The Johnny Denovo Mysteries

(The following is the first chapter from “The Green Monster: A Johnny Denovo Mystery,” the sequel to “Spam & Eggs.” It was published in September 2009.)

First Pitch

In the shade of a massive green stanchion, surrounded by thousands of strangers, he felt alone at last. Safe.

With his baseball cap pulled down over his trademark shock of black hair, his gray eyes skulking in the brim’s shadow, Johnny Denovo was placid, his pulse rate low.

He was happy to be blending in with the crowd.

The ironic haven was exactly what he needed after the past few weeks – a case had just closed, and he’d had his fill of the stabbing flashbulbs, beckoning voices, and glaring television lights that inevitably followed. The media circus felt like an ordeal every time his fame reignited, an exhausting and lonely crucible of forced smiles and fleeting connections.

Playing to the press was a necessary evil. He attended to it professionally, knowing his media image had to be nurtured and preserved. But after nearly two weeks of interviews, paparazzi, and reporters, this day came as a welcome relief, with its simple pleasures and blessed obscurity.

He needed to hide out and recharge.

Hiding came second-nature to him by now. Over the past few years, it had become a way of life. He’d once been a relatively boring academic neuroscientist. Now, he was well-practiced at concealing his education and abilities under the guise of a superficial, world-famous detective.

The fact that the noise and the glare of his accidental fame helped obscure the truth added a satisfying dash of the perverse.

The emerald field below was ablaze in the afternoon sun. Green light slanted into his pale eyes, low and faintly pulsing. He had only his hat’s brim to shield him from the blinding rays. He’d worn it partly for the game, partly to conceal his trademark tide of black hair. But in his haste to get to the game, he’d forgotten his sunglasses back at his condo. His sunglasses would have added to his disguise, allowing him to relax even more.

He’d felt slightly exposed at first, but after an uneventful hour, he relaxed.

He just wanted one full day of obscurity, blissful obscurity.

Soon enough, his craving for endorphins and excitement would reignite and he would yearn for a case, fret and pace in agitation and boredom. Today was an interlude, one that he knew wouldn’t last.

For the past half-hour, the heat from the sun, the field, and the enthusiastic crowd had been vulcanizing Johnny. Lazy breezes failed to shift the stifling air that had settled over the seats. Yet even in the sluggish heat, he remained amazed by the verdant splendor around him.

Where he’d grown up, with his given name of John Novarro, a glorious jewel of a park like this wouldn’t have endured. Sagebrush and scrub would have quickly overrun it in the dry, high-altitude air, the inevitable desiccation to be mourned only by lonely grasshoppers performing a mindless dirge, dry and rattling.

He’d sat spellbound for two hours now, fascinated and entertained by the game, its inspiring feats of athleticism, and the colorful and sometimes unruly crowd.

When at last the light and heat of summer moved behind this wedge of shade, he realized how uncomfortable he’d been. A few beers had done little to fend off the effects of this late-August furnace.

Suddenly, there was a loud retort, and the crowd gasped in surprise and anticipation, craning forward as one to see the effects from the violent interaction. Heads turned skyward and cheers began to percolate as thousands of hopeful brains rapidly and instinctively calculated distances and trajectories. Neuronal networks millions of years old pursued their natural ends – stereo vision resolving misaligned information, neurotransmitters bridging connections, and a common realization slowly emerging in the mix of consciousness and instinct each fan possessed. The crowd stood higher as one, hands tensed in anticipation as the ball knifed into the fans down the right field side with a dramatic arc. A foment of noise shook the sky, shoved upward by arms raised in joy.

Johnny shouted at the top of his lungs along with the rest of the sell-out crowd. This was a big game, and the contest was now into the late innings. A home run with men on was precisely what his beloved Red Sox needed to overcome a middle-innings struggle by their set-up man. Now, the offense was roaring back, and with their closing pitcher warming in the bullpen, the Sox seemed poised to clinch the game.

Next to him, Tucker Thiesen’s loud bellow of encouragement was partially muffled by a mouthful of nachos. His scorebook dropped to the ground as he stood in unity with the cheering throng. Sloppily dressed and intensely watching the game, Tucker looked nothing like the renowned technologist and intelligence expert he was. His hands remained at waist level, trapped into holding the chip tray and large soda that inevitably accompanied him at games. But his joy at the developments on the field was unbounded.

