Final Venture

27

I walked home that evening. It was clear, cold and windy. I buttoned up my jacket and hunched my shoulders. Everyone else I passed was wearing a coat. I had held out that morning, but it would be an overcoat from now until the spring. That seemed a long way away.

I wondered whether I would be walking through the Common next spring, or whether I would be sitting it out in jail somewhere, waiting for my trial. And would Lisa be waiting with me, or would she still be thousands of miles away in California, settling in to her new life?

She had said there was something rotten in BioOne. But what was it? And how could I find it?

Deep in thought, I turned off Charles Street into the warren of little tree-lined roads that make up the 'flat' of Beacon Hill. I turned the corner on to my short street. It was quiet. My apartment would be empty. I remembered the sensation of anticipation I used to feel coming home, the hope that Lisa might have arrived before me, the warmth of an evening together which would melt away the aggravations of ten hours at the office.

No longer.

I slowed to reach for my keys in my trouser pocket. I fumbled and dropped them. I bent down to pick them up.

At that moment, I heard a crack, crack, crack to my right, and the thud of brickwork shattering above my head. The fragments of brick spattered my face. I spun round and threw myself to the ground behind a parked four-wheel drive. More cracks of an automatic rifle, and the sound of bullets smashing into the metal of the car, and shattering the glass.

I crawled under the car, my body pressed down hard against the cold tarmac. My face stung hot. Silence. If the gunman ran from his hiding place to finish me off, I would have no chance. I strained my ears, trying to listen over the loud thumping of my heart. Then I heard the sound of rapid light footsteps on the other side of the road. Damn.

I pulled myself to my feet and, crouching low, dashed up the street behind the parked cars. An engine roared into life a few yards up the road. A burst of gunfire shattered windows above me. Close. Very close.

The car accelerated down the road. I heard shots, pistol shots. The sound of brakes, car doors slamming, people running. I stopped and peered out from behind a parked motorcycle, and saw a car in the middle of the road, doors wide open.

Sirens blared from all directions, and within a minute the road was a mess of flashing lights and burly blue uniforms. A young man in jeans and a casual black jacket ran up to me, fighting for breath.

Are you OK?'

I recognized him as the Hispanic I had seen following me through the Common a couple of weeks before.

I stood up. 'Yes,' I said. 'I think so.'

My face felt warm and wet. I touched it with my fingertips. Blood.

Are you hit?'

I shook my head. 'Just masonry. Thank you.' I managed a smile.

'No problem. Looks like the guy got away. He was a pro, you were lucky.'

I had been. Just like I had been that day in Armagh when a bullet had blown away Binns's face instead of mine. At least this time no one was hurt.

My hands were trembling so much it was difficult to pick up the keys I had dropped. I stood upright and took a few deep breaths to try to slow my racing heart. I let myself into my apartment and poured myself a stiff whisky, offering one to my saviour, who of course refused it.

His name was Martinez. He asked me some basic questions about whether I saw anything or knew who might have been shooting at me, but it was more for form's sake than anything else. A parade of people came and went, Cole, Mahoney's Boston partner, a paramedic who cleared up my scratched face, and some others. Eventually Mahoney himself arrived.

'So, you were shot at?' he began brightly.

'I believe that's what happened,' I replied.

'Lucky we had some people watching you.'

'I didn't know I had my own personal bodyguard. How long has this been going on for?'

'Oh, three weeks or so. On and off. More off than on, really. It's expensive tailing people.'

'Well, I'm glad you had the spare cash this evening'

Mahoney sat down. Martinez had whipped out a notebook. 'Any idea who it was?'

'Your friend here said it was a professional. I don't know any professional killers. For that matter I don't know anyone who owns an automatic rifle.' Except for Art Altschule, I thought suddenly as I spoke.

Mahoney noticed my hesitation. 'What is it?'

I told him about Art's interest in guns.

'We'll check that out,' he said. 'Is there anything else we should know about Mr Altschule?'

'No, not really. He doesn't like me.'

Mahoney raised his eyebrows. 'Why not?'

'I've been asking awkward questions.'

About?'

'BioOne.'

'BioOne, eh?' Mahoney looked at me closely. 'The deal John Chalfont wanted to talk to you about.'

'That's right.'

'And what's the problem with BioOne?'

'I don't know. That's why I was asking Art. Don't you know?'

Mahoney's questioning was irritating me. I had just been shot at, my nerves were frayed, and although he was asking the right questions, I still felt he was trying to figure out how I could be responsible for shooting myself.

