Measure of Darkness by Chris Jordan Page B

just so, she tapes a heavy, pre-cut sheet of Arches watercolor paper on to a small, horizontally-tilted drawing table. She selects her brushes and colors. She takes a deep breath and does some sort of Zen thing that involves closing her eyes and holding her hands out, palms up. Then she sets a timer for thirty minutes and gets to work. First a quick pencil sketch. That never takes more than a minute or two. Then she wets her brushes and begins. Sometimes the mistake happens right away, in the first passof the brush. More often the timer will ding and she’ll step back, look at the still-life arrangement, glance at her painted version—almost always lovely, in my opinion—and then calmly peel it away from the drawing board, tear it into strips and feed the pieces into a paper shredder.
    Zzzt, zzzt, zzzt. It’s gotten to be a sound that makes my teeth hurt.
    Today is no different, except that the arrangement involves a folding carpenter’s ruler, a combination square and a brass bevel, donated to the cause by Danny Bechst, who once told me, in confidence, that Naomi was like van Gogh, except better looking and with two ears. Apparently van Gogh wrecked a lot of his paintings, too. A fact you wouldn’t expect the average carpenter to know, but in Boston there are no average carpenters. Most of them seem to have Ph.D.’s. Anyhow, Danny isn’t as appalled by the daily destruction as I am. Says he understands a quest for perfection and that one of these days when the bell dings, voilà, a flawless masterpiece.
    As for Naomi, you’d think that failing on a daily basis would bother her, but she insists that the process is relaxing. Indeed, she always appears to be calm as she methodically destroys her creation. Maybe driving me crazy makes her feel serene. All part of the unwritten job description.
    Today the shredder sounds about twenty minutes into the process, cuing me to enter the studio with the latest update on the investigation. Naomi, breaking down the still life, looks up, raises an eyebrow.
    â€œDane called,” I tell her. “Shuttle delayed out of Reagan National, but they should be wheels down at Logan by five. She has some interesting tidbits about possible evildoers, but nothing solid.”
    â€œEvildoers?”
    â€œDane does enjoy the evocative phrase.”
    â€œWorth the trip, just to show the flag.”
    â€œJack’s day has been more productive. He interviewed Jonny Bing, the venture capitalist, and formed, he says, ‘an opinion.’ Declined to specify what opinion, exactly. Before that he made a quick run up to New Hampshire to talk to the foster care folks about Joseph Keener’s childhood. Said he uncovered some ‘facts of interest.’ He’ll fill us in tonight.”
    â€œOur first formal case dinner,” Naomi says. “I’m looking forward to it. Beasley always outdoes herself.”
    â€œSpeaking of which, Jack is relaying a request from the operative who infiltrated QuantaGate. The Invisible Man? His name is Milton Bean and he wants to make his report in person this evening.”
    â€œOh? Why?”
    â€œApparently, while some men dream of virgins awaiting them in heaven, or winning the Powerball, Milton Bean dreams of having dinner with Naomi Nantz.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œDecision, please, so I can inform Beasley if necessary.”
    â€œHe’s freelanced for us, what, four times?”
    â€œIf you know, and you always do, why do you ask?”
    As usual Naomi ignores my wisecracks. “Issue him an invitation. I’m curious to see what the Invisible Man looks like.”
    I bow and scrape.

Chapter Fifteen
Mrs. Beasley Presents
    yves Cuilleron Condrieu, Les Chaillets 2000
    Fresh Beet Carpaccio with Shivered Scallions
    Shrimp & Shiitake Sausage
    Broiled Swordfish with Potato Dauphin Puree
    Honeyed Heart of Endive Salad
    Vanilla Ice Cream with Ginger Sauce
    T eddy, having scanned a folded menu