“Well, you found out you were adopted—”
“But I’m still your daughter.”
My affirmation made her fall silent. Then she said weakly, “Joey …” A sob.
Oh, Ma, don’t …
“Joey’s still your son, too. Wherever he is, he still loves you.”
A long silence. Then she said tartly, “Don’t lie to me.”
“What?”
“You don’t believe that. You must be aware that I know you’ve lost your faith.”
“Well, I …”
“And do you know how I recognize it?”
“No.”
“I recognize it because I’ve lost mine too.”
Impossible. Ma had always described herself as “very devout.”
“When did this happen?”
“That’s not relevant. The reasons and circumstances are personal. But I will tell you this: If I hadn’t lost it when I did, I would have lost it the moment I heard Joey was dead. A good God would not have planned for my son to sink into despair and kill himself. A good God would not have planned that for our Joey.”
I asked, “So how do you go on, without the faith you’ve leaned on your whole life?”
“You simply go on. You suffer, and then you heal. You grieve, and then you let go. Maybe that’s proof that there’s something bigger than what the Church taught us, I don’t know. But you do go on.”
Wise women, both my mothers.
Subj: No Subject
Date: Tuesday, February 6, 2001, 10:16:21 AM
From: [email protected]
Tessa:
Since Jorge seems strangely indifferent to the situation here, I am going over his head and communicating directly with you. I do not understand the delay on this latest round of financing. I happen to know you have signed commitments from the limited partners far in excess of what’s been doled out to us, and it’s in your best interests to keep us going until the market corrects and the climate is right for an IPO. Please respond asap.
Max
Subj: Your inquiry
Date: Tuesday, February 6, 2001, 4:29:45 PM
From: [email protected]
Max—
Your inquiry received and duly noted. Timing is an issue here, and there are complicated factors which would mean nothing to you. We will put out the call for capital to the limited partners by the middle of next week, latest. Please bear with me. If you feel the need to communicate directly in the future, make sure to copy Jorge.
Regards, Tessa
Subj: No subject
Date: Thursday, February 8, 2001, 9:31:07 PM
From: [email protected]
I’m putting the research materials you requested on disc and dropping them at your place, rather than sending them as a file or leaving them in your in-box at the office. I don’t trust the privacy of e-mail there, and this isn’t something you’ll want to look at in the presence of others. You’ll be happy to know you were right about the situation.
K
Subj: No subject
Date: Friday, February 9, 2001, 11:07:43 AM
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected].
Thanks for your good work, and for dropping the disc off personally. It’s useful stuff. Payment forthcoming. I assume all your searches were done on your personal machine, since you have privacy issues about the office?
Subj: No subject
Date: Friday, February 9, 2001, 6:22:07 PM
From: [email protected]
Yes, all the work was done here at home, so privacy is insured.
K
Subj: Amaya
Date: Tuesday, February 13, 2001, 10:12:01 AM
From: [email protected]
Tessa:
I’m not copying Jorge on this regardless of your prior instructions. We had another of our incidents last night—burglar alarm repeatedly going off, security company calling me at home at all hours—and he’s acting very cavalier about it. Frankly, he’s a piss-poor CEO. He may have the credentials, but he doesn’t give a shit about the magazine. I urge you to replace him.
Max
Subj: Amaya
Date: Tuesday, February 13, 2001, 2:57:54 PM
From: [email protected]
Max—
Please calm down! “Acting cavalier,” as you put it, is simply Jorge’s style. If you don’t want the security company calling you, refer them to him. He is, after all, in charge there.
Regards, Tessa
Subj: No subject
Date: Wednesday, February 14, 2001, 9:32:18 PM
From: [email protected]
This is important, guy, and by the time you get it you won’t be able to reach me for clarification, so please print this out and follow it to the letter. Jody is going to be upset after tonight, and I want you to look out for her. Somebody may try to intimidate or even hurt her, and in that case it’s important you show her the stuff I asked you to teach me. Then she’ll know how to protect herself.
I’ve done something that I don’t want anybody ever to know about unless it’s the only way Jody can be safe. The folks, you, and even Harry don’t deserve it being made public. If anybody comes around asking about me, distance yourself. Call me a bastard, say you hate my guts, whatever it takes. This is for your own safety.
Love you, guy—
Roger
Subj: DON’T DELETE THIS BEFORE READING!
Date: Wednesday, February 14, 2001, 9:40:02 PM
From: [email protected]
I’m sorry. I was on a mission and not thinking about what my demands might do to you. I never should have used you that way. I know I can’t make it up to you, but I’ve put a request in a letter to the folks that you have my flat. Live in it or sell it, I don’t care. Maybe it’ll help you get a fresh start.
Regretfully—
Roger
I’d isolated the first seven messages from dozens in a file labeled “Project ’Zine” on Roger’s computer’s hard drive. They were the only additions to the file in the two weeks before his death. The remaining two were the only ones sent on the day of his suicide. There had been volumes remaining in the computer’s memory—story outlines, idea lists, financial and tax information—but none of it seemed relevant compared to these. Now I tried to analyze what I’d read.
Max Engstrom’s mail to Tessa Remington confirmed how deeply in trouble the publication was, as well as his growing frustration with the sabotage and Jorge Amaya’s performance as CEO. Remington’s reaction, while not unsympathetic, seemed curiously unconcerned.
From the list of staff members I identified “Kdonovan” as Kat Donovan, the magazine’s head researcher, job title Sherlock. I recalled her as a short, overweight woman with beautiful red hair who had been rather nervous and impatient with my presence on the day of the game. I wondered what kind of extracurricular sleuthing Sherlock had done for the WebPotentate. Sensitive material, since she didn’t feel free to do it at the office or send it internally, and apparently Dinah Vardon shared her concerns.
