Terminal Value Part 14

"Oh, man. Are you serious? So does the team have any clue yet about what happened?"

"No. We'll meet Monday here in Boston. I know you're very busy, but can you join us?"

"Of course. I have things in hand here now. Don't worry. We'll get to the bottom of this."

He wondered if Rob really had any faith they could get to the bottom of it, or if he was just telling Dylan what he wanted to hear. "Thanks. Maybe we can find a minute to talk about it tomorrow."

Something remained unanswered in Dylan's mind. Nothing made sense to him: Rich's comments about Christine and the reserve, the severance package they gave Rich, Heather's point about the profits of the New York office. And what about Art not allowing Dylan to go on the road show or even look at their financials? Things just didn't add up; something was very, very wrong. But what? His mind flashed back to Tony. What had Tony known?

Chapter 17.

May 7, 11:00 a.m. Boston The scent of carnations and roses filled the church. As Dylan walked to the altar, he heard the echoing crash of kneelers inadvertently kicked by the mourners, the snap of purse latches as women removed their handkerchiefs, the m.u.f.fled coughs.

In the pulpit, Dylan stood high above Tony's many friends and took a deep breath. His nerves tingled until the moment he began to speak, and then peace enveloped him as he recounted stories of Tony's brilliance, his unending generosity, and his lovable irreverence. As he spoke of Tony's integrity, his eyes locked with Art's, who looked away.

When he stepped down from the pulpit, the sound of sobs scattered throughout the congregation, and yet Dylan felt strangely tranquil as he walked over to the casket, touched it, and then returned to his seat in the pew between Mr. Caruso and Rob. Heather sat on the other side of Mr. Caruso; tears stained her cheeks.

Dylan knew Tony had many friends, but he hadn't expected the crowd of people who attended the ma.s.s. He estimated several hundred people crowded into the small church, many standing or leaning against walls.

In addition to Art, Christine, and Stephanie, many others from the firm had come up from New York to express their condolences. Even Ivan appeared, sitting motionless through the service, his eyes roaming the room as if looking for something or someone. The entire Boston office sat close together, and Dylan saw some faces from their MIT days, yet there were many more he didn't recognize. Dylan realized that, although he considered Tony to be his best friend, there was another side to him. He scanned the many unknown faces in the crowd, suddenly aware of how fleeting life could be.

The sun warmed the dry air as the funeral procession wound its way through Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge. Founded before the Civil War, it was one of the most famous burial grounds in the country and the final resting place for such luminaries as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes, B.F. Skinner, and Winslow Homer.

As he followed the black limousine, Dylan smiled, recalling the times during college when he and Tony had walked through these grounds and shared stories about their dreams for the future. How ironic, Dylan thought, that he was now there to bury his friend. It was only when Tony's mother had died that Dylan learned that the Carusos owned one of the precious few open plots at the cemetery. Now here he was again-this time to see his best friend laid to rest next to his mother.

Dylan drove to the top of a small hill and parked his car. The burial site was covered with a dark green awning. Rob and Heather drove up and parked behind him. Heather went up the hill alone, but Rob and Dylan joined Tony's father and the other pallbearers as the casket was slid out of the hea.r.s.e. They lifted it and carried it up to the gravesite, followed by a sea of mourners clad in black.

After they placed the casket on the straps over the perfect rectangular hole in the ground, Dylan stepped back and looked at the faces around him. Art and Christine stood together across from him, staring at the ground and fidgeting. Stephanie was behind them. Poor Rich, looking lost and yet a little defiant. Matt, Sarah-they were all there. All the old MobiCelus gang, as well as the staff of the entire Boston office. Everyone was there who should have been there, thought Dylan with some satisfaction.

Except-he looked around Art's group-no Sandeep. Surely Sandeep should be there. Good G.o.d, Tony had been his second in command. Dylan stood up and circled around the back of the gathering. But there was no sight of Sandeep's slight figure.

Suspicion, fueled by an icy anger, bubbled in Dylan's mind. Why wouldn't he come? Of course, he had been in L.A., but surely he could have arranged his schedule to get back for the funeral. No, there had to be a reason. Jealousy? Or guilt? Had his jealousy led him to do the unthinkable? Or had Tony had something Sandeep dearly wanted? Dylan shook off his suspicions. He was beginning to see guilt in every person. Not now, he thought. Not now.

As the priest began speaking, Dylan glanced at Heather, who stood to his left, holding Mr. Caruso's arm. He watched as a tear wandered down her cheek from behind her sungla.s.ses. He looked to his right, where Rob stood, looking pale and shaken in the bright suns.h.i.+ne. Rob rocked back and forth, a pained expression on his face. Dylan put a hand on his shoulder.

Afterwards, Dylan shook hands with many people who told him how sorry they were and what a wonderful person Tony had been. He thanked them politely, not really knowing what else to say. As the crowd thinned, he spotted Ivan again, standing like a statue on the far side of the grave, his eyes fixed on one spot. Dylan followed his gaze and realized Ivan was staring at Heather. He looked back at Ivan to make sure, but there was no mistake. As Dylan watched, Heather turned and caught Ivan's eye. They stared at one another. Then Ivan turned and walked away.

Dylan was surprised to see a look of cold anger on Heather's face. What the h.e.l.l was that about?

Art had collared Mr. Caruso and was fussing over him as the long line of sympathy-wishers paraded past to shake his hand. Rich appeared in his turn, saying words of condolence to Mr. Caruso. Art reached out and took Rich's hand, muttering a few apologetic words.

