Terminal Value (11 page)

“Hello.”

“Dylan! My God! Are you all right?” Art's voice shouted through the speaker.

“I'm fine,” he answered, his tongue thick with sleep.

“Rob is on the network from Boston.”

“Hi Dylan,” Rob said. “Is your video on?”

Dylan ran a hand through his hair, then tapped a couple of keys. Video images of Art and Rob materialized next to each other on the screen.

“I want you to know we'll do whatever you need us to do,” said Art. “Anything. What about Tony's family?”

“Tony grew up here, and his mother's buried in Cambridge. I spoke with his father last night. He's in Florida. He's going to try to get a flight out today.”

“We can fly Mr. Caruso up on a private jet,” said Art.

“I think he'd appreciate that.”

“Stephanie?” Art spoke to Stephanie Mathers on another line.

“I'll get right on it, Mr. Williams,” said Stephanie. “Dylan, can you message me Mr. Caruso's phone number?”

“I'd like to call him myself,” said Art. “Such a bright young man.” He shook his head. “Such a shock.”

“Yeah,” Dylan mumbled.

“Did you reach Heather?” asked Rob.

Dylan nodded. “She's flying back tomorrow.”

“How did she—?”

“She's hanging in there.” Not for the world would he have described the anguish in Heather's voice when he had told her the news Tony was dead, or how he insisted there was nothing she could do in Boston at this time.

Art nodded. “I don't mean to pry, Dylan, but how—”

“I stopped by his place last night and found him.”

“Rob says the police told you it was an accident.”

Dylan thought he noted a flash of coldness in the comment. “Yeah.”
Heads are gonna roll when this gets out.
He could not get Tony's words out of his mind. A queasy feeling assailed Dylan. Whose heads? He wondered if he was seeing guilt where it did not exist.

“This is such a tragedy,” said Art. “Look, Dylan, I want you to take as much time off as you need—okay? Do you know anything about the funeral arrangements?”

“I really don't know anything about that yet.”

“Of course not,” said Art. “Look, we shouldn't be bothering you. I just wanted to say how sorry I am. This is a terrible tragedy, and, I've got to admit, I've never had to deal with something like this before.”

“Neither have I.”

“Well, I guess the best thing to do now is try to move forward and be as sensitive to people's needs as possible.” He turned his attention to Stephanie. “If anyone who knew Tony well wants to take tomorrow off, you tell them that's fine.”

“I think that's the right thing to do, Mr. Williams.”

“All right. Thanks everyone. Take care, Dylan. I mean that.”

Dylan clicked off. He stared at the dark plasma screen, then snatched suddenly at the mouse. He hadn't checked his e-mail for a while. Maybe Tony had sent him something.

He accessed his e-mail account and ran his eyes down the list of e-mails. One short message from Tony read: ‘file for your eyes only—will forward.'

Dylan reread the short, cryptic message. He scanned his e-mails for anything else from Tony, but nothing appeared with an attachment. That meant those files could be on his home computer, but with Tony, who was connected to half the planet by every known type of electronic communication, it could be anywhere. Still, the place to start was in his home.

He pulled Detective Baldwin's card out of his pocket and tapped in her number. She was not available, and Dylan left his number for her to call back—he said it was important.

Silence, broken only by the distant sound of late afternoon traffic two blocks away, drifted through the open window. Emptiness weighed on Dylan. He put his head in his hands and felt an overwhelming wave of sadness crash over him.

He thought of Heather. He had encouraged her to go through with her client meeting in L.A., argued that she could do nothing in Boston that day. She had tried to tell him how she felt, but he hadn't listened. Of course, it was different for him. Tony was his best friend. . . .
Was
.

Exhaustion enveloped him like a blanket. He staggered to his bedroom, dragged his clothes off, and climbed into bed.

* * *

May 3, 9:00 p.m. Boston

The ringing sound startled him, and Dylan fumbled on his bedside table for his cell phone. He rolled over and looked out the window into a darkness yellowed by streetlights. Then he glanced at the screen of his phone: BPD.

“Hello?”

