Measure Of Darkness

“Details,” boss lady demands.

“I should save it for the next case briefing.”

“Don’t be cute,” she says, giving me The Squint. The Squint means we’ve had our fun but joke-time is over, wisecracks are no longer appreciated. It’s boss lady turning off the friendly switch and getting serious and making you serious, too. And so I give her the play-by-play, including the demon cats and the sandbox, and Professor Keener calling the child his “keyboard kid.”

“Odd that he would call him that,” she says. “I wonder what it means, exactly. It must mean something.”

Riffing, I say, “Maybe if you’re a weird genius that’s a term of endearment. Anyhow, the point is, whatever their names are, the mother and child used to visit frequently, but the visits stopped two years ago. Haven’t been seen since, at least by the neighbor. They stopped coming around. Does that mean the mother broke up with the professor, possibly returned to China?”

“I suppose anything is possible at this point. Whoever this woman is, Keener kept her off the grid. Randall Shane never mentioned anything about the mother being Chinese.”

“He didn’t have time to mention much of anything before the windows got kicked in.”

“Good point. Give Jack and Dane a call, let them know about the boy.”

“Will do.”

Boss lady nods, frowning to herself. “I’d love to know what the ‘keyboard kid’ reference means. We’ll try Googling the phrase, but off the top of your head, what first comes to mind when you hear the word keyboard?”

I shrug. “Computers, I guess. And pianos.”

“Pianos?”

“Pianos have keyboards.”

“Right! Of course they do. Hmm. Interesting.”

Without formally ending the conversation—a habit she has when distracted—Naomi wanders away, looking even more thoughtful than usual, which is sort of like saying a saint looks even more religious when the halo blinks on.

Chapter Twelve

Waves of Water, Waves of Light

The good ship Lady Luck currently resides at an upscale marina in Quincy, just south of the city, in sight of the skyscrapers in the financial district, which seems fitting. Speaking of skyscrapers, Jonny Bing’s hundred-and-ninety-foot yacht looms over every other boat in the marina, many of them quite sizable, but nothing much compared to four stories of Lady Luck, gleaming like a huge pile of freshly laundered cash.

Jack Delancey positions his spotless vehicle in the far reaches of the marina parking lot, where it’s less likely to get dinged. He’s just back from Concord, New Hampshire, three and a half hours turnaround, a waste of time, most of it spent behind the wheel, and he’s more than ready to stretch his legs on this last little task before reporting back to Naomi. He happily saunters past a waterfront condo development, which includes a few trendy restaurants and at least one destination bar that’s been cited numerous times for an infestation of noisy, wine-quaffing yuppies. The rent-a-cop at the gate picks up on Jack’s cop vibe and waves him through with a lazy salute that makes the former FBI agent grin to himself. Beyond the breakwater the harbor sparkles under a clear sky, although the view is more than a little restricted by the sheer bulk of Lady Luck.

He proceeds along a system of floating docks. Thirty yards from the enormous yacht, Jack pauses to flip open his cell. By previous arrangement he identifies himself and announces his proximity. Less than a minute later a little Asian dude wearing a faded pink guayabera, baggy shorts and a jaunty gold-braided captain’s hat comes out to what Jack assumes is the bridge and waves him aboard. A red-carpeted gangway delivers him to one of the lower decks, where he waits for further guidance. Almost immediately the little dude with the spiffy captain’s hat leans over a rail of an upper deck and asks, in a distinctive Boston accent, “You wearing deck shoes, Mr. Delancey?”

Jack shakes his head, sticks out a perfectly polished leather shoe. “Morellis.”

“Ten and a half?”

“Eleven.”

“Wait there.”

Minutes pass. The little dude returns with a pair of brand-new Sperry Top-Siders, still in the box. He comes down a curving, mahogany-railed stairway, hands the box to Jack. “Keep ’em,” he says. “We’ve got plenty.”

“You’re Jonny Bing.”

“The one and only,” the little dude says, pleased to be recognized.

