Terminal Value (18 page)

Dylan looked around. “No Art or Christine or Ivan?” he asked.

Heather said nothing, just shook her head no. Dylan took the hint and did not pursue it.

“Where were you going in such a hurry this afternoon?” Rob asked.

The waitress brought drinks to the table, and asked Dylan what he wanted. “Knob Creek on the rocks.” Dylan did not want to answer Rob's question, not just yet, and he was grateful when Dominic cleared his throat to speak.

“We'll wait until Dylan gets his drink, and then I'd like to make a toast.”

Everyone nodded, and the small talk started around the table. The waitress returned with Dylan's drink and a refill for Rob.

“I'd like to make a toast to my Tony,” Dominic said. “The best son a man could ever want.” His eyes glazed, and he quickly downed his glass of wine. He refilled it from the bottle on the table, and each person offered a toast in turn.

The meals were served and small talk resumed. Heather, sitting between Dominic and Dylan, turned to Dylan and whispered, “What happened with you today?”

“What do you mean?” Dylan knew what she meant, but was not sure how close to keep his information. She was the only person he was absolutely sure of. She could not have murdered Tony because she was on the other side of the country. And yet he was not sure of her relationship with Rob. Would she share their conversations with him? He felt the grip of paranoia as he thought about who could be responsible for Tony's death. Surely not Rob, or Matt, or Rich. But what about Art and Christine? His mind wandered over other names. Sandeep and Ivan. But what motives could they possibly have had? More paranoia.

Heather continued. “You rushed away from the gravesite today like you were being chased by a ghost. What was that about?”

“I just thought I saw someone I knew.”

“That's a bunch of crap and you know it. It's me you're talking to, Dylan,” she whispered.

He made a snap decision. “Not now. I'll explain later.” He kept his voice low. Hell, he wasn't even sure what information he had. Just a series of loose ends he was trying to weave together into an answer. “How about dinner tomorrow evening, my place?”

She smiled. “I'll bring the wine.”

Chapter 18

May 8, 6:30 p.m. Boston

Dylan tossed the salad of fresh mixed greens, olives, peppers, and thinly sliced Vidalia onions. He topped it with feta cheese, covered it, and put it in the refrigerator just as the doorbell rang. He hurried over and looked through the peephole to see Heather standing before him, waving two bottles of wine.

Dylan jerked the door open and smiled. It was the first time all day he had genuinely felt the urge to smile. From eight until four, he had sat in the conference room huddled with Rob, Matt, and the rest of the team, reviewing the Hyperfōn situation. Matt had already gone over every file, note, e-mail, and anything else he could think of to see if they had missed something. But they had not. They had originally checked LC as a possible competitor to Hyperfōn; they had copies of LC's SEC filings, annual reports, and quarterly earnings statements, and still they found nothing. They brainstormed for several hours; then Matt and his gang retired to conduct their research again, this time focusing exclusively on Hyperfōn. By the end of the day, they had found nothing.

Dylan felt a surge of relief when Heather entered and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “How was your day?”

Dylan explained about Hyperfōn and the unsuccessful day of research his team had endured.

She remained silent while Dylan opened a bottle of Pinot Noir. Then she said, “Do you think you'll ever figure out what happened with the account?”

“I have no idea. Rob and Matt have looked at every file at least three times and considered every possible scenario, and still we've found nothing.”

He walked into the kitchen and Heather followed. “Mmm, smells really good in here. Nice-looking steaks.” She pointed to the T-bones sitting on the grill as Dylan turned them. “You know, you're working on two things at once.”

Dylan turned and looked at her. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“This Hyperfōn situation on the one hand and Tony's death on the other. Don't you think you should focus? Either solve the business problem and let the police handle Tony's death, or figure out who killed Tony and let Rob and Matt take care of Hyperfōn.”

Dylan stopped for a minute to consider her comments. He said nothing, just nodded to acknowledge them. He removed the salad from the refrigerator and gave Heather two salad bowls to fill. He removed the steaks from the grill and two baked potatoes from the oven, placing them on dinner plates.

