Terminal Value (13 page)

Heather leaned back against the soft sofa cushions. “Remember that time Tony rigged the office phones to start ringing each other on Sarah's first day with MobiCelus?”

“Yeah,” said Dylan with a smile. “That was a good one.”

“We all knew and were lounging around watching. But you were just as surprised as Sarah.”

“What's your point?”

“Tony didn't tell you because you don't lie very well.”

Dylan looked at her, uncomprehending for a moment. Then it hit him. “Why would I lie?”

“About a week ago, I got an e-mail from Tony.”

A shiver ran down Dylan's back. “About what?”

“He wanted to ask my advice about something. He said he was in a tricky situation. A question of ethics. He didn't give me any details.”

“Christ.”

“We exchanged a few e-mails over the weekend. In essence, I advised him to make sure of his facts before he leaped to conclusions, and he agreed. That was it. But I got another e-mail Wednesday.”

Dylan sat bolt upright. “When?”

Heather met his eyes. “Does it matter?”

“Yes!”

“He sent it at about three-thirty. I read it later that night in the airport.”

“And?”

“He said he'd solved his problem. Said he was e-mailing you about it.”

“Fuck!” Dylan sprang up and crossed the room. He knew he should control himself, keep his feelings intact, but the barriers were down, and fear and sorrow overwhelmed him. “Why the hell didn't he call me sooner?”

Heather stood up and moved to his side. “It wasn't an accident, was it?”

Tears welled up in his eyes. “If I'd been there to take his call, he might still be alive.”

“Stop it.” She took him by the arm and led him back to the sofa. “Tell me what's going on.”

“I don't know. But the cops don't think it was an accident.” He looked at her face. “Murder.”

“I knew it,” she whispered.

“The police want to stall for a week or so. They're not mentioning the murder until the medical examiner's report is filed. But they're out there looking for whoever did it. I'm not supposed to say anything. And you can't either.”

“I won't.”

“It could be anybody. Tony had a lot of friends and did a lot of crazy stuff. But Jesus! What if it has something to do with Mantric? I made him promise he would talk to me if he ever had any problems at the firm, and in his last voice-mail, he said he was keeping his promise. He said he had prepared a file for me and asked me to stop off that night to talk about it.”

“Oh, Dylan.”

“And now I hear the sort of crap Christine is pulling. I don't know. I'm seeing ulterior motives behind every word.” His words poured out, too rapidly, but he didn't care. “Or maybe he was doing something on the sly. I don't know. All I know is he's dead, and I'm never going to be able to talk to him again, and it's killing me!”

Heather put her arms around him, running her hands up and down his back. He closed his eyes and held her, letting his sadness flow into her, and, by sharing, diminish.

They sat for a long time in silence until, regaining himself a little, Dylan pulled away and took her hand. He felt calmer and clear-headed. He smiled sadly at her. “Thanks.”

She touched his face, wiping away a few tears.

“We have to tell the police about your e-mails. I want to read them too.”

“I'll forward them to you. Later.”

“I'm glad you know. I've been trying to think of what to do, but it's like my brain is short-circuited.”

“It'll pass. You've got to take time for yourself.”

“Everything seems to be happening so fast.” They talked about Dylan's discussion with Detective Baldwin and his attempt to access Tony's computer. “Not that I would be able to get past his security.”

“Maybe the police experts can get in.”

“I doubt it. It's Tony, remember?”

“Right. How many computers does he have?”

“About ten, last I knew. But that he actually uses? Not counting just for video streaming? Two, I think. The big desktop at his apartment and his laptop.”

“What about the one in his office? Maybe you can access that.”

“I can try. But what's my excuse for snooping?”

“You don't need one. He called and said he was going to send something to you, and you want it because it's the last message you got from your friend. Are you absolutely sure you have checked all of your accounts?”

Dylan gave her a sidelong look. “Maybe not.”

They went to his computer in his home office, and Dylan checked the Gmail account he rarely used but found nothing.

“Well, it was a good idea,” he said glumly.

“It's just a start.”

“You're terrific,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek.

She placed a hand on his shoulder as he started to move away. “How come you've never made a pass at me, Dylan?”

Her face was very close to his, and he looked into her green eyes. “You've been unavailable.”

She looked deep into his eyes with a sad, dreamy expression on her face. She swept her long, strawberry-blonde hair to one side, quickly leaned forward and kissed him lightly. “Maybe that was because you were unavailable too,” she said through full and slightly parted lips. She exhaled as she moved forward again and pressed a finger to his lips. She pulled his arms around her waist and pressed her body against his, kissing him with more passion.

He smelled her perfume, the scent of her hair. He kissed her deeply.