Jack unlaces his Italian handmades, slips on the Top-Siders. “Thanks for seeing me on short notice. It’s much appreciated.”

“Any friend of Dane’s. Although I do prefer friends of the female persuasion, whatever their sexual orientation. Just so you know.”

Jack follows Bing up the staircase to the second deck, then in through the open doors of a palatial salon, furnished with several leather thrones. The salon, obviously where Bing does his entertaining, is designed to make jaws drop and offshore bank accounts wither. It spans the width of the vessel, and could have been furnished by Michael Jackson, back in the day, were it not for the distinct lack of chimpanzees. Lushly draped polarized windows reveal a spectacular view of the harbor. Must be ten varieties of exotic blond hardwoods at play in the trim, all curving and varnished. The inlaid teak deck beneath his Top-Siders feels as solid and unmoving as gold bullion.

Jack whistles in appreciation, which pleases Jonny Bing.

“Hundred million,” he says, waving Jack to one of the lushly upholstered leather thrones. “Not that you asked. But people want to know.”

“I did wonder. Thanks for sharing.”

Bing takes off his captain’s hat, revealing a thatch of thick, glossy black hair, cut fashionably short on the sides, and with what looks suspiciously like an emo bang over his left eye. Add that to his diminutive size and the slightness of his build, and the second-generation Chinese-American billionaire looks like an eager teenager, but Jack happens to know that he’s in his late thirties. Bing’s slightly mischievous expression is more welcoming than might be expected, considering the high-altitude circles where he flies, or, more accurately, cruises. Jack has met his share of the super wealthy, and usually finds them guarded with strangers, or at least more outwardly canny. Jonny Bing looks like a boy who has just come down to Christmas, found everything he ever dreamed of under the tree and is willing to share his new toys with anyone who comes in the door. Or hatch, or whatever it is. Notwithstanding the fact that he’s a native of Gloucester, Jack’s experience with boats is somewhat limited—an endless summer when he was sixteen, toiling on his uncle Leo’s leaky, smelly scallop dragger as penance for various infractions, and the occasional striper fishing with a Marblehead cop-buddy who married money, and therefore can afford a nice thirty-foot center cockpit with twin outboards. The striper boat, which is Jack’s idea of rich, would fit comfortably in the far corner of the Lucky Lady’s main salon, with plenty of room left over for a bowling alley.

“Sorry about the lack of fawning servants,” says Jonny Bing, lounging back in his throne, which threatens to engulf him. “In ten days Lady heads for Bermuda, so the crew is on furlough through the weekend. We have the place to ourselves. There’s a full bar, or I could manage a juice or a coffee or whatever. Sparkling water?”

“I’m good,” Jack says. “This chair is so comfortable I may never get up. What kind of leather is this?”

“Sick, eh? It’s made from the skin of young virgins.”

“Excuse me?”

“Kidskin. Young goats,” Bing adds impishly.

“Ah,” Jack says, a little relieved in spite of himself, visions of billionaire psychopaths receding into bad movie land. “Obviously you heard about Professor Keener.”

For the first time Jonny Bing breaks eye contact. He sighs and drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I couldn’t believe it. Who’d want to kill poor Joe? It doesn’t make any sense. You know how they always say ‘he didn’t have an enemy in the world.’ Well, Joe really didn’t.”

“He had at least one,” Jack points out.

Bing shudders. “I keep thinking it was a mistake. Like they went to the wrong address, or mistook him for someone else.”

“I suppose mistaken identity remains a possibility, but it doesn’t look to go that way,” Jack says. “More like a professional hit.”

“That’s insane.”

“I think Dane mentioned we’re looking for background on Joseph Keener. Your name came up.”

“Whatever you need.”

“It’s usually best to start at the beginning. How did you happen to invest in Professor Keener’s company?”

Bing touches his slender fingertips together as if making a steeple. “How it usually happens. He was brought to my attention by one of my researchers.”

Jack has his reporter’s notebook open on one knee, ballpoint pen in hand. “In what context?” he asks.