Final Venture

There was silence round the table. I watched, fascinated. There was trouble ahead.

Gil frowned. 'I think John explained the problem. Management was allowed to embark on an entirely inappropriate strategy'

Art butted in. 'And I should take my share of the blame. I shouldn't have handed over this deal to such a junior member of the team.'

Gil nodded his approval. John sat still, his ears turning slowly red, whether from shame or anger or a combination of the two, I couldn't tell.

'I wonder whether there were any early warning signs we should have spotted,' Diane went on. 'Management, for example. Should we have backed them? And the original turnaround strategy for the company. Was it the right one?'

Silence again. Then Gil spoke. 'Yes, I think those are useful questions to ask. Art?'

Now it was Art's turn to redden. He took a moment to compose his reply. 'Those are absolutely the right questions,' he said in a forceful voice, full of confidence. 'But in this case I can safely say that until three months ago the company was doing great, the management seemed fine, and the strategy was working.'

And then it all suddenly went off the rails?' Diane asked. 'Without any warning?'

You could almost hear the intake of breath around the room. Partners at Revere just didn't question each other like that. At least not in the Monday morning meeting.

Art leaned his large frame on to the table, and stared at Diane.

'Yes. That's about what happened. I've seen stranger things in venture capital.'

Gil was frowning now, the tension between his lieutenants was obvious, and he disapproved. 'All right, now we've had the discussion, I think the meeting's over.'

Diane smiled quickly at Gil, and gathered up her own papers. But the tension hung on in the room, like the air after one squall has passed but another is about to hit.

'Why didn't you stand up for yourself in there?' I said to John as soon as we were back in our office. Daniel had gone to see Gil about something. 'Art dropped you in it, and if Diane hadn't stepped in, he would have got away with it completely.'

John shrugged. 'There's no point in me picking a fight with Art. That would only make it worse. As soon as National Quilt started going wrong, Art made sure it had my name on it. There was nothing I could do.'

'You've got to stand up for yourself,' I said. 'I was mauled on Net Cop. I survived.'

John shook his head. 'National Quilt is going down the tube.' He slumped back in his chair. 'Diane was just making a political point. I couldn't do that even if I wanted to.' He shook his head. 'I swear, I've got to get out of this job.'

'Hey, come on, John,' I said. 'You can't give up just because one deal goes bad.'

'It's not just that,' said John. 'I've lost my taste for this place. I'm just not turned on by money like the rest of them.'

'What do you mean, not turned on by money? You've been to business school. You know it's the only thing that matters.'

John ignored my irony. 'That's what someone like Daniel might think. But not me.'

'Nobody's quite like Daniel,' I said.

John looked at me. 'You know he's a jerk. He's sometimes funny about it, but basically, underneath it all, he's an asshole. Sure he's amusing, sure he's smart, but he's always looking after number one. Plus, he thinks making someone else look stupid is funny. I don't know, I guess I don't work like that.'

This tirade was so uncharacteristic of John that I found it hard to answer.

John sighed. 'My father's exactly the same. He has his grand plan for me. Business school, venture capital experience, then I can make my own millions.'

'Is that a grand plan you're going to follow?'

John looked at me sharply, and then relaxed. 'The secret with my father is to do just enough to let him think I'm listening to him, and then stay well clear. I got into Dartmouth, business school, here. And for what? To be bawled out because I didn't take a bunch of Hugh Hefner wannabes seriously'

'There are always jerks around whatever you do.'

'Maybe, but since Frank…' John paused, suddenly finding it difficult to control his emotion. 'Since Frank was killed, I just wonder what's the point. I guess there comes a time when I'm just going to have to tell my father who I really am, and lead my own life. Maybe that time is pretty soon.'

I smiled with sympathy. A death can mean different things to different people. It was natural, I supposed, that Frank's sudden departure from this world should make John wonder what it was all for.

I called Craig to give him the good news about Net Cop. But I found it hard to share his enthusiasm that morning. The divers worried me. If they found the gun I would be in big trouble. But there was nothing I could do about it, save collect my passport and head to the airport. It was a tempting idea, but I knew I had to beat this threat, not run away from it.

I struggled through till lunch. I was just finishing a bagel at my desk when I heard heavy footsteps down the corridor. I glanced up, and in marched Mahoney, accompanied by two other detectives, and Gil, looking stern.

'Afternoon,' I said, as I chewed my last mouthful of bagel.

Mahoney didn't return my greeting. 'I'd like you to come with me to the DA's office and answer a few questions.'

19

'Have you ever seen this before?'

Mahoney was holding a silver-grey revolver. I had never seen it before. But I said nothing.

We were in the DA's office in Salem. Mahoney had given me a formal warning this time, and I had exercised my right to have Gardner Phillips present. Mahoney had brought in reinforcements as well in the shape of an Assistant District Attorney named Pamela Leyser. She was a well-groomed blonde-haired woman in her late thirties, very crisp and businesslike. I shook her hand and smiled at her. She didn't smile back.

Gardner Phillips had absolutely insisted that I say nothing. He was watching Mahoney like a hawk, looking for a slip-up in his questioning. He seemed competent and in control, although during our hurried discussions before the interview, he seemed totally uninterested in my attempt to convince him that I was innocent. He just wanted to know what evidence the police had and how they had got it.

'It's a Smith and Wesson three fifty-seven Magnum. It was used to murder Frank Cook.'

No response.

'Do you know where we found it?'

Of course I did. I'd seen them looking. But no response.

'It was in this plastic bag.' Mahoney held up a bedraggled Boots bag. 'Do you recognize it? I believe it comes from a British store.'

No answer.

'We found the bag with the gun in it in the Basin by the Esplanade. On the route your wife takes when she goes running. How do you think it got there?'

Once again, no reply.

'She threw it there, didn't she?'

Nothing.

'We have a witness who saw her running out of your street carrying something heavy in a plastic bag. We have another who saw her running back toward your house from the direction of the river carrying nothing.'

That sounded pretty damning.

Mahoney carried on, piling up the evidence against me. It sounded convincing. There had been tension between Frank and me over the way he had treated me at work, over money and over his fear that I was cheating on his daughter. I needed money to appeal the judgement in my sister's legal case. Because of the success of BioOne, I had realized that Frank would be worth several million. I had gone to Marsh House, argued with him, and shot him. I had hidden the murder weapon, but Lisa had found it. She had gone jogging with the gun in a plastic bag, and thrown it in the river before the police had had a chance to search the apartment again. She had protected me, but because of what she had found, she decided she couldn't live with me any more. So she had left.

I wanted to tell him that he had got it all wrong. Or at least half of it. But I put my faith in Gardner Phillips and kept quiet. The Assistant District Attorney watched it all, unblinking. Although she said nothing, both Mahoney and Phillips seemed intensely aware of her presence.