And they were difficult. I said that changes in market conditions had made Revere wary of making an additional investment in the business, but that we still had confidence in the quality of the product. It didn't go down well, but there was no way round that, short of outright lying. Craig, of course, had suggested this, but wasn't surprised when I said no.
Luxtel really liked Net Cop's switch. Craig promised 99.99 per cent reliability and this impressed them. They especially liked the encryption features, which they felt would be vital once more commercial traffic flowed through the Internet. Commerce meant money, and electronic money needed as much electronic security as possible.
But they felt it was too early to make a firm commitment to buy, let alone to invest. They needed to see working silicon first. It was the age-old mystery of venture capital. Which comes first, the prototype or the money?
Craig drove our rental car back towards Newark Airport in silence, his jaw set, meaty hands gripping the steering wheel.
I tried to sound optimistic. 'There's one definite customer, if we can get the money.'
'We'll get the money,' Craig said, more as an article of faith than as a forecast.
He drove on. 'I have to make this work, you know,' he said.
'I know.'
'No, you don't. This is just another deal for you,' he muttered. 'If it blows up, there will be others that come along. But I've put everything into Net Cop. I'll have to make it succeed. The alternative . . . there is no alternative.'
'You could get a job easily,' I said.
'Huh. I'm unemployable. I worked my ass off for Gary Olek. I'm not doing that again.'
Gary Olek had made tens of millions through the sale of his software company a year before. Craig had been the technical genius behind the firm. Olek, with his MBA, his charm, his financial acumen, had been CEO and major stockholder. Craig had made some money from the sale, all of which he had ploughed into Net Cop. Olek had made a fortune.
'Olek took my ideas and made millions out of them. That Net Cop switch is mine, and I'm gonna make the money this time. I'm not gonna let no banks or venture capitalists stop me. Of course Luxtel's going to buy our switches. So's every other motherfucker in the market. You hear what I'm sayin'?'
'I hear you.'
He relaxed a touch. 'I'm sorry, Simon. I know you're trying to help. But at the end of the day it's all down to me. I'll get the money. I'll sell the fuckin' switches. I'll make Cisco and 3Com and all those other fuckers sit up and take notice of Net Cop. Don't worry about it.'
I did worry about it. All the way back to Boston.
I didn't get back to the office until mid-afternoon. Daniel was out, something was hotting up at BioOne. I wasn't sure where John was. I surveyed the pile of papers screaming at me from my inbox. Tetracom. Net Cop. A former McDonald's executive who wanted to set up yet another chain of coffee shops. A proposal for a Swedish-goods-by-mail-order company. All needing urgent attention.
I pulled out the Tetracom pile. The deal was shaping up well. Diane was in Cincinnati, without me, visiting the company. I'd told her I didn't want to travel overnight because I ought to stay with Lisa, and she had understood.
I had been working for about a quarter of an hour when John burst in.
'Man, these quilt guys are something else!'
I looked up. 'Board meeting?'
'Yeah. Plus some kind of brainstorming session. It was wild.'
'What happened?'
The National Quilt Company was an ailing manufacturer of high-quality quilts that had been bought by a marketing man named Andy McArdle with the backing of Revere. His idea had been to turn the company round by realizing the potential of duvets, or 'comforters' as the Americans called them, for merchandising. Art had done the deal with John, and put John on the board.
'You know I told you about those merchandising deals they'd signed last spring for the fall season?'
'Yes.'
'It turns out some goon somewhere ordered a few hundred thousand Mutant Turtle comforters that no one wants to buy. Warehouse full. Lots of inventory. Big problem.'
'Sounds like it.'
'So, I suggest maybe they ought to go back to making comforters with cute patterns on them. Flowers and such like.'
'Radical.'
'Not as radical as McArdle. He's done a ton of research on the number of single-person homes, and the lack of comforters targeted at the under-thirties, and his conclusion is . . .' John looked at me enquiringly.
'I give up.'
'Go naked.'
'Go naked?'