If Johnny was a Red Sox fan, Tucker was a fanatic. He’d named a dog Yaz once in honor of Carl Yastrzemski, the great Red Sox left-fielder and clutch hitter. When the Curse of the Bambino had finally been broken, Tucker had celebrated sporadically for months.

As a neuroscientist, Johnny had briefly studied curses and how they affected the brain and consequently the body, focusing on curses and superstitions in sports, where the tie of mind and body was the strongest. The neuroscience literature held a good amount on the topic, even if the references were somewhat oblique.

When he’d moved to Boston during his first case and just before a typo and some powerful friends changed his identity, the Sox had been about to break a curse, renewing his interest in the topic. He remembered digging into the research again, wanting to read it in light of the team’s apparent ability to overcome a strong biological predisposition.

The biology behind curses probed the more primitive instincts humans carry in their three-layered brains, Johnny recalled. Curses worked because they exploited the middle of the three brains humans possessed, the limbic brain, the true home of emotional synthesis and action-oriented thinking. The logical cerebrum and the truly primitive reptilian brain functioned in their own ways, but when people were thinking on their feet, their limbic system ran the show. Belief in a baseball curse could poison a limbic brain and hence the mind-body connection, leading to insecurity, botched plays, and late-season collapses. In a team situation, doubt could become contagious.

But at this particular moment, such theories were a fleeting thought, an unseen flash of neurotransmitters in the unlit recesses of his mind. There was a game to enjoy, and the Sox were winning once more.

From his vantage point, Johnny had a clear view of the scoreboard in left field, a venerable manual affair operated by people peeking through holes and inserting painted panels for runs and lighting bulbs for outs. The scoreboard enhanced the ambience of the timeless scene, reconciling old with new, exhibiting a reverence for tradition. And it was huge, consuming most of the lower portion of the park’s famous left-field wall, the Green Monster.

In recent years, the Green Monster had been refurbished so that fans could sit atop it in coveted seats complete with tables and counters, a new perch from which to see and be seen. Despite the modernization and added capacity, the park had lost none of its charm.

The Red Sox kept the scorekeepers busy for the home half of the remaining innings while their closing pitchers drilled strikes and forced ground-outs. The game ended after the top of the ninth, the Red Sox ahead by six runs. It had turned into a rout.

“What a great game!” Tucker shouted to Johnny as they stood after the final out, nearly deafening him while all around other fans smiled and exchanged high-fives and fistbumps. Tucker closed the cover on his battered and stained scorekeeper’s book, and slipped his mechanical pencil into its spiral binding. “Thanks for bringing me along again, Johnny. I love this team!”

A voice piped up behind them. “Johnny? Johnny Denovo?”

Johnny cringed involuntarily. His cover had been blown in that instant. He was paying the price for forgetting his sunglasses.

Today’s respite was over.

He turned his head and saw a tall man peering over the crowd filing out, striving to make eye contact. Johnny raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement and sidled onto the side of the stairs, letting the crowd pass. Many of them now gave him apprising looks, recognizing him but remaining respectful. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see some camera-phones raised and pointed in his direction.

“Why’re you stopping?” Tucker asked, nearly running Johnny over, the brim of his hat striking Johnny in the neck. Tucker was about the same height as Johnny, but was now a step lower in the aisle. Johnny indicated with a twitch of his head the man coming toward them.

“Hi, Johnny,” the man said, extending a hand from on high, reaching over a child ducking through the crowd. “I’m Tom McNaught. I was going to call you Monday, so I hope you don’t mind me taking this opportunity.”

“Not a problem,” Johnny squinted, responding with a faint smile. “Mr. McNaught, this is my friend Tucker. He’s a Red Sox fanatic I pack along for trivia and noise.”

Tucker laughed as he and McNaught shook hands. Tucker nearly spilled his drink juggling it into his nacho tray, his score book tipping precariously under his arm.

“Good to meet you,” McNaught said. “I’m fanatical about the Sox, too. Have been all my life.”

Tucker just smiled in response.

“So,” Johnny began, the crowd rapidly thinning around them. “Why were you planning on calling me? And I assume this is something we can discuss here?” He often had to remind clients that the walls had ears, eyes, and even brains. Just being seen talking with Johnny had caused some people problems in the past, and camera phones had already found him today.