“This is Detective Melanie Baldwin returning Mr. Dylan Johnson's call.”

“This is Dylan.” He sat up and shook his head, collecting his thoughts.

“How may I help you, Mr. Johnson?”

“I went back and listened to Tony's message to me yesterday.” Dylan repeated the message, stressing the part about Tony having prepared a file for him. “I was hoping you would get me into Tony's apartment so I could try to find that file. It might give me a clue as to who—”

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. Actually our computer people are in the process of securing all of Mr. Caruso's equipment. They will look them over and see if they can find this file he mentioned. We'll follow it up, rest assured.”

“Good.” Dylan paused and then added, “Look, he said the file was for me. Don't I have some right to see it or try to find it? Not to keep it from you, of course, just—”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Johnson. That's not the way it works. If there is a personal communication, you may be able to retrieve it in due course.”

Dylan stared out the window. Not what he wanted to hear. “Okay.”

“Thank you for understanding.” Her deep voice was tinged with sympathy and an ounce of apology. “While I've got you on the line—”

“Yes?”

“Have you had a chance to think about Mr. Caruso's relationships with his co-workers?”

“A little.” The sleep had helped. “He didn't have any enemies, if that's what you're thinking.”

“Who were Mr. Caruso's closest friends?”

“Myself. Our other two partners, Heather Carter and Rob Townsend.”

“We spoke to Ms. Carter and verified your statement as well as her being on the plane to Los Angeles. Do you know where Mr. Townsend was yesterday afternoon?”

“Rob was in the New York office. He returned last night.”

“Anyone else Tony might have communicated with?”

Dylan thought for a moment. “There's Ivan Venko, he's the head of security. And Sandeep Nigam, he's Tony's boss. And Art Williams is the CEO of Mantric. Those are the people he would have interacted with at the company. I would not call them friends, more like business acquaintances.”

“And where would these gentlemen have been found?”

“I think Sandeep may have been in the Boston office. Ivan and Art were in New York.”

“Are you sure?”

“Our company went public yesterday, and they were at the NASDAQ in New York. And I saw Art myself.”

“You saw him?”

“Well, technically I only saw and heard Art on a teleconference call.”

“I see,” she answered. “You saw him sitting in his New York office?”

“Yes, I did,” he answered, but his mind rushed back to the conversation. He saw Art's face, but not the background. The computer conversation could have occurred from anywhere. He shook his head and removed the question that was forming. Art would have no reason for hurting Tony.

Chapter 11

May 3, Midnight Boston

Dylan, victim of restless dreams, awoke at midnight in a cold sweat. His normally organized mind was mired in a fog of uncertainty. Had he turned on the alarm? He got up to check, then crawled back into bed and stared at the ceiling. His thoughts assailed him like no-see-ums at the beach. He got up and retrieved his laptop. Propped up in bed, he fired up the computer and watched his home page paint onto the screen: the business front page at Boston.com. He scrolled down to the technology news, where a headline caught his eye:

“Local Technology Wiz Kid Found Dead.
“Brookline native Tony Caruso, 24, was found dead last night in his Beacon Hill apartment due to an apparent accident involving faulty wiring, Boston Police Chief Harlan Bloom announced this morning. The medical examiner is expected to make a final ruling on the cause of death in about a week.”

Dylan scrolled back up the page without reading the rest. He remembered Tony's dead face. His scorched skin and lifeless eyes were emblazoned in his memory. Dylan closed his eyes. Tears slipped between his eyelids and ran down his cheeks. He did not know how he would get beyond these memories.

“Fuck,” he said, and wiped his tears away. He focused on his computer and went to a web page he frequented: a page that provided links to Internet businesses divided by type and sector. He trolled the Internet, looking for information about his clients' competitors and checking new ideas. Maybe it was disrespectful of Tony, but concentrating on his work was his coping mechanism.

* * *

May 4, 8:00 a.m. Boston

The spring morning greeted him, cloudless and warm. Dylan drove across the Fort Point Channel to MobiCelus's office. He had driven this route thousands of times, but today an odd sense of surrealism rode with him. Sounds echoed in the distance, muffled as if wrapped in cotton.