'Yup. Go naked. Dump the turtles. We spread naked women all over these quilts. They get bought by the millions of young men out there who are sick of the choice of flowers or turtles on their comforters. National Quilt makes out like bandits.'
'Jesus. What did you say?'
'Why not naked men? I mean, single women buy comforters too.'
'Er. True. What did McArdle say to that?'
'He said that was an interesting idea, and he'd look into it.'
'Oh, dear.'
'Yes. Oh, dear.'
'Did you let him do it?' I asked.
'Yeah. On a small scale. The company's screwed anyway, and I'm curious to see what happens.'
'Have you told Art?'
'No point. He's lost all interest in this deal. He just doesn't want to know. It's my baby now. Tea?'
'Thanks,' I said, and John left the room to get it. A couple of minutes later he came back with tea for me and something brown under white foam for himself.
'Don't you think you should do something more positive?' I asked as he returned.
'I thought about it, but I don't see the point. I figure if this company goes down the toilet, then it's McArdle's fault, not mine. And that's the way I'd like to keep it.'
I wasn't convinced, but I let it pass.
Sergeant Mahoney came to see me that afternoon, accompanied by another detective whom he called a trooper, but who didn't look at all like the troopers I was used to. I took them into a small meeting room.
'How are you getting on?' I asked Mahoney.
'Slow but sure. Slow but sure,' he said. 'It's the best way, I find.'
'Do you have any suspects yet? Apart from me?'
'We're not quite at that stage yet. But we're making progress.'
There was clearly no chance of Mahoney telling me who he thought had killed Frank, even if he knew. I was curious to see where I stood in his list of possibilities.
'We have been able to narrow down the time of Mr Cook's murder. The phone records show he called John Chalfont at three twenty-four that Saturday afternoon. They spoke for only a couple of minutes. Mr Chalfont recalls the conversation. So we know he was alive at that time.'
'I had definitely left by then,' I said.
'Now, Mr Chalfont says he called Mr Cook back later on that afternoon. They were talking about a deal they were both working on, and Mr Chalfont had some responses. Mr Cook didn't answer the phone, but his answering machine did. The call was timed at four thirty-eight.'
'I see.'
'So where were you between three twenty-four, and four thirty-eight?'
'Walking on the beach. I told you. Actually, by four thirty-eight I was probably on the way to Net Cop.'
'Yes, you did tell us that,' said Mahoney. 'Trouble is we haven't found anyone who saw you down there. We did find a couple of people who said they were walking on Shanks Beach on Saturday afternoon, but neither of them remembers seeing anyone who fits your description. Nor the description of your car, which is quite distinctive.'
'Oh,' I said. Damn! Someone should have noticed the Morgan. Dark green, long and low, it looked like a roadster from the nineteen forties, although in fact it was only ten years old.
'Can you think of anyone else who might have seen you? Did you stop for gas? Go into a store somewhere?'
'No,' I said. 'I'm pretty sure there was no one manning the booth at the entrance to the beach . . .'
&nbs
p; 'There wasn't,' said Mahoney.
'Are you sure no one saw my car? You'd have thought they would have remembered it.'
'You'd have thought so,' said Mahoney. His blue eyes twinkled, and he smiled the irritating half-smile. He thought he'd got me.
'I definitely was there, Sergeant,' I said.
'All we're trying to do is confirm your story, Mr Ayot. Now, according to Daniel Hall, you and he discussed your father-in-law's wealth as recently as last week. Is that true?'
'No,' I replied quickly.
'He says you both discussed the money Mr Cook would make from Revere Partners' BioOne investment.' Mahoney raised his eyebrows, waiting for a reply.
Then I remembered the conversation. 'Oh, yes. That's right. We did discuss that. Or rather he did. Daniel is obsessed with how much money everyone makes, especially the partners. I wasn't very interested.'
'Not interested, huh?'
'No.'
'You have heard about the will now?'
'Yes I have.'
'And you've heard your wife is a very wealthy woman.'
'I suppose she will be,' I said flatly.
'That money will be useful for you, won't it?'
'I don't follow.' I wondered what Mahoney was driving at.
