Final Venture

by Michael Ridpath

  So she accepted the job, handed in her notice at Boston Peptides, organized somewhere to stay in Stanford. She seemed full of enthusiasm for the new life ahead of her. I played along, but felt terrible. Then as we lay in bed together one Sunday morning, the time to her departure now measured in days not weeks, I finally spoke to her about how I felt. I told her I knew she must go, but I really didn't want her to. I will always remember the look on her face, as it turned from confusion to a broad smile. We spent most of that Sunday in bed.

  She stayed.

  And now, eighteen months later, she was gone.

  I had to get her back.

  I decided to leave the apartment empty for Lisa the next morning, and drove straight to Wellesley, calling Daniel at the office to let him know something had come up at Net Cop. Craig was pleased to see me.

  'Hey, Simon! So they let you out?'

  'I've got a good lawyer and their evidence didn't stack up,' I said. 'But I'm not off the hook yet.'

  'That's too bad. Hey, did you know we signed the deal with the Bloomfield Weiss guys yesterday?'

  I shook my head. Craig's attention span for anything outside Net Cop was about ten seconds. I wasn't surprised. That was, after all, why I had backed him.

  'That's good, Craig. When are you getting the money?'

  'Next Monday, according to Jeff Lieberman.'

  'Great.'

  'Yeah. We're starting on the prototype right away. I've been talking to Luxtel and – '

  'Craig?' I interrupted.

  'Yeah?'

  'Do you mind if I ask you about something else for a moment?'

  Craig looked a little annoyed to be stopped in full flow, but he nodded his head. 'OK.'

  'Were you in the marshes at Woodbridge the Saturday Frank Cook was murdered?'

  'Oh,' said Craig.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  'Yeah. You could say I was. Did someone see me?'

  I nodded.

  Craig looked thoughtful. 'Do the cops know?'

  'Not yet.' They had no obvious way of linking Mrs Bowman's description to Craig. To them he was one of hundreds of people Frank came into contact with through his work.

  'Good.'

  I paused. This next question was a difficult one to ask, but I had to ask it. 'Craig. Did you kill Frank?'

  He paused. Breathed in through his nose. 'No,' he said at last.

  'Is that what you were thinking when you seemed so pleased with yourself just before he died?'

  'No, it wasn't.'

  'Well?'

  'Well, what?'

  'Well, what were you doing in Woodbridge?' I asked in exasperation.

  'That's a little difficult to explain.'

  'So try,' I said. 'Look, Craig. I'm the one who's facing the murder charge here. If you were there when Frank was killed, I want some answers.'

  'I don't think you're gonna like them.'

  'I need to know, Craig.'

  'OK.' He shrugged, and moved over to a locked filing cabinet in the corner of his office. He took out a brown manila envelope and handed it to me. Inside was a sheaf of a dozen or so black-and-white photographs.

  They were pictures of Frank with someone. A man. They weren't sexually explicit, but the nature of the relationship was obvious. In one they were holding hands. In another Frank's arm was round the other man's waist. A third showed an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

  The other man was John.

  I now knew what the word 'gobsmacked' meant. The pictures made no sense!

  Or did they? As I thought about it, they did make some kind of sense. They explained why Frank had left Lisa's mother, for a start. They explained why we hadn't heard of any other relationship since then. A man as good-looking as Frank would have to work hard to avoid an entanglement with a woman. And it looked as though he had.

  I now remembered where I had seen the Oakwood Analytics pen. On John's desk at Revere. I had used it to write his phone messages for him. And then there was the X-Files book that had been lying on a table in the living room: I knew John was a fan.

  But could I believe Frank was gay? It had never occurred to me before. He didn't fit any of the gay stereotypes, except perhaps for a certain neatness in the way he dressed. And there was that holiday to Florida. I remembered he had been vague about exactly where he was going, but later we had realized it was the Florida Keys. A clue of sorts if you were looking for one. But I hadn't been looking for one, and neither had Lisa.

