The Fractal Murders Part 28

"He'll never know," I said.

"Jesus," he muttered. I gave him the address for each, their respective dates of birth, and Polk's Social Security number. He promised to do what he could.

I went into the kitchen and poured myself another cup of coffee. It was 8:45 A.M., which meant it was 7:45 in Richland, Was.h.i.+ngton. I found the number for the high school there on the Internet and dialed it. Without really saying why, I explained that I needed to know the date of the twenty-fifth reunion that had taken place last year. She put me on hold for a few minutes, then returned and said, "It was the first Sat.u.r.day in September."

My head was spinning. Fontaine's body had been found the first Monday of September and the pathologist's report stated he had most likely been killed on that Sunday. Wallace Gibbs, the FBI agent who had attended high school with Polk, had told me he'd seen Polk at their twenty-fifth reunion last year. I fumbled through my desk until I found the previous year's calendar. The first day of September had been a Friday, so Polk had been in Richland-forty-five miles from Walla Walla-one day before Fontaine's death.

I needed to clear my head. It was shaping up to be a hot day by mountain standards, so I wanted to get my run out of the way. Both dogs wanted to accompany me, but that never works. I wanted to run at least six miles, so I opted to take Buck. I never know when Wheat's paws are going to start hurting.

We ran up to Magnolia Road on Highway 119, then I let Buck off his leash and we continued down a forest service road. A lot of hippie kids were living in tents and old vans, but that happens every summer. Most are harmless, but they tend to leave a lot of trash, and that's been an issue. A few troublemakers stole a local resident's dog last year and the town marshal had to drive up and take the animal back at gunpoint. I pity the fool who ever tries to steal Buck.

We trotted about two miles down the forest service road, then turned around and headed for home. During my shower I made up my mind to visit the Koch Group. But first I telephoned Russ Seifert at New Paradigm Systems.

"Sure," he said, "Don had a personal computer in his office here, but much of his work required the use of mainframes."

"What I'm looking for," I said, "is evidence that he might have been working on some kind of economic forecasting model or some kind of software for such a model."

"In addition to whatever he was doing for us?"

"Right."

"And you think he was working with these other two math professors?"

"Yeah."

"What were their names again?"

"Carolyn Chang and Paul Fontaine."

"I'll take a look at it," he said, "and let you know if I find anything."

"I appreciate it," I said. "By the way," I added, "do you keep all your company's long-distance phone bills?"

"Yeah, we keep 'em until our accountant tells us we're safe from an IRS audit."

The Koch Group was located on the twenty-third floor of the Colorado State Bank Building. I had worked as a security guard in that building during the summer after I graduated from college and visited it a half dozen times for depositions while practicing law. The thirty-story structure had once been one of Denver's tallest buildings, but some of the office towers built during the boom years of the 1980s and 1990s are twice as high. I studied myself in the mirror as I waited for an elevator. I looked professional in an olive suit, white s.h.i.+rt, green-and-gold regimental tie, and black wing tips.

The suite occupied by the Koch Group was all chrome and gla.s.s. Brushed metallic letters beside the entry spelled "The Koch Group," but there was nothing to indicate what business the company was in.

A Hispanic receptionist greeted me. High cheekbones, white teeth, fawnlike brown eyes, long dark curls. She wore a fuchsia knit dress and was drop-dead gorgeous. "May I help you?" she asked. I had purposely decided not to call ahead or make an appointment.

"My name's Pepper Keane," I said. "I'm a private investigator." I handed her a card. "I'm working on a case and your company's name came up. I wonder if I might speak with someone about it." She smiled, got up from her desk, and promised she'd return shortly. Her nails were long and the polish matched her dress-she was the kind of woman who spends an hour every day on her makeup. She used her slender index finger to enter numbers on a keypad and disappeared behind a door made of smoky gla.s.s. I noticed strategically placed security cameras.

"Mr. Koch will meet with you," she said when she returned, "but it may be five or ten minutes. Please make yourself comfortable." I picked up a recent Sports Ill.u.s.trated from an array of magazines on a gla.s.s table, then sat in one of the leather-and-chrome chairs and started catching up on Mike Tyson's latest antics.

