Terminal Value Part 15

"This Hyperfn situation on the one hand and Tony's death on the other. Don't you think you should focus? Either solve the business problem and let the police handle Tony's death, or figure out who killed Tony and let Rob and Matt take care of Hyperfn."

Dylan stopped for a minute to consider her comments. He said nothing, just nodded to acknowledge them. He removed the salad from the refrigerator and gave Heather two salad bowls to fill. He removed the steaks from the grill and two baked potatoes from the oven, placing them on dinner plates.

"Time to eat," was all he said. They sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes before he spoke again. "You know, Heather, you may be right. I've been very frustrated these past few days between Tony's death and now this Hyperfn mess."

"So which are you going to follow?" she asked, b.u.t.tering her baked potato.

He looked at her and a sad smile crept over his face. "I don't really know what the police are doing about Tony. They don't keep me informed. But I can't get him out of my mind. I trust Matt and Rob to get to the bottom of Hyperfn and keep me informed. So the answer to your question is: to help the police whether they want my help or not. I'm not any kind of detective-I know that-but I also know that if I don't learn the truth, either from the police or on my own, I will never get beyond this thing. It will haunt me for the rest of my life."

"Okay. I'm there with you." Heather put a hand on Dylan's arm. "Bring me up to date. Two heads are better than one."

A renewed energy raced through him. "Well, for starters, you're the only person I trust at this point. I know where you were when the crime occurred."

Heather backed off for a split second, then nodded and smiled. "So I'm not a suspect. That's a good place to start." She cut a piece of steak and devoured it. "What else?"

"You already know about the e-mail Tony sent me, and I looked at the ones you forwarded to me, the ones between the two of you. His messages were so cryptic-it was as if he was afraid someone was viewing them besides you."

"You're right about the mystery of his messages. They made no sense to me at all. But why do you think he was so paranoid?"

"I was thinking about something he said to me a while back. We had gone into his office, which by the way was a huge mess, and yet he felt as if something was out of place. I think that's where his paranoia started. I couldn't see anything, but, then again, it was his office."

Heather smiled. "Yes, I remember how cluttered it was. But what else?"

Dylan told her about the schematic and his trip to New Jersey. "That brings me up to yesterday at Tony's funeral. You asked me about why I rushed away from the grave so quickly. Actually, you're the one who threw that clue at me."

She put her fork down; a quizzical look crossed her face. "Me? What did I do?"

"Remember when you looked at that card, the one with the torch on it? Well, it was then I made the connection between the card and Prometheus."

"Prometheus! That's what you said as I was walking away. I wondered what that was about."

"I realized the guy who stood away from the crowd must have been him. He's the key to the whole thing-it's a long story, but he's the guy I've been trying to find."

"Did you catch up with him?"

"Yes, but only for a moment. He was jumping into a cab, and when I approached him and told him my name, he pulled away from me, slammed the door, and the cab sped away."

"Now we'll never find him."

Dylan pulled the cell phone out of his pocket. "Well, I did get this information." He showed her the picture. "I'm not entirely sure how to pursue this, but-"

Heather stopped him mid-sentence. "I think I have an idea. Do you have any heavy stock paper here?"

Chapter 19.

May 9, 7:30 a.m. Boston Tuesday morning rolled in foggy. A front had wandered through Boston the previous night, bringing with it heavy rain that dissolved into a dreary mist.

Dylan rolled over and looked at Heather. Her lips turned up into an enigmatic smile, and he wondered what she was dreaming of, where her thoughts were taking her. He slowly turned to the side of the bed and started to get up, when she awoke.

"Hi," she said, stretching. "Thanks again for dinner." She pulled him back into the warmth of the bed and wrapped her arms around him.

"Hi," he returned. "You're most welcome. Thanks for staying."

Her eyes still closed, her smile widened and she nodded. She kissed him-a soft, gentle kiss that grew into pa.s.sion. Dylan engulfed her in his arms and returned the kiss. They remained entangled in the light blanket for several minutes, when Heather suddenly opened her eyes wide.

