Final Venture

by Michael Ridpath

  'No,' said John. 'It was strictly business. Get the information and call him back.'

  'I see,' I said.

  John and I looked at each other uncomfortably for a second or two, and then he turned back to his work.

  I turned to mine. But something wasn't quite right with what John had said. I dug through the agendas for recent Monday morning meetings, and found the one for October 12. There was a section at the back labelled 'Dead Deals'. There all the deals that were being worked on that had been turned down in the previous week were listed, together with the date they were killed. Sure enough, there it was: Smart Toys, up-market toy retailer, FC, 10/8.

  Frank had killed the deal on 8 October, the Thursday before he died. There had been no reason to work on it over a weekend.

  I glanced up at John who was absorbed in a phone conversation. He had lied to me. And to the police. Why?

  I decided not to confront him, at least not yet.

  I had work to do. I attacked my e-mails. Amongst the dross was one from Jeff Lieberman. I opened it curiously. It said some of his firm's managing directors were interested in investing in Net Cop, and could Craig and I meet them that afternoon?

  I was just mulling the message over when the phone rang.

  It was Craig. 'Hey, Simon. Have you checked your e-mail?'

  'I'm just looking at it now.'

  'Good news or what?'

  I hesitated. I hated to dampen Craig's spirits, but it was important we keep a sense of perspective. 'It's nice, Craig. But don't get your hopes up. Even if we do get in another couple of hundred thousand, we're still a long way off the three million we need.'

  'Yeah, but these guys are investment bankers, right? I mean Bloomfield Weiss is one of the biggest investment banks in the world. They got to have dough.'

  'I'm sure they have, Craig. But they're unlikely to want to put all of it into Net Cop. Jeff said we're just talking about these people as individuals here. It's not the firm's capital they're putting up.'

  'We still go see them, right?'

  'I'm not sure. I mean I don't know whether it's worth going all that way at this late stage. Maybe we should try some European telcos or something.'

  'Simon, there's no one else to try. If these guys don't put up, then there's no Net Cop to save.'

  'OK, Craig. In that case we go.' I looked at my watch. 'I'll see you at the airport for the one o'clock shuttle.'

  Bloomfield Weiss's offices loomed over little more than an alley, just off Wall Street. Boston had some big buildings downtown, but New York's were huge. We were dropped off outside a fifty-storey black monstrosity, with the words 'Bloomfield Weiss' in small gold lettering just above the entrance.

  A high-speed lift propelled us up to the forty-sixth floor, where we waited in a plush reception area for Jeff Lieberman. After some discussion, we had decided that Craig should wear his usual uniform of T-shirt and jeans. At least then he'd look like the brilliant computer geek he was, rather than a musclebound construction worker in his Sunday best. Although it was a 'dress-down' Friday, none of the investment bankers looked quite like Craig. But then he was wearing his favourite T-shirt, the black one with the dumbbells on it.

  Jeff met us, in a suit, and took us through a warren of corridors to a conference room. From the window I could look over the shoulder of a neighbouring block to glimpse the shimmering grey of New York Harbor.

  More suits came in. Or more strictly they were shirts: half of them wore identical heavy white oxford shirts with bright ties, while the other half wore expensive polo shirts and slacks in honour of Friday. Craig was nervous. So was I. With the exception of Jeff, these were men in their forties and fifties, well-groomed, powerful men of money. Where Revere doled out the odd million here and there, Bloomfield Weiss sent billions spinning round the globe twenty-four hours a day. Not that I was intimidated or anything.

  They dealt us a hand each of business cards, and then Jeff deferred to a tiny man named Sidney Stahl.

  'So, Craig. Jeff's given me the red-herring bullshit. Tell me what you really do. You got ten minutes.'

  His voice was thick and gruff, the New York equivalent of what Craig's might sound like in twenty years. I could see Craig found it reassuring.

  'Sure,' he said, and he began talking. The Bloomfield Weiss hotshots were entranced.

  Forty-five minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and a worried looking young man in a nice suit caught Stahl's eye.

  'OK, OK,' he said. 'Sorry, Craig. I gotta stop you there.' He turned to look at the assembled group. 'I'm in. What about you guys?'

