She looked at the computer screen. “Twenty-three.” She closed her eyes again.
“Eight point zero four. Different. The relationship isn’t a simple number.” She laughed.
“Nothing simple if my Uncle Aaron was involved. Okay, what clues do we have?” Larson laughed. “You do enjoy teaching, don’t you?”
She smiled. “The Socratic method. Teach by posing questions. Forgive me—but
concentrate. Tell me what clues we have?”
He shook his head.
“Sam, think! What’s new here? What did Aaron do when he was apprehensive about
the future?”
Larson shrugged.
“He gave me the new artwork. And?”
Larson shrugged again.
“I think the reading from Augur must be passed through the formula for the Cardioid
to reach the correct reading.”
“How?”
“Listen. We have a formula in three unknowns: a, r, and the angle Theta.” He chuckled. “Seems like a lot.”
“a and r might be any number. For simplicity’s sake, lets assume they’re whole
integers.”
Larson frowned.
“Six, seventy-one—no decimals, no fractions.”
“Okay.”
“The two letters can have any value, so we have to concentrate on the angle. If we
assume whole integers for the measure of the angles as well, then in trigonometry there
are only ninety values.”
“Ninety?”
“There are ninety degrees in a right angle.”
Larson nodded. “I remember.”
“So—in this specific case—we know two values, the Augur output and the reading
given to you. We can solve for the cosine of the angle, followed by the angle itself.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “Cosine of 0.87462 gives us an angle of twentynine degrees.” She paused. “Twenty-nine? Uncle Aaron’s birthday was the twenty-
ninth of May.”
Larson nodded.
“Now, that calculation assumes a is the Augur output and r is the final reading.” “I see.”
“But could it be the other way around? Let’s reverse the calculation.” The fingers flew.
“Wrong. The initial relationship was correct.”
“Now, the question is whether he maintained a constant angle? I’ll guess he did.
This converter is already quite complex without adding a variation of angle. But we must
check.”
Larson nodded.
“Give me any reading for any date.”
Larson retrieved his notebook. “On February 10, 2004, the first number was sixty.” She returned to the NOAA partition. “The Augur output was fifteen.” She executed
the EXCEL computation. “Shit!”
Larson recoiled at the expletive.
“Never mind the theatrics. The angle isn’t constant.” She closed her eyes for a
moment. “No, of course not. There would be no complexity with a fixed angle. The
formula value would be fixed at 2a multiplied by 1.87462. Anyone who had both a and r
for any given day would have all he needed for all other transformations.” She began pacing, then sat at the keyboard. “The reading you gave me was for the
tenth?”
“Yes.”
“All right, as a first guess, let’s consider that the day of the month. Let’s then
consider the cosine of ten degrees.” She closed her eyes. “Point 98481.” He couldn’t follow her fingers.
“Insert that figure into the formula and we find—fiftynine point five four.” “Shucks!”
“No, Larson! Shucks is not indicated. We have to round up—to sixty.” “But what about Aaron’s birthday?”
“Coincidence.”
Larson frowned. “Using the days of the month doesn’t seem too sophisticated, even
for me.”
“By itself, no, but as a part of the cardioid formula that no one else knows is a
factor?”
“Okay.” He hesitated. “How about doing a couple of more?”
“Give me some of your readings.”
He did.
She made the computations. “Voila! Day of the month.”
He raised his hand. “A final question?”
She nodded.
“I’ve already demonstrated my lack of knowledge here, but wouldn’t the answer vary
a lot with the different days? I mean isn’t there a big difference between the value you
calculate on, say the first of the month and the last?”
She smiled. “Good thinking and good question, but no. The cosine of one degree
is—” she closed her eyes. “Point 999848. That of thirty-one degrees is—” She closed
her eyes again. “Point 858167. Adding either of those to one in the formula produce a
number that is very close to the value two. The maximum difference between the value
on the first of the month and the thirty-first would be on the order of—” She reached for
a scratch pad. “Roughly seven percent. Not a significant amount when Aaron rather
arbitrarily chose the value eighty as the gono go point.”
He shrugged.
She frowned. “No. Don’t take that attitude. It was a very reasonable, very
thoughtful question. I’m pleased that you were following me.”
He smiled.
She shoved her chair back. “I’ve seen enough of this day. Time for bed.” “Bed? How can you go to bed now? Not one sip of wine to celebrate?” “We look at life in diverse ways, Sam. Solving Aaron’s riddle is reward enough for
me. Let’s see what you can do with it tomorrow.”
“I—”
July 31
Larson pushed his cereal bowl away. “What’s your next move?”
“I’m going to work on changes to The Sophisticated Maiden. You’re the one with the
next move.” He nodded. “I’ll look at my best brokerages and pick five. Tomorrow I’ll reopen my accounts and test my communications links. Then I’ll watch the market all day. When will I have the prediction?”
“Not later than ten.” August 1
They met at cocktail hour the next day.
