Part 25 (1/2)

”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.”