The seven faces arranged themselves in neat rectangles across the screen, each bordered by the thin green line that indicated a stable connection. It was 9 PM in San Francisco, 5 AM in Lagos, noon in Dubai - the eternal dance of global business that Dr. Adaeze Okonkwo had grown accustomed to over the past three years.
"Shall we begin?" Marcus Chen's voice carried its usual note of barely concealed impatience. The CEO's home office in Palo Alto was immaculate as always - the wall behind him displaying his collection of ancient Chinese scrolls, each one worth more than most people's annual salaries.
Emma Thornfield, joining from her London study, adjusted her reading glasses with hands that betrayed the slightest tremor. At seventy-two, she was the eldest member of NeuroBridge's board, and the early morning call from her accountant had left her more shaken than she cared to admit. The pension fund she managed - the one she'd illegally funneled into NeuroBridge - was under audit.
"The quarterly figures first, I presume?" Yuki Nakamura's crisp voice cut through from Tokyo. Behind her, the lights of Shibuya twinkled in the darkness. She had positioned her laptop carefully to hide the bruise on her left wrist - a reminder from her last meeting with the debt collectors. Three million yen by month's end, they'd said, or things would become unpleasant.
"Actually," Marcus said, reaching for his coffee cup, "I wanted to discuss the Samsung offer first. As you all know, they've approached us about acquiring our neural mapping technology."
Jake Morrison's boyish face flushed red in his San Francisco apartment. "The technology you mean? The code I wrote? The algorithms you've been claiming as your own?" The twenty-eight-year-old's voice cracked with barely suppressed rage.
"Jake, please," Carlos Mendoza interjected smoothly from São Paulo, his manner as polished as his appearance. "This isn't the time for personal grievances." He glanced at his phone, where a text from Patricia Chen glowed: "Did you delete everything? He knows about us."
Rashid Al-Rashidi shifted uncomfortably in his Dubai office, the Burj Khalifa gleaming through the window behind him. His fingers drummed against his desk - a nervous habit he'd developed ever since Marcus had discovered his visa situation. One word to immigration, and his entire life would crumble.
"The Samsung offer is irrelevant," Dr. Okonkwo said firmly from Lagos, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd spent years commanding research teams. "Without the neural interface protocols, they're buying nothing. And those protocols..." she paused, remembering the USB drive she'd handed to the BioLink representative just two days ago, "those are not yet complete."
Marcus lifted his coffee cup to his lips, then suddenly paused. His expression shifted from annoyance to confusion, then to something resembling fear. The cup fell from his hand, shattering off-screen.
"Marcus?" Emma leaned forward, her elderly features creasing with concern.
The CEO's hands flew to his throat. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, no sound emerging. His eyes bulged as his face turned a disturbing shade of purple.
"Someone call 911!" Jake shouted, fumbling for his phone.
"I'm calling emergency services," Yuki said, her fingers flying across her phone screen. But Marcus was already sliding from his chair, disappearing from view. They could hear the crash of his body hitting the floor, then nothing.
For thirty seconds, no one spoke. The six remaining rectangles on the screen stared at each other in shock. Then Carlos tried to leave the call.
"What the—" His mouse clicking grew frantic. "I can't exit. The leave button isn't working."
The others tried the same, fingers clicking uselessly at frozen controls.
"Good evening, everyone." The voice was electronic, disguised by a voice modulator. A seventh rectangle appeared on their screens, completely black except for a white theatre mask symbol in the center. "Or good morning, or good afternoon, depending on where you are. How wonderfully global we've become."
"Who are you?" Emma demanded, her shock transforming into the steel that had made her one of London's most feared venture capitalists. "What have you done?"
"What have I done? Oh, Mrs. Thornfield, I think the question is what one of you has done. Marcus Chen is dead. Poisoned, to be precise. And one of you is responsible."
"That's absurd," Rashid protested, sweat beading on his forehead despite his office's aggressive air conditioning. "We're not even in the same country as him!"
