The Fractal Murders Part 25

"You go into business for yourself," he said. "Either that or you publish and hope to win the n.o.bel Prize."

The economist exited the library and stepped into Seifert's office. Her chestnut hair was brushed back and held in a ponytail by a rubber band. About thirty-five years old. "Excuse me, Russ," she said, "the computer just came alive. It's saying we should short the yen against the dollar. We have to do it now."

"Do it," he said. She called for someone named Maurice and disappeared down the hall. "We also do a little trading on our own," he explained.

"How many other firms are doing this sort of thing?" I asked.

"We don't know for sure," he said. "We think there are about a dozen in the United States. One of them's out in your neck of the woods. It's called the Koch Group." I heard his words, but didn't really process them because something had just clicked for me.

"These theoretical models," I began, "if someone was determined to steal them, would it be necessary to get into your suite or could it be done from a remote terminal?" He leaned forward and thought about it.

"They'd have to break in," he said. "Even if they managed to gain access to our mainframes-which isn't likely-it wouldn't do them much good. Computers are just tools. Ultimately, everything we do is the result of human ideas."

"And those ideas are on paper?"

"You bet," he said. "Our library is filled with memos, studies, and all sorts of a.n.a.lytical papers. I've got most of them right here." He swiveled and pointed to a built-in bookcase stuffed with three-ring binders, bound reports, and stacks of papers.

"How would you know if something was missing?" I asked. He considered the question for a long time, then looked at me.

"We wouldn't," he said. "Not until we went to find it."

The Adams House is an upscale seafood restaurant on Boston Harbor. I arrived before six and secured a table by a window facing the water. Now I was working on a piping-hot bowl of clam chowder, watching the gulls, and wondering how to spend my evening. Before leaving New Paradigm Systems, I had phoned Underwood's wife, but there had been no answer, so I'd decided to have dinner before trying again. Three different cabbies had recommended the Adams House.

It turned out to be a good choice. A giant bowl of chowder was followed by a generous salad with homemade garlic croutons. Another gla.s.s of wine. Then the lobster arrived. I suppressed my ambivalence about eating other creatures and reached for the b.u.t.ter.

I paid, snagged a few mints as I walked past the hostess, and tried Underwood's wife again. Still no answer. I could rent a car, drive to western Ma.s.sachusetts, and hope she was home when I arrived, but it looked like a two-hour drive and I wasn't eager to do it without some a.s.surance that she'd be there. I could try to get together with Jeff, but chances were better than fifty-fifty he'd already latched on to some woman. In the end, I took my fourth cab ride of the day. "Head for a cheap motel near the airport," I told the driver.

I ended up at a Motel 6, which was fine because it was clean and I've always liked Tom Bodett. They had left the light on for me-just like it says in the ads-and before turning it off, I phoned Troy to check on the dogs, then called Scott to update him on the events of the past few days and ask a favor. "What do you think Finn was doing at your house?" he asked.

"I haven't a clue," I said. "We'll deal with that when I get back." I told him my plan. "In the meantime, if you get a chance, stop by the Denver courthouse and get as much information on Polk as you can. He just got divorced a week or two ago."

"Sure."

"I'll see you Sat.u.r.day," I said.

27.

YOU GAIN TWO HOURS flying from Boston to Denver, so I made it to Troy's house before eleven. He and Trudi were at work, and the kids were in school, but I had my key. Buck and Wheat greeted me as if I'd just returned from a one-year combat tour. I let them out into the s.p.a.cious suburban backyard, then searched the kitchen and found my brother's Fritos. I left a message apologizing for my theft, noting that corn chips are rich in saturated fats and suggesting he try rice cakes. Loaded the dogs into the truck and headed for home.

The flas.h.i.+ng red light alerted me to messages from d.i.c.k Gilbert, Susan Thompson, and Jayne Smyers. On the theory that Jayne was the only one I wanted to date, I called her first.

"Where've you been?" she asked. "I've got copies of Agent Polk's records."

"Took a quick trip to Bawston," I said.

"Boston?" she exclaimed. "I must owe you more money by now."

"I flew free," I said.

"Say that five times fast."

"One of my friends owns an air-charter service. He happened to be going to Boston, so I tagged along."