  Heads nodded all round the table, with a mixture of deference and bravado. If Sidney thought it was a good risk, then so did the others.

  Stahl stood up. 'You tell a good story Craig. I like you. You've got our money, but only if you and Jeff can agree on a deal. I don't think you'll find him a pushover.'

  Craig and I shook Sidney Stahl's hand, and he left the room, followed by everyone but Jeff.

  Jeff grinned at me over the table. 'I bet you didn't think it would be that easy, huh?'

  I smiled broadly back. 'What was all that about? That's not the kind of investment committee you get in venture capital.'

  'That's the point,' said Jeff. 'It's a kind of informal investment club of some of the big-hitters in the firm, with Sidney being the biggest hitter of them all. The idea is they invest in deals that are too small for Bloomfield Weiss to place with clients or do themselves. It's a kind of macho thing. Who's willing to put up their own money for a big risk.'

  'So I noticed,' I said.

  'But don't knock it,' said Jeff. 'These guys have had some spectacular home runs.'

  'Um, there is one thing we didn't cover,' I said.

  'Only one?' said Jeff.

  'How much are we talking about?'

  'How much do you need?'

  My eyes flashed up at Jeff. 'Three million dollars.'

  'Then I guess we're talking about three million dollars.'

  Craig was ecstatic on the flight back. He gave himself and me a blow-by-blow commentary of what had happened, as though he still couldn't quite believe it. Jeff had hammered out a tough deal. The Bloomfield Weiss syndicate would end up with a large chunk of the company, Craig would keep a chunk, and Revere's holding would be diluted. Jeff would have a place on the board.

  According to the investment agreement, the deal still needed Revere's approval, so the final word had to be left to them. But it looked very much as though Craig would get to build his prototype. And with working silicon, funding would come in from resellers like Luxtel and Ericsson. Net Cop was going to work.

  'Thank you, Simon,' Craig said, finally.

  'I never thought they'd come up with the whole amount.'

  'But they did! They did!'

  I stared out of the window at Long Island disappearing behind me. I was pleased about Net Cop. Very pleased. But it still left all my other problems out there.

  Craig noticed my silence. 'Hey, Simon, what's up? You've been fighting for this as much as I have.'

  I smiled at him. 'Yes. And I am truly very pleased.'

  'So?'

  So I told him about how I was everyone's favourite suspect for Frank's murder. I told him that Lisa had left me because of it, and that I needed to find out more.

  'Perhaps I can help,' he said. 'My dad retired a few years ago, but I know a lot of people in the department. Hey, I come from a good Catholic family. I got more cousins than you got fingers and toes, and most of 'em are cops.'

  'Perhaps you can,' I said. I took a moment to get my thoughts together. 'The man leading the investigation is assigned to the Essex County DA's office. Sergeant Mahoney is his name. He doesn't like me. It would be interesting to find out a bit more about him.'

  'I'll ask around.'

  'And can you get a look at any criminal records?'

  Craig smiled. 'Of course not. That would be illegal. What do you want to know?'

  'See if you can fi
nd out whether the following people have a criminal record. Do you have a pen?'

  Craig raised his eyebrows. 'What do I need a pen for? I know pi to twenty-nine decimal places.'

  'OK, sorry. The names are Arthur Altschule, Gilbert Appleby, Edward Cook – that's Lisa's brother, and,' I paused over the next name, but I remembered Daniel's words, 'Diane Zarrilli.'

  'Nice to see you trust your partners.'

  'Someone killed Frank, Craig. And it wasn't me.'

  'OK, I'll see what I can do,' he said. 'Just as long as you have a drink with me when we get to Boston. And that will be champagne.'

  'Ow!' A stab of pain ran down my shoulder as I swung the boat into the water. Although I didn't much feel like it, I had kept my Saturday morning appointment to go rowing with Kieran.

  'Are you OK, Simon?' he asked.

  'I got into a spot of bother a couple of nights ago. My shoulder still hurts.'

  'A spot of bother? Do you mean a fight?'

  'You could call it that. I was mugged on the street outside Pete's, downtown. With Daniel Hall.'

