by Mark Cohen
The suite had been decorated by a professional. Glass doors led to a reception area with scarlet linen wallpaper, rich walnut paneling, and elegant French provincial furniture. A highly polished receptionist’s desk was centered in front of the rear wall, but there was no receptionist. A heavy wooden door to the receptionist’s left guarded the rest of the suite. I noticed security cameras in two corners. I started toward the door, but it opened before I reached it.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” the man said. “I just noticed you on the monitor.” He was my age, a few inches taller, and thin. Gray slacks, blue oxford-cloth shirt, no tie. He had something resembling a Roman haircut, and it was short enough that I could see the tops of his ears, which tapered to rounded points. “I know,” he said, “I look like Spock.” I smiled to show appreciation for his self-deprecating humor.
“I just walked in the door,” I assured him.
“Good,” he said. “What can I do for you?” He used his left foot to prevent the door from closing.
“My name is Pepper Keane,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.” I handed him a card. “I’d like to speak with someone about Donald Underwood.” He noticed the J.D. after my name.
“I used to practice law,” he said. “Hated it.”
“It’s an illness,” I said. “Like gambling or alcoholism. I’m thinking of founding a twelve-step program for lawyers who want to get out of it.”
He grinned. “That’s good,” he said. “I’ll have to remember that.”
“Do you have a few minutes?”
“We really liked Don,” he said, “so I’ll be happy to talk with you, but I’m not sure I’ll be much help.”
“I’m not either,” I said. “I’m just trying to cover all the bases.”
“Russ Seifert,” he said as he extended his right hand. “C’mon back.” He held the door for me, then led me down a hall. Considerably less had been spent decorating the suite’s interior; it was modern and functional. There were workstations and offices, but most were unmanned. Much of the space was occupied by a glass-enclosed, climate-controlled computer room.
Except for the stock quotes scrolling across the digital display on the wall opposite his desk, Seifert’s office was much like that of any moderately successful insurance salesman. He had a nice view of the parking lot and much of the office park. One wall was dominated by framed etchings of old clipper ships. His desk held some nautical trappings, including a brass barometer, and I guessed he might have a thing for sailing. He motioned for me to sit, then fell into an oxblood leather executive chair behind his desk. “I thought the Underwood thing had been put to rest,” he said.
“The local cops and the feds have put it to rest, but—”
“The feds?”
“Let me explain,” I said. I repeated the story for the umpteenth time: Two other specialists in fractal geometry had been murdered and I was looking into the possibility that the deaths might be related.
“I had no idea,” he said.
“I’m surprised the FBI didn’t interview you,” I said. “I spoke with some of his colleagues at Harvard, and it’s no secret he did work for your company.”
“He designed software for us.”
“You paid a Harvard professor to write code?”
“It’s sophisticated software,” he said.
“What exactly does your firm do?” I asked. “‘Economic consulting’ is a broad term.”
“In essence,” he said, “we analyze data and try to predict what a market or security is going to do in the future.”
“Using principles borrowed from fractal geometry?”
“Fractal geometry, chaos theory, nonlinear statistics. It’s all intertwined.”
“You’re the president?” I asked. I took a card from his gold-plated holder: “Russell J. Seifert, M.B.A., J.D., LL.M.”
“I started the company five years ago,” he said. “I practiced law on Wall Street for eight years and decided there had to be an easier way to make money.”
“Looks like you’ve found one.”
“We’ve done well,” he said. “When I started, it was just me. Now we have ten employees.” One of them, a bookish woman in jeans, stopped at the door immediately opposite Seifert’s office, entered a code in the keypad, and stepped into what looked like a small library. “That’s Dr. Long,” he said. “She’s an economist.”
“Why all the security measures?” I asked. All the doors had keypad locks.
“It’s a very secretive business,” he said.
“Why is that?”
“We’re not the only ones doing this,” he explained. “There are other firms offering this type of service. Some of the larger banks and brokerage houses have in-house teams doing exactly what we do.” I nodded.
“All of these firms,” he continued, “have access to the same information. What matters is what you do with the information.”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” I said.
“We rely on certain theoretical ideas we have about market behavior—part of Underwood’s job was to design software to implement those ideas—and those are all that distinguish us from the competition.”
“You’re afraid someone might steal your ideas?”
“It happens,” he said. “You can’t put a value on a good theoretical model.”
“What makes one model better than another?”
“Consistency,” he said. “Nobody can predict the future with certainty. We don’t measure success by how much money we make; we measure it by how often we’re right. When you provide investment advice to people managing hundreds of millions of dollars, you’d better be right more often than you are wrong.” I massaged my temples and thought about what he’d told me.
“You said you can’t put a value on a good model, but I’m trying to get an idea of what one of these models would be worth. Suppose I came to you and tried to sell you on a model I’d developed. How would we arrive at a value?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” he said. “In order for me to evaluate the model, you’d have to reveal it to me and show me data to prove it works. And once you’d done that, I wouldn’t need you, though I might offer you a job if I felt you’d be an asset to the firm.”
“So,” I continued, “if you’re in the business of developing these theoretical models, you can’t really sell them door-to-door?”
“Correct,” he said. “You can’t copyright an idea.”
“I could copyright the software,” I said.
“Yes, but the model is what has value. If I liked the model, I could buy the software from you or pay someone else to design it.”
“So if I develop the mother of all theoretical models, how do I make money on it?”
“You go into business for yourself,” he said. “Either that or you publish and hope to win the Nobel 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 analytical 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 glass of wine. Then the lobster arrived. I suppressed my ambivalence about eating other creatures and reached for the butter.
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 Massachusetts, 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 assurance 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 Saturday,” 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 spacious 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 flashing red light alerted me to messages from Dick 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 documents.”
“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 bastard, aren’t you? It may just be that some janitor at the federal building stole the damn 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 documents 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 hell 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 massive 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 associate 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 documents, and surveyed my home. “This is beautiful,” she said. “You must’ve done well practicing law.” I let that pass 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.