"Did you learn anything?" she asked.

"A few things," I said. I told her of Underwood's work for New Paradigm Systems and the existence of an industry using mathematics and computers to predict the behavior of financial markets.

"That's interesting," she said. "That strengthens your theory about the economic connection."

"A little," I said. "What about Polk's records, anything there?"

"Not that I can see, but I'm not sure what you're looking for."

"Me either," I said. "I'm just trying to obtain as much information as I can."

"I can fax them if you like, but it will take a while. There are quite a few doc.u.ments."

"Tell you what," I said casually, "maybe we can get together this weekend and you can give them to me."

"We're having our annual retreat for the women's shelter this weekend, so it would have to be tonight."

"I happen to have an opening tonight," I said. "Why don't you come up? I'll make dinner and we'll enjoy the mountain air."

"What are you making?" she asked.

"If it's just me, macaroni and cheese. If you come, I'll put more effort into it."

She laughed and said she'd be delighted, so I gave directions and said good-bye. Wheat came into my office and jumped in my lap. "We're having company tonight," I said as I rubbed his ears, "so I want you and Buck on your best behavior." He said nothing. I deposited him on the floor and phoned Gilbert.

"The forensic people say they're one hundred percent certain on the serial number," he said.

"Polk lied to you," I said. "The gun you have was taken from the FBI's evidence room sometime after Green's arrest and hasn't been seen since."

"How do you know?" he asked. I told him the story: Gombold had made an offhand remark about a missing gun, and I'd later confirmed it was the one used by Bailey Green.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

"I wasn't sure until Tuesday. After we got off the phone, I called Gombold and he told me the U.S. Attorneys had just offered Green a sweetheart deal because the bureau still hadn't found the weapon."

"Why'd Polk lie?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said, "but it's been bothering me since Tuesday."

"Maybe we ought to go to the bureau," he finally said. "A weapon taken from their evidence room was used in a murder up here."

"I'd hold off," I said. "I'm digging into Polk's background, and some other things are starting to come together. Once we go to the bureau, it's out of our hands."

"I suppose," he said.

"Matter of fact, I'd take that gun out of your evidence room and store it in a safe place. I don't know what's going on, but now that the bureau knows you have it and you've tied it to a murder, someone may come looking for it."

"You're a cautious b.a.s.t.a.r.d, aren't you? It may just be that some janitor at the federal building stole the d.a.m.n thing."

"Not likely," I said. "I used to work there; they don't let janitors roam around like that. And that wouldn't explain Polk's lie."

"All right," he said, "I'll put the gun someplace else. Now tell me about these things coming together."

I outlined the economic thread connecting the three deaths and recounted my trip to Boston. Then, for the first time, I vocalized a theory I'd been toying with since leaving New Paradigm Systems. "Think about it," I said. "Your killer could've walked out of Fontaine's house with volumes of doc.u.ments or dozens of disks, and we'd have no way of knowing."

"Okay," he responded, "suppose Fontaine developed some sort of model he used to pick stocks. Why kill him? Why not just steal the information and get the h.e.l.l out? Better yet, why not copy it when he's not around?"

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe the guy needed Fontaine's help to find what he was looking for. Once he gets it, he doesn't want Fontaine around to ID him. Or maybe having the information isn't enough; maybe he wants to claim the model as his own."

"That's a lot of maybes."

"Just a theory," I said.

"Well," he said, "since I don't have a better one, I may reinterview a few people and see if it leads anywhere."

"That would be great," I said.

"Let me know what you find out about Polk."

"Will do," I said. I hung up and dialed Susan Thompson. She wasn't in, but the receptionist transferred me to her voice mail. Her recorded greeting was short and to the point. So was my message. "This is Pepper Keane," I said. "We're playing phone tag, and you're it."

Jayne arrived at six-thirty with a bottle of Merlot in one hand and Polk's records in the other. She wore tan slacks and a white cotton blouse with short sleeves. The dogs raced to the door to greet her. "This is Buck," I said, "and this is Wheat." She handed me the wine, then extended her right arm and let Buck sniff her hand. When she sensed he was comfortable, she ran her palm along the side of his ma.s.sive head.

