Terminal Value (17 page)

Dylan turned the corner at Arch Street and walked north. He was oblivious to everything around him as he went over what had just happened. Why had Art wanted to meet over a drink? Why had he started the meeting talking about the funeral, only to berate and threaten him? And how the hell did he know about Hyperfōn?

The sense of helplessness that had been growing within him since Tony's death continued to plague him. A chill ran through his body, and he instinctively looked back to see if anyone was following him. He felt scared and alone. Tony gone. Rich gone. Would he be next?

He shook off his fear and forced himself to focus. His thoughts turned to figuring out how LC had been able to pull it off. He would meet with Matt and the team first thing tomorrow. His mind raced. They would do the postmortem, dig around, and try to figure out what went wrong. He would call for an immediate review of all their other clients and their potential competitors. There might be another LC lurking out there, just waiting to pounce.

Ideas and thoughts darted through his mind—and then he remembered. Tomorrow was Tony's funeral. Jesus, how could he forget? He bowed his head.

As he approached the Old South Meeting House, Dylan pulled out his cell phone and hit his speed-dial number.

“Hey,” came Rob's voice.

“Can you talk?”

“Yeah. We just took a break.” Dylan heard the sound of a door closing in the background. “So how'd it go with Joe?”

“Not good. He fired us.”

“What? You're kidding.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Jesus Christ! Didn't you try to talk him out of it?”

“Of course I did. But, Rob, you wouldn't believe how angry he was. He's even refusing to pay us the million he owes.”

“Holy shit! I can't believe this!”

Dylan breathed deeply. “We'll just have to find out how it happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, our team sure as hell didn't miss this! I think somebody somewhere sold us out.”

“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 muffled 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 mass. 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 hearse. 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 God, 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 sunglasses. He looked to his right, where Rob stood, looking pale and shaken in the bright sunshine. 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 hell 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 sunglasses. 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 snatch 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 snatched at the card. Symbol of knowledge? Yes! Fire represented knowledge. He had just read all about it. The god who had given fire to humankind had been punished by his fellow Titans for daring to share a wisdom that would make the mortals too powerful. And the symbol of that god, 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 shaggy-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.