"Ah, but Mr. Al-Rashidi, haven't you heard? In our interconnected world, proximity is irrelevant. The poison that killed Marcus - a concentrated dose of batrachotoxin - was administered through the coating on his coffee cup. A cup that was delivered to him this morning by a service that any of you could have arranged."
"Batrachotoxin?" Dr. Okonkwo's voice was sharp. "That's a neurotoxin. It would require specialized knowledge to synthesize, not to mention access to—" She stopped abruptly, realizing the implications.
"Precisely, Doctor. The kind of specialized knowledge that someone working with neural interfaces might possess. Or have access to through, shall we say, irregular channels?"
"You're insane," Carlos said, but his usual smooth confidence was cracking. "Let us go. The police—"
"The police will be notified in due time. But first, we're going to play a little game. You see, I know all your secrets. Every. Single. One. And unless you identify Marcus's killer in the next hour, I'll be releasing some very interesting information. Mrs. Thornfield, would you like your investors to know about the pension fund? Mr. Nakamura, should I forward your gambling debts to your employer? Mr. Al-Rashidi, immigration fraud carries quite a sentence in the UAE, doesn't it?"
Each name hit like a physical blow. Emma's face went pale. Yuki's composure finally cracked. Rashid looked like he might be sick.
"How?" Jake whispered.
"NeuroBridge's security is impressive for keeping outside threats at bay," the masked figure continued. "Less so for monitoring internal communications. I've been watching, listening, collecting. Dr. Okonkwo, that meeting with BioLink was particularly interesting. Mr. Mendoza, Patricia Chen sends her regards. And Mr. Morrison, that lawsuit draft you've been working on? Fascinating reading."
"So we all had reasons to want Marcus gone," Emma said slowly, her analytical mind already working. "But only one of us actually did it."
"Precisely! How delightfully Agatha Christie of you, Mrs. Thornfield. Six suspects, each with motive and theoretical means, trapped in a virtual drawing room. So let's begin, shall we? Who killed Marcus Chen?"
"Wait," Yuki interjected, her accountant's mind latching onto details. "You said the poison was on his coffee cup. That means someone knew his routine, knew he'd use that specific cup."
"I can see his kitchen from here," Jake said, adjusting his laptop angle. "He always used the same cup for board meetings - that blue one with the NeuroBridge logo. It was like a superstition with him."
"Who else knew that?" Emma asked.
"Anyone who'd been to his house," Carlos said carefully. "Or anyone he'd told."
"You've been to his house frequently, haven't you, Carlos?" Dr. Okonkwo's tone was pointed. "For those late-night strategy sessions?"
Carlos's jaw tightened. "What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating a fact. You had access to his home, his routine—"
"So did Jake!" Carlos shot back. "He lived with Marcus for three months when he first moved to San Francisco!"
"That was two years ago," Jake protested. "And unlike you, I didn't have a reason to sneak around his house behind his back!"
"Enough!" Emma's sharp voice cut through their bickering. "We need to approach this methodically. Our mysterious friend here said the cup was delivered this morning. That means tracking a delivery service, a payment method—"
"All paid for with cryptocurrency," the masked figure interrupted. "Untraceable, I'm afraid. But there is one interesting detail. The delivery was scheduled three days ago. Three days ago, something significant happened at NeuroBridge. Can anyone remember what?"
Silence fell as they each searched their memories.
"The lab accident," Rashid said suddenly. "There was a contamination breach in Lab C. We had to destroy an entire batch of neural inhibitors."
"Including," Dr. Okonkwo added slowly, "our experimental batch of synthesized neurotoxins for the paralysis reversal project."
"Which were supposed to be destroyed," Yuki noted. "But someone could have kept a sample."
"The destruction was supervised," Rashid said. "I checked the logs myself after Marcus asked me to verify—" He stopped, his face paling further. "Marcus asked me to verify them because he suspected someone had been stealing from the lab."
"Who had access?" Emma demanded.
"The senior staff. Department heads. Board members with the proper clearance." Rashid pulled up something on another screen. "I have the list here. Dr. Okonkwo, obviously. Jake, you have development access. Carlos, you requested a lab tour for those Korean investors last week."