“I've wanted you for a long time,” she said with an intensity he had never heard before.

“Me too,” he said, responding to her. He kissed her again, letting his hands slide down to the small of her back.

She stroked the back of his head and kissed the back of his neck. She exhaled and pulled him closer.

Dylan looked at her face; her cheeks flushed, her eyes closed. She looked almost angelic, with her mouth slightly open and just a hint of a smile. He let his desire take charge. He felt the warmth and rose, leading her to his bedroom.

“Heather,” he said, gently laying her on the bed, “I want to make love to you.”

She stopped and looked up into his eyes. “I want that too.” Her black skirt was now bunched up around her waist. Then he slipped his fingers under her panties. She responded instantly, her body writhing, rolling over and onto her back as she reached to pull her panties off. He helped, tugging them down to her knees, and then she kicked them off onto the floor. “I want you in me,” she said breathlessly, pulling him against her.

He fumbled undressing as he kissed her again. He paused for just a moment, and then he entered her. He felt her tense up at first, and her eyes seemed to close halfway. Then she grabbed him tightly to her. He moved slowly, rhythmically. She shifted her body a bit. He could hear her quick breaths with every stroke. He was definitely going to explode. He didn't want to. Not yet. He stopped, took her by the waist, and rolled her over.

“Nice move,” she said, tossing her hair back with a grin. She was on top now. She leaned forward, kissed him again, and then sat upright. She closed her eyes and started moving again, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. “Now!” she said, as if she could read his mind.

Dylan felt her tense up and shiver, just as he did, for what felt like minutes. Then she collapsed on him.

They lay quietly, and Dylan stroked her hair as his heartbeat began to slow.

Chapter 12

May 5, 7:00 a.m. Boston

Dylan's eyes jerked open. The morning sunlight dappled the empty pillow beside him; a light breeze blew through the window, moving the sheer curtains. Where. . . ? He lay still, listening. An unbroken emptiness filled every corner of his apartment. The sudden sense of loss smothered the lingering pleasure. He rolled onto his back. What had he done? He'd slept with Heather, and it was wonderful. She had invaded his psyche, and no departure ever made him feel so alone.

Then he remembered.

He rolled out of the bed in an effort to escape the grief that had seeped back into his consciousness. He couldn't let it conquer him—wouldn't allow himself to be defeated by it. He was tough: a self-made man, admired by his friends, envied by his rivals, someone to be depended upon. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, padded into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.

The hot water flowed over his body, pulling the tension out of his head and shoulders. The steam cleared his mind, bringing vague memories of Heather's pre-dawn departure, her naked body crossing the room, the strip of light when she opened the bathroom door, the softest of good-bye kisses, not to wake him as she left. In the past, his relationships with women had been shallow, unimportant, and he wondered how last night would change him. He stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and glanced at the clock. Only seven-thirty.

Ten minutes later he sat down at the dining room table, a coffee cup and plate of toast to one side, his laptop open in front of him. He checked his personal e-mail account, and three forwards from Heather leaped out at him. His hand jerked on the track pad as he clicked on the first one.

“Start at the bottom,” he read. “Call me.”

Call me
. Simple words, but the blood in his veins grew hot at the sight of them. Clenching his jaw, he scrolled down to read Tony's original e-mail, in a blue font, ferociously indented.

Dylan scrolled up to Heather's reply, in red:

Next up was Tony's second e-mail:

Dylan read them through again. “Tony,” he whispered. If only his friend had confided in him sooner. Or told Heather what the hell was going on!

He wandered around the condo, unable to concentrate. He noticed the growing pile of unopened mail on his desk and quickly flipped through the advertisements and bills. A crumpled postal envelope that had become stuffed inside a Best Buy flyer fell out and landed on the carpet near his feet.

Dylan picked up the envelope, and his heart jumped as he recognized the nearly unreadable handwriting as Tony's. He ripped it open, and a flat manila envelope sealed with Scotch tape slid out onto the desk. He stared at it for several moments, unable to pick it up, as if it would dissipate in the air if he touched it.

He took a letter opener from his desk drawer and slit open the envelope. Inside, a single, wrinkled sheet of yellow paper waited to be removed. He pulled out the paper and felt the pit of his stomach lurch as he again recognized Tony's handwriting. He wondered if this could be one of Tony's recent inventions.

His spine tingled. It was Tony's work, all right. The drawing and the few lines of writing beneath were scribbled sideways. Dylan pictured Tony on his computer, with the paper to the right of his keyboard. At first glance, the drawing appeared to be some sort of electrical device. On the left side of the page was a coil, and, on the right, something that looked like the schematic for an electrical circuit.