a car rental franchise, and will rent for cash, making it that much harder to trace.