“Time to eat,” was all he said. They sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes before he spoke again. “You know, Heather, you may be right. I've been very frustrated these past few days between Tony's death and now this Hyperfōn mess.”

“So which are you going to follow?” she asked, buttering her baked potato.

He looked at her and a sad smile crept over his face. “I don't really know what the police are doing about Tony. They don't keep me informed. But I can't get him out of my mind. I trust Matt and Rob to get to the bottom of Hyperfōn and keep me informed. So the answer to your question is: to help the police whether they want my help or not. I'm not any kind of detective—I know that—but I also know that if I don't learn the truth, either from the police or on my own, I will never get beyond this thing. It will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

“Okay. I'm there with you.” Heather put a hand on Dylan's arm. “Bring me up to date. Two heads are better than one.”

A renewed energy raced through him. “Well, for starters, you're the only person I trust at this point. I know where you were when the crime occurred.”

Heather backed off for a split second, then nodded and smiled. “So I'm not a suspect. That's a good place to start.” She cut a piece of steak and devoured it. “What else?”

“You already know about the e-mail Tony sent me, and I looked at the ones you forwarded to me, the ones between the two of you. His messages were so cryptic—it was as if he was afraid someone was viewing them besides you.”

“You're right about the mystery of his messages. They made no sense to me at all. But why do you think he was so paranoid?”

“I was thinking about something he said to me a while back. We had gone into his office, which by the way was a huge mess, and yet he felt as if something was out of place. I think that's where his paranoia started. I couldn't see anything, but, then again, it was his office.”

Heather smiled. “Yes, I remember how cluttered it was. But what else?”

Dylan told her about the schematic and his trip to New Jersey. “That brings me up to yesterday at Tony's funeral. You asked me about why I rushed away from the grave so quickly. Actually, you're the one who threw that clue at me.”

She put her fork down; a quizzical look crossed her face. “Me? What did I do?”

“Remember when you looked at that card, the one with the torch on it? Well, it was then I made the connection between the card and Prometheus.”

“Prometheus! That's what you said as I was walking away. I wondered what that was about.”

“I realized the guy who stood away from the crowd must have been him. He's the key to the whole thing—it's a long story, but he's the guy I've been trying to find.”

“Did you catch up with him?”

“Yes, but only for a moment. He was jumping into a cab, and when I approached him and told him my name, he pulled away from me, slammed the door, and the cab sped away.”

“Now we'll never find him.”

Dylan pulled the cell phone out of his pocket. “Well, I did get this information.” He showed her the picture. “I'm not entirely sure how to pursue this, but—”

Heather stopped him mid-sentence. “I think I have an idea. Do you have any heavy stock paper here?”

Chapter 19

May 9, 7:30 a.m. Boston

Tuesday morning rolled in foggy. A front had wandered through Boston the previous night, bringing with it heavy rain that dissolved into a dreary mist.

Dylan rolled over and looked at Heather. Her lips turned up into an enigmatic smile, and he wondered what she was dreaming of, where her thoughts were taking her. He slowly turned to the side of the bed and started to get up, when she awoke.

“Hi,” she said, stretching. “Thanks again for dinner.” She pulled him back into the warmth of the bed and wrapped her arms around him.

“Hi,” he returned. “You're most welcome. Thanks for staying.”

Her eyes still closed, her smile widened and she nodded. She kissed him—a soft, gentle kiss that grew into passion. Dylan engulfed her in his arms and returned the kiss. They remained entangled in the light blanket for several minutes, when Heather suddenly opened her eyes wide.

“Oh my gosh! We've got work to do.” She rolled over, searched through the jacket she had thrown on the floor the previous evening, and retrieved her cell phone. She speed-dialed her assistant's number. “Hello, Gloria—it's Heather. Look, I'm not going to come in for a few days. This entire situation with Tony's funeral has me really down. There isn't anything pressing on my calendar, and if you need me, I can be reached on my cell. I'll get back to you later. Let me know if anything comes up.” She rolled back toward Dylan. “You'd better do the same thing. We don't want the office staff worrying about where we are!”