"Well isn't that interesting," said Heather, nudging Dylan as she watched the scene. "He actually shook Rich's hand."

"It's a time of forgiveness," said Rob. "Art probably still feels bad about firing him."

Heather cast a scornful look at Rob over her sungla.s.ses. She turned away and looked casually at the crowd that milled around the grave and was slowly dispersing.

"Who's that?" Heather whispered to Dylan. "That guy over there?"

Dylan followed the direction of her glance, and his gaze settled on a middle-aged man in a brown sport coat and jeans, standing close enough to the crowd to be identified as a mourner, but far enough away to avoid any direct contact with friends or family. He fiddled with a red vase of yellow tulips on the ground next to the gravesite, trying to make sure it would stand upright among the other tributes. Dylan didn't recognize him, but his clothing and unkempt hair suggested he was a techie, maybe a professor from MIT.

"I don't know."

"Me either," said Rob. "Why do you ask?"

"I saw him at the church. He came in alone and sat in the back. Never spoke to anyone."

"Just shy," said Rob.

"He looked out of place," muttered Heather. "He kept glancing around the church, but not as if he was looking for someone he knew. He seemed to be on edge, as if he were frightened."

Dylan walked toward him and watched the stranger slip away through the crowd. When the vase of tulips began to list into a bowl of carnations at its side, Dylan stepped over to s.n.a.t.c.h the vase and prevent it from falling. A small card tucked into the arrangement caught his eye. He discreetly removed the card to see a picture of a yellow flame rising from a copper torch. The words inside read: "Too smart, too good, too young."

There was no signature.

"Somebody got it right," said a voice at his side.

Dylan turned to see Mr. Caruso, his grey hair fluttering in the warm breeze.

Dylan returned the card to the bouquet. "Yeah."

"Heather says she'd take me to my hotel. I need to get some rest before dinner."

"Good. Where are we meeting?"

"At that restaurant called Clink in the Liberty Hotel where I'm staying. Tony liked it."

"Sounds good." Dylan turned to Rob. "Are we off then?"

"I'm catching a ride with Rich," said Rob. "We haven't had a chance to talk."

"Okay," said Dylan. He walked a few steps with Rob. "You didn't happen to talk to Sandeep today, did you?"

"Nope. Why?"

"Wondered why he isn't here."

"He's in L.A. 'til tomorrow, I believe."

Dylan bit his lip to hide his disgust. "What's his story, anyway?"

"Sandeep? Typical geek. Too polite for his own good, though."

"What does that mean?"

"Christine got him for a song. And, unlike the others, his shares don't vest as fast. He could have done a lot better, but he doesn't know how to negotiate a contract."

Heather wandered over and lifted the card from among the tulips. A smile played across her lips.

"What?" asked Rob.

"Just admiring the artistic symmetry. The flowers represent the torch on the card. It's an old symbol of knowledge."

Mr. Caruso took her arm and patted her hand. They were about to walk down the hill, and Rob turned to find Rich. But Dylan stood frozen in place. He looked at the bright tulips and s.n.a.t.c.hed at the card. Symbol of knowledge? Yes! Fire represented knowledge. He had just read all about it. The G.o.d who had given fire to humankind had been punished by his fellow t.i.tans for daring to share a wisdom that would make the mortals too powerful. And the symbol of that G.o.d, replicated a thousand times in the art of the world for a thousand years, was the flaming torch.

"Prometheus," he said, louder than he'd meant to. He spun around, scanning through the crowd. He saw Heather glance at him quizzically. There was no sign of the brown sport coat and its s.h.a.ggy-haired owner. How much of a head start did he have? Five minutes?

Dylan raced down the hill toward a man in a black suit standing guard by the parking lot.

"Excuse me. I thought I spotted a friend. Man about forty-five in a brown sport coat and stonewashed jeans. Did you see him leave a couple of minutes ago?" Dylan's head turned in several directions as he spoke.

"Yes, sir, I did." He pointed down the road. "He went that way. On foot."

"Thanks."

Dylan raced across the lot and down the road at full speed. He saw no sign of the man until he found himself in front of a gas station two blocks away, where he saw him approaching a taxicab.

Dylan raced up to the man and grabbed his arm as he was halfway into the cab. "Sorry. I just wanted to have a word."

"Yeah? What about?" He wrenched himself free of Dylan's grip.

"You were a friend of Tony's, weren't you?"

"What's it to you?"

"My name is Dylan Johnson, and-"

But at the sound of his name, the man jumped into the cab, locked the door, and told the driver, "Just drive."

"Wait! Please!" Dylan shouted. "I just want to talk about Tony!" But the window rolled up and the cab accelerated into traffic.

Dylan steadied himself and fixed his eyes on the cab. He yanked his phone from his pocket. He could not get a photo of the man, but he got the next best thing-the number of the cab and the license plate.

May 7, 7:00 p.m. Boston The Liberty Hotel, once the Charles Street jailhouse, played on its history with clever names for itself and its restaurant and bar. Dylan walked into the Clink Restaurant at seven p.m. The young woman at the door led him to a private room, where he met Dominic Caruso, Heather, Rob, Matt, and Rich.

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. "k.n.o.b 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 gla.s.s 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 c.r.a.p 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. h.e.l.l, 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 Hyperfn 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 compet.i.tor to Hyperfn; 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 Hyperfn. 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 Hyperfn 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.