"Oh my gosh! We've got work to do." She rolled over, searched through the jacket she had thrown on the floor the previous evening, and retrieved her cell phone. She speed-dialed her a.s.sistant's number. "h.e.l.lo, Gloria-it's Heather. Look, I'm not going to come in for a few days. This entire situation with Tony's funeral has me really down. There isn't anything pressing on my calendar, and if you need me, I can be reached on my cell. I'll get back to you later. Let me know if anything comes up." She rolled back toward Dylan. "You'd better do the same thing. We don't want the office staff worrying about where we are!"

Dylan smiled. "You are very smart." He retrieved his phone from his nightstand and made a similar call to Sarah's voice-mail.

"Now, we have to make me an ID!"

Heather sprang out of bed. Dylan admired her slender body as she hurried into the bathroom. He dressed, went to the kitchen and made coffee, and smiled when she came into the kitchen dressed in his oversized robe, her hair wrapped in a towel.

He handed her a cup of coffee. "Want a bagel?" he asked.

"Nope, the coffee is fine. Let's get this ID made."

"I'm not sure what exactly it is you want to do."

He followed her into the second bedroom-his office-where she sat down at his computer. He watched over her shoulder as she found software for creating business cards and began to type.

"I'm going to be a police officer for the day."

"Heather, impersonating a police officer is not a good idea. It's against the law."

"Mm-hmm," she said and continued to type.

Dylan read as she typed her name and gave herself the t.i.tle of sergeant. Not too high up, but important enough to cause someone to answer questions without asking any. She lifted a logo from the police website and pasted it in a corner of the card. "Do you have a picture of me somewhere in here?" she asked.

He sat next to her, opened a photo program, and began to sort through a collection of pictures of his friends.

"Stop! That one. That looks very professional. I'm not smiling, but I'm not snarling either." She cropped and copied the photo and pasted it into the right spot. "Now, where is your paper stock?"

Dylan retrieved a sheet and placed it in the printer, and Heather proceeded to print out her newly created police ID.

"Heather," he said, worry creeping into his voice. "Where are you going with this?"

"I'm going to the cab company. Don't worry. I'll just talk to the local supervisor. If something goes wrong, we'll deal with it then. In the meantime, we need to find someplace where we can laminate this thing."

Dylan reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and removed an old, dusty device. "Jeez, I haven't used this since my early college days. And you don't want to know what that was all about!"

"Good. You laminate a few of these things for me, and I'll go change." She disappeared back into the bedroom before Dylan could once again object. She called over her shoulder, "And then you'll tell me all about this Prometheus character."

May 9, 11:45 a.m. Boston Heather, dressed in a business suit, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, walked into the Boston Cab Company at noon. She planned her visit to be close to lunchtime, with as few people as possible in the office. She kept her head down and approached a pet.i.te woman behind the counter. Fifteen minutes later she walked out of the office, closed her notebook, and put it in her purse.

Dylan leaned over and opened the pa.s.senger door. "Well?" he asked, unable to hide his excitement. "No problems?" He wasn't sure if it was the thrill of the hunt, doing something illegal, or getting more information to help their search, but he felt the adrenaline pumping.

"Nope. I talked to an a.s.sistant supervisor and showed her my ID. She didn't ask to see a badge. I told her I was looking for someone who was wanted for questioning in a robbery and a witness had seen someone fitting his description jumping into a cab."

"And she believed you?" he asked in amazement.

"I tried to look stern and sound demanding. I told her I could get a warrant if they needed it, but she said they were pleased to be able to help the police. I gave her the cab number and time of day and location, and she pulled up the information. The guy was dropped at the Radisson Hotel."

"Well, s.h.i.t, let's go."

They arrived at the Radisson twenty minutes later. Heather fixed her hair and makeup, looked at Dylan, and crossed her fingers.

"Let's hope this is just as easy." Thirty minutes later she returned to the car. "Not such good luck."

"What took so long? Did they refuse to help? I was beginning to panic."

"I'm afraid I didn't get much. He had stayed there Sat.u.r.day and Sunday night, but he checked out early Tuesday."

"Did he use a credit card?"

"That's the curious thing. The hotel confirmed it when he checked in, but when he left he used the auto checkout on the TV in his room. By the time he was gone, they discovered the card was cancelled. They checked the phone number and it wasn't in service, and the address was a.s.signed to some company that never heard of him. They insisted I make a police report. That's what took so long." She started to laugh. "I'm sorry, but I really hated taking all this information knowing it would lead nowhere."

"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 h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.tload 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."