'Absolutely. Maybe Vietnam had something to do with it.'
'It must have been horrible.' Nothing in my military experience came close, certainly not Northern Ireland. 'But Art being a former alcoholic doesn't prove anything'
'Except I think he might be back on the booze.'
'Have you seen him drunk?'
'No, but he's called in sick unexpectedly three times in the last three weeks. I know because I had to cover for him. And on Tuesday morning I could swear he smelled of whisky.'
'That's not good. Do you think some recent event might have started him off again?'
'It's a theory,' said Daniel. 'But it's nowhere near as convincing as the theory that you did it.'
'Great,' I said, and drained my beer.
An hour or so later, we left Pete's, mellow but not drunk. The nights were beginning to get cold. Daniel had his raincoat, but I was wearing just my suit. I hunched my shoulders and pushed my hands deep into my pockets. It was late, and it was quiet in the heart of the Financial District.
Two big men in jeans approached us along the narrow sidewalk. We paused to let them pass by. But they didn't pass by. Their eyes locked on Daniel and me.
I heard rapid footsteps behind us. Too late I pulled my hands out of my pockets, too late to prevent a heavy blow to my stomach. The air burst out of my diaphragm, and I doubled up, gasping. Two more punches followed, and I slumped backwards against the wall.
They bundled Daniel into an alleyway. In front of me stood a big hard man, his fists clenched. Daniel was suffering, I heard the blows coming thick and fast. He cried out. My head slowly cleared. The man in front of me was watching me closely, his fists ready to strike again. I closed my eyes, and allowed myself to slump downwards, letting my weight fall on to my right leg. Then I spun round, and thrust my fist upwards with all my strength into the man's face. The blow caught him on the side of the head, and sent him stumbling. I hit him a couple more times, and he staggered backwards into the street.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see the other two leave Daniel, and move towards me. I turned to face them.
Then one of them muttered something in a foreign language that sounded like Russian, and they backed off.
'Jesus, Daniel, are you OK?' I crouched over him. He was conscious but groaning.
'No,' he muttered between his teeth.
'Here, I'll call an ambulance.'
Daniel sat up. 'No, don't do that. I think I am OK. It just hurts.'
'Where?'
'Everywhere. But I don't think anything's broken. My arm hurts like hell. Get me a taxi, Simon. I'll go home.'
His face was a mess. His nose was bleeding, and so was his lip, and he had a huge red mark on one cheek. I picked him up and half-carried him to a busier street. We waited a couple of minutes for a taxi, and after I had assured the driver there was no chance of us getting any blood on the upholstery, I gently placed Daniel in the back seat.
'Here, I'll go with you,' I said, climbing in with him.
'You're a great guy to be out in Boston at night with,' said Daniel, trying to stem the flow of blood from his nose with his hand.
'They didn't know who we were, did they?'
'Didn't they?' said Daniel. 'Did they steal anything? I've still got my wallet, I think.' He patted his pocket to make sure.
I checked mine. It was still there.
The thought that people I didn't know might want to beat me up bothered me. But Daniel was right. They hadn't taken anything.
'Did you hear them at the end?' I said. 'One of them was speaking a foreign language. Russian I think.'
'No,' Daniel said. 'I was out of it.' He groaned and rubbed his ribs. 'This hurts.'
'What would a bunch of Russians want with me?' I said.
'Face it,' said Daniel. 'Nobody likes you.'
16
The sun rose cold and clear the next day as I walked into work. The leaves of the trees on the Common were at the peak of their colour: oranges, yellows and browns. The previous autumn, Lisa and I had spent as much time as we could outside Boston, in the back roads of New England, amongst the extraordinary foliage. But not this year. This year, the leaves would fall unremarked. The cold greyness of a Boston winter was close.
My body still ached from the blows it had received. Why would some Russian thugs want to beat me up? Daylight and a clearer head didn't help answer the question.
If they'd beaten me up once, they could do it again. I'd have to be careful. No more walking down dark alleys half-drunk. But if someone wanted to get me, they'd find a way, however careful I was. A depressing thought.
