The I.P.O. (21 page)

“Hey James, you ok?” Bradford asked, walking in with a pseudo-worried expression.  “You look a little peaked.”

“Never felt better,” Prescott replied unconvincingly, obviously preoccupied.

“Well I hope you’re still feeling good after you hear the news I’ve got for you.  I just met with the entire orphan ID division,” Bradford lied.  “And it’s worse than I thought.  They’re telling me our wells are almost completely dry.  They keep getting more and more referrals of progressively lower quality, with no trace of a can’t-miss prospect in sight.  I don’t think this’ll turn into the worst-case scenario we’ve always talked about, but who knows?  It’s bound to happen one day – where we won’t have an IPO for a month and a half.  Or two. 

“And the big Avillage ETF that runs about a third of our volume is already seeing a lag in volume.  These next three months could turn out to be the most important quarter Avillage has seen since we opened.”

Prescott’s shoulders relaxed as his trademark warm smile returned, now certain of what he had to do.  “Have we ever backed away from a challenge?” he asked.

“No sir,” Bradford said, smiling duplicitously back at his boss.

As Bradford left the office, he dialed Jen Glass, VP of orphan identification.  “Jen, it’s Bradford.  Listen, I want you to send me the full portfolios for your top five orphans and stop all progress on their launches.  I just finished talking this over with Mr. Prescott.  Your orders are
not
to go ahead with any of these IPOs for now.  Is that clear?”

~~~

“Mr. Ewing?”

“That’s me,” Ryan said rising to a stand, rubbing his sweaty palms down the front of his jeans.

“Follow me,” the nurse said with a sympathetic smile.  “And don’t worry. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

But she didn’t know why he was there.

She brought him back to an exam room, had him change into a gown and took a quick 12-lead EKG.  “You can leave the gown on for now,” she said as she walked out of the exam room.  “Dr. Easterbrook will be right in.”

Ryan gave a polite nod.  As the nurse walked away, he could just make out, through Dr. Easterbrook’s cracked office door across the hall, the familiar red “
Veritas
” seal on a framed diploma that could only have come from Harvard.

After several reassurances from the nurse that it would only be a few more minutes, Dr. Easterbrook finally hurried in the door.  “A young one,” he noted with a smile, leafing through Ryan’s thin chart.  “EKG looks good,” he muttered under his breath.  “So what brings you in today.”

“Well I’m home for summer break from college in Boston...”

“Oh really?  Which one?”

“I go to Harvard.”

“Really?” Dr. Easterbrook said, lighting up.  “My old stompin’ grounds.  Which dorm are you in?”

“Wigglesworth.”

“Ha!  That’s where I lived my sophomore year,” the doctor beamed.  “Long time ago. 
Long
time ago.  Hey, is Grendel’s Den still around?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, happy to be putting off his next line of questioning.  “I just ate there last week.  Cool place.”

“You thinking about medicine?”

“No, I don’t think so.  I’m an econ major.”

“Yeah, the world needs business people too, I guess.  So what brings a healthy young man like you in to see the cardiologist?”

“Well, I first saw a doctor up in Boston after I passed out,” Ryan lied.  “I think he actually said he trained here.  Have you heard of a Dr. Jared Ralston?”

“Oh yes.  I helped train him.  Very strong clinically.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said.  “Maybe not the best bedside manner.”

Dr. Easterbrook laughed out loud.  “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t laugh.  It’s just I’m not surprised to hear you say that.”

“Well, I probably would’ve stayed with him despite all that, but I think he left Boston.  You wouldn’t happen to know where he ended up would you?”

“No, I really don’t.  I used to run into him at some of the national cardiology conferences for the first few years after he left Cleveland.  Then I guess he stopped going.  I haven’t seen or heard from him in years.”  As he spoke, he sunk the head of his stethoscope down the collar of Ryan’s gown onto his chest.  “Just breathe normally.”

“He never had any discipline issues here or anything did he?” Ryan asked.

Dr. Easterbrook quickly pulled his stethoscope away, and glared at Ryan suspiciously.  “Now that would be none of you business!”  Then, as quickly as his scowl had materialized, it vanished, as it suddenly dawned on him.  He was looking at Ryan Tyler. 

He quickly did the math in his head.  The age worked out.

He placed his stethoscope back onto Ryan’s chest.  “All I can tell you is that he was one of the best fellows ever to come out of this place.  But he was always in the shadow of his colleague, Dr. Ryan Tyler.”  He paused to listen as Ryan’s heart rate immediately accelerated by twenty beats a minute, confirming his suspicions.  “I can tell you honestly that Dr. Tyler was
the
best fellow I ever trained.”

He looked up to see tears welling in Ryan’s eyes.  Ryan fabricated a few coughs and reached up to wipe his eyes.  “But they pretty much got along, right?” he asked.

“Seemed to.  As I said, I’m not at liberty to discuss any disciplinary action that may have taken place at this institution, but if the state medical board ever took any formal action, that’d be public record.  And it’s permanent.  You can do a license check on any doctor ever licensed in Ohio at license.ohio.gov.”

Then he smiled warmly at Ryan.  “Your heart’s in perfect shape.”

“Thanks,” Ryan said, looking Dr. Easterbrook straight in the eye.  “Thanks a lot.”

As soon as he got home, he typed “license.ohio.gov” into his computer’s browser.  For some reason, he felt the need to search his parents’ names first.  Each page came up with their full name, place and date of birth, and residence on top.  “Deceased” was listed next to “current residence” for his parents.  In the middle of the page was the license number, credential type and status (active or inactive).  And at the bottom was a section entitled “Formal Action.”  As expected, no formal action existed on his parents’ inactive licenses.

He then searched for Jared Ralston.  There was only one – born in Richmond, Virginia.  That sounded right  The age was right.  His residence was listed as “George Town, Cayman Islands – Out of State.” 
Hmm.
  And his license status was “Inactive – Expired.” 
What in the world was he doing if his license was expired?