  'Really? How much did they take?'

  'It was odd. They didn't take anything.'

  'Oh, I see. So they just didn't like your face?'

  'I don't know what they didn't like.'

  I puffed as we carried the boat to the river. My shoulder ached like hell.

  'It was probably Daniel. Did he make some smart-arse comment?'

  'I don't think so. He thinks it was me they were after. I've been in some trouble recently.'

  'Must be some pretty bad trouble.'

  'I suppose it is,' I said. 'But even so, I don't know why anyone would want to beat me up. One of them spoke Russian.'

  'Really?'

  'It sounded like it.'

  We threw the boat in the water, and set off at a slow pace. I wanted to warm up gently.

  'I read somewhere that the Russians are the new boys in town when it comes to organized crime,' said Kieran. 'Drugs, money-laundering, loan-sharking, cabs.'

  'Are cabs a criminal activity?'

  'When they're driven by Russians they are,' said Kieran. 'Do you remember that guy Sergei Delesov?'

  'Yes.' He was a very able Russian in our class at business school. I hadn't known him well.

  'There was a rumour he was mixed up with some of them.'

  'Delesov? A Harvard graduate?'

  'That was the rumour.'

  'Where is he now?' I asked. 'Maybe he might know something.'

  'I'm pretty sure he went back to Russia. I think he's already running some bank there.'

  We rowed on at a slow, steady pace. The aching in my muscles eased a little as I warmed up, but I didn't want to push anything. We met another pair who asked us to do a 'piece' to the next bridge, something we were usually game for, but I declined. I apologized to Kieran for my tentative performance afterwards, but he told me not to worry, he could use a gentle start to his Saturday.

  Weekends are tough when you love someone and they hate you. Especially if you're alone.

  The full reality of Lisa leaving me was sinking in, bringing with it the awful thought that she might not come back. At first, it had all seemed absurd, almost unreal. Frank being murdered seemed absurd. I had never known anyone who was murdered. And then suddenly Lisa going, shattering our marriage out of nowhere. It was so unfair. My father had been able to womanize for over a decade and get away with it because my mother adored him. But despite my desperate efforts to avoid becoming my father, my own marriage wasn't going to last a year.

  The loneliness of that thought crushed in on me.

  It should have been a perfect marriage. We seemed to me completely compatible. No, we were completely compatible. No matter what Lisa said or did I would always believe that. Our respective mothers had doubted it from the start, but they were wrong.

  The wedding had been a nightmare. Or rather, the wedding itself wasn't, but planning it was awful. When I told my mother that I was marrying an American woman, she was cautiously optimistic. I think she assumed I was following those many landed Englishmen who had found themselves a colonial dowry to keep the family estate intact. When she found out Lisa was Jewish, without a trust fund, and that she intended to keep her maiden name, the disapproval could have frozen the Atlantic. I took Lisa to England, partly to show my mother what a lovely person she was. My mother didn't notice, but insisted on talking about pork and Saturdays.

  Lisa's mother tried to disapprove too, but did a much worse job of it. She had set her heart on a nice Jewish son-in-law, and my blond hair and blue eyes just didn't fit. But her pleasure at her daughter's happiness, and the fact that she and I got on quite well, made her abandon her earlier hopes, or at least ignore them.

  Over the first six months of our marriage, I thought we had proved them both wrong. I refused to admit now that they were right.

  Craig burst in on my moping on Saturday evening.

  'That was quick,' I said, getting him a beer.

  'The Boston Police Department never sleeps,' said Craig. 'Or at least the computers still work at weekends.'

  'So, what have you got?'

  'Mahoney, first. My dad knew him. He worked in Boston for twenty years as a street patrolman and then detective. Then he got himself shot, and his wife demanded that he quit. He transferred to the State Police as a compromise.'

  'I thought he looked streetwise,' I said.

  'Oh, he was a good detective, my father says. He used to do things the old way. He'd get a hunch and he'd play it. Often he'd be right.'

  Oh, great. I was obviously his hunch on this case.

  'Do you know anything about any sympathies he might have with the IRA?'