"A tour!" Carlos protested. "With fifteen other people!"
"But you had unsupervised access for thirty minutes while the investors were in the presentation room," Yuki pointed out. "I remember because you charged the company for the extended booking."
"This is ridiculous. We're going in circles." Jake ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "Any of us could have done it if we're creative enough with the scenarios."
"Then let's consider the timing," Emma suggested. "Our host said the delivery was arranged three days ago. What triggered it? What happened that made the killer decide Marcus had to die now?"
"The Samsung offer," Dr. Okonkwo said quietly. "If the company was sold, Marcus would have made billions while the rest of us..."
"Would have been locked into our current equity positions," Yuki finished. "Which for some of us would mean financial ruin." She didn't look at the camera as she said it.
"Or discovery," Emma added, thinking of her illegal investment. "New owners mean new audits, new investigations."
"But Marcus wasn't going to sell," Carlos insisted. "He told me—told the board that he was declining the offer."
"When?" Jake asked sharply. "When did he tell you that?"
Carlos hesitated. "In a private message. Yesterday."
"Show us," Emma commanded.
"I... I deleted it."
"How convenient," Jake muttered.
"Fifteen minutes remaining," the masked figure announced. "Perhaps we should examine the physical evidence more closely. Each of you, pan your camera around your room. Slowly."
One by one, they complied. Yuki's Tokyo apartment was minimalist, almost sterile. Jake's San Francisco flat was cluttered with technical equipment and empty energy drink cans. Carlos's São Paulo office was all modern elegance and city views. Rashid's Dubai workspace was organized to the point of obsession. Emma's London study was old-world comfort mixed with modern technology. Dr. Okonkwo's Lagos laboratory-turned-home-office was filled with research papers and medical equipment.
"Stop," Emma said suddenly as Adaeze's camera panned past her desk. "What's that? The box beside your computer?"
Dr. Okonkwo's camera swung back. A small courier box sat unopened on her desk, the shipping label clearly visible.
"It arrived this morning," she said. "I haven't had time to open it."
"The return address," Yuki said, leaning forward. "Can you read it?"
Adaeze picked up the box, angling it toward the camera. The return address was from a company in Palo Alto - the same district where Marcus lived.
"Open it," Emma commanded.
With visibly trembling fingers, Dr. Okonkwo cut through the packing tape. Inside was another box, and inside that...
"Coffee cups," she whispered. "Blue coffee cups with the NeuroBridge logo."
"The same as Marcus's," Jake said unnecessarily.
"But why would someone send those to you?" Rashid asked.
"I don't know!" Dr. Okonkwo's composure finally cracked. "I didn't order these!"
"Check the packing slip," Emma instructed.
Adaeze fumbled through the packaging until she found it. Her face went ashen as she read.
"It says... it says it's a gift. From Marcus Chen. Ordered three days ago."
"Why would Marcus send you coffee cups?" Carlos asked.
"He wouldn't. Someone used his account, his credit card—"
"Or," Jake said slowly, "Marcus did order them. As a message. Or a threat."
"What do you mean?" Emma asked.
"Think about it. Marcus discovers someone's betraying the company. He sends them a message - the same cups he uses, like saying 'I know what you've done, and I could do the same to you.'"
"But that would mean..." Yuki trailed off.
"That Dr. Okonkwo killed him in self-defense? Preemptively?" Rashid suggested.
"No!" Adaeze protested. "I didn't even know about the cups until now!"
"Five minutes," the masked figure announced. "Time for final accusations."
"Wait," Emma said suddenly. "Something's not right. Our host knew about the cups being sent to Dr. Okonkwo. Knew they'd arrive today, during this meeting."
"So?" Carlos asked.
"So either they have access to shipping records from three days ago, or..." Emma's eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "They placed the order themselves."
"Why would the killer send evidence to someone else?" Jake asked.
"To frame them," Yuki said immediately. "Classic misdirection."
"But then the killer would have to know we'd be trapped in this call, forced to investigate," Rashid pointed out. "They'd have to know about our host here."
"Unless," Emma said very quietly, "our host and our killer are the same person."
