The Hunt (13 page)

“Leo was more than a partner,” said Abigail. “Iggie’s talented and he has great commercial sense, but Leo was the true technical genius. Leo was responsible for the most sophisticated parts of the software’s design. But this hacker, and the person who’s been sending you these clues, can’t be Leo. Leo’s dead.”

“Are you absolutely sure about that?” asked Peter, taking the words from my mouth.

“He’s dead. I wish he weren’t, but there’s no way he could have survived the fire that killed him.”

“What happened, exactly?” asked Luisa. “The woman at Berkeley mentioned a fire, but she didn’t give me any other details, and it didn’t seem appropriate to ask.”

Abigail took a sip from the glass of red wine she’d been nursing. “Leo had a cabin in the hills above Silicon Valley, off Skyline Boulevard. It was just a small place compared to some of the mansions people have built in the area with Internet money, but it was in a beautiful spot. On a clear day you could see all the way to the Pacific from one side of the house and to San Francisco Bay from the other. Leo thought of the cabin as his private retreat. He’d usually go up there alone, shut himself in, light a fire in the fireplace, put on some music and lose himself in work for days at a time. The report was that he must have fallen asleep one night with a fire
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going. The fire got out of control, and the cabin burned down with him in it.”

“Are you positive he was in it?” I asked. After all, Abigail had just described a classic way to fake one’s own death, not that I had any idea why Leo would want to do such a thing. All of the other signs pointed at Leo and in such a definitive way as to smooth over any disconnect between his picture and the delicate femininity of the hacker’s online alias. I was reluctant to let a small thing like people thinking he was dead get in the way.

“The cabin was so isolated it took a while for the fire trucks to arrive, and by then there wasn’t much left but ashes. Nobody inside could have survived, and nobody did. Once the fire was out, all they recovered were some bone fragments and teeth.” Abigail gave a small shudder, remembering. “That’s how they ended up identifying both Leo and Scat.”

“Scat?” asked Ben.

“Leo’s dog,” she explained. Scat seemed like a strange thing to name a dog—it was more like the sort of thing you’d say to a cat—but not everyone came from the Forrest school of pet-naming. “He really loved that dog.”

“When did all of this happen?” I asked, disappointed. It was hard to argue with bones and dental records.

“About eighteen months ago. Leo and Iggie were fighting all the time by then, and things were getting really bitter between them. All of the initial development was done on the software, and the preliminary testing was complete. They were ready for a broad commercial launch, but they still hadn’t resolved their disagreement about money, and Leo would complain that he never had time to get any work done, because Iggie was constantly scheduling meetings with venture capitalists to talk about business plans and deal terms. Leo wanted to start small and make some of the software available for free, but Iggie thought from the beginning that the technology could be worth billions, and he wanted the venture-capital firms to invest in the company so they could finance a big splashy marketing campaign and grow the business quickly.”

“I guess we know which path he took,” I said. Now you couldn’t browse the Web, turn on the TV or pick up a magazine without encountering an Igobe ad. They were even plastered on buses and taxis. It seemed wrong that a product whose key selling point was its ability to protect one’s privacy was advertised in such an invasive way.

“Iggie did exactly what he wanted once Leo wasn’t around to argue with him.”

“Then what happened? With you and Iggie?” Luisa asked, her tone gentle. She had plenty of gentleness to spare for people she didn’t hold responsible for her nicotine-deprived state, and she also had her own reasons to be interested in Abigail’s personal history.

Abigail looked down at her glass of wine. “I didn’t have a lot of experience romantically, and Iggie really swept me off my feet when we were in school. It never felt right to me, but I didn’t know how it was supposed to feel. The marriage started going south pretty much right after the wedding, but Leo’s death was the catalyst. It sounds like a cliché, but it drove home that I only had one life to live. I left Iggie a few weeks after Leo died, and I made a lot of other changes.”

She lifted her eyes to meet Luisa’s. “And here I am.”

This was as good an opportunity for a tender moment as I’d ever seen, and if I’d been less impatient or if Luisa had been nicer to me that day I would have let it take its course. “And there’s Iggie, about to become a billionaire,” I said instead. “That’s awfully convenient.”

