“To set him up for murder,” Jack suggests.
Naomi nods to herself, tapping her pen, wheels turning. “Okay, fine, that’s our theory of the moment, in deference to your relationship with the suspect—but he remains a prime suspect unless or until the evidence leads us elsewhere.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“You’re a friend. I need more.”
“Fine,” Jack says, with a steely edge to his voice.
“Now please explain the discrepancy,” she suggests.
“What discrepancy?” Jack says, all innocence.
“You rendezvous with your buddy Randall Shane at 7:00 a.m. and yet you don’t show up here until 8:30 a.m. Kendall Square is at most fifteen minutes from this location. Where did you go? What did you do?”
Jack sighs. “We attempted to break into a motel.”
“A motel located where?”
“The Residence Inn off Kendall Square. Shane thought it likely that he’d been lured to the victim’s home so that evidence could be planted in his room.”
“That’s his theory.”
“Yes.”
Silence. Everybody fidgets, including Jack. Uncomfortable moments accumulate. Finally I stick my oar in and go, “Um, attempted to break in?”
“I know,” Jack says with a sigh. “Embarrassing. Two former special agents, and we couldn’t manage to break into a motel room. We had the key card, so it wasn’t even a break-in, technically. My only excuse, the place was being staked out by state police detectives, and they happened to be good.”
“They must have been very good,” Naomi suggests.
“More stubborn than good, but still. The plan was, Shane creates a diversion, I slip into his room and check it out for planted evidence.”
“What kind of diversion?”
“An exploding vehicle just around the corner from the motel. Specifically a small GMC pickup truck with a full tank of gas.”
“Failed to explode?”
“Oh, it exploded,” Jack says with some satisfaction. “The cab went fifty yards in one direction, the chassis in another, mostly straight up. Produced a very impressive fireball and a really nice mushroom cloud of black smoke. But the damn Staties didn’t move. It was like they were expecting a diversion and determined not to budge. No way I could get into the room undetected, which had been the whole point.”
Dane stirs, says, “Hey, I don’t get it. How’d they know to stake out Shane’s motel room less than an hour after the crime was reported? How did they even know he was involved at that point? The Cambridge cops had barely taken possession of the scene, let alone been in a position to identify suspects, or pass it on to the state police.”
“Good question,” Jack says. “Shane told me the motel must have been under surveillance before he called 911. He gets back to the vicinity of the motel ten minutes after he makes the call, the state police were already in place, well established. That’s when he knows for sure he’s being set up and that’s when he calls me.”
“And you responded, even though you may have been assisting in the commission of a felony murder.”
“Damn right. I’ve known the guy since the Academy. No way did he murder a client.”
“And did detectives recover a murder weapon?”
Jack shakes his head. “Not yet, and not from the motel room.”
“So your working theory was mistaken and nothing was planted to incriminate Shane?”
“I didn’t say that. The detectives found a bloodstained shirt under the bathroom sink in his room.”
“Ah. You’re assuming that’s the forensic link. Shane’s DNA on the shirt, blood matched to the professor?”
“That’s my assumption.”
“But the murder weapon is still out there.”
“So far.”
Naomi announces, “Excellent case briefing.”
To an outside observer she might seem inordinately pleased, considering the subject matter, but that’s the way she rolls. “We’ll assume for now that Shane is alive and being held in some unknown location for purposes of interrogation, pretty much as he predicted. If they’d wanted to kill him they would have done so, rather than go to the trouble of seizing him from this residence. Dane, you’ll work your sources at the Justice Department, see if there’s any scuttlebutt on Randall Shane, or any known involvement by a covert security agency.”
“Whatever this is, it’s buried deeper than deep,” Dane says. “I think a personal appearance is warranted. Show the flag.”
“Agreed,” Naomi says. “Take the shuttle.”
Dane pouts. “I was thinking the Gulfstream.”
Naomi, very firm: “Not warranted.”
“But the Benefactor is always very generous with his—”
“Shuttle. End of discussion.”
“Yes, ma’am,” says Dane, crossing her arms across her chest. “Ma’am” being what she calls boss lady when she doesn’t get her way.
Naomi ignores the attorney being spoiled and childish—the Benefactor’s personal Gulfstream is indeed at our disposal, but only for exigent circumstances—and turns to the elder male in our presence, the handsome alpha dog.
“Jack, you’ll turn up whatever you can on additional background on the victim and his theoretical son. And see about infiltrating QuantaGate.”
“Budget considerations?” he asks, looking up from his notebook with a furtive glance at the still-pouting Dane.
“Whoever it takes.”
“Great. I’ll go with the Invisible Man. Assuming he’s available.”
The Invisible Man is an operative Jack has used in the past. None of us have ever seen him. I’m assuming he’s not actually invisible.
“Use whatever operatives you see fit,” Naomi says. “And there may be another line of inquiry worth pursuing. As I recall, QuantaGate was financed by local venture capitalist Jonny Bing. Who I believe is an acquaintance of yours, Dane.”
Dane, startled, bursts out laughing. “You recalled or you Googled?”
“I recall,” Naomi says firmly. “Am I wrong?”
“We partied once or twice a few years ago,” Dane admits. “You remember Sasha? The party planner? When Sash and I were having our little thing, one of her top clients was Jonny Bing. Sash always called him Jonny Bling, which I thought was pretty cute. Of course at the time I thought everything she did and said was cute. Anyhow, Jonny had these amazing parties on his yacht. Looked more like a cruise ship to me, but you know how that goes. For an egocentric billionaire, he’s really kind of cool. Wild sense of humor, and he likes to see that a good time is had by all. If you want, I can call his people, see if he’ll consent to an interview.”
“Absolutely. Do it,” Naomi says. “Are the assignments clear? Dane? Jack? Alice? Yes? Teddy, you will continue to mine data but will steer clear of the Department of Defense. I remind you all that certain agencies within the national security community have been known to run covert operations under the Patriot Act, answerable to basically no one. At this time we’ll continue to keep a low profile with local law enforcement, and allow them to proceed on the murder case unhindered. Our primary task is to determine if the victim has a child, as Shane apparently believed, and if that child is in fact missing, and, if so, to recover the boy alive. Anything else is secondary, including, at the moment, the safe return of Randall Shane—and that’s the way he’d want it, I’m sure. Clear? Good. We’ll reconvene at 7:00 a.m. for the morning brief. Jack, given the early kickoff tomorrow morning, you may want to spend the night at the residence.”
“Only if there’s a chocolate mint under my pillow.”
“Always. Further thoughts, anyone?”
Jack impishly raises his hand. “Comment on ‘Ironic,’ the so-called pop song by Alanis What’s-her-face. A traffic jam when you’re already late is not ironic, it’s maddening or unfortunate. Red Sox beating Baltimore seventeen to ten and Don Orsillo announcing, ‘This is a real pitcher’s battle.’ That’s irony. Case closed.”
Naomi rolls her eyes.