At the old warehouse, heads turned and nodded as he headed for his office. He checked his voice-mail. Twenty-four messages. The first call was from Joe Ferrano. If there was trouble with Hyperfōn. . . .

“Dylan. Joe Ferrano. I just heard the news about Tony. I wanted to call and tell you how sorry I am. What a great guy he was. If you need anything, I'm here. Take care.”

Dylan hung up the phone without listening to any more messages. He was not ready for that yet. He headed for Rich Linderman's office.

Wrapped up in other thoughts, he came around the corner and thought he was in the wrong place. Other than the phone and computer, the office was empty. He must have been moved, Dylan thought. He backtracked and went to Faith Navitsky's desk. Faith was the administrative assistant for the financial department and would know where Rich could be found. “Morning, Faith.”

She looked up from her computer. “Dylan! What are you doing here?” She half-stood and leaned on her desk.

“Working.”

“Oh, Dylan. You should take some time. I'm so sorry.” She looked sorry, and worried, too.

“Work is good for me. I'm not staying the whole day. I've got to pick up Heather at the airport. Listen, I'm looking for Rich.”

Faith took off her reading glasses. A strange expression came over her face. “So you don't know?”

“Know what?”

“Rich doesn't work here anymore.”

“What?” Dylan said, astonished. “What are you talking about? Since when?”

“They escorted him out of the building yesterday morning.”

“What?” Dylan repeated, louder. “Faith, what the hell is going on?”

“I don't know. Dylan, I'm so sorry about this. The timing—I know Rich is a friend of yours. I thought they would have told you.”

Dylan shook his head. “Well, whoever the hell ‘they' are didn't. This is unbelievable.” He stormed back to his office and slammed the door, then pulled out his phone and dialed Rich's cell, where he got a message saying the number was no longer in service. Shit, they'd already shut off his phone! Dylan dialed Rich's home phone and let it ring.

On the tenth ring, Rich picked up.

“Hello?”

“Rich? It's me. Dylan.”

“Dylan! I was wondering if anybody was gonna call.”

“I just found out, Rich. I went to your old office. It's empty. What the hell happened?”

“They didn't tell you, huh? What a gang. They took my computer, my office phone, even my cell phone. That bitch Christine actually had me escorted out of the building! They disabled everything. I just bought a new house with my pregnant wife and son, for Christ's sake. Notice how they waited until after the IPO?”

“So what the hell happened? Why did Christine fire you?” Dylan asked.

“I wasn't fired,” Rich said indignantly. “They eliminated my position. Christine said the division didn't need a financial director, that the scope of my work simply duplicated what was already being done by the accountants.”

“Is that true?”

“In terms of accounting? Probably.”

“Okay. So what about another job at the firm?”

“I was told there wasn't one that fit my skills.”

“That doesn't make sense. We're growing so fast. Stephanie keeps saying she's pressed to find good people.”

“I know. But to tell you the truth, I'm happy to be out of there.”

“Why?”

“This running back and forth to New York stinks. And Christine—well, she's a real piece of work.”

“Why do you say that?” Dylan asked, wanting Rich's take.

“The finance department's organization is archaic. She has some people focused on revenue projections, but only for one or two offices. Others look at expenses, but only for certain categories. There are firewalls all over the place, so that the left hand doesn't know what the right is doing. I don't think she has a clue how the firm is really performing. My skills were not utilized, and frankly, I felt like I was intentionally being left out of things.”

“Come on, Rich. Mantric's a big firm and—”

“Excuse me, Dylan, but this isn't fucking rocket science. Plus she didn't even know how to account for a reserve properly.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She forgot to include the reserve for the acquisition of MobiCelus in the prospectus, and that's illegal.”

Dylan was stunned. Improperly recording or classifying an acquisition can be a way to manipulate a company's financial statements—a very serious and criminal offense. It was one of the factors at the heart of the Tyco scandal. “Are you sure?” Dylan's thoughts scrambled back to Tony's mysterious comment about something big happening and heads rolling.