  John was more obvious. Although we had worked together for a couple of years, I knew him much less well than I knew Daniel. He kept his private life very private. He had a mythical 'girlfriend' back in Chicago. In fact, I remembered Lisa speculating a year or so ago that he might be gay. I had disagreed, and then forgotten her comment.

  Only two days before, John had told me that maybe it was time to tell his father who he really was. Now I understood what he meant.

  A host of questions leaped to my mind. How long had this relationship gone on? Were they serious? It looked as if it was still going strong when Frank had been killed. And then of course the most important question of them all. Did this mean John had killed Frank?

  'When did you take these?'

  'The evening before Frank was killed. I followed him from Boston out to Woodbridge, and hung around with my camera. I got these pictures of them on the porch outside the house with a zoom lens.'

  'And on the Saturday? Did you see him on the Saturday?'

  'No. I came over about lunch time. John's car wasn't there. Frank spent most of the time outside working on a boat. He had just gone inside when you came along.'

  'So you saw me?'

  Craig nodded. 'I saw you arrive, and then I left. I figured his boyfriend was unlikely to show up and do anything photogenic while you were there.'

  'So you didn't see who killed Frank?'

  'No.'

  I thought for a moment. 'Did you see anyone else come to his house?'

  'No. I did drive down on Saturday night, but when I saw the boyfriend's car wasn't there, I turned round and came home.'

  'When was that?'

  'About nine, I should think.'

  'Did you see signs that Frank was still alive?'

  'No,' Craig answered. 'I mean, I assumed he was at home because his car was there, but I didn't actually see him. I just turned my car around and left.'

  'Whew.' I put my head in my hands to think over what I had just learned. 'How did you know about Frank and John?'

  Craig didn't answer.

  'Craig! Tell me.'

  'OK. I intercepted Frank's e-mail at home.'

  'I didn't know you could do that.'

  'I can,' replied Craig. 'It's not that difficult once you know how. Anyway, he was getting these messages from some guy called John that showed they were very good friends. They were supposed to be spending the weekend together in Woodbridge. So I thought I'd go up there myself with a camera and see if I could take any interesting photos.'

  'To blackmail Frank with?'

  'I didn't want money for myself!' protested Craig. 'I just wanted him to give the go-ahead for Revere to put in the investment they owed us.'

  'That's blackmail, Craig.'

  'Look. Frank had welched on a deal!' said Craig, his old anger returning. 'I had to do what I had to do.'

  'No you didn't. Oh, Jesus.' I ran my hand through my hair. 'Did you tell the police any of this?'

  'No,' Craig replied.

  'Why not?'

  'I thought I'd just get myself into trouble. I didn't actually get around to blackmailing Frank, but I was sure it wouldn't look good to the cops. And I didn't want to become a suspect myself.'

  'But what about me? You knew I was in trouble. You could have helped me!'

  'I thought about that, Simon. Honestly. But I thought what I had seen just made you a bigger suspect. I didn't believe you had killed Frank. But I didn't want to give the police any more evidence against you.'

  'Oh, bollocks,' I said.
'If the police had known about John, that would have opened up a new line of inquiry away from me. You were just afraid of incriminating yourself.'

  Craig looked uncomfortable.

  'I'm going,' I said. 'Can I keep these?' I held up the photos.

  'I'd prefer you didn't,' said Craig.

  'I'll keep them. You've got the negatives. You can make some more prints if you need them.' I put the photos back in their envelope, and moved towards the door.

  'But Simon. We need to talk about the prototype.'

  'No we don't, Craig. I need to prove I'm innocent. You can worry about Net Cop if you like. Personally, I don't give a damn.'

  It was nearly midday by the time I got back home. Lisa had already been and gone, taking her stuff with her. The apartment, normally so cluttered, felt even emptier and lonelier than it had before.

  I pulled out the photos Craig had given me and looked at them again.

  Had John killed Frank? If he had, why? It was possible that he and Frank had had a fight about something. But I had no evidence of that. And even if I had, John seemed an unlikely killer. But then, I just couldn't imagine John and Frank together in that sort of relationship anyway. Now I realized there was a whole side of Frank's life I knew nothing about, a side that might easily include a motive for murder.

