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“Yes, please find everything your sources can get on Matthew Hudson, two Ts,” I told him. “He currently lives in Brockton, Massachusetts, and he was married to Amy Hudson, now divorced.”
“Would I be correct in assuming that this has something to do with the young lady?” Uncle Garth asked.
“That would be right. How fast can this be done?”
He took a loud breath. “Is this life and death?”
I couldn’t say yes to that. “No. Just informational at this stage. I don’t suspect anything dangerous right now.”
“I will put the Hanson firm on it, but working from three thousand miles away, it could take some time. Still, being patient always leads to the best results.”
Patience was not one of my strong suits. “Thanks, Uncle Garth.” He had much better contacts for this kind of work than I did, so all I could do now was wait.
“Will I have the opportunity to meet the young lady soon?” he asked, letting the inference hang in the air.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I told him before we said our goodbyes.
It wasn’t long before Siri told me my destination was ahead on the right. San Diego had their Biotech Beach area, San Francisco had Biotech Bay, and Boston had Genetown, mostly centered in Cambridge. I congratulated myself again on arranging a weekend meeting at Chameleon Therapeutics’ nondescript facility.
Chameleon was being run by Anton Sarkissian, a gun-for-hire CEO. He'd been brought in to provideadult supervision. The founders of startups were often technical geniuses, but lacking in administrative skills. When that was the case, the money men brought in people like Sarkissian——temporary executives who moved from firm to firm. They were organized, but being itinerant, these temp CEOs often didn't share the vision of the founders. They were by nature driven by short-term goals and working to please their masters on the board who’d hired them, rather than building the best company for the long term.
But, Sarkissian was a problem easily solved. If we bought Chameleon, we’d be able to put somebody more fitting in place for the organization.
Today I would speak with the man who actually mattered: Dr. Ryan Westerly. Sarkissian’s support was inconsequential; Westerly’s support, however, was crucial.
Although we had a mutual nondisclosure agreement in place, I couldn't rely on it alone. Loose lips sank deals, I had learned. I didn't want to telegraph my interest in Chameleon to others in the Boston investment community——hence the unusual meeting time. The venture weasels who weren’t out playing golf or tennis would be nursing hangovers on a Saturday morning, so I stood zero chance of running into one in Chameleon’s lobby.
The parking structure wasn't full, but it did contain several dozen cars. I pulled in and chose a nice empty space away from the building, where I was unlikely to get a door ding.
The numerous cars present were a good sign. At this stage of their development, it was important for a company to have motivated employees, willing to take time out of their weekends. I wouldn't invest in one that didn't. A nine-to-five, weekday-only mentality that took hold before the company's success was guaranteed, often led to failure. Fortunately, Chameleon’s employees seemed to believe in their work and cared enough to put in extra effort.
The glass door leading to the lobby was locked, so I pushed the button labeledafter-hoursnext to the employee badge reader.
A petite brunette in a security uniform came through the door from the inner sanctum to let me in.
“Can I see some identification, sir?” Her badge readWanda. Her cool demeanor and the Taser on her belt saiddon’t mess with me.
“Certainly.” I pulled out my wallet and found my driver’s license. This was unusual——the first time one of these companies had asked me to prove who I was.
She studied the card for a moment and pulled out a UV flashlight to check it as well. This was impressive, equivalent to what the TSA put me through at the airport.
“Thank you, Mr. Quigley,” she said, handing back the plastic card. “If you'd please sign in, sir, I'll escort you to Dr. Westerly.”
The visitor’s log was open on the receptionist’s counter. I slowly retrieved a pen from my coat pocket while I scanned the names and companies who had signed in. None of them caught my eye.
My short security guard wasn't watching, so I entered my initialsLAQon the next open line, andQFin the company column.
“Your phone, please,” she said when I’d finished. “We don't allow photography inside.”
Another point to Chameleon for thorough security.
I handed her my phone, and she locked it in a drawer at the receptionist station.
She guided me through a series of cubicles to an office near the back.
I'd expected Ryan Westerly to occupy the corner office with two large windows or at least another one of the offices near the front. Instead, his windowless office was against the back wall.
Wanda motioned me inside. “If you wait here, he’ll be right back.”