"Yes," she said in that silly voice people use when talking to animals, "you're a handsome fellow." He licked her hand. Wheat became jealous and began whining. "Oh, you're handsome too," she said as she knelt to meet him.

"He'll shake if you ask him," I said.

"Can you shake hands, little dog?" She offered her hand and he responded. "He's darling," she said, "but how did you come up with 'Wheat'?"

"His name was Blackie when I adopted him," I said. "He had been abused, and I wanted to give him a name he wouldn't a.s.sociate with his previous owner. I already had Buck, so Wheat was the obvious choice."

"Buckwheat," she said as she stood up. "Cute."

"I could have named him Tooth," I offered.

"Or Shot," she replied. She smiled, handed me the doc.u.ments, and surveyed my home. "This is beautiful," she said. "You must've done well practicing law." I let that pa.s.s without comment and offered to give her a tour. I had spent several hours cleaning, so the prospect didn't frighten me too much. We began in my office. "You have a lot of books," she observed.

"Can't bring myself to get rid of any of them. I still have all my college textbooks."

"I'm the same way," she said. "Each book is like a little trophy." I nodded and we continued on, through the bedrooms and the lofts. I a.s.sured her the bas.e.m.e.nt was not worth seeing, but she insisted. Because my brother owns a gym, I have acc.u.mulated an enviable a.s.sortment of exercise equipment over the years, including an Olympic weight set, stair stepper, stationary bike, and stretching machine, but what caught her eye was the heavy bag. She positioned herself in front of it and threw a playful jab. The bag didn't move, but she smiled like a child who has just discovered a new toy.

"We'll have to work on that," I said. She threw several more light punches, then started laughing. "'Yo, Adrian,'" I said. I rolled my head in the direction of the stairs. She followed and we concluded the tour in the kitchen.

"Something smells good," she said.

"Macaroni and cheese," I said. She put her hands on her hips and gave me a look. "It's Kraft," I a.s.sured her. She gave me a playful slap on the shoulder. "Vegetarian lasagna," I said.

I opened the wine and poured some for each of us. We sipped it while I put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on dinner. Aside from lasagna, I'd prepared a mushroom salad and garlic cheese bread consisting of more cheese than bread.

"This is delicious," she said after sampling the main course. "Did you put clove in it?"

"A little," I said.

"Do you like to cook?"

"Sometimes," I said, "but it's not a pa.s.sion."

We continued eating and talking. We were at ease with each other, and I was glad. "I called the owners' a.s.sociation again," she said.

"About the trees?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"The man I spoke with said the trees are on open s.p.a.ce owned by the city of Boulder. So I called the open-s.p.a.ce department. They said the trees belong to the a.s.sociation." I laughed.

When it was clear neither of us would eat more lasagna or bread or salad, I served generous slices of carrot cake purchased at Wanda's that afternoon. Although I'd taken the larger piece, I finished first. "This is yummy," she finally said, "but I can't eat another bite."

"Too rich?"

"No," she said, "I'm just stuffed." She pushed her dessert plate toward me.

"I've had my fill," I said. "Buck and Wheat will have to help us." I prepared a plate of morsels for each of them, then began clearing the dishes. She offered to help, but I told her cleanup was a one-man job and asked her to pick out some music.

After I had loaded the dishwasher, I poured more wine and we adjourned to the porch where we each took a rocking chair. I thumbed through Polk's law school records as we listened to Sinatra. "That's interesting," I said. "I should've remembered that."

"What's that?"

"He did his undergraduate work in Seattle. Went there on a basketball scholars.h.i.+p. Earned a degree in economics." She leaned over and looked at the doc.u.ment I was viewing.

"The University of Was.h.i.+ngton," she said. "Why is that interesting?"

"It's interesting only because one of the murders took place in Was.h.i.+ngton." I continued through the doc.u.ments and found his law school application. "Looks like he grew up there," I said. "He went to high school in a town called Richland."

"I've never heard of it. Have you?"

"No," I said, "but I've got an atlas in my office." I retrieved the atlas, returned to my chair, and found the map of Was.h.i.+ngton. Jayne moved her chair closer and leaned over to look at the map. She was right next to me and I caught a hint of perfume on her slender neck.