Terminal Value (10 page)

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 buttons 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, hoarsely, 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 fucked 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 nobody—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 associates 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.”

Detective Baldwin's words rang in his head. “I'm not sure. And I don't really want to guess until his dad is notified.”

“What was it? Suicide?”

“What? No!” He stopped in his tracks, taken aback by the comment. “No. He had no reason to do something like that.” Dylan looked at the floor, then mumbled, “Some awful accident, somehow he electrocuted himself.” Detective Baldwin's words echoed again through his mind, and he found himself wondering who he could trust.

“Oh my God.” Rob closed his eyes. “It must have been awful for you to see him.”

“You can't imagine,” Dylan said softly.

He took Rob's arm and led him out of the building. A pink and grey sky began to appear in the east. The mist from the previous evening had disappeared, leaving only small puddles on the streets. The noise from heavy traffic on nearby Cambridge Street echoed in the day.

“I've got my car,” said Rob. “I'll take you to yours.”

“Thanks. The police are going to call Tony's dad, but I want to talk to him.”

“Right.”

“They're going to call Heather also, but I don't want her to hear it from them. I think you should call her, Rob.”

“Me? Why?”

Dylan gave him a puzzled look and then glanced at his watch. “Given your relationship, you should be the one to—”

Rob cut him off with a terse answer: “No, Dylan, I shouldn't.” He pulled into the Beacon Hill neighborhood and stopped at Tony's building in front of Dylan's car. He turned to Dylan. “Look, Heather and I are history. We agreed we wouldn't discuss it in public, but, given the situation, I'm telling you it wasn't a pretty break-up.”

“Why?”

“Because—well, let's just say it was a mutual thing.” Rob paused. “Fuck it. The truth is she broke up with me and I didn't take it well. We're barely speaking outside of the office. So trust me, it should be you.”

“Okay.” He glanced at Rob's angry face. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. But that's water under the bridge compared to this, so—”

“Okay, I'll call her.”

“I'll go to the office and call Art,” Rob added.

“Fine. Thanks. Rob, I mean it. Thanks for everything.”

Rob shook his head. “Okay, go. You look awful.”

Dylan stopped for a moment in front of Tony's building before getting into his own car. Then he drove to his apartment, where exhaustion displaced shock and anger. He took a quick shower, wrapped himself in a robe, and retrieved his cell phone to call Heather. He knew he should let the police call her, considering she was his alibi, but he did not give a damn. Heather should hear about this from a friend, not a stranger.

Grief rocked him as he stared at the phone. He sank down onto the sofa, and all at once the hold he had kept on his emotions and thoughts let go. Tony was dead. Tony had been murdered—any doubt he might have had of that had been removed by Detective Baldwin's reaction to his questions. But who—and why?

Tears washed down his cheeks, and he pressed back against the soft sofa as wave after wave of grief hit. He struggled to stifle the emotions that flowed over him—the memories, the fights, the laughter. The grief eventually ebbed, leaving him feeling numb and alone. He sucked in dry gulps of air, then sat up. He hit number three on his phone and retrieved Tony's archived message. Head throbbing, he listened again to his friend's last words to him:

“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 tossed the phone on the sofa. What the hell? Yesterday he had assumed Tony was wrapped up in one of his projects, that he had wanted Dylan to stop by to show him the latest on his super smartphone, maybe even a prototype. But now. Now Tony was dead, and the words of his message took on a whole new meaning. Tony had wanted to talk to Dylan about something. Something hush-hush. Something big—but big enough to die for?

Dylan considered for a moment that the killer might be someone he knew. A shiver ran down his spine. Of course, there was no reason to think Tony's death had anything to do with MobiCelus or Mantric. What had Tony said about that guy he visited in New Jersey—the disaffected guy from Microsoft? Was it possible Tony had gotten into trouble with some shady characters? Dylan thought about it for a moment, but he knew his brain was in no shape for critical thinking.

He took a deep breath and picked up his phone again. He needed to call Tony's dad. But first. . . . Four. That was the shortcut to Heather's cell. She picked up on the fifth ring.

“Hey,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Why are you calling at this hour?”

* * *

May 3, 5:00 p.m. Boston

A chiming sound echoed through his mind, as if from a far-distant place. Dylan opened his eyes. He had nodded off on the sofa. The sound of his home computer repeated itself. He got up and staggered to his den on uneasy legs. He glanced at the clock. Five o'clock in the afternoon.

The icon identified Art as the caller to Dylan's computer. He cleared his throat and swallowed as he shook the mouse to activate the screen and clicked on the “answer” button.