Terminal Value (30 page)

Dylan realized Art had not shared the results of his meeting with Ivan with Christine. The sound of the elevator door opening ended the conversation and left Dylan standing in the dark office, a trickle of sweat wandering down his back. He leaned his head against the wall and slammed his fist into the door. “Wake up, Dylan,” he heard himself say. “Deal with this later. Finish what you started.”

He jerked open the door, not caring if anyone saw him, and hurried down the hall toward Art's office. When he arrived at the door, he noticed that, as expected, Michelle was not there. He regained the momentum of his plan, looked both ways through the empty hallway, and quietly moved into Art's office. He did not turn on the lights, but walked on silent steps toward Art's computer that sat in the middle of an otherwise empty desk.

Dylan removed the slip of paper from his pocket and unfolded it, placing it next to the computer. He turned the computer on, and while he waited for it to boot up, he read the information on the note. Ivan's handwriting was stiff and large, and, although he mastered the verbal language, his ability to write in English left a great deal to be desired. The dim light emanating from the windows was little help.

The dual screens opened up in front of him, and he knew that following Ivan's directions would be challenging. He removed the flash drive from his pocket and slipped it into Art's computer. His attempts to follow Ivan's directions felt stilted and awkward. Typing and reading and watching where he was, all at the same time, frustrated him. He leaned in close, reading the directory that appeared before him; he scrolled down, opening one folder and then another without success. This was taking forever. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes had passed. He stopped and listened to noises outside the office as a group of disgruntled employees passed, exchanging loud arguments.

He turned his attention to another folder in the long list and discovered it opened a gold mine. Only one document was in the folder, but it was titled “Schedule B.” He moved it to the screen on the right while at the same time loading the file onto the thumb drive. It was sizable, and he made sure the small light on the flash drive was blinking on and off, copying the file. Dylan looked back at the right screen, and his heart raced as he scrolled across the spreadsheet. It showed the firm's financials from its inception through the IPO. It even had projections through the end of the summer. But then Dylan scrolled down the spreadsheet and noticed there was a second set of financials below it. These numbers were different. They were much lower. And below them was yet another set of numbers. Added together, they equaled the numbers at the top. This was definitely a file Art didn't want anyone else to see.

“What is he thinking?” he asked out loud. “To actually name the file ‘Schedule B' is either incredibly stupid or I'm spending a lot of time copying the wrong file.” The thought startled him. What if it were a decoy? Art is smart enough to do that, but Dylan couldn't stop at this point. He had to hope this was the right file. Once Heather and Rich saw it, they would know for certain.

Suddenly he heard the sound of Art's voice in the distant hallway. The light on the thumb drive blinked rapidly as the copying process continued, but Dylan had to get out of the office without being seen. Thankfully, the blinking stopped, and he ripped the drive from the port and quickly scanned the office. The only refuge was Art's conference room. He rushed over, hoping it was not locked, and to his relief the door opened when he tugged. He slipped into the room and gently closed the door just as he heard the office door open.

“Do you think Michelle got the name of the restaurant wrong?” Christine asked.

“She is very reliable. If anyone got the information wrong, it was Rachel.”

From his hiding place, he heard Art's voice grow louder as it neared the conference room door. He prepared for the worst, but the voice passed. Dylan heard the sound of a cabinet opening and liquid sloshing into glasses.

“I don't like this, Christine. It just doesn't feel right.”

“Well, right or not, we need to settle on how we're going to fire Dylan. Could he have been responsible for those news leaks? And if so, how can we use that?”

Art remained silent for a moment. “Considering what's going on, he should be on the front lines helping us to resurrect the image of the company—right? But he's not, is he? So let's start out small. We can accuse him of gross negligence and willful misconduct in the performance of his duties.”

“Well that is one of the reasons for termination for cause in his shareholder agreement. But it's weak.” Christine sighed. “I think we'd be better off just saying we know what he did.”

Art responded, “And when he says, ‘Oh? I did what?'”

“You say, ‘You leaked false information on the Internet, where it got picked up by CNBC and everyone else. Why did you do it, Dylan?' You hit him right up front before he can deny it. I think he'll quickly realize he's in way over his head.”

Dylan noted something unusual in her tone. It seemed to lack her usual brash confidence.

She continued, “He knows he's going down, but he's not going to bring us with him.”

Dylan clenched his jaw and shook his head as he listened to their plan hatch. While his mind organized his thoughts, he remained stationary, fearing detection if he moved.

Art returned to the cabinet and refilled his glass. Whatever he was drinking increased his fury. “I've watched him poking around where he had no business. Bringing him and his little group into this company hasn't been fun.”

“He just had to push, didn't he? Anyone else would have been thrilled just to take the cushy job that came with the acquisition and sit back and enjoy the ride and the money. If he hadn't demanded to be more involved with the financials, none of this would have happened.”

Dylan listened to their banter as they worked to increase their confidence in their plan, but he recognized that when Christine spoke, Art seemed somehow diminished, always responding with anger. Dylan pondered the earlier conversation outside the elevator, and although there was no doubt in his mind about their complicity in the fraud, he wondered about whether or not one or both was involved in the murder. He did not doubt Art's motivation, but he was not sure about Christine. In his mind, she was clearly capable of murder, without remorse, but was it really enough that her lifestyle was in jeopardy to drive her to that extreme? Art was not smart enough to pull off the financial scheme without Christine. Dylan's normally organized mind flipped back and forth as he recognized he wanted Art to be the guilty party in both crimes. But a nagging thought itched at the back of his mind: Was Christine the mastermind and Art no more than her front man? Another item to be tucked away into the recesses of his mind.

He heard Christine growl, “Let's get it over with. We need to have something in writing, some confession for him to sign.”