Silence fell like a heavy curtain.
"That's an interesting theory, Mrs. Thornfield," the electronic voice said. "But which one of your colleagues is also your captor?"
Emma studied each face on her screen. "The killer needed three things: access to the toxin, knowledge of Marcus's routine, and the technical ability to hack our meeting. Dr. Okonkwo has the first. Carlos has the second. But the third..."
"Jake," Yuki breathed. "Jake's our head of development. He wrote half our security protocols."
"That's insane!" Jake protested. "Why would I trap myself in here with you?"
"The perfect alibi," Emma continued. "You're investigating your own crime. You can guide the conversation, plant evidence, misdirect us."
"Then how am I doing the voice?" Jake demanded.
"Voice modulation software running on a separate system," Rashid said, his technical knowledge surfacing. "You could have it on another laptop, off-screen."
"This is paranoid conspiracy!" Jake shouted.
"Is it?" Emma asked. "You had the strongest motive - Marcus stole your code, your life's work. You had access to everything. And you've been pushing us toward Dr. Okonkwo from the start."
"Two minutes," the electronic voice said.
"It's not Jake," Carlos said suddenly. "Look at his hands. They're shaking. He's terrified."
"So?" Emma asked.
"So watch." Carlos held up his phone and typed something. A second later, Jake's phone buzzed on his desk. He picked it up automatically, read it, then looked up confused.
"You just asked me if I want pizza?" Jake said.
"While the modulated voice was talking," Carlos explained. "Both his hands were visible. He couldn't have been triggering the voice modulator."
"Then who—" Yuki started.
"One minute."
Emma's mind raced through the possibilities. Then, like a tumbler clicking into place in a lock, she saw it.
"Rashid," she said quietly. "It's Rashid."
"What? That's absurd!" Rashid protested.
"Is it? You discovered Marcus was embezzling - you said so yourself. You had access to verify the lab destruction, meaning you could have taken the toxin. You handle operations, including delivery services. And you've been the quietest, letting us suspect each other."
"That's not evidence!" Rashid said.
"No, but this is." Emma leaned forward. "You said Marcus asked you to verify the lab logs because he suspected someone was stealing. But Carlos just told us Marcus only decided against the Samsung sale yesterday. If Marcus suspected theft, he would have mentioned it in the board meeting today, before any sale discussion. Unless he couldn't."
"Because Rashid killed him before he could expose the embezzlement," Yuki concluded. "Rashid wasn't being blackmailed about his immigration status. He was going to expose Marcus, but Marcus threatened him first."
"Thirty seconds."
"It's more than that," Dr. Okonkwo said suddenly. "Rashid, you said the batrachotoxin would require specialized knowledge to synthesize. But I never said we synthesized it. Our lab samples were purchased, already prepared. Only someone who'd actually taken them would assume they were synthesized in-house."
"Time's up," the electronic voice said. But now, listening carefully, they could hear it - the slight delay between Rashid's lip movements and the modulated voice, the kind of delay that happens when someone's trying to speak normally while triggering audio on another device.
"It was self-defense," Rashid said suddenly, his real voice cracking. "Marcus was going to destroy me. Deport me. My family, my children - they'd lose everything. He was embezzling millions, and when I confronted him, he threatened to frame me for it. He had documents, forged signatures..."
The masked rectangle on their screens flickered and disappeared. In its place, a simple message appeared: "The authorities have been notified. This recording has been saved to NeuroBridge's secure servers."
"You recorded everything?" Jake asked, stunned.
"I had to," Rashid said, his shoulders slumping. "When I realized what I'd done, I knew I couldn't just walk away. There had to be a record, evidence. The truth had to come out - all of it. Marcus's embezzlement, but also... what I did."
"So you trapped us here," Emma said, "forced us to investigate, to uncover the truth ourselves."
"Like a classic mystery," Rashid said with a bitter laugh. "Marcus loved those old detective novels. Agatha Christie was his favorite. He would have appreciated the irony - his own board meeting becoming a locked-room mystery."