I left the open spaces of the Common, and made my way through clogged streets downtown. I was walking past the Meridien Hotel with its line of red awnings over the ground floor windows, when I saw Diane coming the other way. She crossed the road at the junction, and disappeared into the entrance. I wasn't surprised; it was the favourite breakfast haunt for downtown venture capitalists. Then, as I reached the junction myself, I saw the diminutive figure of Lynette Mauer, clutching a Wall Street Journal and a briefcase. I turned, walked up the street for a few yards so she wouldn't see me, and watched. She too headed for the entrance of the Meridien.
Interesting. Of course it might just be a coincidence, Diane and Lynette Mauer could both be having breakfast with different people at the same time at the same place. Or, they could be having breakfast together.
I arrived at work before Daniel. When he made his entrance, I saw the bruises on his face had nourished. A black eye had materialized from somewhere, his cheek shone purple and red, and his bottom lip had a nasty black-red scab.
'Very attractive,' I said.
'Thank you.'
'Jesus! What happened to you?' exclaimed John.
'Some guys tried to beat up Simon. I got in the way,' said Daniel.
'You don't know they were after me,' I protested.
Daniel just scowled at me.
'Did they get you too?' John asked me.
I nodded. 'You just can't see the damage.'
'Superman here held them off, while I got the shit kicked out of me,' Daniel grumbled.
'Why did they want to beat you up?' John asked me.
'I wish I knew,' I muttered.
Work had to be dealt with. No matter what happened to me, it was always there, piling up. I went to see Diane with some analysis I had prepared on Tetracom's competition. I had done a good job. It clearly impressed her.
Just as I was about to leave her office, I paused. 'Oh, I think I saw Lynette Mauer this morning going into the Meridien. She didn't see me.'
'Oh, yes?' said Diane neutrally.
'You didn't see me either, I don't think.'
Diane smiled. 'OK, you caught me. Actually I did see you, but I didn't want to delay you on your way to work. I know you're an important guy and you have big deals to do.'
'Yeah, right. So what were you and Mauer talking about?'
'Oh, women's things. You wouldn't understand.' Diane's smile broadened.
I raised my eyebrows.
'Mind your own business, Simon,' she said. 'You'll find out soon, I hope.'
'Sounds intriguing.'
'Let's just say someone had to take the initiative around here. Now, see what you can find on Pacific Filtertek. I'm a bit worried about how fast their market share is growing.'
'Certainly, Madam,' I said in my best butler-speak, and withdrew.
Back at my desk, I checked Yahoo Finance on my computer for BioOne's stock price.
John saw what I was doing. 'Forty-eight and five-eighths. Down an eighth, going nowhere,' he said.
I looked up. The previous night I had asked Daniel about Frank's murder. Now seemed like a good time to ask John.
'John?'
'Yeah?'
'Who do you think killed Frank?'
He looked at me sharply, surprised by the question. 'I don't know. I haven't thought about it much, I guess.'
'You must have some opinion.'
He looked uncomfortable. 'Not really.'
'What about me?' I pushed him.
He took a deep breath. 'It did cross my mind when the police asked all those questions about you. But it didn't make sense to me when I thought about it. To tell you the truth, Simon, the whole subject is something I'd rather not think about.' He swallowed. 'I liked Frank. We did a lot of work together. I just can't believe…' He paused. 'He was a good guy, you know. A great guy. He wasn't just a good venture capitalist. He was a great person. Kind, generous, smart, honourable. But you know all that. I'm going to miss him.' He tailed off.
I was a little surprised by his emotional reaction to my questions. But I had been thinking about Frank's death too much in terms of what it meant to me and Lisa. There was genuine sadness at Revere that I was in danger of ignoring. I decided not to push him any further.
'The police said that Frank phoned you the day he died?'
'That's right.'
'What about?'
For a moment John looked confused. 'Oh… a deal we were working on.'
'What was that?'
'Um… Smart Toys, I think it was. Yes, that's right. He called me asking for some information. I had the papers at home. When I called him back a bit later, there was no reply. We all know why, now.'
Frank must have called John just after I had left. I tried to remember if I had seen any sign that Frank was working on a deal. I couldn't, but that didn't mean anything. 'Did he say anything about my visit?'
'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.'