Terminal Value Part 11

The door burst open, and two blue-clad security guards rushed in. Dylan took a deep breath. Ivan stepped forward. "False alarm," he said curtly. "I thought Mr. Johnson had taken ill-the recent tragedy-but he a.s.sures me he is fine. Stand down." The two men relaxed and left, throwing disapproving glances in Dylan's direction.

Ivan turned and looked down at Dylan. "You would have been wise to take some time off, Mr. Johnson. You are obviously overwrought."

"I want to go through the files before you remove them," Dylan demanded.

"Not possible, Mr. Johnson."

"Why not? Unless there's something there you don't want me to see?"

Ivan folded his arms. "Not having seen the contents of the drive, I have no idea. Now, if you don't mind." He glanced at the door.

Dylan knew he had no bargaining chips. Helpless in the face of Ivan's corporate right to be there, he tried to appeal to his human side, a.s.suming he had one.

"Tony sent me an e-mail, but for some reason I didn't get it. I just want to see what it said, for sentimental reasons. His last words to me-" He stopped, wondering if Ivan would buy that.

"I see. Well, I'll look for it, if I can access the files. And I promise you I shall certainly tell you if I find anything that seems to be for you."

Dylan eyed Ivan suspiciously, but he took the hint. It was time to go before he did any more damage. This wasn't the way to help find Tony's killer. Far from it. He would have to call Baldwin and tell her that if she wanted the hard drive, she would have to get it herself. He forced himself to walk with a firm step toward the door.

"Oh, and Mr. Johnson."

Dylan turned and met Ivan's eyes. "Yes?"

"My condolences."

Chapter 14.

May 5, 11:00 a.m. Boston Dylan sat at his desk and stared at the glossy screen of his computer, looking at his own face staring back at him: a picture of loss, sadness, and anger. He reached for his cell phone.

Call me. Those two words . . . so telling, so inviting. For a moment he lost himself in memories of the previous night. Then he returned to his computer and double-checked his e-mail, looking again for the one from Tony. He checked his spam folder to make sure the filters had not accidentally blocked Tony's e-mail address. He checked his quarantined e-mail on Mantric's system. Nothing.

The missing e-mail would explain what had been bothering Tony and either prove or disprove Dylan's dread that it had something to do with Mantric and Tony's death. But such thoughts opened a flood of questions.

He pulled the folded sheet of paper from his pocket, flattened the schematic on the desk, and stared at it. He opened his web browser and Googled "Prometheus." Six million results. He Googled "Prometheus plus technology plus next-generation." Fifty-eight thousand results. That wasn't going to get him anywhere.

His computer chimed softly: the sound it made when someone on the network wanted to communicate. He opened up the conference window and saw Sandeep's name and avatar bouncing in the dock. He clicked on "accept," and the window filled with Sandeep's olive-toned baby face.

"Dylan," he said. "I got your message. I am extremely sorry about Tony. Everyone in the department is. He will be missed."

"Thanks, Sandeep. I appreciate it. Listen, I wanted to talk with you about a couple of things, tech-related."

"Fire away."

"Let me ask you. Who are the real tech gurus Tony might have been working with on one of his pet projects?"

"Well, there is Miss DaSoto. As you know they were working on the beta release for our client Scyant. And of course there are many others."

"Actually, I mean outside of work."

"Oh." Sandeep paused. "I wouldn't know anything about that, Dylan. But I'm sure whatever Tony did outside of his work here was just for fun."

"Do you know if he was doing anything in New Jersey?"

"I really have no idea, Dylan. I'm sorry." His answer was sharp.

"Don't worry about it." Dylan swiveled in his chair and gazed out the window. "Sorry if these questions seem odd. This has. .h.i.t me hard, I guess. I just feel a need to locate and talk to some of Tony's friends. Maybe get together over a drink and shoot the breeze. Stupid, I guess."

"Not at all, Dylan. I understand completely. To mourn is an important part of life you Americans often neglect. It's good for you to allow yourself to feel."