  What would Lisa make of this? We had no openly gay friends, but that wasn't by conscious choice. I knew she shared the liberal view that people's sexuality was their own affair. But when it was her own father? I had no idea how she would react.

  I tossed the photographs on the table. I felt angry. Not because Frank was gay, but because he had deceived Lisa for all these years. All the time he was living this double life, and not telling her. That I hadn't known who he really was, I could live with; but that his daughter hadn't made me angry. His secret would be much harder to confront now that he was dead than it would have been when he was alive. Not only had he gone, but now Lisa's memory of him would be altered. She would see everything he had done in a new light.

  I wasn't sure whether I would be able to keep what I had discovered entirely quiet. But I resolved to do my best to keep the photographs from Lisa for as long as I could.

  21

  Tetracom were making their presentation at three o'clock that afternoon. I had to be there. I arrived at the office at one o'clock, hoping for a quiet spell over lunch when I could talk to John. But he was out at National Quilt in Lowell.

  Bob Hecht and the Tetracom management were slick. They had been to business school, they had made countless big-company presentations, and it showed. It was an interesting contrast with Craig's raw enthusiasm and absolute determination. I wasn't sure which approach I preferred – probably Craig's since it personalized the struggle. But Tetracom's method was tailor-made for a venture capitalist's investment committee. Even the bust of Paul Revere seemed to be listening in respectful silence.

  Everyone was there apart from John: Gil, Art, Diane, Ravi, Daniel and me. Of course Daniel and I didn't get to vote. Art had arrived late back from lunch, a glassy look in his eyes.

  When Bob Hecht finished, Diane thanked him and asked for questions. I checked Art, but he seemed absorbed in the bottom right hand corner of his yellow pad. Gil asked an obscure question about consolidation among Tetracom's customers leading to stronger purchasing power on their part and lower margins for suppliers. Hecht had a good business school answer; with a small smile I imagined what Craig's response would have been – 'Huh?' Ravi asked about threats from Far Eastern manufacturers. Daniel asked about the risk that the stock market might become fed up with communications stocks by the time Tetracom wanted to float. All good questions, all answered well. Diane looked pleased.

  Daniel was just beginning to ask a follow-up question when he was interrupted by a low growl. We all looked towards Art, who was drawing ever thicker lines along the bottom of his pad, as though he were crossing something out.

  Diane raised her eyebrows to encourage Daniel to continue speaking. Then Bob Hecht blew it. He smiled towards Art. 'Yes, sir?'

  He probably thought he was being smart, bringing in all the decision-makers, getting their objections out into the open. He wasn't.

  'Huh?' said Art, looking up as though he had just been woken. His eyes, which had been dull before, now glinted dangerously out of his red face.

  'Do you have a question, sir?'

  Art cleared his throat. 'Yes, I have a question.'

  'And what's that?' Hecht's eagerness was wearing thin. Diane looked on in something like panic.

  'Why does a chicken-shit company like yours have the gall to ask us for money?'

  'Art!' snapped Gil.

  'It's a fair question,' said Art. 'Answer it.'

  'We believe that we have a unique . . .'

  'Don't worry, Mr Hecht,' interrupted Gil. 'Art, I'd appreciate it if you asked a more specific question.'

  Art looked at Gil. Looked at Hecht again. Smiled. 'OK,' he said. 'How many venture-capital investors have you been to see?'

  'You're the first ones,' replied Hecht immediately. 'We wanted to go to the best first.' Diane smiled appreciatively.

  'The first since when?' asked Art.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Isn't it true you went to a bunch of venture capitalists last year and they all turned you down?'

  For less than a moment Hecht was struck by panic. It was no more than a brief flutter on his handsome, sincere features. But we all saw it. Diane's gaze switched sharply from Art to Hecht. Gil's crumpled face crumpled some more. Art smiled.

  Hecht, composed again, answered the question. 'It's true that last year, before we had a business model that was up and running, we did have a couple of informal discussions with some VCs. Just to help with our planning, you understand.'

  'How many?' Art demanded.