Nothing about these messages or the others in the Project ’Zine file gave any indication of why Roger killed himself or what he’d done that he didn’t want made public unless necessary to protect Jody Houston. Nor did they hint at whom or what she needed protection from. His final messages to his brothers Eddie—happyhacker—and Harry—rx—were filled with guilt and remorse. And it appeared that when I’d talked with Eddie he’d distanced himself from Roger, as his older brother had instructed him. His anger was probably genuine—I could recognize that from my own recent emotional state—but his statement that they weren’t close was a lie. As for Harry, I suspected that Roger was the one who had put him up to accessing confidential hospital records, but for what reason I hadn’t a clue.
I checked my watch. Almost midnight, too late to call Eddie or Harry. Then I remembered I wanted to assign Julia to conduct a surveillance on Harry tomorrow. If I could get a handle on his activities, I might acquire the leverage to make him open up. For a moment I hesitated at phoning a single mother with a young son at this hour, but Julia knew she’d signed on for an irregular schedule, and would resent being given special treatment. I picked up the receiver and made a nuisance of myself for the last time that day.
Monday
The phone rang as I was lying in bed contemplating my plan for the day. I regarded it warily. A reporter? No. By now, with no new developments, press interest in both J.D.’s murder and me would be on the wane. Besides, all calls to this number were prescreened by the command post downstairs, and I’d given them only a limited list of names to be put through. I picked up.
“So how do you like your home away from home?”
“Ripinsky! You must’ve talked with Green Street.”
“Yeah, they told me I’d authorized your using the apartment. I’m curious as to why I had to do that.”
I explained, heard the pain in his voice when he reacted to the news of J.D.’s death. Hy had seen entirely too many people die before their time, including his wife, environmentalist Julie Spaulding, whom he’d watched waste away from multiple sclerosis. Such experiences had molded him into a man who regularly needed reassurance that those he cared about were all right—the reason why, in spite of an uncanny emotional connection that allowed us to tap into each other’s feelings over time and distance, we spoke frequently when apart.
“I suppose you’re feeling guilty because J.D. went up there while he was helping you with your case,” he said.
“Not really. He was a reporter to the bone. I couldn’t’ve stopped him even if I’d known he was going. I just wish I’d gotten there sooner. Maybe I could have prevented the murder. And, of course, I’m going to miss him.”
“Me too.”
“So when are you coming home?”
“That’s one of the reasons I called.” Now his voice took on a familiar tone, a formality and remoteness that said he was about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear. “I have to go to Manila. A situation’s brewing with one of our clients.”
“The Philippines? Didn’t they just have a ‘situation’ there?”
“Well, it’s a volatile political climate.”
I’d get no more details from him. Need-to-know again, and even I was excluded.
“McCone? You’re not angry? Or afraid for me?”
“No.”
“You’re in a bad place right now, and I’m not there for you again. Is that it?”
“I can handle this.”
“You can. But should you always have to?”
“What’re you saying?”
“The job is just something I do. I’m good at it, and it makes me feel valuable, but it doesn’t define me. You say the word and I’ll let Gage and Dan buy me out.”
“You’d do that? For me?”
“In a heartbeat.”
Knowing that he’d make such a sacrifice was all I really needed.
I said, “You’re with me, no matter where you are. Go on, get yourself packed and on your flight to Manila. You’re the best man to handle any ‘situation.’ ”
Charlotte Keim, a restaurant snob if I’d ever met one, looked around the linoleum-and-vinyl interior of the Koffee Kup and wrinkled her nose. “Tell me one thing,” she said. “Why’re we meeting way out here in the Avenues?”
Despite its appearance, the coffee shop had redeeming qualities—among them its location near RKI’s building, and the presence of corned-beef hash and eggs on its menu. I frowned at Keim, waited for the waitress to take our orders and depart before I replied.
“I’m here because I’m staying close by,” I said. “And you’re here because I need to ask you how venture capital works.”
Keim, a former RKI operative whom I’d lured away with the promise of more interesting work and a less paranoid atmosphere, was an expert in the financial area. Now she forgot her displeasure at what she considered a substandard eatery. “How much detail do you want?”
“The basics will do for now.”
“Okay, that’s easy. You have a venture capital firm. X Company. They establish what’s called a start-up fund and solicit signed commitments from investors—called limited partners—to come up with a certain amount of cash when it’s needed. When the VC find a likely company to invest in, they put out a capital call, requesting the promised bucks from the partners. The fund remains in existence till the start-up company is sold or goes public—or folds, the scenario we’re seeing more frequently these days. But if all goes well, when the fund closes, the limited partners realize their return on investment.”
“And what’s in it for the VC?”
“Most invest their own capital as well, so they realize the same kind of return as the limited partners. And they charge the fund management fees, usually in the neighborhood of two or three percent of total assets. That probably doesn’t sound like much to you, but we’re talking many millions per fund, and most VC oversee several.”
“A high-risk way to get rich, then. I would think the volume of investing would be down nowadays.”
Keim waited while the waitress put a plate of blueberry pancakes in front of her. From the look on her face as she sniffed them, I could tell that the Koffee Kup was about to triumph over its shabby appearance and unfortunate locale. My corned-beef hash looked to be classic—sliced right out of the can and slapped on the grill—nothing fancy, just the way I like it.
As she poured syrup, Charlotte went on, “VC investment was down about forty percent first quarter of this year, but rich people and pension funds’re still reaching for their checkbooks. Historically, venture capital investing has produced a return of around twenty percent. Where else can you realize that much in this market?”