At the bottom of the screen Ryan saw, peeking up from the final section, “Formal action exists.”  He frantically spun the wheel of his mouse to reveal three separate entries.  The first was from November five months before his parents died: “CITATION – PRESCRIPTION OF MEDICATION OUTSIDE OF STATE AND OUTSIDE THE SCOPE OF A TRAINING LICENSE, THE FACTS UNDERLYING WHICH INVOLVED HIS PRESCRIPTION OF INSULIN TO AN ACQUAINTANCE, WHOM HE HAD NEVER TREATED, CALLED FROM CLEVELAND, OHIO TO A PHARMACY IN SEATTLE, WASHINGTON ON OCTOBER 30.”

The next entry read, “BOARD ORDER: PROBATIONARY TERMS, CONDITIONS, AND LIMITATIONS FOR AT LEAST SIX MONTHS ESTABLISHED.  ORDER MAILED 11/15.  EFFECTIVE 11/16.”

The final entry was from six months later and indicated that the doctor’s request for lifting the probationary period had been granted by the state board. 
Just in time for him to move to Boston,
Ryan thought, shaking his head and gritting his teeth.

He grabbed his phone and slammed his finger down on Weinstien’s number.  It went straight to voicemail.

“Mr. Weinstien, I’ve got one other thing for you to look into,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.  “I want you to look into the official cause of death – and any unusual circumstances surrounding my grandfather’s death.  He died on October 31st in Seattle, Washington, within five months of my parents.  I’ve got a strong suspicion Avillage might have had something to do with that too.”

CHAPTER 13

“What do you want for her?” Dillon asked, salivating over the poorly-maintained olive-green ‘72 Chevy Impala, tucked away in the back corner of Jerry’s Affordable Pre-Owned Auto Lot in South Boston.  The body of the car was pocked with hundreds of rust spots, some neglected for long enough to have chewed actual holes through the metal frame, and its threadbare white-wall tires looked as though they may spontaneously pop at any moment.  Microbubbles pervaded the amateur purplish-black tint job on the side and back windows, rendering them nearly opaque, and the tail pipe hung precariously, halfway between the chassis and the ground.

“If you’re willing to take her as is... seven hundred bucks?” Jerry probed almost apologetically, with every intention of taking half of that to rid himself of what was probably the most dilapidated clunker in a lot full of them.

“Sold!” an uncharacteristically ebullient Dillon shouted to the dealer’s surprise, peeling off seven one-hundred dollar travelers cheques from his money clip.  He wanted the sale to be trackable.

Jerry slapped his clueless customer on the back and heartily congratulated him on his new car.

After a few papers were signed, Dillon slung his backpack into the passenger seat, sputtered off the lot, and set a course for the I-95 New Hampshire rest area.  He’d probably be about fifteen minutes late, which didn’t give him a moment’s pause.  That scumbag could wait.

After just under an hour’s drive, he pulled off the interstate and parked his car illegally at the curb right outside the entrance to the travel plaza.  As he rounded the back bumper on his way into the building, he stooped down to affix a generous amount of duct tape to the loosely hanging tailpipe.  Then he strutted confidently into the food court to find Bradford hunched over a half-drunk cup of coffee at a remote table in the back of the seating area.

Bradford looked up from the table to see him approaching and made no effort to mute his expression.  He nearly laughed out loud, watching Dillon walk in with some kind of king-of-the-computer-lab bravado.  The intensifying glare that fronted Dillon’s 110-pound frame only made the scene more delightfully ludicrous.

That’s right, shitface.  Go ahead and enjoy it – while you still can,
Dillon thought.

He tossed his backpack into the booth and took the seat facing Bradford, who could barely contain himself.  “
You’re
the one who’s been snooping around our intranet for the past four or five years?” he taunted.  “What?  Did you get into hacking when you were six?”

“If you’d taken ten seconds to learn anything about me, you’d know I was taken away from my dad when I was 12,” Dillon fumed.  “But you wouldn’t give a shit anyway.”

Completely unfazed, Bradford continued to stare right back at him with bemused disdain.  “I’m sorry.  This is just unbelievable to me.”

Dillon struggled to tone down his glare and leaned back in his seat.  “I know about J’Quarius Jones’s medical exam before he died,” he said, trying his best to project a confident even keel.  “And I know about Annamaria Olivera’s surgery when she was 13 years old.”

Bradford’s grin faded just slightly.  “And?  So what?  I mean, is that supposed to scare me?  A lot of people know about those things.  I had nothing to do with the surgery, and I’ve been exonerated in J’s untimely death.”

“J’Quarius!” Dillon snapped.  “Don’t you dare refer to him as a ticker symbol!”

“Look, kid,” Bradford fired back.  “You’re in no position to be making demands of me!  I’ve got hard evidence against you.  You got greedy with your Avillage trades.  Frankly, I can’t believe the SEC wasn’t already on to you.  You’ve got some serious federal charges coming your way.

“The only reason I’m even giving you a chance to try to wriggle your way out of this is that you’re one of ours,
D – I – L – N
.”

Dillon leaned in to study Bradford’s expression.  “I also know about the murder of Ryan Tyler’s parents,” he whispered. 

This time he saw something.  It was subtle.  But unmistakable in its abruptness.  Bradford immediately tried to recreate his previous smug expression, but he fell just short in his attempt.  His smirk was still there, but it seemed strained now.  “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” he said, shaking his head incredulously, but briefly breaking eye contact for the first time.  “I’ve never had anything to do with his account, and his parents were killed in a head-on collision.  I certainly wasn’t the one driving the car that hit them.”

“That’s a pretty good memory for something that happened over ten years ago to ‘an account’ you had nothing to do with,” Dillon said.  Now he was the one wearing the contented smirk.

Bradford’s eyes narrowed.  “I came here to give you an opportunity to defend yourself...”

“You came here for extortion!”  Dillon yelled, drawing a few glances from the neighboring tables.

“Stupid little shit,” Bradford muttered out of the side of his mouth.  “You’re making a
grave
mistake.”  He grabbed his coffee, shimmied out of the booth, and stood up to glare one last time at Dillon.  “You’ll be hearing from the FBI.  Soon!”

“Oh, I know,” Dillon said, reaching into his backpack.  “But it’s not gonna be on your timetable.”

The color instantly drained from Bradford’s expressionless face, as he stared down thunderstruck at the muzzle of a .22-caliber pistol aimed right between his eyes.

