by Thomas Waite
Dylan frowned. Bad luck? What if it wasn’t luck at all? What if this latest disaster was just one more link in the chain of problems forged since they had come to Mantric? What if someone was driving these things?
Radius was the hottest bar and restaurant in the neighborhood for business executives who could afford its prices. Dylan looked over the sea of suits and saw Art seated alone at a corner table near the back of the bar. Art waved him over.
As he sat down, Dylan saw that he was already finishing off a glass of red wine. He wondered how many glasses Art had finished by this time.
“Hello, Dylan. Thanks for meeting with me. Do you want something to drink?”
“Sure, I’ll have whatever you’re drinking.”
Art caught the attention of the waiter. “Bring my friend here a glass of the 1989 Chateau Palmer Bordeaux. And another for me.” The waiter nodded and disappeared. “It’s an excellent vintage,” Art said, raising the nearly empty glass and gently spinning the stem between his thumb and index finger.
He certainly did seem to know his wine. “Thanks,” Dylan replied. “So, Art,” he said tentatively. “How are the plans for the funeral?”
“Everything’s set. We’ve got a charter bringing up whoever wants to come from New York. It’ll be a big turnout, I think. Tony was well liked. I understand you’re doing the eulogy?”
“Yeah. Mr. Caruso asked me.”
Art nodded.
“How are you doing, Art?”
“Aside from Tony’s death, I’m good. Why wouldn’t I be? Our numbers are great, the market is great, and our stock is kicking ass. How could I be anything but great right now?”
Dylan noted a slight slur in Art’s words. “That’s good to hear.”
The waiter reappeared with their two glasses of wine.
Art raised his glass and said, “Here’s to the greatest stock ride ever.”
Dylan and Art clinked glasses. “Amen to that,” Dylan said before they both took a sip. Dylan put his glass down. “So what did you want to talk about?”
Art set his glass down in front of him. A blank look wandered across his face, and for a moment he said nothing. He took another sip of his wine. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Hyperfōn.”
Dylan stared back at him. How the hell had Art found out? he wondered. “What about them?” Dylan said, cautiously.
“I know this is a bad time for both of us.” Art’s eyes narrowed, and he glared at Dylan. He put his glass down and gripped the stem. “But I want to know what happened and how you’re going to get us the fucking money they owe us.”
Dylan felt his heart pounding. How had Art heard about this? And how did he know about the money? “How did you find out? I just found out about it myself.”
Art’s demeanor changed. “That’s a bunch of crap coming from the boy wonder who demands to have access to board information and company financial records.” Art’s tone darkened with a mixture of wine and anger. “Tell me something, Dylan,” he continued, his voice dripping sarcasm. “How is it you only found out about it today? What the hell was Matt Smith doing?” His voice rose slightly.
Dylan moved forward, looking around the room, trying to control the conversation. “Art, no one on the team saw this coming. We studied LC a year ago when we first took on Hyperfōn at MobiCelus. We didn’t find any evidence that they, or anyone else, were going to launch a business like this.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No. I’m just answering your question.”
“You’re not answering it very well. I bought your company because you were supposed to be the best mobile computing consulting firm out there, and your clients made the deal attractive. I even gave you and your buddies the roles you wanted and 100,000 extra shares of stock. Do you have any idea what will happen to us if your division falters?”
“Art, I guarantee you it won’t. Even if we lose Hyperfōn—”
“Jesus, Dylan,” Art said loudly, ignoring the turned heads of the people nearby. “How do you think the market will react when they hear about this?”
“Probably not well,” Dylan admitted.
“Not well? Christ, they’ll crucify us. They’ll say we fumbled the ball, that we bought a mobile computing firm to expand into a hot sector and the firm turned out to be a fucking disaster. And now, here we are, a public company with people scrutinizing our performance.” His anger boiled over. “I understand Hyperfōn owes us close to one million dollars. Is that right?”
Dylan took a big gulp of his wine and grimaced. “Yeah, that’s about right.”