  Craig looked surprised. 'I don't know. I can check. I mean, he's Irish, like half the cops, especially the older ones. And most of the Irish in Boston do kind of think you should get out of their country. No offence meant.' I smiled thinly. 'Why? Do you think he's picking on you because you're a Brit?'

  'Something like that,' I replied. Given Craig's own ancestry, I wanted to leave out my Northern Ireland tour of duty if I could.

  'I can check if you like,' said Craig.

  'If it's no trouble. Now, what about the others?'

  'There are a coupla Edward Cooks with records in California, but none of them looks like your guy. Nothing on Gil. Nor on Diane Zarrilli.'

  I was surprised to feel a small wave of relief when I heard about Diane. I was also glad that Gil was clean. Eddie was a bit of a disappointment.

  'And Art?'

  'Now, this guy has an interesting file. He was involved with a company that sold UNIX boxes. His partner, a guy named Dennis Slater, liked to invent customers who he'd sell the same box to several times over. When they sold the company, Slater was found out, and he blew himself away, or at least that's the way it was left.'

  'But the police investigated Art?'

  'That's right.'

  'Did they get anywhere?'

  'They couldn't find enough evidence to arrest him, let alone convict him. He was supposed to have been at home with his wife. She supported his alibi, but no one else could. He said he was dead drunk at the time so he couldn't have done it. Once again there was no way of checking that.'

  'How did Slater kill himself?'

  'Literally blew his brains out,' said Craig. 'It's the kind of suicide that can be faked by someone who knows what he's doing, and can get close enough to the victim to place a gun to his temple. It's a messy job, but Art could have gotten rid of the clothes he was wearing. If he did it. And there's really no hard evidence that he did.'

  'Can you get anything on the investigation into Frank Cook's murder?'

  Craig winced and shook his head. 'Sorry, Simon. An ongoing murder investigation is a much bigger deal. Besides, it's Essex County isn't it?'

  I nodded.

  'It's going to be hard for my contacts to nose around there without being noticed.'

  'That's a shame. I'd love to know if Mahoney has
found out anything else about Art. Or whether there is a good reason to rule him out entirely.'

  'You could always ask him.'

  I looked sceptically at Craig. 'He's hardly likely to go on his knees and confess to me.'

  'No, but he might tell you if there's proof that he didn't do it. If you ask him in the right way.'

  'Maybe I will. Thanks, Craig, that's helpful.'

  'No problem, buddy. Now, Monday's a shoe-in, right?'

  I still had to get the partnership's approval for the deal I had hammered out with Jeff.

  'I've learned my lesson,' I said. 'I'm never going to say any meeting is a shoe-in.'

  Craig suddenly tensed. 'Look, Simon, if they jerk me around again, I'll – '

  'Calm down,' I said. 'I'll call you on Monday if there's a problem.'

  'Call me either way.'

  'OK,' I assured him, and he left.

  17

  I decided there was little to be lost by talking to Art after all. And the best place to do that was at his home. So late on Sunday afternoon I drove out to Acton.

  The Boston area is stuffed with the most prosaic place names from the South East of England. Acton, Chelmsford, Woburn, Billerica, Braintree, Norwood and of course Woodbridge, to name but a few. Driving around the area was a bit like being lost on the outer reaches of the Central Line. I hadn't found Chipping Ongar yet, but I was sure it was lurking there somewhere.

  Acton was nothing like its West London namesake. Winding rivers, small bridges, stony fields of pumpkins lined up as if on parade, scattered brightly painted wooden houses, tiny blue lakes, and trees. Trees everywhere. The clear autumn light reflected brightly off the oranges and reds of the maples, and the yellows, browns and greens of lesser species. Despite the reason for my visit, my spirits rose as I drove up Spring Hollow Road to Art's large yellow-painted house, with the smart green Range Rover parked outside.

  His wife, Shirley, answered the door. Although she must have been about fifty, she was trying to look twenty years younger. Counterfeit blonde hair, tight blue jeans, and careful make-up did their best, but didn't quite succeed. As Daniel had said, we had got on very well at the previous year's Christmas party, but it took her a second to recognize me. Then she gave me a broad smile.