'I thought about that, Simon. Honestly. But I thought what I had seen just made you a bigger suspect. I didn't believe you had killed Frank. But I didn't want to give the police any more evidence against you.'
'Oh, bollocks,' I said. 'If the police had known about John, that would have opened up a new line of inquiry away from me. You were just afraid of incriminating yourself.'
Craig looked uncomfortable.
'I'm going,' I said. 'Can I keep these?' I held up the photos.
'I'd prefer you didn't,' said Craig.
'I'll keep them. You've got the negatives. You can make some more prints if you need them.' I put the photos back in their envelope, and moved towards the door.
'But Simon. We need to talk about the prototype.'
'No we don't, Craig. I need to prove I'm innocent. You can worry about Net Cop if you like. Personally, I don't give a damn.'
It was nearly midday by the time I got back home. Lisa had already been and gone, taking her stuff with her. The apartment, normally so cluttered, felt even emptier and lonelier than it had before.
I pulled out the photos Craig had given me and looked at them again.
Had John killed Frank? If he had, why? It was possible that he and Frank had had a fight about something. But I had no evidence of that. And even if I had, John seemed an unlikely killer. But then, I just couldn't imagine John and Frank together in that sort of relationship anyway. Now I realized there was a whole side of Frank's life I knew nothing about, a side that might easily include a motive for murder.
What would Lisa make of this? We had no openly gay friends, but that wasn't by conscious choice. I knew she shared the liberal view that people's sexuality was their own affair. But when it was her own father? I had no idea how she would react.
I tossed the photographs on the table. I felt angry. Not because Frank was gay, but because he had deceived Lisa for all these years. All the time he was living this double life, and not telling her. That I hadn't known who he really was, I could live with; but that his daughter hadn't made me angry. His secret would be much harder to confront now that he was dead than it would have been when he was alive. Not only had he gone, but now Lisa's memory of him would be altered. She would see everything he had done in a new light.
I wasn't sure whether I would be able to keep what I had discovered entirely quiet. But I resolved to do my best to keep the photographs from Lisa for as long as I could.
21
Tetracom were making their presentation at three o'clock that afternoon. I had to be there. I arrived at the office at one o'clock, hoping for a quiet spell over lunch when I could talk to John. But he was out at National Quilt in Lowell.
Bob Hecht and the Tetracom management were slick. They had been to business school, they had made countless big-company presentations, and it showed. It was an interesting contrast with Craig's raw enthusiasm and absolute determination. I wasn't sure which approach I preferred – probably Craig's since it personalized the struggle. But Tetracom's method was tailor-made for a venture capitalist's investment committee. Even the bust of Paul Revere seemed to be listening in respectful silence.
Everyone was there apart from John: Gil, Art, Diane, Ravi, Daniel and me. Of course Daniel and I didn't get to vote. Art had arrived late back from lunch, a glassy look in his eyes.
When Bob Hecht finished, Diane thanked him and asked for questions. I checked Art, but he seemed absorbed in the bottom right hand corner of his yellow pad. Gil asked an obscure question about consolidation among Tetracom's customers leading to stronger purchasing power on their part and lower margins for suppliers. Hecht had a good business school answer; with a small smile I imagined what Craig's response would have been – 'Huh?' Ravi asked about threats from Far Eastern manufacturers. Daniel asked about the risk that the stock market might become fed up with communications stocks by the time Tetracom wanted to float. All good questions, all answered well. Diane looked pleased.
Daniel was just beginning to ask a follow-up question when he was interrupted by a low growl. We all looked towards Art, who was drawing ever thicker lines along the bottom of his pad, as though he were crossing something out.
Diane raised her eyebrows to encourage Daniel to continue speaking. Then Bob Hecht blew it. He smiled towards Art. 'Yes, sir?'
He probably thought he was being smart, bringing in all the decision-makers, getting their objections out into the open. He wasn't.
'Huh?' said Art, looking up as though he had just been woken. His eyes, which had been dull before, now glinted dangerously out of his red face.
'Do you have a question, sir?'
Art cleared his throat. 'Yes, I have a question.'
'And what's that?' Hecht's eagerness was wearing thin. Diane looked on in something like panic.
'Why does a chicken-shit company like yours have the gall to ask us for money?'
Art!' snapped Gil.
'It's a fair question,' said Art. 'Answer it.'
'We believe that we have a unique…'
'Don't worry, Mr Hecht,' interrupted Gil. 'Art, I'd appreciate it if you asked a more specific question.'
Art looked at Gil. Looked at Hecht again. Smiled. 'OK,' he said. 'How many venture-capital investors have you been to see?'
'You're the first ones,' replied Hecht immediately. 'We wanted to go to the best first.' Diane smiled appreciatively.
'The first since when?' asked Art.
'What do you mean?'
'Isn't it true you went to a bunch of venture capitalists last year and they all turned you down?'
For less than a moment Hecht was struck by panic. It was no more than a brief flutter on his handsome, sincere features. But we all saw it. Diane's gaze switched sharply from Art to Hecht. Gil's crumpled face crumpled some more. Art smiled.
Hecht, composed again, answered the question. 'It's true that last year, before we had a business model that was up and running, we did have a couple of informal discussions with some VCs. Just to help with our planning, you understand.'
'How many?' Art demanded.
Hecht glanced at Diane for help. She didn't give it.
'About a half-dozen.'
'I said, how many?' Art repeated.
'Let me think,' said Hecht. 'Eight.'
'Eight, eh? And who were they?'
Hecht rattled off eight of the biggest names in venture capital, most of them West Coast firms. Diane's face reddened. She should have asked these questions. And so should I.
'I see,' Art said. We waited for the follow-up question. Art seemed to sway slightly in his chair. The silence was becoming uncomfortable. Eventually it came. And why didn't you go back to these firms when you had your model up and running, Mr Hecht? Was it because you knew they wouldn't give you money in a thousand years?'
'No!' protested Hecht. He surveyed the group of venture capitalists. He knew he was in danger of losing us. He sighed. 'There was another member of the team, then. He was a kind of non-executive chairman and he was willing to provide the seed money. I subsequently found out that he was the one the VCs didn't like.'
'Oh really? And what was his name?'
'Murray Redfearn.'
Art and Gil exchanged glances. So did Diane and I. It was clear that they had heard of him and we hadn't.
'Murray Redfearn was involved in a couple of spectacular disasters in the late eighties,' explained Gil. 'A lot of