"Right. Well, thanks, Sandeep."

"Take care." Sandeep ended the chat.

Dylan slumped back in his chair and stared again at the face in the monitor. He resumed painstakingly looking through every folder in every e-mail account he had to make sure there was nothing from Tony.

This was no good. Never in his adult life had he shied away from the job at hand. Tony's laughing voice came unbidden into his thoughts: "Hey, man! Geniuses can't turn it off and on with a switch. You gotta be in the mood to be brilliant." Dylan grabbed his jacket and headed out.

May 5, 3:45 p.m. Boston Dylan picked up his cell phone, dialed the number for the Liberty Hotel, and asked for Dominic Caruso's room.

"Mr. Caruso? It's Dylan."

"Ah, Dylan. Where are you?"

"At a coffee shop. I just needed to be alone."

"I understand."

"Are you okay? I mean, do you have everything you need?"

"Yes. The company has been very generous. I have everything. Well-" His breath caught in his throat.

"I know. I can't believe it either."

"Detective Baldwin-she says they're not sure how he died. They're investigating. She said I could talk about it with you but no one else 'til they know more."

"I know. I think it's best. They're working hard." He spoke the last sentence more for comfort than belief.

"Who would do this to Tony? Everybody loved him. From the time he was a baby." Dominic Caruso's voice broke with emotion.

"I know." Dylan choked on his words.

"It's because he was too smart. When he was ten years old, his school came to us and said he was too smart for them. That he should go to a special school. For mathematics. His mother and I were very proud. But he didn't want to go. Math camp in summer, okay. But the rest of the time he wanted to be with his friends and play baseball. When he was eleven, he built a robot to let the dog out. Eleven!"

"I know."

"You were a good friend to him. He always told me how you took care of him, how you carried him on your coattails. Made it easy for him to do what he loved."

"He carried me, Mr. Caruso. He carried me." Tears welled in his eyes.

"Look Dylan. I want you to give the eulogy."

"Mr. Caruso, really, I'm not the one-"

"You are, Dylan. You were his best friend. It's what he would have wanted. Okay? I won't take no for an answer."

"Okay," Dylan whispered. How could he say no? Just because, somewhere buried in his heart, he feared maybe he had caused Tony's death by bringing them all into Mantric?

"And I want to get together with you and Heather and Rob. Maybe after the funeral."

"Of course. We'll drink a toast."

"That Heather. She's something. She's called me three times."

"Was he happy, Mr. Caruso, with the move to Mantric? I mean, did he ever say anything, anything remotely odd, about the new setup or anything else?"

"He was happy, Dylan. There was nothing on his mind. Change is always tough. He said he wasn't completely sure about his new boss, but, like I said, change is always tough. He told me, 'Pop, in six months I'm gonna have achieved amazing things and made enough money to set us both up for life.' That was his dream from when he made that robot. To see his work out in the world, to make people's lives better with his work. That's what was important to him."

"I know, Mr. Caruso, I know. That was Tony."

"Then you'll for sure do the eulogy?" Mr. Caruso asked.

"Of course." They finished the call, and Dylan closed his eyes and stared across the coffeehouse, not seeing anything but Tony's face.

His mind wandered over the events of the past days. He was missing something but was unable to wrap himself around it. So many thoughts raced through his mind. He thought back to his conversation with Tony over that first cryptic message. Cryptic! Suddenly, he bolted upright. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the schematic. He placed it on the table in front of him and smoothed it. He bent over, close to the paper, and focused on that single word in the lower corner.

Dylan sat back, stunned. How could he have misread this? Of course his Internet searches turned up nothing of value. The word was not "Prometheus." It was "Prom3th3u5."

Chapter 15.

May 6, 8:15 a.m. New Jersey Dylan nosed the rented Ford Fusion out of the Lincoln Tunnel and into the rush-hour-filled maze of concrete roadways. The words "Welcome to New Jersey," emblazoned across the face of a large granite bank, greeted him.