Twenty minutes later a man in a gray suit entered the lobby from behind the gla.s.s door. About six feet. Early or mid-fifties. Salt-and-pepper hair parted on the right. Piercing blue-gray eyes. Erect posture, military bearing. In darn good shape for his age, but not as big as me. "Mr. Keane," he said, "I'm Alan Koch." He extended his hand and I shook it. His left hand was holding the business card I'd given the receptionist.

"Pepper Keane," I said.

"Ms. Lopez tells me our company's name came up in the course of one of your investigations."

"Do you have a few minutes?" I asked. "It won't take long."

"Sure," he said. "Would you like some coffee?"

"That would be nice," I said. "A little cream, no sugar." He nodded to Ms. Lopez. I followed him through the door, down a hallway, and into his s.p.a.cious office. The furniture, including a large conference table, was all chrome and gla.s.s. No paintings graced the walls, but a variety of large plants gave the room a little color. An impressive array of college degrees and professional awards graced the wall behind his desk. We sat down at the near end of the conference table.

"I have to tell you," he said, "it's not every day a private investigator walks in and tells me my company's name has surfaced in some type of investigation." I smiled.

"I may have given her the wrong impression," I said. "Your company's not directly involved, but it appears to be the only company in Denver using some of the new mathematical techniques to predict market behavior." He asked me to continue, but Ms. Lopez arrived before I got the chance. I surveyed the room again and among Koch's degrees and awards noticed a photograph of a young Alan Koch standing with a famous public official, but I couldn't for the life of me recall the other man's name. Someone from the Nixon/Ford/Carter era. Not William Simon or Elliott Richardson, but one of those anonymous-looking career civil servants. I tried hard not to gawk at Ms. Lopez as she served coffee to each of us from a silver tray and then, with just the right amount of deference, departed with a polite smile. Koch sipped his coffee, looked at me without expression, and waited.

I sipped my coffee, then said, "I'm looking into the possibility that three mathematicians who died recently may all have been murdered by the same person."

"How does my company fit in?" he asked.

"Each of the victims specialized in fractal mathematics," I said. "There's some evidence these murders were related to the use of fractal mathematics in economic forecasting. When I found out your company was right here in Denver, I thought I'd see if you couldn't educate me a little bit."

"I see," he said.

"I'd be happy to pay you for your time."

"That won't be necessary," he said with a forced smile. "What would you like to know?"

"To be honest," I said, "I'm just trying to get an overview of the business. Can you give me a thumbnail sketch?" I wanted to get him talking before I sprang my surprises on him.

"I'll try," he said.

He talked for twenty minutes and told me what I already knew, things I had learned from speaking with Russ Seifert and reading dozens of articles. I played dumb as he explained that the use of fractal mathematics and other mathematical techniques to predict market behavior was a growing, but highly secretive, industry.

"I took some economics in college," I said as I sipped my coffee, "but the conventional wisdom back then was that markets couldn't be predicted because all known information was already reflected in the price."

"What you're referring to is known as the efficient-market hypothesis. n.o.body believes it these days."

"Why's that?"

"Well," he said, "even if all known information is reflected in the current price, traders are just people. And each person reacts to information differently. Two people can receive the same information at the same instant and still come to different conclusions about its likely impact on prices."

"But one of them is going to be wrong," I said.

"That's true," he said, "but if you have enough information about how traders have reacted to events in the past, you can use mathematical models to predict how traders as a whole will react to similar events in the future."

"Fascinating," I said.

"It's really nothing more than psychology with numbers," he said.

"I a.s.sume you rely on some type of mathematical models to do what you do?"

"We employ several different models, depending on the market we're looking at."

"Do you develop your own models," I asked, "or do you bring in outside consultants for that?"

"It's all in-house," he said. "I hold a doctorate in economics, and we have several other economists on staff." I asked him to explain a little about the industry, and he did.

"This is just fascinating," I said. "I never realized there was an entire industry using mathematical models to predict markets." He smiled politely. "I guess I should be going," I said. "I want to thank you again for your help. Are you sure I can't pay you?"

"Don't worry about it," he said. I stood up.

"By the way," I said, "do you know an economist named Dale Hawkins?" His eyes blinked rapidly for just a second.

"Doesn't ring a bell," he said. "Is he in Denver?"

"No," I said, "just someone I know in Nebraska."