'We've been making inquiries,' Mahoney said stiffly. 'Assuming we're talking about a contract killer here,' he went on, 'who else do you think might have hired him?'

'I don't know. The person who killed Frank and John, maybe?'

'But that was someone who knew them. They were both shot in the back with handguns. This is a totally different MO.'

I shrugged. I was feeling tired. 'You're the detective. I'm just the poor bugger getting shot at.'

Aren't you used to it by now?' Mahoney was watching me with that annoying half-smile.

He was referring to my time in Northern Ireland, I assumed. I felt a flare of anger, but I controlled it. I stared at him.

Mahoney stood up. 'We'll no doubt be talking again,' he said as he left the apartment. Martinez threw me a worried look and followed him.

It was hard to sleep that night. When I did drop off, it was into the graffiti-strewn streets of West Belfast. In reality, my tour of duty had been nerve-jangling anticipation for the shot that almost never came, then complacency, and finally the death of Lance Corporal of Horse Binns. In my dream, the streets were wider, with no cover, and I knew for certain that a sniper was lying in wait for me in a lone house fifty yards ahead. I had to walk on, my feet growing heavier and heavier, towards the house. I couldn't turn and run, but my steps became slower and slower until I wished I'd reach the house and get it over with.

Then I started awake. My mind turned somersaults along the blurred line between sleep and wakefulness. Time blurred as well, as minutes became hours and the night seemed to last for ever. Eventually I fell back to sleep and that never-ending road. This process repeated itself, until I gave up at five thirty, and crawled out of bed, my brain muzzy and tired. I checked the living-room window. There was a blue car parked right in front of the house, and one of the two men in it was alert enough to have noticed the movement in the curtains. I waved to him, and he nodded back. Mahoney had been good enough to leave me under surveillance, at least for the night.

I was in trouble. Someone wanted to kill me. Someone with the wherewithal and the contacts to hire a man with an automatic rifle. They would try again. I might well be dead within a week.

I hoped Mahoney would check out BioOne. Although he hated me, and would love to hold me responsible for my own murder, he wasn't stupid. But I couldn't rely on him to clear this up before a bullet hit me in the skull. With a shudder I remembered again the damage that could do.

I wasn't sure how long the police could or would protect me, or even if their protection was a guarantee of safety against a really determined killer.

I was in the office early, by seven o'clock. No one usually showed up before about a quarter to eight. Daniel and Diane were usually first in; most of the others came in between eight and half past. But I wanted to be finished before anyone saw me.

So I went straight to Art's office. A wooden filing cabinet had five drawers marked 'BioOne'. It was locked. Damn!

I searched around for a key. Couldn't find one.

All of Art's other filing cabinets were unlocked, but there was nothing interesting in any of them.

I tried his desk. The drawers were locked too. That was odd. People didn't lock their desks at Revere. I jiggled and pulled, but nothing. It was a feeble little lock and if I'd had any expertise I would have been able to pick it. But I hadn't.

I had an idea. I quickly strode back to my own desk, checking my watch on the way. Twenty to eight. No one was in yet. I opened my own desk drawer. In one corner, next to my spare set of house-keys, were my own desk keys, which I never used. I hurried back to Art's office and tried them on his drawer.

None of them worked.

I sat in Art's chair looking at his desk. His son glowered back at me. Next to the photo frame was a box of paper-clips.

I unravelled a large one, and poked it into the keyhole. For two minutes I bent and twisted the metal, gently pushing and pulling, but still nothing.

I checked my watch. Quarter to eight. I shouldn't be here, I should be at my own desk by now. I checked that the office was exactly as I found it, and slipped out.

Just in time. I passed Art in the corridor. 'Morning!' I said, with too much jollity.

Art just grunted.

I sat at my desk, trying to work out what to do. I couldn't force my way into Art's files, that would be too obvious. But I wanted to know what was in there.

The only person with a key was Art. And there was no reason for him to give it to me.

Unless.

I checked my watch. Five to eight. I thought I had heard Diane come in, but no one else.

I made my way back to Art's office and knocked.

'Yes?' He was drinking a cup of coffee and scanning the Wall Street Journal.

'Can I borrow your key to the supplies closet?' The supplies closet was a large cupboard behind the reception area where some of the more valuable office supplies were kept: computer equipment and so on.

'Can't you get a key from Connie?'

'Not in yet.'

'Is it locked?'

'Yes,' I lied.