“For your sake and the firm’s, you better recover those fees.”
“That could be difficult,” he said, staring at the table.
“What do you mean, ‘difficult’?” Art demanded.
“I met with Joe Ferrano this afternoon. He told me he and his board have decided not to pay us.” Dylan looked up at Art. “His venture capitalists are all up in arms, Art. I tried my best, but he wouldn’t budge.”
Art bit his lip and shook his head slowly. “Dylan, you know you’ve put this firm at risk, don’t you?”
Dylan was startled. It was bad, but not that bad. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but—”
“I’m afraid ‘sorry’ is not good enough. You know what you have to do. Just fix it.”
His words hit like a blow to the face. “I’m taking this one step at a time, Art. I’ve got the whole team looking into it. I don’t believe we were at fault. We’re going to find out what happened.”
“You do that. And you should consider this conversation to be an official warning. Do you understand? This is business; I can’t give you any breaks just because this is a tough time for you. You’re slipping, Dylan. Not getting the job done. I am not happy with your performance. And we’d better not lose any more mobile computing clients.”
Christ, Dylan thought, he’s threatening me? “Art, I’m doing my job. And my division is in fine shape.”
“Now, maybe, but—”
“I promise you this won’t happen again.”
“Okay. You’ve been warned, then. That’s it. This conversation is over. We won’t discuss this again.”
Art sat back and said nothing more, silent, staring at Dylan. Dylan nodded, stood up, and walked out of the restaurant.
* * *
May 6, 9:00 p.m. Boston
Dylan walked slowly down High Street and then turned west on Summer Street. The sky dimmed as the sun set. He looked up at the thick clouds that overran downtown Boston. He had no idea where he was going. He just needed to walk.
Art’s fury about the loss of Hyperfōn and the money could be understandable, except that he didn’t take into account the fact that Mantric’s revenues were way over plan or that the company’s stock was higher than anyone had expected and its market value now approached two billion dollars. Dylan was baffled by Art’s behavior over one account. He turned these items over and over in his mind, now confronted with a mixture of emotions, in particular confusion and fear.
Dylan turned the corner at Arch Street and walked north. He was oblivious to everything around him as he went over what had just happened. Why had Art wanted to meet over a drink? Why had he started the meeting talking about the funeral, only to berate and threaten him? And how the hell did he know about Hyperfōn?
The sense of helplessness that had been growing within him since Tony’s death continued to plague him. A chill ran through his body, and he instinctively looked back to see if anyone was following him. He felt scared and alone. Tony gone. Rich gone. Would he be next?
He shook off his fear and forced himself to focus. His thoughts turned to figuring out how LC had been able to pull it off. He would meet with Matt and the team first thing tomorrow. His mind raced. They would do the postmortem, dig around, and try to figure out what went wrong. He would call for an immediate review of all their other clients and their potential competitors. There might be another LC lurking out ther
e, just waiting to pounce.
Ideas and thoughts darted through his mind—and then he remembered. Tomorrow was Tony’s funeral. Jesus, how could he forget? He bowed his head.
As he approached the Old South Meeting House, Dylan pulled out his cell phone and hit his speed-dial number.
“Hey,” came Rob’s voice.
“Can you talk?”
“Yeah. We just took a break.” Dylan heard the sound of a door closing in the background. “So how’d it go with Joe?”
“Not good. He fired us.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Jesus Christ! Didn’t you try to talk him out of it?”
“Of course I did. But, Rob, you wouldn’t believe how angry he was. He’s even refusing to pay us the million he owes.”
“Holy shit! I can’t believe this!”
Dylan breathed deeply. “We’ll just have to find out how it happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, our team sure as hell didn’t miss this! I think somebody somewhere sold us out.”
“Oh, man. Are you serious? So does the team have any clue yet about what happened?”
“No. We’ll meet Monday here in Boston. I know you’re very busy, but can you join us?”