“Did you repair The Sophisticated Maiden?”
“No. My heart wasn’t in it. I spent the day thinking about where to spend the new
money we’ll earn. How about you?”
“My top five are back in.”
Sheila nodded.
“And I’ve opened a trading account with a bank in the Caymans.”
“Why there?”
Larson laughed. “Do you remember last Thursday evening when you told me the
mathematics of CHAOS were quote, way, way beyond the scope of tonight’s lecture, end quote?”
Sheila frowned. “Yes?”
“The whys and wherefores of international banking and securities trading are doubtless not in the same class as CHAOS for complexity, but—”
She smiled. “I have it.”
August 2
They met at four the following day.
“Tell me how the prediction worked out.”
“The direction was correct, but the intensity wasn’t strong enough to risk trading.”
He paused. “But we do know Augur’s working.”
“Excellent!”
“I’m glad to be back in business.”
“What’s next?”
“I’m going to trade at a low level for the remainder of the week. I’ll evaluate our
position after the close of trading on Friday.”
“What money will you use?”
“Mine. You want in?”
“Too rich for me.”
August 4
The meeting at four became a ritual. Sheila reported her improvement to The
Sophisticated Maiden and Larson reported how much money he
had made. “Up three percent for the day. Time to call Norm Hazlett.”
Chapter 28
Hazlett was breathin g hard by the time he reached his telephone. “Bev said you have an emergency. What’d you do, break a racquet string?”
“Norm, I —”
“No date tonight?” Hazlett laughed.
“Norm, I’m back! We’re back. Sheila Rubenstein—the professor’s niece—has the predictor running again.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. I began trading—just the S&P100—Tuesday morning. I’m up fourteen percent for the four days—and I had a small losing day.”
“Real money?”
“My own.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Run some serious money for you.”
Hazlett paused. “You’ll understand this question, Sam. How long can you continue?”
Larson hesitated and glanced at Sheila. “Long-term, as far I can tell.”
“Email the spreadsheet to me. I’ll corner Richard.”
Hazlett called Larson twentyfive minutes later. “We’re in. UPS’ll bring the contracts to you by Monday. They’re the same physical documents, just sign above your earlier signature. You’re at home?”
“No.” Larson gave him the address.
Hazlett laughed. “I’ll want to hear about that as a working location one of these days.”
“It’s an interesting place.”
“How much do you want?”
“Let’s start small. Fifty million.”
“Done. What broker?”
“Everything to Duouadier. Hong Kong.”
“Fine. And congratulations!”
Larson hung up the telephone, then yelled. “Sheila! Wine!”
“Bit early?”
“Not today. You successfully resisted celebrating solving Aaron’s riddle, but you’ve got to celebrate now.”
“You’re managing for the Trust again?”
“I just asked for a small start—fifty million. They agreed.”
“Fifty million dollars!”
“Yes. Back in business! Is that adequate reason for an early start?”
She smiled. “Zinfandel?”
“Great!”
They sat in their usual window seat.
“Fifty million. How much can the Foundation earn?”
“You know the variables—the market’s performance and how well I can manage.”
“Yes, of course. I’m just excited.”
“After that comes the question of how much the Trust will allow me to manage.” “How much did you have before—before Aaron died?”
“Around a quarter of a billion.”
“If you had that much money again and achieved the same performance level?”
“At a performance of forty-two percent—which is doable—we’d be earning two million or so per quarter.”
“Each?”
“Yes. That includes money owed to T.C, of course.”
“Yes, Cooper. What does he receive?”
“Ten percent of your position.”
She frowned.
“But his deal with Aaron—now with you, I suppose—runs out in November.”
“Mustn’t be greedy,” she said. There was a slight slur in her voice. “We can do so much with the money. We can—”
“Before you get started, how about some more wine?”
“Better, how about some champagne? There are at least two bottles in the little fridge.”
Larson opened the Mumm’s.
Sheila began listing the projects she would propose funding, but stopped short. “Do you suppose we should have some dinner? Horsd’oeuvres, anyway?”
“Up to you. I’m okay.”
“Okay, I’m okay, too. Ooooo Kkkkkay.”
After a few more sips, she forgot her list. “So, tell me about your life, Sam? What about your loves?”
“Oh, no. I’ve already been denounced as a hedonist. What about your loves?”
“Nothing to talk about. The usual puppy-love, followed by the usual undergraduate gropes.”
“Hard to believe.”
“S’true.” She paused. “More champagne?”
Larson replaced the empty Mumm’s bottle with the second.
“Undergraduate gropes—followed by nothing.”
“Unlikely, given your face and figure.”
“Face and figure! Yeah!” She held her empty glass for him to fill. “There was one. He qualifies as a love. Former love.”
Larson waited.
“A doctor. A physician. Long since forgotten.”
“Go on.”