Dylan smiled. “You are very smart.” He retrieved his phone from his nightstand and made a similar call to Sarah's voice-mail.

“Now, we have to make me an ID!”

Heather sprang out of bed. Dylan admired her slender body as she hurried into the bathroom. He dressed, went to the kitchen and made coffee, and smiled when she came into the kitchen dressed in his oversized robe, her hair wrapped in a towel.

He handed her a cup of coffee. “Want a bagel?” he asked.

“Nope, the coffee is fine. Let's get this ID made.”

“I'm not sure what exactly it is you want to do.”

He followed her into the second bedroom—his office—where she sat down at his computer. He watched over her shoulder as she found software for creating business cards and began to type.

“I'm going to be a police officer for the day.”

“Heather, impersonating a police officer is not a good idea. It's against the law.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said and continued to type.

Dylan read as she typed her name and gave herself the title of sergeant. Not too high up, but important enough to cause someone to answer questions without asking any. She lifted a logo from the police website and pasted it in a corner of the card. “Do you have a picture of me somewhere in here?” she asked.

He sat next to her, opened a photo program, and began to sort through a collection of pictures of his friends.

“Stop! That one. That looks very professional. I'm not smiling, but I'm not snarling either.” She cropped and copied the photo and pasted it into the right spot. “Now, where is your paper stock?”

Dylan retrieved a sheet and placed it in the printer, and Heather proceeded to print out her newly created police ID.

“Heather,” he said, worry creeping into his voice. “Where are you going with this?”

“I'm going to the cab company. Don't worry. I'll just talk to the local supervisor. If something goes wrong, we'll deal with it then. In the meantime, we need to find someplace where we can laminate this thing.”

Dylan reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and removed an old, dusty device. “Jeez, I haven't used this since my early college days. And you don't want to know what that was all about!”

“Good. You laminate a few of these things for me, and I'll go change.” She disappeared back into the bedroom before Dylan could once again object. She called over her shoulder, “And then you'll tell me all about this Prometheus character.”

* * *

May 9, 11:45 a.m. Boston

Heather, dressed in a business suit, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, walked into the Boston Cab Company at noon. She planned her visit to be close to lunchtime, with as few people as possible in the office. She kept her head down and approached a petite woman behind the counter. Fifteen minutes later she walked out of the office, closed her notebook, and put it in her purse.

Dylan leaned over and opened the passenger door. “Well?” he asked, unable to hide his excitement. “No problems?” He wasn't sure if it was the thrill of the hunt, doing something illegal, or getting more information to help their search, but he felt the adrenaline pumping.

“Nope. I talked to an assistant supervisor and showed her my ID. She didn't ask to see a badge. I told her I was looking for someone who was wanted for questioning in a robbery and a witness had seen someone fitting his description jumping into a cab.”

“And she believed you?” he asked in amazement.

“I tried to look stern and sound demanding. I told her I could get a warrant if they needed it, but she said they were pleased to be able to help the police. I gave her the cab number and time of day and location, and she pulled up the information. The guy was dropped at the Radisson Hotel.”

“Well, shit, let's go.”

They arrived at the Radisson twenty minutes later. Heather fixed her hair and makeup, looked at Dylan, and crossed her fingers.

“Let's hope this is just as easy.” Thirty minutes later she returned to the car. “Not such good luck.”

“What took so long? Did they refuse to help? I was beginning to panic.”

“I'm afraid I didn't get much. He had stayed there Saturday and Sunday night, but he checked out early Tuesday.”

“Did he use a credit card?”

“That's the curious thing. The hotel confirmed it when he checked in, but when he left he used the auto checkout on the TV in his room. By the time he was gone, they discovered the card was cancelled. They checked the phone number and it wasn't in service, and the address was assigned to some company that never heard of him. They insisted I make a police report. That's what took so long.” She started to laugh. “I'm sorry, but I really hated taking all this information knowing it would lead nowhere.”