~~~

“You were right,” Weinstien said just as Ryan’s phone reached his ear, not giving him a chance to say hello.  “There
were
unusual circumstances surrounding your parents’ car accident.

The car that hit them was a Chevy Suburban registered to a Tony Lafora.  But he wasn’t in the car that night.”

“So who was?”  Ryan asked.

“Some burned out drunk with three prior DUIs.”

Ryan felt an unexpected wave of relief come over him at the news that the accident had indeed been random.

“But I don’t think he was driving either,” Weinstien added after a dramatic pause.

“What?  Why?  Was he at the wheel or not?”

“He was at the wheel, but I don’t think he was driving.  His blood alcohol content was .45, and his tox screen also came up positive for pretty high levels of benzodiazepines – you know, like Valium and Xanax.  I don’t think he could’ve been conscious, much less driving, at the time of the crash.

“Also, a quick review of his arrest records revealed that on every other DUI charge, he’d been pulled over for driving too
slowly
and swerving all over the road.  The police determined that the car that hit your parents was going close to sixty in a twenty-five mile an hour zone. 

“Plus he’d never stolen a car in his life – much less
this one
.”

“Well, he doesn’t exactly sound like a model citizen. He probably passed out with his foot on the gas,” Ryan said dismissively, stubbornly clinging to the hope that his parents were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Maybe.  But get this.  It turns out Tony Lafora, the car’s actual owner, had been working on tweaking driverless car technologies through a joint venture between Google and NASA’s Glenn Research Center here in Cleveland.  And the Chevy Suburban he was tinkering with at his house had suddenly gone missing from his garage three days before the accident.  He’d actually called the police to report it stolen.”

“So did they ever find out who stole it?”

