Terminal Value Part 6

Corks popped out of champagne bottles, and flutes of the golden liquid moved through the crowd. The staffers laughed and toasted each other. The celebration continued through the afternoon, with little work accomplished. Matt and Sarah and half a dozen other members of the MobiCelus division dragged Dylan over to Matt's works.p.a.ce, where an active IPO drinking game was in progress. Every time MNTR rose another point, a raucous group toast erupted. When the price broke above forty, another round of cheers, celebrations, and champagne toasts exploded in the crowd. Then, as it bounced up and down in the forties, the noise stabilized to a soft hum.

The market closed at four o'clock, and Mantric's stock finished at $41.25 in a stunning debut. The market value of the firm closed at over a billion dollars.

Dylan found his way over to Heather. "When does your flight to L.A. leave tonight?"

"Not 'til eight."

"Good. The guys are supposed to join us online in about fifteen minutes to celebrate. But Tony-well, where do we think our errant young inventor is, anyway?"

"I have no idea. I haven't heard from him all day," she said, her eyes looking deeply into his. They clinked gla.s.ses and turned away from the partiers.

Dylan felt something stir inside him as her shoulder brushed his. "I wish all of us could be together. Tony and I have dreamed of this moment for years. Let me just check my voice-mail. Maybe that rat has checked in."

Heather smiled and nodded. "So, seriously, do you have any idea where he is?" she asked, sitting at the side of his desk.

"Beats me. This type of celebration would never interest him. He always seems to have something better to work on." An icon on the lower right corner of the screen began to blink, and the time and date flashed with Tony's name. Dylan nodded and held up a finger. "Yep, a message from Tony!" he said as he clicked on it.

Tony's voice came over the phone. "Dylan! Hey, it's Tony. How come you're never there? Look, things are sort of crazy around here, y'know? I got sort of caught up in something big. Ha! So you're coming back to Boston tonight-right? Listen, stop by my place on your way home and I'll show you what I've found, like I promised I would. And look, this is hush-hush, so don't tell anybody-okay? Heads are gonna roll when this gets out. Oh, and hey-I'll be online just after four for the IPO celebration. Promise!"

Dylan set his jaw and frowned. "Now what do you think that was all about?"

Heather shrugged. "He is who he is, Dylan. His life is about technology, not money."

He turned in his chair and fussed over his screen, turning it so both he and Heather could see it. Then he saw Rob's icon flas.h.i.+ng.

"Rob!" called Dylan as he made the connection. "Can you see us? We're here!" He felt flushed from the champagne.

"Yeah, I see you." Rob sat close to the screen, his face distorted by the closeness; deep shadows surrounded the little bit of light that shone from behind him. "Where's Tony?" His voice came across in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

Dylan glanced down the list of "buddies." Tony's name was grayed out. "Who knows? Probably developing something none of us would ever dream of." He laughed and added, "Can you guys f.u.c.king believe it? Who would have bet our little start-up would ever turn into a huge, publicly traded corporation? I guess selling the firm wasn't such a bad idea after all."

"Always the master of the understatement," Heather said, and smiled at Dylan.

"I can't believe we went out so strongly today," said Dylan. At the moment, at least on paper, Dylan was now worth over six million dollars, and his partners close to three-point-five million. Dylan raised his gla.s.s. "I'd like to make a toast. To my co-founders and friends. With apologies to the Grateful Dead, what a short, strange trip it's been!"

Dylan and Heather raised their gla.s.ses; Rob just nodded.

"I have something I want to say," said Heather in a serious tone. "I know we've sometimes had our differences over the past year and a half. But I want to take this opportunity to tell all of you that the best decision I've ever made in my life was agreeing to partner with you to launch MobiCelus."

"Hear, hear," murmured Dylan. He turned to the computer. "Your turn, Rob."

Rob looked back and forth between them and then pushed his hair off his forehead. "I don't know what to say." His voice, digitized, choked a little. "To good friends!"

Dylan took a long drink of champagne, draining his gla.s.s. "Hey, Rob, when you get back from New York, call me. I'm going to stop by Tony's later. Maybe we can all go out for dinner?"

He looked at Heather, who shook her head and tapped the face of her watch. She mouthed the words plane to L.A., and he remembered. He shrugged and mouthed when you get back. Heather nodded, blew him a kiss, and quickly left the office.

"Er, yeah, sure. I'll call you when I get back there."

A sheepish smile crossed Dylan's face as he realized Rob had watched the exchange.

May 2, 9:00 p.m. Boston Dylan sat alone in his office completing the details for the Hyperfn project. Now Dylan wanted to spend time with Tony, his best friend. He needed to spend time with him, to get drunk with him and celebrate achieving their goal, but every time he tried to reach Tony, he went right to voice-mail. Tony's unexcused absence annoyed Dylan. He looked at his watch. Time to find out where my friend has wandered off to, he thought as he shut down his computer. He walked out the door and glanced throughout the quiet office. All the celebrations had either stopped or moved offsite. He smiled as he thought of the success of the day. Just then a movement at the end of the hallway caught his eye. In the distance, he saw a shadow that looked like Sandeep enter one of the offices. What was he doing here?