Art said, “With him admitting what he did? Do you think he'll do it?”

Dylan heard Christine rise from the sofa where she and Art had been sitting. “He may have his suspicions, but proving it is another matter, isn't it?”

“Yes, but this will be a world-class game of chicken, and I don't like to lose,” Art said.

“So how do we plan on getting him to confess?”

Dylan strained to hear Art's answer. This was it, the point of no return.

“You and I know everything said on those websites is true, but the fact is Dylan has no proof. If he wants to make those accusations, he has to show the evidence, which he doesn't have. That's the answer. No evidence. So here's what happens. First, we fire him for committing libel and gross negligence and willful misconduct in the performance of his duties. We don't need to do anything more; we just hit him with that. Second, we demand he post a retraction to the same websites he posted to before, and maybe even agree to speak on CNBC admitting it was he who leaked the misinformation. He will tell them he was despondent over Tony's death and now recants all the things he said.”

“And what do you say when he refuses, which I'm sure he will?” Christine asked.

“That's the beauty of this situation,” Art answered. “We don't have to say anything. He has no evidence, only a cheap accusation with nothing to back it up. Like I said, we tell him he's committed libel. And we tell him we won't prosecute if he resigns.”

Dylan's eyes focused on the sliver of light that reached under the doorway. He fingered the thumb drive tucked safely in his pocket and drew comfort in the fact he indeed did have the evidence. He heard the rustling of clothes and held his breath.

“Well then,” Christine said, “I think we should prepare that termination letter.”

The sound of movement across the room gave him a short-lived moment of relief.

“What's this?” Christine asked. “Why did you leave your computer open, and especially to this file?”

“What are you talking about?” Art demanded, rushing to the desk. “Holy shit!”

The sound of jostling and swearing reached his ears and faded away into the distance as the door slammed.

Chapter 30

May 18, 3:00 p.m. New York

Dylan rushed out of Art's office, to the surprise of Michelle, who sat at her desk, her mouth open but unable to speak. He raced for the first stairwell he found and bounded down the two flights with the speed of a jaguar. He yanked open the door and raced down the hallway and around the corner toward his office. He silently thanked his guardian angel when he arrived at his office and found Rachel's desk unoccupied. He rushed into the office, threw off his jacket, turned on the light, bounded to his desk and composed himself—with Art and Christine close on his tail.

Art rushed through the door and screamed, “Hey, asshole, that information is confidential and my personal property.”

Dylan looked up questioningly. “Excuse me, Art? What's this all about?” His mind raced as he waited for the accusations.

Art growled, while Christine, arriving just a moment after him, reached for his arm to contain him. She turned to Dylan and said, “Didn't it ever occur to you what you've done is illegal? I will see to it that you go away for a long, long time.”

Dylan sensed a level of insecurity in her tone. He leaned back in his chair, collecting his thoughts. “I don't know what you two are talking about. Why don't you sit down?” He watched the veins in Art's neck pulsate, his face red with rage.

Christine stepped in front of Art. “The truth, Dylan,” she said in a sour tone, “is that you told a series of blatant falsehoods to a number of websites that was picked up by CNBC and spread like wildfire. Information that was damaging to this company's reputation. That's slander. You did this out of a vicious desire for vengeance when you realized you were going to be fired for incompetence!”

Dylan noted that the normally stern Christine was struggling with the accusation he knew she would make. The sound of silence echoed around the room, reverberating off the walls as Dylan took a calculated risk. He finally spoke. “Let me make sure I understand this. You steal millions, and, when I find the evidence of it, you have the audacity to call
me
incompetent?”

Art stepped back and took a deep breath. “Yes. Because you're the one that got caught.”

“Oh, really? What proof do you have of anything I may have done?” Dylan asked, throwing right back at them the words he'd heard them exchange in Art's office.

Christine shot him a look that ranged from curiosity to wonder; she hadn't expected this response. She recovered quickly and stepped up to his desk. “Here are your choices, Dylan. We can fire you for committing libel and gross negligence and willful misconduct in the performance of your duties. You will be escorted off the premises right now, and then we'll sue you.” She paused, wanting that threat to sink in. “Or,” she continued, “you can go back to those websites and admit to leaking false information, contact CNBC and make a public retraction, and we'll make sure you get the medical help you need.”

Dylan recognized the first step in their game of “chicken.” “So you expect me to contact a bunch of websites and go on CNBC and admit to something I didn't do?”

“Yes—and don't think we don't know you were responsible.” Christine snarled.

Art had taken a back seat; the game being played was now between Dylan and Christine. He looked up in defiance at Art and Christine. “So the story is, I made it all up and don't really have any proof?”

“Exactly. We'll give you a six-month payout. Enough to tide you over,” Christine said with a shrug. She pulled herself up straight and stared into his eyes. Dylan saw defiance with just a tinge of fear in her body language. He found her a most daunting competitor. Art had become weak and pathetic, but Christine stood strong.

“Tide me over until what? Till I forget how you bought my company under false pretenses, then fired my staff and sold out my clients? Even murdered my friend?”

At the word “murder” Christine stalled for just a moment, then recovered. “Just realize if you don't take it, we'll destroy you both financially and professionally. You won't be able to work again. You'll lose everything. And you'll rack up a fortune in legal bills.”

Dylan watched her closely. He thought she spoke just a bit too fast. He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. The room fell into silence.

“You don't want to do this, Dylan,” Christine continued, her tone changing to a dangerous purr. “If you try and bring us down, you'll bring yourself down too. You'll lose everything.”

Dylan just leaned back and smiled a knowing smile.

With a worried look on his face, Art took a step towards Dylan and broke his silence. “Okay, look. We can make a deal. We'll cut you in,” he said. “One third.”