  Hecht glanced at Diane for help. She didn't give it.

  'About a half-dozen.'

  'I said, how many?' Art repeated.

  'Let me think,' said Hecht. 'Eight.'

  'Eight, eh? And who were they?'

  Hecht rattled off eight of the biggest names in venture capital, most of them West Coast firms. Diane's face reddened. She should have asked these questions. And so should I.

  'I see,' Art said. We waited for the follow-up question. Art seemed to sway slightly in his chair. The silence was becoming uncomfortable. Eventually it came. 'And why didn't you go back to these firms when you had your model up and running, Mr Hecht? Was it because you knew they wouldn't give you money in a thousand years?'

  'No!' protested Hecht. He surveyed the group of venture capitalists. He knew he was in danger of losing us. He sighed. 'There was another member of the team, then. He was a kind of non-executive chairman and he was willing to provide the seed money. I subsequently found out that he was the one the VCs didn't like.'

  'Oh really? And what was his name?'

  'Murray Redfearn.'

  Art and Gil exchanged glances. So did Diane and I. It was clear that they had heard of him and we hadn't.

  'Murray Redfearn was involved in a couple of spectacular disasters in the late eighties,' explained Gil. 'A lot of venture capitalists lost money on him. Our first fund even had a small piece of one of his deals.'

  Hecht nodded. 'We only found all this out later. So we bought him out, developed the product further, and here we are.'

  'You lied to us,' Art said.

  'No, I didn't,' protested Hecht. 'I've just told you the truth.'

  'But you lied to Ms Zarrilli.'

  Hecht looked shaken. 'Diane?' He glanced towards her for help.

  Diane paused. She had recovered her composure now. She had a fine line to tread. She didn't want to seem weak to Hecht or the investment committee, but she also didn't want to kill the deal. 'I didn't ask the question, Art,' she said, 'and I should have. But I must admit, Bob, it would have been nice if you had been more open with me on this.'

  'Damn right,' said Art. 'Now why don't we tell these je
rks to piss off and let us get back to work.'

  Hecht reddened. One of his colleagues, the Chief Financial Officer, looked as though he was about to explode.

  'Art!' snapped Gil. 'That's enough. Thank you, Mr Hecht,' he said, with a smile. 'That was a most interesting presentation. Diane will be in touch with you very shortly.'

  There was an awkward silence as the Tetracom team picked up their presentation materials and filed out of the board room, followed by Diane. She led them to a conference room, where we had agreed they would wait for the committee's decision. Diane returned in a moment.

  Gil was red-faced, glowering at Art. He set great store by the image of the firm, and behaviour like Art's was not what he wanted. He no doubt suspected Art was drunk. And he now knew his drinking could do serious damage to the firm.

  'Could you leave us while we discuss this deal, Art?' His voice was icy.

  'No way,' said Art. 'I have strong views about this deal.'

  'I gathered that.'

  'If I hadn't asked the questions, you'd never have found out the answers,' pointed out Art. And I'm a partner in this firm. I have a responsibility to investors. I have a right to be part of its investment decisions.'

  Art was suddenly sounding coherent.

  'All right,' said Gil. 'You can stay. What do you want to do, Diane?'

  'First I should apologize,' she began. 'I should have asked the questions Art did. Thank you.' She smiled charmingly at him. He grunted. 'I still believe in the deal, though. So I'd like to ask for investment approval subject to checking out Bob Hecht's story.'

  'He could be hiding anything,' said Art.

  'I think he's probably telling the truth. But it'll be easy to check with the other venture capitalists. Which is what I'd like to do.'

  'I can help you with that,' said Gil. 'I'd like to hear the answers myself.'

  'Thank you,' said Diane. 'Simon and I have done a lot of work on this deal, and I think it is a truly great opportunity that any other firm would be quick to snap up if they had the chance. You've seen the management, you've seen Simon's Investment Memorandum, I'd like to get your approval.'

  'You're not getting mine,' said Art. 'They're liars and scumbags, and I've never seen such an amateurish piece of work in my career.' He contemptuously flicked my memo with his fingers.