The Garden State, mused Dylan as he headed south on the Palisades Parkway. Who thought that one up?

He had spent the previous evening Googling "Prom3th3u5" and had accessed twelve hits. Four were in character sets other than English. Five appeared to be random expressions, the sort of thing Internet vampires included in their key words to attract as many hits as possible, no matter how irrelevant.

But the other three had held the key to his search. One was a five-year-old post on an archived listserv. It read "Dream on Fizz It's a polymer you idyot It isn't effected by EMI at that freakwency-Prom3th3u5." That settled the question of whether Prometheus was a person or a thing. He or she was definitely a person. The second was a four-year-old post in the same archive, saying, "Ha ha just wait till Joon u'll c. And down will c.u.m GOOG. Prom3th3u5." GOOG was the trading symbol for Google. And the last, dated the previous January, was on a message board dated just a month earlier, saying, "c.r.a.p Did U C who was there? Prom3th3u5 himself!" The message board was for an online unlocked cell phone store called Technochondriacs.

Dylan spent a frustrating two hours tracking down a phone number that was out of service before finally coming up with the address in Bayonne, New Jersey. He took the shuttle to New York, pa.s.sed the time by working on the eulogy, and booked into the Avalon Hotel on the lower west side.

Technochondriacs was one of the many unlocked phone sales outfits that had sprung up like mushrooms in the past year. Dylan cruised through the back streets of south Bayonne at noon: second sunrise, as Tony had called it-the time when all geeks, having rolled out of bed an hour earlier, thought about breakfast but not much more. The varicolored two-story false fronts dated back to the 1940s. The GPS announced he had arrived at his destination, but he saw nothing that informed him of a technology business-only a grimy sign proclaiming the establishment as Crown Candy Shop: a place that sold newspapers, cigarettes, phone cards, and beer.

Dylan parked a couple of blocks away and emerged from the air-conditioned comfort of the car only to be greeted by the stench of garbage rotting in the warm May air. He locked the car and hoped it would be there when he returned.

The Crown Candy Shop turned out to be predictably cluttered but surprisingly cheery. The storekeeper, an elderly woman sporting an unexpected crew cut, was organizing a shelf of ramen noodles and canned soups. A couple of pre-p.u.b.escent girls browsed through a rack of teen magazines. Dylan idled by the counter until the woman finished her task and gave him a glance.

"What can I help you with today?" she asked.

"I think I'm a little lost," he said to her with a self-effacing smile. "I'm looking for a business called Technochondriacs."

The woman turned to the candy rack and pulled out an empty display box. "Hmm. Don't think I've ever heard of that one. Or are you talking about the walk-in clinic on Prospect Avenue? The AIDS test was last Wednesday."

"No, this would be something to do with cell phones or electronics."

The woman shook her head. "There's no store like that around here."

"Gran," said one of the girls, a sa.s.sy redhead in a Yankees cap. "He's talking about Darryl."

"Oh!" The woman scratched her spiky hair. "Maybe he is."

Dylan nodded encouragingly.

"I thought that idea was a bust," the woman added. "He doesn't talk about it, and he never gets any mail."

"It's all online now, Gran," the girl said without looking up from her magazine. Her dark purple nails turned each page with care.

"Where do you think I could find Darryl?" asked Dylan.

"He lives upstairs. Just go around through the alley to the red door."

"Thank you."

"Keep ringing," said the woman. "Sometimes he's a little, uh, preoccupied."

"I understand," said Dylan, with a wry grin.

He hurried out the door and around the corner, where he found the back door and rang the bell. Then he rang it again, and again. He had turned back toward the Candy Shop to ask Gran for Darryl's phone number when he heard the thud of feet on a wooden staircase behind the door.

The door opened and a narrow-faced youth in his early twenties appeared. The m.u.f.fs of a headset bulged over his ears. He blinked his large eyes, furrowed his brow, and pursed his lips. "You're not pizza."

"I'm Dylan Johnson, from Mantric."