Abigail managed to tear her gaze from Luisa, and I could tell I’d struck a chord. “It was convenient, wasn’t it? This is going to sound crazy, but part of me always wondered whether Iggie had anything to do with the fire. The timing of everything couldn’t have been better for him. Once Leo was dead, Iggie could take the business in the direction he wanted, without any obstacles. He’s already made a bundle since then, and once Igobe goes public, he’s going to be seriously rich.”

“Was there any suspicion of arson?” asked Ben.

“No. At least, not officially. The investigators said it looked as if a spark had landed on the rug in front of the hearth. The fire spread quickly from there, and Leo didn’t manage to get out. But
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they didn’t find any evidence of foul play. Iggie kept telling people he thought it was suicide, that Leo was still depressed about his father’s death and set the fire himself. He said Leo wanted to die in a fire because his father had been cremated. But Iggie saying all that just made me wonder if he was trying to deflect suspicion from himself.”

“Did Leo have any other close friends or relatives?” I asked. Perhaps somebody else had suspected Iggie of foul play, too, somebody who knew enough about Igobe’s software to hack it and who cared enough about Leo to avenge his death. Maybe a commie computer-whiz girlfriend who called herself Petite Fleur?

But Abigail shook her head. “Leo was a loner, especially after his father died. All he cared about was his work, and music and Scat. He was a big fan of the masses, but only from a distance.”

“Did Iggie know you suspected him?” asked Peter.

“Maybe. Probably. But it didn’t worry him. There wasn’t much I could do about it. It wasn’t like I had any proof. He was home the night of the fire, working in his home office, but he might have sneaked out for an hour or two without my noticing, especially since we were barely speaking at that point. He could have gone up to the cabin, incapacitated Leo in some way and then started the fire to cover his tracks. I never would have thought he had it in him, but he’s always been so ambitious, and everything fell into place for him once Leo was out of the way.

He didn’t even pretend to be upset when Leo died. Two days later he’d renamed the company and cashed a big check from a venture-capital firm. Two weeks after that, ads for Igobe were everywhere. And now Igobe’s about to sell shares to the public for more money than I think even Iggie ever dreamed of.”

A silence fell over the table; each of us was thinking through the implications of what Abigail had told us, and I don’t think I was the only one feeling a newly heightened sense of alarm, and it wasn’t just because my hopes for the career-redeeming prospects of the Igobe IPO were fading fast. While we’d been concerned that Iggie wouldn’t be pleased if Hilary wrote an article claiming Igobe’s technology could be hacked, we’d dismissed the idea that he presented a real threat.

But that was before we knew what had happened to the last person to get in Iggie’s way. We had a lot more to be concerned about if Iggie was capable of murder.

15

Peter seemed as shocked as any of us about Abigail’s secret history, but I guessed she hadn’t included details about her personal life on her résumé. “Can you get in touch with Iggie?” He asked her now. “Or do you know where he lives?”

“We used to rent a house in Los Altos, but he’s moved since then, and I don’t have the new address or even a phone number. He’s paranoid about people knowing his personal information. And we handled all of the correspondence for the divorce through our lawyers.

Iggie wasn’t very happy about the split, to put it mildly, and it was easier not to deal with him directly.” She hesitated. “I’d mentioned to Luisa that there’s someone I can call who always knows how to reach him. It won’t be easy—it’s a last-resort type of option—but I can do it if you’re desperate.”

“We’re pretty desperate,” I said.

“We might even be very desperate,” said Luisa. “Given what you’ve told us about Iggie, it sounds as if Hilary could be in serious trouble.”

Abigail seemed to be taking our measure, weighing just how desperate we really were against making a call she was reluctant to make. Apparently we came across as sufficiently pathetic, or maybe she was just trying to please Luisa or even Peter, who was not only her friend but her boss, as well, although this sort of thing certainly wasn’t covered in her job description. “Okay.

If it’s that important to you, I’ll give it a shot.”

She’d had only a few sips of her wine while we’d been talking, but now she lifted the glass to her lips and took a big gulp, as if to fortify her for what she was about to do next. Then she took her cell phone from her bag. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

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But a full twenty minutes elapsed before Abigail returned, and when she did she looked as if she could use another glass of wine, or perhaps several Valium with a bottle of tequila as a chaser.