“Not definitively.  They blamed it on the drunk.  I mean, I can’t say I blame them; he
was
in the driver’s seat when it crashed. 

“Lafora ended up losing his job at NASA for having the car off campus.  But off the record pretty much everyone knew he’d keep it in his garage for weeks at a time.  They only fired him to protect their image.  They hired him right back a few months later with a slightly different title to do basically the same thing.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“I talked to him!  He still lives in Cleveland. 

“He says, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there’s absolutely no way a career alcoholic with no education could’ve pulled this off.  Whoever stole that car would’ve had to have known not only how to override the driverless feature, which requires significant programming expertise, but also how to disable the tracking feature, which is even more advanced. 

“Lafora never even considered that the car would ever be stolen.  He didn’t even lock it.”

Exactly three months before the opening of Avillage,
Ryan could hear Dillon whispering in his ear.   “Maybe he wanted it to be stolen,” he thought out loud.  “Maybe the guy who stole it
didn’t
know how to disable the driverless feature.  Maybe Lafora disabled it – temporarily.  Then he took back over when he was fed my parents’ location.

“Listen, I know for a fact that someone, who was later gifted shares of my stock by Avillage, knew where my dad’s phone was at all times.”

Ryan ignored a brief vibration from his phone indicating a new text.  “You said Lafora still lives in Cleveland.  Do you know where?”

“I do,” Weinstien answered with no change in his tone.  “In the same duplex he’s lived in for over ten years.  He’s got no criminal record.  He rides a scooter to work, and he still – ten years after the incident – works the exact same job.  Doesn’t exactly sound like the kind of guy who would get into murder for hire.  Good idea though.  I think you’re probably on the right track – just not with him.”

“Did anyone ever talk to the drunk?” he asked.

“Not possible.  He’s dead.  Died in the accident.  Or I guess I should say
near
the accident.  He was unrestrained.  Ended up 30 feet down the road from the crash site.”

“So the case is pretty much closed?” Ryan asked, almost rhetorically.

“Afraid so.  No one really seems to be satisfied with the answers, but there are no other leads.  Sorry I couldn’t give you better closure.

“Oh, and obviously I haven’t looked into your grandfather’s situation yet.  Gimme some time on that.  I have to take care of some things back in Jersey first.”

“Thanks a lot, Mr. Weinstien.  I mean it.  I’m really impressed.  And it means a lot that you’d do this for me.”             

“Don’t mention it, kid,” Weinstien said just before hanging up, clearly not comfortable with compliments.

Ryan set his phone down face up on his desk and stared blankly out his bedroom window.  But before he could bury himself too deeply in thought, a tiny flash of green light from the corner of his phone drew him back to the present.  He’d forgotten about the new text he’d gotten while he was on the phone. 

But it wasn’t a text message.  It was a stock alert from his brokerage account.  He’d set the account up to notify him if any of his stocks moved over 10% in either direction. 

Comfortable in the fact he wasn’t overexposed in any one specific holding, he tapped the link embedded in the message more out of curiosity than concern.

As soon as the page loaded though, his jaw dropped to his chest. 
No!  What did he do?

DILN was down over 90%.

~~~

“Move!” Dillon demanded over the shrill screams of the other food court patrons, half running for their lives and half huddling pitifully under their tables.

“Alright!  Alright!  Just settle down,” Bradford stuttered.  “You’re taking this way too far.  I’m just a businessman.  I didn’t do anything to you or your friends.”

“Bullshit.  I know what you did.  And you’re going to admit it,” Dillon said confidently, directing him through the double doors to the parking lot.  The ‘72 Impala was still waiting at the curb.

“Get in the back!” Dillon shouted, trying to sound psychologically unstable and capable of anything.

Bradford opened the door and slowly lowered himself into the backseat.

“Now shut the door!”

Dillon got in through the front passenger side and slid himself across the vinyl bench seat to the driver’s side with his torso corkscrewed to keep the gun trained on Bradford’s forehead.  He manually rolled the driver side window all the way down with his free hand and then fumbled with the key behind his back, finally blindly landing it in the ignition.

Slowly he backed the Impala out of the rest area parking lot and continued in reverse down the right-side emergency lane of the exit ramp, against traffic. 

A few hundred yards after they hit the interstate, alternating focus between Bradford and the rear window, Dillon finally saw the “Welcome to New Hampshire” sign come into view.  They’d made it back to Massachusetts.

Leaving the engine running, he threw the transmission into park and rolled his window back up.  He then pulled a small machine about the size of a walkie-talkie out of his backpack, and switched it on.  The digital display read, “100 PPM.” 
Perfectly safe. 
Then he unfolded a sunshade and wedged it on top of the dashboard to cover the front windshield, effectively blocking off the only clear view into the car from the outside.