'But it's never locked.'

I shrugged.

Art grunted, and pulled out his keys. He fiddled with one of them, trying to detach it. Damn. I needed the whole lot.

'I'll bring them right back,' I said.

'All right.' Art threw me the whole bunch.

I caught them, nipped out and checked the supplies closet. It was indeed unlocked. Then I took the elevator down to the street, and hurried round the corner to a small hardware store. There were three keys on Art's ring that looked like they might open filing cabinets or desk drawers. I had all three of them copied.

It seemed to take the man for ever, but eventually I was back up in Revere's offices. I knocked on Art's door, and handed him his keys back. He was on the phone.

He put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'Where have you been? You said you'd bring them right back.'

'Gil wanted to speak to me,' I lied again. 'Sorry'

Art grunted and went back to his phone conversation.

I spent a lot of time in the corridor that morning. At about a quarter to ten I saw Art enter the elevator, jacket on. I waited five minutes, and then slipped into his office, closing the door behind me.

The first thing I did was check his diary, open on top of his desk. He had an appointment at eleven at Revere's offices. That meant he would be back within an hour. I would have to be quick. But I should have at least fifteen minutes. There was little that you could do outside the office that would take less than that.

I pulled out the keys I had had cut and tried them on the BioOne filing cabinet. The second one fitted. There were five large drawers. I started looking through them. There was so much information. The early papers on Revere's initial investment, a whole drawer full of documents related to the IPO, Annual Reports, monthly management accounts, forecasts, resumes, a thick file on the acquisition of Boston Peptides.

I leafed through these. It was taking too long, and I wasn't getting anywhere. If BioOne had secret misgivings about neuroxil-5, it wouldn't appear in these publicly available documents. Where would it be? Either in a copy of clinical trial results or in correspondence, and relatively recent correspondence at that.

I searched, but I couldn't find any clinical trial data. It wasn't surprising really. From what I knew of Enever he probably didn't let that information leave his office, let alone the building. But in the bottom drawer was the BioOne correspondence file.

I opened it. This was more interesting. Most of the correspondence was between Art and his old friend Jerry Peterson. As Daniel had suggested, it was mostly about numbers, in particular one number, the stock price. Art seemed to hold Jerry responsible for every swing in BioOne's stock price. His more recent letters had become quite upset about the downward lurch in the stock. Of course there was nothing Jerry Peterson could do about it, although Art urged him to make upbeat forecasts about the results of Phase Three trials for neuroxil-5. This, Jerry explained, BioOne could not do. The trials were supposed to be double blind, so that no one, not the doctors, nor the patients, nor BioOne, knew which patients were being given neuroxil-5 and which were being given a placebo. So it was impossible to make any comment until the code was broken at the end of the trial, and the data was analysed. That wouldn't be until March the following year. But Jerry did agree to giving analysts nods and winks that BioOne was optimistic about the results.

Nothing there to suggest that there were any concerns about neuroxil-5. I looked for any correspondence from Enever. There was very little, save for some cryptic notes to Jerry, which he had then copied to Art, and which were of little interest.

I put the file back, locked the cabinet and checked my watch. Ten o'clock. I should really leave now But it wouldn't take a moment to check Art's desk.

I tried the remaining two keys. One of them worked. I slid open the bottom drawer, and my nostrils were hit by the sharp sweet smell of whisky. Three bottles of Jack Daniel's: one empty, one half empty, and one full. Maybe that was why the drawers were locked. A pitiful attempt to hide a sad secret. I hadn't felt any guilt poring through Art's filing system; after all, the information in it belonged to Revere. But when confronted with this, I did feel bad. It was like rummaging through someone else's dirty linen; it made me feel dirty too.

I slammed that drawer shut and opened the next one up. I would have to be quick now. It contained stationery and old diaries.

I picked up the most recent diary and then froze. I could hear footsteps in the corridor outside. Daniel? Diane? No, these were heavy purposeful footsteps. Oh, shit.

Art swung open the door to his office, and stopped dead when he saw me. My mind darted through a thousand excuses, and instantly rejected them all. I had been caught. This wasn't the time to lie.

Eventually he spoke. 'What the fuck are you doing?'

I sat up straight in his chair. 'Looking for information on BioOne,' I replied.

His heavy face reddened in front of me. The short grey hair seemed to bristle. 'Well what are you doing looking for it in my office?'

'I asked you about it. You wouldn't tell me.'

'So you thought you'd poke around among my personal belongings to see what you could find? How did you get into my desk?'

