Terminal Value (19 page)

“This guy's good.” Dylan stared through the windshield. So much had happened in such a short time, and now he felt Prometheus was slipping away—and with him the solution to Tony's death.

They returned to Dylan's place, where they sat side-by-side at the computer as he typed in the credit card information Heather had picked up from the hotel. “What name did this guy give?”

“Brandon Wist.”

Dylan remembered that Tony had mentioned a Brandon. He Googled the name. “Look at this,” he said, pointing to the information that appeared on the screen. Dylan reached across his desk and picked up his phone. He dialed information and got the number for Technochondriacs in New Jersey. He waited while the number rang several times until it went to voice-mail.

“This is Dylan Johnson from Mantric. I met you several days ago and I need your help. I need to find Brandon Wist. I know you don't want to help me, but if you do, I'll return the favor ten times over. I have the contacts you need for your venture
and
I will also see to it that they help you. So how important is your future? I'm trying to find out who murdered my friend, Tony Caruso. The police are also working toward that end. So call me and let me know how much help you want to give me, or if I should just let the police contact you. You have my card.”

Dylan hung up and looked at Heather. “Guess we'll wait and see if we get an answer.”

“Are you really going to turn this information over to the police if you don't hear from them?” Her eyes flashed in a moment of panic.

“I haven't thought it out that far. Let's wait and see what happens. If I do, it will be anonymous.”

Chapter 20

May 11, 7:45 p.m. New Jersey

The drive to Westwood, New Jersey, took the better part of the day, and Dylan wondered if this wild goose chase would lead anywhere. But he was no fool, either. He knew it might be a dangerous exercise.

He sat in his car across the street from the little motel in Westwood, which proved to be like a million of its kind: salmon-colored, poorly lit, and close to the train station. The rain started at about seven. Dylan sat, watching room number four and waiting for any sign of activity.

At seven forty-five he saw the short, pudgy figure—wearing the same stone-washed jeans and brown tweed jacket he had worn at the funeral—hurrying through the rain, clutching a laptop case in one arm and a paper bag in the other. The man kept his head down. The rain and wind drowned out the surrounding noise, and he never noticed Dylan exit his car and sprint toward him. The man turned the key and slipped inside just as Dylan arrived and placed his hand on the door.

“Hey, Brandon.”

The man jumped and stumbled backwards. Recognition flooded his face. Dylan stepped inside and closed the door.

“You're hard to find.” The room was typical: twin beds with hideous orange bed covers, plain side-tables, and well-worn lamps. The musty smell of dirt and decaying food caught in Dylan's nose, and he coughed. He indicated a chair at a little table in the corner. “Why don't you have a seat?”

The man snorted and fell backward onto the chair, his laptop case on his lap.

Dylan stayed close to the door, not wanting to frighten the man. “I just want to talk—okay?”

“Yeah? Too bad I can't believe you. I know who you are.”

“You have no idea who I am. The issue is, were you really a friend of Tony's or not? If not, then fine. Shut up, run, or call the cops, and then I'll know. But if you were his friend, you'll talk to me because I was his friend too. All I'm trying to do is find out what he was working on when he died. To make sure he gets credit for his work and not somebody else. I want my friend to go down in history for his innovations.” Dylan wondered if Brandon would accept that excuse or not. He waited.

Brandon kept his eyes glued on Dylan. “Fine. Prove you were Tony's friend.”

“Jesus Christ! I went to MIT with him. He and I started our company together. MobiCelus!”

“Your card says Mantric.”

“We sold the company to them three months ago. Two effing minutes on the Internet will confirm it.”

“Oh.” Brandon shrank into himself. “Any other proof?”

Dylan had just about had it with this fat, unkempt little man. “Yeah, he grew up in Watertown and was just buried at Mount Auburn Cemetery. But you already know that. You were there.”

Brandon stared at him for a moment and then just nodded.

“My turn.” Dylan folded his arms. “How the hell didn't you know about MobiCelus being bought by Mantric? Aren't you a technology genius? Don't you do your homework?”