“Victory?” asked Luisa hopefully.

Abigail waved a slip of paper with a phone number scrawled across it. “I wouldn’t call it that, but I did get a phone number. It’s a six-five-zero area code, so it’s somewhere near Palo Alto, but I couldn’t get an address.”

“Who did you call?” I asked. “Or whom?”

“Even The Igster has a mother,” she said with a wry smile. “And let’s just say that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. A tree who thought naming her first-born Igor was a fabulous idea.”

Abigail felt it would be best for her to make the call to Iggie, but the rest of us wanted to listen in, and after some persuasion, she agreed. “In fact, it would probably be good to have other people witness how impossible a conversation with him can be—otherwise you’d think I was making it up. But we should hurry,” she said with a glance at her watch. “Iggie goes to bed exactly at midnight when he has work the next day, and he never answers the phone once he’s started his prebed routine.”

I didn’t particularly want to know what Iggie’s bedtime routine might entail, and I was glad when nobody else asked. We decided to go up to Luisa’s room, where there was a speakerphone.

Now that we knew we were being watched, we were all on our best behavior in the elevator, although it seemed unfriendly not to wave at the cameras hidden behind the mirrors. Once in the suite, Luisa took the phone from the desk and set it on the glass coffee table in the living room so we would all be able to hear.

Peter and I took the sofa as Ben leaned against the window and Luisa settled into an armchair.

Abigail pushed one button to activate the phone’s speaker and another to secure an outside line before punching in the digits on the scrap of paper. “This could get ugly,” she warned as she dialed. “It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to him.”

“We all know how difficult conversations with former partners can be,” said Luisa reassuringly. I couldn’t help but sneak a look at Peter when she said this, wondering whether he found conversations with Caro difficult. None of my previous relationships had lasted long enough even to merit the term partner.

Iggie had given so few people his contact information he had no reservations about answering his phone practically before it rang. “Who wants the Igster?” piped his reedy voice.

“Iggie, it’s me.”

There was a long moment of silence on the other end. “Biggie?”

Abigail winced, and I had the feeling she was already regretting her decision to let us listen in.

“How many times have I asked you not to call me that?”

“You haven’t asked me anything for more than a year, remember? That’s how long it’s been since I’ve heard from you. One year, twenty-three weeks, four days, three hours, and six minutes.

And you didn’t send a Christmas card.” Even over the speaker the sulkiness in his tone was grating and unmistakable.

“I didn’t send anyone a Christmas card. I’m Jewish.”

“Dr. Grout says your behavior has been very hostile.”

“I didn’t call to discuss your therapy, or Dr. Grout.”

“Dr. Grout thinks your unwillingness to discuss my therapy is indicative of deeply rooted neuroses. He could help you with that.”

Abigail rolled her eyes and put the phone on mute as Iggie continued to talk. “I’m sorry,” she said to the rest of us. “This is even worse than I thought it would be.” We all tried to look encouraging as she unmuted the speaker. “That’s very generous of Dr. Grout, but he’s got plenty on his plate already without worrying about me.”

“But we are worried, Biggie. I told Dr. Grout about seeing you at the party last night, and we’re very concerned.”

“Why’s that?” she asked.

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“We think you may be anorexic, or at least anemic. But don’t worry, we can help you. And we know why you’re calling, too. We were expecting your call, and we’re willing to consider it. But first we think you owe me an apology.”

“I’m assuming that by we you’re still talking about you and Dr. Grout?” asked Abigail. I personally hoped so; the royal we was strange enough when royalty used it.

“Of course I’m talking about Dr. Grout,” said Iggie. “You know I tell him everything. And we knew you’d be back, and we know why. But you’re going to have to get in line, Bigs. Everyone wants a piece of me now.”

Abigail took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. When she spoke next, it was with restrained precision. “Iggie, as I made abundantly clear one year, twenty-three weeks, and however many days and hours ago, there is not a single piece of you or Dr. Grout I will ever want. Which is why I explicitly relinquished any claims to your assets in the divorce settlement.”