He continued to the old elevator and listened to the loud grumblings echo through the empty building as it slowly descended. A light rain fell over Boston; with a shake of his head, Dylan hurried to his car and drove the dark streets of Boston to Tony's address on Hanc.o.c.k Street.

At nine-thirty, Dylan stepped out onto the damp cobbles of Beacon Hill. The unusually warm spring temperatures foretold a hot summer ahead, and after a brief shower, the resulting mist wrapped eerily around the lampposts. Dylan admired the old neighborhood, with its Federalist and Greek Revival brick row houses, most of which were built between 1800 and 1850. After the turn of the century, many of the wealthy residents moved to the suburbs, and the old houses were subdivided into small apartments and, later, condominiums. Tony had moved into one of the roomier apartments shortly after their initial MobiCelus success. True to his character, his eclectic furnis.h.i.+ngs barely filled the s.p.a.ce.

Dylan climbed the stairs unsteadily, still feeling the effects of the champagne. He reached for the key in its usual spot on top of the light next to the door.

"Tony!" he called as he turned the handle of the door.

He walked into the dark apartment, wondering if Tony was in the workroom designing his next work of genius. Dylan fumbled for the light switch on the wall next to the door. The dim light illuminated the room, casting shadows across the dark walls, and Dylan's initial reaction was to smile at the disorganized mess in front of him, but, as his eyes became accustomed to the light, he stopped in horror.

In the middle of the room, Tony lay on his back, a tangle of burnt electrical cord wrapped around his body. His lips, a dark blue-almost purple-were in sharp contrast to the ashen tinge of his skin. His left arm extended into the acrid air; his lifeless eyes stared at Dylan, an expression of terror and pain frozen in ghostly silence.

Chapter 10.

May 3, 6:55 a.m. Boston The police station on New Sudbury Street, built in the 1960s, shared its ugly appearance with the other government offices nearby. The unsightliness trailed inside as well. Building renovations in the surrounding neighborhood had bypa.s.sed the police station. No modern windowed cubicles here, just a warren of tiny offices connected by faded linoleum paths and echoing hallways, painted in a muted brown that had dirtied through years of greasy hands and endless scuffles.

Dylan sat alone in a bleak nine-by-twelve room, at a table that had been secured to the floor to ensure conflicts did not involve furniture. A large, round clock anch.o.r.ed high on the wall emitted an audible tick each time the second hand moved. He s.h.i.+fted his gaze from the clock to the pink and black linoleum tiles on the floor; his eyes picked points of damage where the linoleum had been slit, or where it curled away from the floor in a corner, the result of too much water when the floor was washed. The events of the last few hours played over and over in his mind-shouting Tony's name, adrenalin surging through his veins, his fingers fumbling to dial 911. He watched himself stand by helpless when the paramedics arrived, practiced in controlled speed, then the arrival of the first police, slow and cautious, and the sound of his own voice-strangled and high-asking if he could go with Tony in the ambulance.

This was what people meant when they said it felt like a dream. It was a wish, really: a desperate desire to reverse history but knowing he could not; he could only affect the future.

Then he thought of Rob and Heather. Rob had arrived from New York several hours ago and was somewhere in Boston-somewhere within reach-and Heather was on a plane to California. Dylan pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed-dial for Rob, who didn't answer. Dylan paused for a moment, grimaced, and left a voice-mail letting him know the news. Not very personal, but he'd expect the same if the situation were reversed.

He placed his cell phone in his pocket just as a door opened and a tall woman dressed in a mauve pantsuit entered. He looked at her bony face, not much softened by a cursory application of lipstick and eye shadow, then trailed down her thin figure, all shoulders and hips-almost to the point of emaciation. A round-faced African American man followed close behind her, the b.u.t.tons of his suit jacket pulled taut across his belly.

"Mr. Johnson?" the woman said in a deep voice. "I'm Detective Melanie Baldwin. This is Detective Jackson." She sat next to Detective Jackson at the table. "We're sorry about your friend."

Dylan cleared his throat. "Thanks," he said, fighting back tears.

"I've read through your statement," she continued. "You say you received a telephone message from Mr. Caruso today around four o'clock." She flipped through the report but did not look at him.

"Right."

"What did he say?"

"Asked me where I was. Said he was busy, that he'd gotten caught up in something. Asked me to stop by this evening to talk about something that was bothering him."

"Four o'clock. Is that when you listened to the message, or when he sent it?"

"When I listened to it. I don't know when he actually called. It must have been between about one and four. I can get the time, though, if you want it."

"Please. As soon as possible. And give me a call when you do."

"You don't have to wait." Dylan took his cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. He had all the numbers he called most often on shortcut. He hit keypad number three-the number that called his office voice-mail. His throat tightened as he skipped through the messages until he got to Tony's.

"Dylan! Hey. . . ."

His chest tightened; his breathing constricted. He punched in the number to get the detail of the call. A mechanical voice spoke: "This call from . . . Tony Caruso . . . was received at two . . . seventeen."