Brandon looked away uneasily. “I don't want to know what the suits do. And anyway, I only used encrypted texts to communicate with Tony. I don't—I have to take precautions.”

“Because Microsoft bought you out and burned you.”

“You heard about that?”

“Tony told me. Said you took a shitload of money and in return signed a release with Microsoft saying you would never hire on with another company as a developer.”

“Right.” Brandon relaxed a little. “Well, mostly right. Let's just say I still like to dabble a bit on my own. Okay, so then you know why I make with the cloak and dagger. I got screwed once in my life, and that was enough.”

“How long did you know Tony? How did you meet?”

“A mutual friend hooked us up. Five years ago. I liked talking shop with the kids. And Tony was one of the few who gets it. He had a feel for complex software. We'd get together every few months when he wanted to run something by me. Very advanced stuff.”

“I know. A smartphone that converts into a virtual laptop.”

Brandon laughed. “Yeah. And other things.”

“Like what?”

Brandon shrugged.

“Look. I need to know what you helped him with before he died.”

“Who said I was helping him with anything?”

“This drawing he sent to me.” He pulled a copy of Tony's schematic from his jacket and handed it to Brandon. “Notice your name at the bottom?”

“Oh shit. Who else saw this? Just you—right? Jesus, I risked my life to go to that funeral, for a friend! And look what it gets me!” He grabbed a bottle of Scotch whisky from the bag, opened it, and took a long swig.

“I doubt anyone else noticed you were there.”

“Are you kidding?” He leaped up and staggered to the window. “You did! Are the cops looking for me?”

Dylan found himself staring into the face of paranoia. “Not that I know of. They don't exactly confide in me.” He took a deep breath. “I have to tell you something. But you really can't tell anyone else.”

A slow grin broke out over Brandon's face. “You're asking me if I can keep a secret?”

“Well, yeah. Just for a while. Until—just for a while.”

“Uh-huh. And if I don't agree, you'll rat me out to the IRS—right?”

Dylan raised his chin. This was Tony's friend. Tony's mentor. Paranoia personified, if Dylan was any judge of character. He shook his head. “Nope.”

“But you could,” insisted Brandon peevishly.

“Jesus.” Dylan looked at him in disgust. “Tony was right. You are kinda crazy.” He waited for a moment, then continued. “Tony was murdered.”

Brandon stopped and stared at him. “What? Man!” His mouth dropped open, and he sat down again. “Murder? As in homicide?”

“Yeah.”

“I got nothing to do with this!” He jumped up and paced back and forth, staring at the floor, running his fingers through his messy hair.

“I know that.” Or probably knew it now, anyway. “But you know what Tony was working on—right? And maybe you know who was involved and who would have been negatively affected by his success.”

“‘Negatively affected.' I love the way you suits talk.” He took another swig from the bottle. “You mean fucking jealous enough to want to kill him—right?”

“Yeah.”

“Man. Ain't this a trip down memory lane for yours truly.” He turned and took a few steps toward the bathroom, then turned back. “You ever received a death threat?”

“No.”

“It's not fun. It makes you feel—small. I'm talking mouse small. It makes you decide you'll do anything you have to do so that you don't ever get a death threat again. And the funny thing is? Even when you pay the piper, his tune never really changes. You're always hearing it, always looking under the bed.” He opened the laptop case and reached inside. “Checking the closet, the liquor cabinet, the—oh! Look what I found!”

Dylan found himself staring down the muzzle of a squat black gun. “Shit,” he whispered. His heart raced, shooting adrenaline through his veins. He backed up, his mind racing for a plausible exit.

“Yeah. I carry it with me wherever I go. Just for you. You bastards chewed me up and spit me out, but even so, I'm kinda attached to what's left of my life.” His eyes turned dark, his glance darted around the room. He licked his lips and started pacing.

“Ditto,” Dylan whispered. Was there a way out of this? The door was five yards away. His phone was closer.

“I bet.” Brandon staggered, then regained his balance.