'To fight your sister's lawsuit. She needs fifty thousand pounds, doesn't she? That's, what, eighty thousand bucks? And you've sunk thousands in the case already. Isn't that true?'
'Yes, it is,' I said carefully.
'And how much have you already spent on your sister's lawsuit?'
'About forty-five thousand pounds. She's spent twenty.'
'Which you borrowed?'
'Partly. Part of it was our savings.'
'And unless you can find the money to continue with this lawsuit, then you can kiss goodbye to that forty-five thousand pounds?'
'That's right,' I admitted.
'OK. I understand that your wife asked Mr Cook for some money to help pay for this lawsuit.'
'So she told me.'
'But Mr Cook said no?'
'Apparently. But, listen. I didn't ask her to go to him. It was her idea. She didn't tell me about it until after he'd said no.'
Mahoney watched me closely. 'So then you went to see him yourself?'
'No. I mean, yes. But not about that. I told you what I wanted to talk to him about. We'd had problems at work that I wanted to sort out.'
'So you didn't talk about money?'
'No. Or I suppose Frank did. But I told him I wasn't interested in his money.'
'Oh. So Mr Cook brought up the question of giving you money, and you told him you weren't interested?'
I slowed down, took a breath. 'Frank thought I'd come to see him to ask for money. I hadn't. I told him that. And now I'm telling you.'
'I see,' said Mahoney. He paused. 'It's lucky that your wife is going to inherit all this money, isn't it? Now you'll be able to pay those legal bills.'
'No,' I said. 'No, it isn't. I'd much rather Frank were still alive. And so would Lisa.'
'Of course, Mr Ayot. Of course. Thank you for your cooperation.' The interview was over, and I showed Sergeant Mahoney to the elevators. The irritating little smile never left his lips.
It was very hard to get back to work. I was worried. Although Mahoney hadn't come right out and accused me of murdering Frank, he was steadily building a case against me. No one seeing me at the beach, needing the money for Helen's lawsuit, my argument with Frank. None of these pieces of information was damning in itself, but each was pointing Mahoney where I was sure he wanted to go.
I knew he'd find more evidence from somewhere. I was getting very worried.
Lisa must have told Mahoney about Helen's legal case. She probably didn't see the harm in it, just answering a straightforward question honestly. But I wished she hadn't.
All this reminded me that I had intended to call Helen that afternoon to tell her about Frank's will, and Lisa's willingness to use some of the money to fund her legal bills. But something stopped me. Until I knew the results of Mahoney's investigation, I didn't want to get her hopes up. I still wanted to think that the justice system would inexorably grind on until I was cleared, and the true culprit found. But my doubts were growing. With some justification, as it turned out.
I tried to make it home by seven that evening, in case Lisa was back, but she wasn't there. She didn't arrive until nine. She looked tired and depressed.
'Can I get you a drink?' I asked.
'A glass of wine would be great.' She flopped on the sofa.
I passed her one. 'You did a long day's work.'
'Well, what do you expect?' she snapped. 'I've been out half the week. There's a ton of work to be done.'
I was taken aback by the outburst. 'I'm sure there is,' I said neutrally.
'You're not the only one with a stressful job, you know!'
'I know,' I said. I sat down beside her and put my arm round her.
She sipped her wine. 'Sorry, Simon. It's just that Boston Peptides is in real trouble. We're out of cash. I didn't realize how bad it was. I've agreed to no pay cheque this month, but that's hardly going to help.'
I sighed. 'Have they no leads on any more funds?'
'Not according to Henry. If only we could get all the animal work finished on BP 56. It would make us a much better proposition for any investor.'
This was bad news. Lisa had put everything into BP 56. If Boston Peptides went bust before the drug had met its potential, it would be a huge disappointment for her.
I squeezed her, and she pressed herself close into me. Then she began to cry. And she didn't stop.
I arrived at work a little late the next morning. Daniel hadn't shown up yet. I greeted John, who was looking over the Wall Street Journal whilst attacking a blueberry muffin.