“Of course. I have things in hand here now. Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
He wondered if Rob really had any faith they could get to the bottom of it, or if he was just telling Dylan what he wanted to hear. “Thanks. Maybe we can find a minute to talk about it tomorrow.”
Something remained unanswered in Dylan’s mind. Nothing made sense to him: Rich’s comments about Christine and the reserve, the severance package they gave Rich, Heather’s point about the profits of the New York office. And what about Art not allowing Dylan to go on the road show or even look at their financials? Things just didn’t add up; something was very, very wrong. But what? His mind flashed back to Tony. What had Tony known?
Chapter 17
May 7, 11:00 a.m. Boston
The scent of carnations and roses filled the church. As Dylan walked to the altar, he heard the echoing crash of kneelers inadvertently kicked by the mourners, the snap of purse latches as women removed their handkerchiefs, the muffled coughs.
In the pulpit, Dylan stood high above Tony’s many friends and took a deep breath. His nerves tingled until the moment he began to speak, and then peace enveloped him as he recounted stories of Tony’s brilliance, his unending generosity, and his lovable irreverence. As he spoke of Tony’s integrity, his eyes locked with Art’s, who looked away.
When he stepped down from the pulpit, the sound of sobs scattered throughout the congregation, and yet Dylan felt strangely tranquil as he walked over to the casket, touched it, and then returned to his seat in the pew between Mr. Caruso and Rob. Heather sat on the other side of Mr. Caruso; tears stained her cheeks.
Dylan knew Tony had many friends, but he hadn’t expected the crowd of people who attended the mass. He estimated several hundred people crowded into the small church, many standing or leaning against walls.
In addition to Art, Christine, and Stephanie, many others from the firm had come up from New York to express their condolences. Even Ivan appeared, sitting motionless through the service, his eyes roaming the room as if looking for something or someone. The entire Boston office sat close together, and Dylan saw some faces from their MIT days, yet there were many more he didn’t recognize. Dylan realized that, although he considered Tony to be his best friend, there was another side to him. He scanned the many unknown faces in the crowd, suddenly aware of how fleeting life could be.
The sun warmed the dry air as the funeral procession wound its way through Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge. Founded before the Civil War, it was one of the most famous burial grounds in the country and the final resting place for such luminaries as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes, B.F. Skinner, and Winslow Homer.
As he followed the black limousine, Dylan smiled, recalling the times during college when he and Tony had walked through these grounds and shared stories about their dreams for the future. How ironic, Dylan thought, that he was now there to bury his friend. It was only when Tony’s mother had died that Dylan learned that the Carusos owned one of the precious few open plots at the cemetery. Now here he was again—this time to see his best friend laid to rest next to his mother.
Dylan drove to the top of a small hill and parked his car. The burial site was covered with a dark green awning. Rob and Heather drove up and parked behind him. Heather went up the hill alone, but Rob and Dylan joined Tony’s father and the other pallbearers as the casket was slid out of the hearse. They lifted it and carried it up to the gravesite, followed by a sea of mourners clad in black.
After they placed the casket on the straps over the perfect rectangular hole in the ground, Dylan stepped back and looked at the faces around him. Art and Christine stood together across from him, staring at the ground and fidgeting. Stephanie was behind them. Poor Rich, looking lost and yet a little defiant. Matt, Sarah—they were all there. All the old MobiCelus gang, as well as the staff of the entire Boston office. Everyone was there who should have been there, thought Dylan with some satisfaction.
Except—he looked around Art’s group—no Sandeep. Surely Sandeep should be there. Good God, Tony had been his second in command. Dylan stood up and circled around the back of the gathering. But there was no sight of Sandeep’s slight figure.
Suspicion, fueled by an icy anger, bubbled in Dylan’s mind. Why wouldn’t he come? Of course, he had been in L.A., but surely he could have arranged his schedule to get back for the funeral. No, there had to be a reason. Jealousy? Or guilt? Had his jealousy led him to do the unthinkable? Or had Tony had something Sandeep dearly wanted? Dylan shook off his suspicions. He was beginning to see guilt in every person. Not now, he thought. Not now.