“Brandon, you don't want to do this.”

“I know I don't. But I will if I have to.”

“I left a message telling the cops I'm here. If you kill me, they'll nail you for sure. They'll nail you for homicide. Tony's
and
mine!”

“Me?” His bleary eyes bugged out. “They think it was me that killed Tony?”

Dylan frowned. “Wasn't it?”

“No! Jesus, what do you take me for?”

“So you didn't do it?”

“No!”

“Then what the fuck are you pointing a gun at me for!”

“Because I thought it was you! Oh.” Brandon put a hand over his mouth, then looked at the gun. “What the hell am I doing?”

“I have no idea.”

“Sorry.” He dropped the gun back in the laptop case and fell into the chair. “I get a little crazy when people talk about technology in the same sentence as death.”

Dylan had no idea what Brandon was talking about and considered it better to just slump into a chair. He picked up a napkin and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he said.

“Me too.”

For a moment, Brandon smiled sweetly, reminding Dylan for the first time of Tony. They sat for a while in silence, while the clock on the nightstand ticked. Dylan pondered what to do next. “If I can find out anything that will help the police, I want to do that. They don't seem to have much of an appreciation for the kind of life Tony led. Or what his work was about.”

“Any leads?”

Dylan smiled and rested his head on the back of the chair. “Look, I've had a long day—”

“Hey, if you want to know, I was in Arizona at the time, communing with the Anasazi.” He pulled a wad of receipts and ticket stubs from the outer pocket of his laptop case and spread them on the coffee table.

Dylan glanced through them. Hotel receipts in the name of Dunlop Prince, an airline ticket from Newark to Tempe, receipts for purchases from the Sonora Trading Post.

“Okay. You're off the hook.”

“Nice to know, but I want more than that. You say Tony was a friend of yours. Well, he was a friend of mine too. How can I help? Fill me in. Who do you suspect?”

Dylan eyed Brandon. As crazy as he had seemed five minutes before, now he seemed terribly, terribly sane. “I don't have a good list. What I need is a solid motive.”

“And how are you going to get that?”

“I don't know. I'm just going to keep peeling things back until I find it. But I think Tony discovered something very serious. I got a voice-mail from him saying he was sending me a file, but I never got it.”

“Really?”

“Of course, that would mean it's on one of his computers. But the police haven't been able to find anything on Tony's home computer, and Ivan, our chief of security—”

“No one ever will crack it.”

Dylan tightened his lips, overwhelmed with disappointment.

“You said you don't believe I killed Tony. So what do you want me to do?”

“How about hacking into the hard drive of his computer at the office?”

Brandon leaned forward. “I'm sure anything that came or went to his hard drive is already in the hands of your chief of security.”

“I doubt that. Tony would—”

“Tony would never have been stupid enough to put anything important on his office computer. He would have known everything that moves on the LAN is subject to company surveillance.” Brandon smiled like a cynical cherub. “Every e-mail you type, every website you visit, every phone call you make, every file you download, share, or even store—hell, every friggin' keystroke is accessible by the powers that be.” He looked away and started humming “Every Breath You Take.”

Brandon was right, of course. What if everything he had said to Tony, to Rob, to Heather, had been observed? Was this what Tony had sensed that day in his office when he knew something was not right? “Then we're fucked,” he said.

“Not necessarily. Lateral thinking, Mr. Johnson. It's true you'll never crack Tony's hard drive, but let's take another approach. Where did Tony get the files you are looking for?”

“How can I tell unless I've seen them?”

“Oh come on. He got them from Mantric, didn't he?”

“Maybe.” Dylan frowned. “I hadn't thought about it.”

“Obviously not. But, in fact, what you're probably talking about are records of some sort that Tony accessed and copied from some server or other at Mantric—right?”

“Yeah, probably.” Dylan looked up. His mind became active again.

“Almost certainly.” Brandon treated Dylan to a smug smirk. “So the only question remains: can you get access to the root directory of Mantric's administrative server?”