'Forty-four and a half,' he said, without looking up.
'It's creeping back,' I said.
'Creeping is the right word for it.'
I checked the Chelsea web-page for details of the match they had played the night before. The Internet was a godsend for English football supporters trapped in America. The boys had won again, two–nil.
John interrupted me. 'Hey, Simon! Did you hear about Boston Peptides?' The whiff of gossip quickened his voice.
'No. What's happened?'
'BioOne's going to take it over. Art and Daniel were working on it all of yesterday.'
I put my head in my hands. 'Oh, Christ.'
John was surprised by my reaction. 'It'll be good for Lisa, won't it? She has stock options, right? And BioOne will give Peptides the backing to expand its R&D'
'I don't think Lisa likes BioOne very much, John.' Where venture capitalists saw a high stock price, Lisa saw a big bad biotech company. And now she would be working for it.
Daniel strode into the office, bags under his eyes, and briefcase pulling down one arm.
'I heard about Boston Peptides,' I said. 'John told me.'
'It's a good deal,' said Daniel, arranging the papers on his desk.
'For BioOne.'
'And for Boston Peptides. It has a promising drug for Parkinson's, and BioOne has the muscle to see it through.'
I sighed. I could see the commercial logic.
'They're making a presentation this afternoon,' said John. 'You coming?'
'You bet.'
'It's at their offices in Kendall Square at two.'
'Their offices?'
Daniel grinned. 'Yeah. Enever said he didn't have time to come over here.'
It was unheard of for companies to make presentations to the partnership anywhere else but our offices. They came on time fully prepared. We showed up late, or cancelled the meeting. But in the case of BioOne, the balance of power had long ago shifted from investor to investee.
'Are you going?' I asked Daniel.
'Of course. I've been running all the damned numbers.'
'So if there are any mistakes, I know who to ask.'
'You do and you're a dead person,' Dani
el said.
Despite his considerable mathematical ability, he had a tendency to transpose numbers, turning a 586 into a 568, for example. John and I delighted in waiting for the moment of maximum embarrassment to point them out.
I would keep my eyes peeled.
'Oh, Simon,' Daniel said. 'Art asked me to tell you to go see him first thing this morning.'
'About BioOne?'
'I guess so.'
Art was in his habitual position, leaning back in his leather executive chair, one hand pressing the telephone to his ear, the other clasping a can of Diet Dr Pepper. Art spent even more time on the phone than the other partners at the firm. It was the kind of work he liked. It involved talking, not thinking. You could easily spend a twelve-hour working day on the phone and not actually do or decide anything.
He beckoned for me to sit down. I perched on the small chair on the other side of his desk. I knew he wouldn't hurry on my account, and he didn't. He cut an imposing figure. He was a big broad man in his fifties with grey hair cropped close to his head. He exercised regularly, and most of his size was muscle, rather than fat. He had served in the Marines, as he had reminded me on many occasions, and he still affected a tough-guy attitude. He liked to tell it like it was.
Pride of place on his desk was given to a photograph of a young man in the uniform of one of the Midwestern football colleges. He looked like a younger but beefier version of Art. It was Chuck, Art's son. Art was almost as proud of him as he was of BioOne.
Ten minutes later, he finally put the receiver down. 'I guess you heard. We're buying Boston Peptides.' By 'we' Art meant BioOne. He identified himself so closely with that company that in his eyes he was indistinguishable from it.
'Congratulations,' I said neutrally.
'Now, BioOne is a public company, and we're not quite ready to make an announcement yet. Also, we've been negotiating with Boston Peptides' VC backers, Venture First, directly. The management knows nothing about the deal. Are you with me?'
'But you'll need management support,' I said. 'Without Henry Chan, Boston Peptides is worth nothing.' And it's not worth much without Lisa, I could have added.
'Oh, they'll get a sweet deal. We just want to keep them out of the loop for the moment. So, it's very important that you don't tell any of this to Lisa.'
'I understand the importance of keeping price-sensitive information private,' I said. 'But it's OK to tell my wife, surely?'
Final Venture Page 9