They could hear sirens now, multiple sets, growing louder. Through Rashid's window, the lights of Dubai police vehicles were already visible in the parking area below.
"I'm sorry," Rashid said quietly. "For everything. But mostly for dragging you all into this. Your secrets... the things I threatened to expose... I've deleted everything. No one needs to know."
"Rashid," Dr. Okonkwo said gently, "you don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." He stood up, straightening his tie with the dignity of a man who'd made his peace. "Marcus was a thief and a blackmailer. But he didn't deserve to die. And I... I deserve what's coming."
The police were at his door now. They could hear the knocking, the commands in Arabic and English.
"Goodbye," Rashid said simply, and reached for his laptop.
The screen went dark.
One by one, the others found they could move their cursors again, could leave if they wanted. But for a long moment, none of them did. They sat in their separate corners of the world, connected by tragedy and truth, each processing what had just happened.
"We need to contact the authorities in Palo Alto," Emma said finally, her voice professional despite the slight tremor. "And prepare statements for the investors."
"The company's finished," Jake said hollowly. "Marcus dead, Rashid arrested, the embezzlement... who's going to trust us now?"
"Perhaps," Dr. Okonkwo said slowly, "that's not the worst outcome. We all had our reasons for being here, not all of them noble. Maybe it's time to start over. Cleanly, this time."
Carlos nodded slowly. "The insurance will cover investor losses. Our reputation is destroyed, but the technology... the legitimate technology that Jake created... it can still help people. Under new management. Proper management."
"A full restructuring," Yuki agreed, her mind already working through the numbers. "Bankruptcy, receivership, then reformation under new bylaws. Complete transparency."
"It's what Marcus would have hated," Jake said with a weak smile. "Giving up control, letting others take credit."
"It's what Marcus should have done from the beginning," Emma corrected. "Well then. Shall we adjourn this... last board meeting of NeuroBridge as we knew it?"
There were murmurs of agreement. One by one, the rectangles began to disappear. Emma was the last to leave, staring at the empty spaces where seven faces had been, where a company had died and something else - perhaps something better - had been born.
She closed her laptop and sat back in her London study as the sun began to set over the Thames. On her desk, her phone buzzed with messages from investors, reporters, colleagues. Tomorrow would bring chaos, investigations, recriminations.
But tonight, she poured herself a whiskey and thought about Rashid Al-Rashidi, who had murdered a man and then forced his own confession, trapped between two kinds of justice. She thought about Marcus Chen, brilliant and corrupt, dead at fifty-one. She thought about secrets and lies and the terrible arithmetic of justice.
Outside, London went about its evening routines, unaware that in the space between screens and across continents, a very modern tragedy had played out in the oldest of forms - a murder, a room full of suspects, and the inexorable revelation of truth.
Emma raised her glass to the empty room. "To the truth," she said quietly. "However much it costs."
She drank, and the whiskey burned away the taste of coffee that had somehow lingered in her mouth all day.
In Tokyo, Yuki Nakamura made a phone call she'd been avoiding for months, to a credit counselor who might help her find a way out.
In Lagos, Dr. Adaeze Okonkwo opened her laptop and began typing a full confession to BioLink, knowing her career was over but her conscience might finally be clear.
In São Paulo, Carlos Mendoza deleted Patricia Chen's number from his phone and booked a flight to visit his mother, whom he hadn't seen in two years.
In San Francisco, Jake Morrison sat in his cluttered apartment and began coding - not for money or recognition, but for the simple joy of creation he'd almost forgotten existed.
And in Dubai, in a holding cell that smelled of industrial disinfectant and fear, Rashid Al-Rashidi sat with his hands folded and waited for whatever came next, feeling strangely, terribly, finally free.
The last board meeting of NeuroBridge was over. But somewhere in the spaces between endings and beginnings, in the digital ether where six people had connected across impossible distances to solve an impossible crime, something else lingered - the ghost of a very modern murder, solved in the most classical of ways, with nothing but logic, observation, and the immutable fact that in the end, the truth will always out.
As Agatha Christie herself might have said, it was all very satisfying. And very, very human.