“There was a whirlwind romance. Spain, then the Algarve. New York City and London. Mad, passionate love, but when I suggested marriage, he informed me there was only room in his life for his work. He was a physician—a healer. He owed mankind everything he could give. He was sorry. I had been the great love of his life, but—” She sobbed. “I later learned that my departure had coincided with his hiring of a most attractive new office nurse.” She beat on Larson’s chest. “How did I get to that bit of melodrama!” She closed her eyes.
“How about some cheese and crackers?”
She shook her head. “Not for me.”
A moment later, she finished the champagne, twisted her body, and fell with her head in Larson’s lap.
“S’cuse. Bout you? If we’re letting down our hair, what d’you have to say? Tell all.”
“I’ve been married before.”
She sat up. “You! A husband? No.”
“Twice.”
“Twice! Pray continue.”
“May, 1988. Patty Robbins, from Macon, Georgia.” Larson closed his eyes. “UGA cheerleader and a real beauty. She declined a modeling offer to settle down as Patricia Robbins Larson, wife of a super-successful stockbroker and incipient grand dame of Atlanta society. I guess I oversold that idea, because the income of a fresh-caught broker was a lot less than she had expected.
“I was having a grand time learning the ropes and failed to notice that she wasn’t enjoying the adventure. She left the divorce papers on the kitchen table for me to sign and mail and disappeared in the company of an alleged theatrical agent.”
“What happened to her?”
He shrugged. “I’ve never known.”
“Go on.”
He sipped his champagne. “My second outing was pretty sordid. I was skiing at Stowe in 1996 where I met a beautiful German girl. I told her about myself—well-to-do stockbroker and very lonely. She spun a tale about having come to the U.S. as part of the German World Cup ski team. She hadn’t gone back to Germany when her visa ran out, so she was illegally in the country. She was desperate. Sam Larson, veteran of one bad marriage, nevertheless fell in love. She was such a great skier and her visa problem could be so easily solved. I broached the idea. We were married. I was happy. Patty Robbins faded from my mind. All went well for a couple of months until she began asking for money to send to her family in what had been East Germany to improve a house. It wasn’t much and I agreed. Then the financial needs increased. I continued paying, but, after a few more months, I suggested that we travel to Erfurt to meet the family. She resisted—the family would be ashamed of how they had to live. Perhaps later, after they’d finished the house. I backed off, but I began to be suspicious about the amount of time and money it was taking to repair a house. I had her money transmissions traced. They weren’t going to Germany, they were going to an attorney in Philadelphia who was trying to get her boyfriend out of prison. I confronted her. She denied it. I pushed. She screamed.” He sighed. “More divorce papers.”
“I’ve heard worse.”
“I have, too, but I haven’t lived anything worse.”
“But that’s the answer.”
“To what?”
“To the big riddle.”
“Riddle?”
“Why you’re a womanizer and why you’re fixated on earning money.”
“Your analysis, please.”
/>
“I don’t believe you need to have it spelled out. It’s right there, in a nice, little bitty package.”
He didn’t respond.
“Admit it and pour some more wine.”
She fell back onto his lap.
He poured more champagne and handed the tulip to her, but it was too late.
He gathered her in his arms and made his way to the stairway. There was a nightlight in her bedroom. He laid her on the far side of a queen-size bed and covered her with an afghan.
He was breathing hard and dizzy. He lay down on the bed.
August 5
Sheila awoke at six-thirty. The morning light had awakened her. There was
something wrong. The bedroom drapes had not been closed and she was still dressed. Her head was pounding. She pressed her fingertips against her temples, but there was
no relief. She managed to get an elbow under her body and push up. There was
something on the bed beside her.
“Larson! Larson, what are you doing in my bed?”
He smiled. “Sleeping—was sleeping.”
“Out! You got me drunk and would have—”
Larson sat up. “Bullshit, lady! You got yourself drunk. You relived your last days
with your doctor lover—for the thousandth time, if I’m any judge—and passed out.” She glared at him.
“I—the Good Samaritan—carried you upstairs.”
“And spent the night in my bed.”
“On your bed. I had more champagne than I needed. I sat on the bed, leaned back,
and closed my eyes for a moment.”
“You could have taken advantage of me. You—”
“Taken advantage of you? Is that something the sophisticated maiden might say?”
He shook his head. “But, yes—had I had the slightest interest, I could have, quote, had
my way with you, end quote. However, since your bodice is unripped, it appears that I
did not despoil you.
He walked into the hallway, shaking his head.
She was wearing a pink, full-length silk bathrobe and matching fuzzy mules when she found him at the kitchen bar. Her face was puffy, but she had taken some care with her hair.
His luggage and computer equipment were on the floor beside his stool. He smiled. “No run this morning?”
She shuddered, then took the seat next to him.
She was silent for a long moment. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’ve been there before and will doubtless be there again." “No,” she said, “I don’t mean sorry I got drunk, I mean sorry for accusing you.” “I understood.”
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