As the priest began speaking, Dylan glanced at Heather, who stood to his left, holding Mr. Caruso’s arm. He watched as a tear wandered down her cheek from behind her sunglasses. He looked to his right, where Rob stood, looking pale and shaken in the bright sunshine. Rob rocked back and forth, a pained expression on his face. Dylan put a hand on his shoulder.
Afterwards, Dylan shook hands with many people who told him how sorry they were and what a wonderful person Tony had been. He thanked them politely, not really knowing what else to say. As the crowd thinned, he spotted Ivan again, standing like a statue on the far side of the grave, his eyes fixed on one spot. Dylan followed his gaze and realized Ivan was staring at Heather. He looked back at Ivan to make sure, but there was no mistake. As Dylan watched, Heather turned and caught Ivan’s eye. They stared at one another. Then Ivan turned and walked away.
Dylan was surprised to see a look of cold anger on Heather’s face. What the hell was that about?
Art had collared Mr. Caruso and was fussing over him as the long line of sympathy-wishers paraded past to shake his hand. Rich appeared in his turn, saying words of condolence to Mr. Caruso. Art reached out and took Rich’s hand, muttering a few apologetic words.
“Well isn’t that interesting,” said Heather, nudging Dylan as she watched the scene. “He actually shook Rich’s hand.”
“It’s a time of forgiveness,” said Rob. “Art probably still feels bad about firing him.”
Heather cast a scornful look at Rob over her sunglasses. She turned away and looked casually at the crowd that milled around the grave and was slowly dispersing.
“Who’s that?” Heather whispered to Dylan. “That guy over there?”
Dylan followed the direction of her glance, and his gaze settled on a middle-aged man in a brown sport coat and jeans, standing close enough to the crowd to be identified as a mourner, but far enough away to avoid any direct contact with friends or family. He fiddled with a red vase of yellow tulips on the ground next to the gravesite, trying to make sure it would stand upright among the other tributes. Dy
lan didn’t recognize him, but his clothing and unkempt hair suggested he was a techie, maybe a professor from MIT.
“I don’t know.”
“Me either,” said Rob. “Why do you ask?”
“I saw him at the church. He came in alone and sat in the back. Never spoke to anyone.”
“Just shy,” said Rob.
“He looked out of place,” muttered Heather. “He kept glancing around the church, but not as if he was looking for someone he knew. He seemed to be on edge, as if he were frightened.”
Dylan walked toward him and watched the stranger slip away through the crowd. When the vase of tulips began to list into a bowl of carnations at its side, Dylan stepped over to snatch the vase and prevent it from falling. A small card tucked into the arrangement caught his eye. He discreetly removed the card to see a picture of a yellow flame rising from a copper torch. The words inside read: “Too smart, too good, too young.”
There was no signature.
“Somebody got it right,” said a voice at his side.
Dylan turned to see Mr. Caruso, his grey hair fluttering in the warm breeze.
Dylan returned the card to the bouquet. “Yeah.”
“Heather says she’d take me to my hotel. I need to get some rest before dinner.”
“Good. Where are we meeting?”
“At that restaurant called Clink in the Liberty Hotel where I’m staying. Tony liked it.”
“Sounds good.” Dylan turned to Rob. “Are we off then?”
“I’m catching a ride with Rich,” said Rob. “We haven’t had a chance to talk.”
“Okay,” said Dylan. He walked a few steps with Rob. “You didn’t happen to talk to Sandeep today, did you?”
“Nope. Why?”
“Wondered why he isn’t here.”
“He’s in L.A. ‘til tomorrow, I believe.”
Dylan bit his lip to hide his disgust. “What’s his story, anyway?”
“Sandeep? Typical geek. Too polite for his own good, though.”
“What does that mean?”
“Christine got him for a song. And, unlike the others, his shares don’t vest as fast. He could have done a lot better, but he doesn’t know how to negotiate a contract.”