by Thomas Waite
“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.
“Hello.”
“Dylan! My God! Are you all right?” Art’s voice shouted through the speaker.
“I’m fine,” he answered, his tongue thick with sleep.
“Rob is on the network from Boston.”
“Hi Dylan,” Rob said. “Is your video on?”
Dylan ran a hand through his hair, then tapped a couple of keys. Video images of Art and Rob materialized next to each other on the screen.
“I want you to know we’ll do whatever you need us to do,” said Art. “Anything. What about Tony’s family?”
“Tony grew up here, and his mother’s buried in Cambridge. I spoke with his father last night. He’s in Florida. He’s going to try to get a flight out today.”
“We can fly Mr. Caruso up on a private jet,” said Art.
“I think he’d appreciate that.”
“Stephanie?” Art spoke to Stephanie Mathers on another line.
“I’ll get right on it, Mr. Williams,” said Stephanie. “Dylan, can you message me Mr. Caruso’s phone number?”
“I’d like to call him myself,” said Art. “Such a bright young man.” He shook his head. “Such a shock.”
“Yeah,” Dylan mumbled.
“Did you reach Heather?” asked Rob.
Dylan nodded. “She’s flying back tomorrow.”
“How did she—?”
“She’s hanging in there.” Not for the world would he have described the anguish in Heather’s voice when he had told her the news Tony was dead, or how he insisted there was nothing she could do in Boston at this time.
Art nodded. “I don’t mean to pry, Dylan, but how—”
“I stopped by his place last night and found him.”
“Rob says the police told you it was an accident.”
Dylan thought he noted a flash of coldness in the comment. “Yeah.” Heads are gonna roll when this gets out. He could not get Tony’s words out of his mind. A queasy feeling assailed Dylan. Whose heads? He wondered if he was seeing guilt where it did not exist.
“This is such a tragedy,” said Art. “Look, Dylan, I want you to take as much time off as you need—okay? Do you know anything about the funeral arrangements?”
“I really don’t know anything about that yet.”
“Of course not,” said Art. “Look, we shouldn’t be bothering you. I just wanted to say how sorry I am. This is a terrible tragedy, and, I’ve got to admit, I’ve never had to deal with something like this before.”
“Neither have I.”
“Well, I guess the best thing to do now is try to move forward and be as sensitive to people’s needs as possible.” He turned his attention to Stephanie. “If anyone who knew Tony well wants to take tomorrow off, you tell them that’s fine.”
“I think that’s the right thing to do, Mr. Williams.”
“All right. Thanks everyone. Take care, Dylan. I mean that.”
Dylan clicked off. He stared at the dark plasma screen
, then snatched suddenly at the mouse. He hadn’t checked his e-mail for a while. Maybe Tony had sent him something.
He accessed his e-mail account and ran his eyes down the list of e-mails. One short message from Tony read: ‘file for your eyes only—will forward.’
Dylan reread the short, cryptic message. He scanned his e-mails for anything else from Tony, but nothing appeared with an attachment. That meant those files could be on his home computer, but with Tony, who was connected to half the planet by every known type of electronic communication, it could be anywhere. Still, the place to start was in his home.
He pulled Detective Baldwin’s card out of his pocket and tapped in her number. She was not available, and Dylan left his number for her to call back—he said it was important.
Silence, broken only by the distant sound of late afternoon traffic two blocks away, drifted through the open window. Emptiness weighed on Dylan. He put his head in his hands and felt an overwhelming wave of sadness crash over him.
He thought of Heather. He had encouraged her to go through with her client meeting in L.A., argued that she could do nothing in Boston that day. She had tried to tell him how she felt, but he hadn’t listened. Of course, it was different for him. Tony was his best friend. . . .Was.
Exhaustion enveloped him like a blanket. He staggered to his bedroom, dragged his clothes off, and climbed into bed.
* * *
May 3, 9:00 p.m. Boston
The ringing sound startled him, and Dylan fumbled on his bedside table for his cell phone. He rolled over and looked out the window into a darkness yellowed by streetlights. Then he glanced at the screen of his phone: BPD.
“Hello?”
“This is Detective Melanie Baldwin returning Mr. Dylan Johnson’s call.”
“This is Dylan.” He sat up and shook his head, collecting his thoughts.
“How may I help you, Mr. Johnson?”
“I went back and listened to Tony’s message to me yesterday.” Dylan repeated the message, stressing the part about Tony having prepared a file for him. “I was hoping you would get me into Tony’s apartment so I could try to find that file. It might give me a clue as to who—”
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. Actually our computer people are in the process of securing all of Mr. Caruso’s equipment. They will look them over and see if they can find this file he mentioned. We’ll follow it up, rest assured.”