His eyes were on the bottom drawer. At least part of his anger came from the fear and now the knowledge that I would stumble on his whisky collection.

I looked down at the copied key still in the lock.

He felt for his keys in his pocket. 'You son-of-a-bitch.'

He lunged towards me hands outstretched. I leaped out of the chair, but he crashed down on top of me and pulled me to the floor. I hit my head on the side of the desk on the way down. I was dazed for a moment, which was long enough for him to pin me to the ground. He pulled back his fist and I just had time to move my face as he brought it crashing down on the side of my head.

Art was a big man, and strong. I bucked and wriggled, but I couldn't throw him off. He hit me again, this time on the mouth. I writhed, and as he moved his hand to pin down my shoulder, I lunged and bit it hard.

'Shit!' he screamed, and pulled his hand away. I bucked, he lost his balance, and I pushed myself out from under him. He climbed to his feet, and stood between me and the door, breathing heavily and clutching his injured hand.

'Calm down, Art,' I said, spitting some of my blood and his skin out of my mouth. 'Sorry I broke into your stuff, OK? Just let me leave and I'll forget everything I've seen.'

Art grunted, and reached for the top drawer of his desk, the only one I hadn't checked. He pulled out a small pistol, and pointed it at me.

Jesus! 'Art… don't use that thing. It's not worth it. If you shoot me, you'll be in jail for-'

'Shut the fuck up!'

'OK,' I said, holding my hands in front of me in a calming gesture. 'OK-'

'I said shut up!' he screamed.

I shut up. I didn't know what Art was going to do. Neither did he. With the gun waving towards me, he bent down, and pulled out the half-empty bottle of whisky. Wincing from the pain of his injured hand, he managed to undo the cap and took a long slug.

I backed towards the window, where a Lucite BioOne tombstone seemed my best chance for a weapon.

'Stand still!' Art barked. He took another swig of the whisky. 'What's wrong with you? Are you trying to destroy this firm? We should have gotten rid of you months ago. I should get rid of you now-'

'What the hell is going on here?'

It was Gil. He stood in the doorway taking in the scene before him. Art, put that gun down! And the whisky.'

Art turned slowly, looked at Gil, and put the gun down on the desk. He examined the bottle, as if deciding whether to take another pull, and then placed it next to the gun.

'Will someone please tell me what is going on?'

Art stabbed a finger towards me. 'This son-of-a-bitch was going through my desk. He broke into my locked drawers trying to steal confidential information. I caught him at it.'

Gil glanced at my bloody mouth and Art's injured hand. 'Is this true, Simon?'

I took a deep breath. 'Yes.'

'You, go back to your office and wait. Art, come with me to my office. And give that damn thing to me.' He nodded towards the pistol.

I left the room as Art handed the gun to Gil.

Daniel was in the corridor staring. 'What was that all about?'

Art and I had a disagreement,' I said.

Daniel glanced at my chest. Art's right. The tie sucks.'

I ignored him and slumped in my chair, waiting for Gil's call.

Twenty minutes later, I was in his office. 'I'm very disappointed in you, Simon,' he said, staring at me from the other side of his large desk. 'We should be able to come to work at Revere without worrying about one of our colleagues going through our belongings. And you know Art's health is in a very delicate state at the moment. What were you doing?'

'I'm still trying to find out who killed Frank and John,' I replied. I had decided I shouldn't be specific about BioOne with Gil.

'Isn't that the police's job?'

'It is, but they're not doing it very effectively.'

'So you say. But it's not them I'm concerned about, it's you!' He jabbed an angry finger at me. 'I've had to send Art home: I can't have people waving guns around. I told you the other evening how important you are to this firm, how much we need you more than ever now, and what do you do? Snoop around, antagonize one of my partners, put the firm in jeopardy.' Gil was red now. I had never seen him so angry.

'Someone tried to kill me last night,' I said flatly.

'What?'

'Someone shot at me, just outside my apartment. They only just missed.'

Gil paused, at a loss for what to say. Then he spoke in a low, determined voice.

'You have your problems, Simon, and I have mine. You do what you have to do, and I'll do the best I can to ensure this firm survives. But I don't think you can be of any further help to the rest of us. As of this moment, you are suspended from this firm until further notice. Please leave the building. Now.'

'But Gil-'

'I said now!' Gil stood up, and leaned forward, his hands on his desk, his whole body shaking.

'OK,' I said. 'I'm going'