“What did you tell him?”

“Identity unknown to me. And that if he tried to dig something up, and somehow managed to establish a possible connection between Naomi and a wealthy and influential individual who might be financing this enterprise, he would be fired so quick his Mohawk would smolder from the friction.”

“Fauxhawk. And did you really?”

“I didn’t actually mention his hairdo. But I did remind him that when he came aboard as a full-time employee he signed a document pledging to respect her privacy.”

“There’s nothing there for him to find,” I suggest.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because if it was there to be found, someone would have found it by now and used it against her. There have been many enemies, many opportunities.”

“Yeah,” he says. “There have at that.”

“Pledging not to look doesn’t mean we can’t speculate. So far I’ve narrowed it down to a former spouse or lover, or a Saudi prince who owes her big-time. Or it could as easily be the Wizard of Oz.”

“You think she has family?”

“Everyone has a family, even if they’re all deceased.”

“Or it’s all Naomi and there’s no Benefactor. That’s just an excuse to tell us we can’t use the jet or whatever.”

“You think she’s been talking to herself for the last two days?”

He shrugs. “I guess not. Sounds stupid when you put it like that.”

I look up at the sky, endless blue but for a few wispy clouds out over the harbor. “Is that an eagle?”

Jack studies where I’m pointing. “Turkey vulture,” he says. “Sometimes mistakenly referred to as a buzzard.”

“But definitely not a drone.”

“Definitely not,” he says.

“I keep thinking of Predator drones equipped with Hellfire missiles.”

Jack takes off his sunglasses, looks me in the eye. “Put it out of your mind, kid. They’d never dare do that on U.S. soil. This is Boston, not Afghanistan.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

“Thanks.”

Can’t say why, exactly, but I sort of like it when he calls me “kid.”

The result of Naomi’s secret machinations arrives in the evening, shortly after dinner (Mrs. Beasley’s special variation on chicken tikka) when we’ve been instructed to take our coffee and lemon cookies into the library and wait quietly like good little employees. The excellent coffee is quaffed, the cookies devoured to the last crumb. Many minutes pass uneventfully. There is much twiddling of thumbs, and some interesting speculation about swans and inebriated councilmen, and the nerve of a certain very private investigator who refuses to drop even the smallest hint about what is supposed to transpire on this fine, early-summer evening

Teddy, haunting the street-side window, finally announces, “It’s a limo.”

We all crowd to the windows. The streetlights are on but the twilight has lingered and the only impediments to sight are the fully leaved tree branches that obscure the hood of what is unmistakably an airport limousine. A driver, in full chauffeur livery, gets out and pops the trunk. He deposits several pieces of matching luggage on the curb and then, adjusting his cap, opens the passenger door with something like a bow.

A petite woman slowly climbs out and stands teetering for a moment, as if struggling with her balance. The driver rushes to offer his big, strong arm. She takes it.

“Wow,” says Teddy.

“Double that,” says Jack.

The woman, slender and young and elegantly attired, is Asian. Chinese, in all probability. And beautiful, breathtakingly. I know because the males in the room are taking deep breaths, and Dane Porter gives forth with a little sigh of contented surprise, and because even a female of the heterosexual persuasion feels her heart do a little jump, confronted by such a vision of perfection.

She looks up, our mystery woman, and then vanishes from sight, passing under a veil of leaves on her way to the front door, tall heels clicking.

“Amazing,” says Jack in a soft, admiring voice. “How did she do it?”

He means Naomi, and because we’ve been firmly instructed to remain in the library, we’ll just have to wait for the answer to come up the stairs and find us.

Chapter Forty-Four

True Confessions

“My name is Michelle Chen, also known as Ming-Mei, and I have come for my son, Joey.”

I can’t speak for the others, but our mystery guest’s mastery of English shocks me almost as much as her ethereal, porcelain beauty. Clearly both the cat lady and Clare had got that part wrong, because while Ming-Mei’s very slight accent suggests that she’s foreign born, it also becomes abundantly clear as the evening progresses that she’s been speaking English for many years, if not for most of her life. This is no traditional Mandarin doll, and her perfectly tailored Western-style suit is linen, not silk.

“Miss Chen is eager to assist us in our efforts,” Naomi says carefully. “She has had a very long flight and must be exhausted, but I’m hoping she can give us some background before the jet lag kicks in.”

“No jet lag,” says Ming-Mei with a resolute shake of her head. “I slept on the plane. The Gulfstream was most comfortable. Tell me where my son is. Find him, then I will sleep.”

“As we discussed by phone, Miss Chen, we’re working on that.”

Ming-Mei turns to boss lady with something like fire in her big, gorgeous eyes. “You know who took him, right? Who keeps him?”

Naomi, who has yet to take a seat, nods her agreement and explains to those of us who are still a bit stunned by our guest’s arrival: “I shared the video clip with Miss Chen. She did not recognize Kathleen Mancero, but the Harvard Bridge area is very familiar to her.”

Ming-Mei says, “Joey and me, we walked along the river when he was an infant. He was in a sling, you know, that carries in front? And when he heard the water he would become very excited. It pleased him to listen to the river, even as a tiny baby. To him it was music. This woman who has him, does she know about the music? Does she know he will starve without his music?”

At this point Ming-Mei, who has been holding herself very erect, collapses into a puddle of tears, and begins to cry in that way that can make it hard to breathe, so strong are the convulsions of grief.

Jack, ever gallant, leaps up to console our beautiful young guest, but Naomi quickly dismisses the notion, as if she already knows what Ming-Mei will tolerate and what she won’t. Physical comforting from a male stranger is apparently out, and the most Jack is allowed to do is provide her with a clean white handkerchief. Ming-Mei covers her face with it, tips her head back, and gradually her chest stops heaving. She sighs deeply, removes the tear-soaked handkerchief and with a much less imperious voice says, “Twenty hours on the plane, I don’t cry, not once. Now I can’t stop. Because all the time I’m thinking, wouldn’t it be a nice surprise if Joey is waiting for me? In my dream you found him while I was en route. That was my hope.”

“I’m so sorry, Miss Chen. Had such a happy event occurred, you would have been informed immediately.”

“I know,” she says, weeping freely. “But still I hope.”

“Take your time, Miss Chen. If you’ll allow me, I’d like to give my people a more informed introduction. As far as they’re concerned, you’ve dropped out of the clear blue sky.”

This elicits a faint smile. “Oh, but I did.”

“I suppose you did at that,” Naomi says. She tilts her head slightly, in that certain way that signals she expects us to pay close attention. “I was able to locate Miss Chen with the help of an intermediary. This person, who shall remain nameless, contacted a certain staffer in the U.S. Embassy in Hong Kong, who in turn put me in touch with a local investigator familiar with the entertainment industry. As it turns out, the singer Ming-Mei is well-known on the club circuit. She was contacted through yet another intermediary. Miss Chen’s performance contract happens to be owned by one of the most powerful triads, so getting through to her was a delicate matter. As you may or may not know, the ancient triad societies of Hong Kong have gained power under the new regime by establishing relationships of mutual benefit with certain high-ranking Communist party members. This particular triad is heavily invested in the entertainment industry, and protects those investments with the usual strong-arm tactics, up to and including murder. Which meant that contacting Miss Chen presented certain difficulties.”