"Two-seventeen," Dylan repeated, hoa.r.s.ely, closing his phone.

"Thank you." She pulled a pencil case from an inside pocket and opened a notebook. An audible minute ticked by on the old clock on the wall.

Dylan wiped his mouth. Emotions swept through his body-fear, pain, disbelief, anger. He wrestled with his memory of finding Tony. "Look," he finally burst out. "Shouldn't you be out there trying to find whoever did this?"

Detective Baldwin spoke calmly, without looking up. "Why do you think someone else was responsible, Mr. Johnson? Mr. Caruso appeared to have accidentally electrocuted himself, don't you think?"

Dylan's hands shook. "No. I don't. You didn't know Tony. He would never in a million years make a mistake like that."

"It happens, Mr. Johnson. He had a wide-open electrical box in his apartment."

"That may be, but he wouldn't have been hauling that great tangle of cable around with him with the circuit closed. I'm telling you-I watched him work with electronics in that apartment for years, everything from microscopic circuitry to microwaves. And he did not work in his living room. He has a fully equipped workroom with a rubber mat on the floor. And did you see the bruise on his head?"

"Yes. He appeared to have struck his head on the coffee table as he fell." She turned to her partner. "Isn't that right, Bill?"

"Yep. Skin tissue and blood were noted on the corner of the table."

"Please, Mr. Johnson, trust us to do our jobs."

"Actually, if you think this was an accident or suicide, then I don't trust you to do your job." Emotions surged, sapping what little strength he had left. He stood and turned, walking unsteadily toward the door.

"Mr. Johnson," Detective Baldwin called.

"This is a total waste of time."

"Please sit down."

"You can't convince me."

"I won't try. Please," she repeated.

Baldwin's cool manner washed over him. He realized he was losing control, while she was wholly unmoved. He took his seat again and stared back at her, silent and angry.

"Mr. Johnson, where were you this evening?"

Dylan's eyes opened wide. They wanted an alibi from him? His mouth opened slightly, then he realized they did think there was something else going on, that this was not an accident. "I was in our local office. Our business went public today, and there was a lot of chaos. By the time I finished work, got into my car, and arrived at Tony's, it was about 9:15."

"You realize we have to check these things, don't you? Can anyone verify your story?"

Dylan choked back tears. "Just about every one of our employees. I spent most of the day with one of our partners, Heather Carter."

"Where can we reach this Ms. Carter?" Baldwin did not look up from her notebook.

"She's on a plane to Los Angeles. I can give you her cell phone number." He repeated the number while Detective Baldwin continued to take notes.

"Thank you, Mr. Johnson. This is a requirement. No one is above suspicion, no matter how close they were to the victim."

Dylan winced at the use of the word "victim"-it sounded cold and aloof. The image of Tony, dead, reappeared in his mind. Tony was gone, and Dylan was convinced someone had killed him. If the police were not going to do anything, then he would.

As if reading his mind, Detective Baldwin added, "The best thing you can do for your friend is to keep quiet for a week or so. We'll put out a statement that this is an apparent accident, but the medical examiner is still investigating. Let us handle it. We'll advise the family and begin collecting information."

"I don't know. You don't seem-I don't want this f.u.c.ked up. It means more to me than to you." His sentence ended in a whisper.

"I'm a homicide detective," said Baldwin. "Every questionable death means something to me. Do you think I'm in the habit of letting killers go? He was your friend. Do you have any idea who might do something like this?"

Dylan shook his head and sighed. "I don't know." Was his friend. Dylan's mind focused on the past tense. "Everybody loved him. He drove you crazy, but n.o.body-I don't know. I'm not thinking too clearly right now."

Baldwin rose. "You need to get some sleep. Here's my card. Call me when your head's clearer."

Dylan took the card and allowed himself to be walked to the door.

"Now, do we have your word that you won't tell anyone these details? I'm not asking you to lie, just to tell your a.s.sociates the cause of death is under investigation. Okay?"

"Okay."

Dylan stepped through the door and heard it close behind him. He stood for a moment, long enough to hear the detectives talking within.

"Ya think he'll keep his trap shut?"

"I don't know; hard to read these business types. But he will if he thinks about his friend for half a minute. I believe him, but let's call this Heather person and see what she has to say."

Dylan moved away from the door, walking alone down the long corridor in a daze of shock and disbelief. He looked at his watch. Seven-twenty in the morning.

"Dylan!"

He looked up as he walked across the main lobby of the police station and saw Rob hurrying toward him, a haggard look on his handsome face. The two men embraced-a brief moment of shared raw emotion, then Dylan pulled back. "What are you doing here?"

"I got up early to go to the gym, and then I heard your voice-mail, so I came here as fast as I could. Jesus, Dylan, is it true? Are they sure?"

"They're sure."

"I still can't believe it."

"Yeah," Dylan said blankly. "Me either. How are you doing?"

"I think I'm still in shock." Rob paused for a moment. "How did it happen? You just said it was horrible."