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked. His patience was turning to anxiety.

"No," I said, "but I just want to thank you again for your time."

"I hope it was of some benefit," he said.

"It was," I a.s.sured him. He stood and we shook hands. "Hey," I said, "I understand one of my friends did some work for your company."

"Who would that be?" he asked.

"Mike Polk."

"Yes," he said, "Mike's done some work for us. Still does once in a while."

"Mike and I used to work together," I said.

"Really?"

"We go back a long way."

"If I see him," he said nervously, "I'll tell him you were here."

"Yeah," I said, "you do that."

31.

BY EIGHT O'CLOCK TUESDAY MORNING, the temperature in Ned had already climbed to seventy-seven degrees. It was going to be another scorcher in the high country, so I decided to go running early and took off for the Eldora ski area. It's about five miles each way, and the vertical rise is at least two thousand feet. It was the longest, most difficult run I'd attempted in a while, but I finished it in less than an hour and a half. Not as fast as Finn could've done it, but not bad.

Later that morning Big Matt faxed me copies of the credit reports he'd obtained on Hawkins and Polk. On the fax cover sheet he'd written, "If you need anything else, ask someone else!" He'd also drawn a little cartoon man giving me the finger. I smiled and reviewed the doc.u.ments. Hawkins's credit was fine. His only debts were what he owed on his home and car, and he'd paid those like clockwork each month. Polk had acc.u.mulated a lot of debt, but I already knew that. I faxed Polk's credit report to Scott so he'd have Pokey's credit card numbers.

A teenage girl called around two P.M. and asked how much I'd charge to help her establish a new ident.i.ty. Her parents were trying to control her life and she just couldn't take it anymore. She was seventeen. I got her name and some other information, told her running from problems is seldom the answer, and encouraged her to see a therapist I know in Boulder. She began to cry, told me I was just like her parents, and hung up on me. I thought about it awhile, then tracked down the girl's guidance counselor and alerted her to the situation. I didn't feel bad about violating the girl's trust. Half the kids these days are crazy, and I didn't want to pick up a newspaper someday and read about her killing herself.

I couldn't think of anything to do in connection with the case, so I cleaned house and did laundry, then drove up to the recycling center where I deposited two large bags of trash and a few weeks' worth of newspapers. The red message light was flas.h.i.+ng when I returned. "Pepper, this is Jayne. Please call me at home right away." She sounded distraught. I punched in her number.

"Thanks for returning my call so quickly," she said.

"What's up?"

"Someone's been in my house," she said.

"Anything missing?" I asked.

"Not that I know of," she said.

"Any damage?"

"No," she said, "but someone's been here."

"I'll come right down," I said.

I ran an electric razor over my face, exchanged my shorts for a clean pair of slacks, and splashed on a little cologne. I thought about it and decided to take my Glock with me. I grabbed a blue blazer so I'd have something to conceal the weapon with, then fired up the truck and headed for Boulder.

She was wearing designer jeans, a blue cotton s.h.i.+rt to match her eyes, and leather sandals. "Thanks for coming," she said. Still a bit distraught.

"No problem," I said. "Tell me what happened." I entered and she closed the door behind me. It was approaching one hundred degrees in Boulder, but she had the air-conditioning going full blast.

"I had an easy day," she began, "so I left work around three o'clock. I checked my mail in the box by the street, then came in and put my briefcase down on the kitchen table. I went into my office to check my messages and noticed a few things out of place."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Just little things," she said. "I'd had my Rolodex opened to the card with the number of a women's shelter in Denver on it, but when I returned it was opened to a different card."

"What else?" I asked.

"Don't you believe me?"

"I believe you," I said. "I'm just trying to find out which rooms the intruder concentrated on."

"My office," she said. "He concentrated on my office. My chair was pushed right up against my desk, and I never do that because it scuffs the arms of the chair."

"Have you been through the entire house?" I asked.

"Yes."

"You checked the closets and everything?"

"Yes."

"Let's take a look around," I said. "Show me what's out of place." We began in the kitchen and went from room to room. Now and then she pointed out items she felt had been moved slightly or just didn't seem quite right. Nothing really concrete. I quizzed her on the contents of each room, but she a.s.sured me nothing was missing.