McNaught looked about furtively, almost reflexively. He was spooked, that was clear.

“To some extent, certainly,” he muttered, lowering his voice. His warm and gregarious approach had closed down noticeably. “I’m being blackmailed, and it’s very messy. I need help.”

Johnny had been turning the man’s surname over in his mind and suddenly realized who he was speaking with.

“Are you Thomas McNaught, the biotech mogul?” he asked.

“One and the same,” McNaught replied. “I don’t know if I’d say I was a mogul, though. Just a scientist who had an early hot streak at the research bench, and then a lot of good help making it all into a company. But you’re right, I’m that guy.”

By now they were standing in very thinly populated stands, most of the fans having either departed or gravitated down to be near the field. The cleaning crews were beginning to make their way through the seats, television crews were clustered around the few players who’d come out for appearances, and the grounds crew was laying out their rakes and lifting the bases out of their sockets.

“Well, as you probably know, McNaught,” Johnny said in a professional tone, “I mostly deal with high-profile, twisted cases involving rich people. You sound like you might qualify for two out of three here. Care to tell me if this is twisted, if you’re batting a thousand?”

McNaught laughed. “Oh, I’m batting a thousand, all right,” he responded, but the levity drained away almost immediately. “I’m definitely batting a thousand if you throw ‘twisted’ into the equation.”

Tucker looked from McNaught to Johnny and back again. “I think I’m going to head home, Johnny, and let you two discuss this. Nice meeting you, Mr. McNaught.”

“Nice meeting you, too,” McNaught replied. “I didn’t mean to scare you off.”

Tucker laughed his big laugh again. “No worries,” he said, turning to head up the stairs. “Johnny, thanks again. Great game!” And he let out one more victory whoop as he trudged away.

Johnny and McNaught turned to face each other again. McNaught had a cheerful face and sandy hair peeking out from under a battered baseball cap. He was lanky. He might be a bit clumsy, Johnny thought. Long nerves in the arms and legs often meant coordination problems.

“Impress me,” Johnny challenged, his eyes taking on an aggressive aspect, his more compact build flexing a bit as he tried to convey a sense of gravity behind his statement.

McNaught cleared his throat.

“I’d better be brief,” he managed, his voice slightly tense. “I need to get home, and you’re right, this isn’t the place for a full conversation. Even being seen talking with you is probably a bit risky, but I couldn’t resist myself when I caught sight of you. Essentially, I’m having an affair, and someone found out. Worse still, there’s a very awkward complication, and the blackmailer knows about it.”

Johnny continued to peer up at McNaught, squinting in the bright afternoon sun. Like a lot of sheltered academics and scientists, McNaught was a little slow on his feet, a little too trusting. Someone wiser to the ways of the world would have known to wait to talk with him privately, realizing the risks of a public from the start.

Johnny sympathized. He’d been a scientist once, albeit one specializing in applied research. He’d never lost his common sense, never accrued that distracted and insulated habit of the mind plaguing so many pure thinkers, but he knew the type well. This guy would need some hand-holding, he noted to himself.

McNaught adjusted his baseball cap and shifted his feet uncomfortably, then slowly regained some resolve in his demeanor.

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you here,” McNaught said definitively, his eyes meeting Johnny’s. “Monday. May I come by Monday? I mean, tomorrow. I’m losing track of the days.”

Johnny scowled and pondered. A part of him didn’t want another case right now, so soon after one just wrapped up. He was a little spent from the rounds of interviews he’d just finished – the airplanes and lonely nights in strange hotel rooms had worn him down.

Yet, here was another case, standing right before him, imploring him for help. Even if the timing was bad, he felt like he needed to hear more. His personal creed was at stake. He’d studied neuroscience to help people and had pledged to do the same as a detective. Besides, the familiar tingle of endorphins – the human opiate – had begun again as McNaught outlined his problem and hinted at something more intriguing. The infusion felt good. He knew he couldn’t resist it.

Feigning reluctance, Johnny reached into his wallet for a business card. McNaught would need his address. “Sure,” he said, handing the card to McNaught. “Tomorrow, Monday. But don’t be early. Be late. I sleep in.”