Discretion (22 page)

And Natalie.

I check messages on my phone. Old friends reaching out, who are visiting Phoenix soon and looking for a place to sleep and things to do. One from Joanna, giving an update on Jamal. She’s clutching hope. It’s a dangerous place to be—to hope for what seems to have such long odds. But hope is what’s keeping Joanna going. And me. I place a few calls, but Natalie nor Joanna pick up, so I wonder where they are. I hate to think that something will happen to either of them.

Christel is my best friend, yet I hardly understand her. What she does for me, I cannot do for myself and no one else can. And for that, she is my most trusted ally. This walk for a good cause reminds me why I need her by my side.

I arrive at the office with ten minutes to spare, that I may grab an iced cup of coffee and the iPad before heading out. I take a moment to review the market activity and graze over the headlines from the
Wall Street Journal
online. Nothing is there that I didn’t know beforehand, but at this moment, I need reassurance. Life seems to be entering a new realm of chaos on a personal side and work is relentless, leaving my nerves nearly shot. The lack of sleep is not helping, but my own fault, I must admit.

The presentation, like many I give, is about the management strategy on a two hundred seventy million dollar account, the funds belonging to the prominent Norman Foronda Foundation, a former NFL star quarterback, retired three years ago and destined for the Hall of Fame. The foundation helps various charities ranging from medical research to helping inner city kids. A fantastic organization and very efficiently run.

I was hand-selected to manage the foundation’s investments. I have fond memories of getting to meet Mister Foronda with his wife and three girls, ages ten, eight, and four.

The brass of the firm, Seaton included, will sit in with several PMs and analysts. It’s similar to the presentation I’ll be giving to the foundation’s board late next week, but this session will be in much greater detail and will include privileged information, designed to give the brass and approved attendees an objective look into how I manage one of the largest accounts at SCG.

Never mind that it’s among the most prestigious.

I walk into the conference room and most of the attendees are there, mingling, sipping tea or coffee. Everyone dons a jacket. The misty glass along the wall gives off a strange vibe against the sunlight pouring in through the windows. I hit the switch, mounted on the table, to close the blinds. The motors whirr to life and it’s a ready conference room in a few moments.

Seaton is not here yet. Everyone says hello in some manner and I simply nod back and start reviewing my notes on the tablet computer.

I am prepared. I can do this presentation.

My phone vibrates. Joanna. Another update on Jamal, but it’s a distraction I don’t need. Joanna knows he will want to see me when I’m available today. I press Ignore and slip the device back in my pocket.

The group banters about the market volatility of the day, related to turbulent news out of Europe and what it all means. The thoughts in the room circle around hearing a good presentation and expect me to make sense of the market gyrations in foreign debt. It’s too much bourbon, not enough water.

Teddy Plemons walks into the room, William Seaton close behind. They sit side by side at the dark wood conference table.

Teddy grins at me, a simple gesture that is equal weight pleasantry and mockery. He hates that I have the Foronda account and not him—his tenure and pedigree earn the right.

I nod to the boss, who nods back and smiles warmly.

He’s been looking forward to this presentation.

The lights dim and the projector comes to life on the screen mounted to the wall behind me.

Showtime.

I
stand at the front of the conference room, my superiors facing me, staring with anticipation. A remote control in my hand is used to toggle the slides. The first few slides introduce the investment policy and objectives for the foundation. I run through the technical side first and the analysts are on the edge of their seats, taking notes. They think what I do can be made into an exact science—and their efforts will prove it’s anything but. Seaton is calm, his hands folded in his lap, one leg crossed over the other. He remains patient for the meat of the presentation.

I get into the investment selection point of the presentation, and everyone perks up. Frantic note-taking begins. I allow time for questions.

This meeting is a waste of time, but Seaton wants it, as he’s optimistic the other staff will learn from the session. The camaraderie is good.

Seaton takes a stroll toward me with a warm smile. He extends his hand to me, in partnership and in friendship.

He can’t do this without you.

Standing at five foot eight inches and well-rounded at the midsection, he looks like capitalism itself: a fine Italian-made black suit, custom olive shirt, and tie to match. Handmade leathers grace his feet with no heels, a requirement he holds firm. His smile is genuine. “Fine presentation, Colin,” he says, with an air of pride, as if his own son just achieved greatness.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You earned it. Now, how are those cigars?”

“Excellent.”

“Good to hear. And how was the walk this morning?”

“Went very well, sir. The support is great. Anika says hi and sends her gratitude.”

“Yes. She does that. Wonderful woman, she is. I’m glad to hear the event was a success. I think you set an example to the firm by doing that.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“I know. That’s why I’m going to see to it that the event continues for years to come. In fact, I’d like to have Martina get in contact with Anika about more projects we can be doing.”

Martina Britton deals with the charity functions of the firm, among other hats. If Seaton is reaching out to her, he must have something in mind. This is good news for the charity.

“Very encouraging. I am sure Anika will be pleased. She mentioned that the end of today is a beautiful letdown.”

He nods and keeps grinning. “And speaking of an amazing woman, I believe I’ve neglected to say congratulations on your engagement to that fine young lady from research,” he says, feeling sheepish he missed the news on my engagement.

I can’t help smiling back. “Thanks.”

“So, got a date picked out yet? Or a venue?”

I shrug. “Not as of yet.”

“Not into those details, I presume. More the bride’s territory, am I right?”

“What she lives for.”

He gives me an understanding, sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Don’t stress out about it. The time of your life, being young and in love.” And without another word, he turns to the waiting staff for his attention.

I grab my things and duck out.

The time shows it’s nearly nine thirty
A.M.
I call Joanna and tell her my schedule for the afternoon so she knows what to expect. Back in the privacy of my office, I call Marisa. She’s going out to lunch with the department, and even though it’s only Tuesday, they’re going to let loose. It’s one of those hush-hush things—like what happens in research, stays in research. Her department is the starting point for new college recruits, so it’s the catchall of those who’ve not yet worked out all the post-college kinks.

The afternoon has a normal trading load, and then later on is the recorded telecast on CNBC. Then I’ll be free to visit Jamal.

I contemplate lighting a cigar again.

I leave my office and walk around a few minutes, and then meander through the double glass doors on the second floor, out to a small balcony overlooking the courtyard. It occurs to me how infrequently I come out here.

The landscaping is well manicured and in full bloom this time of year. The trees are lush with green. Violet, red, and blue flowers dance about in the easy breeze. There is an enormous Palo Verde tree toward the center, behind the stone sign for the complex. I breathe deeply, hoping that the peacefulness of the morning air and nature in motion will calm me. The air is perfect, the sky clear, yet in my head war ensues, killing all in its path.

What am I to do? I can’t stand the waiting and I hate that I care. The email is deleted. I need to put it out of my mind—but the images of those dead women keeps at me, making me think I should do something about them. Maybe I can help them.

Jamal. Could he be linked to this ring by getting the email? I’m fine, and Jackson assured me the mysterious, unseen enemy knows I have it. Natalie. Natalie still hasn’t answered me and how is she involved in this? A victim, years ago, but how else? The questions will drive me insane if I don’t get answers soon. I’m okay, so Natalie must be too, unless something is in the works, behind the scenes, waiting for the right time to strike.

I may never sleep again.

I return to my office for a cigar, and then light it on the balcony, staring at the landscaping again. I bring two extras in my suit jacket, just in case. This may take awhile and as there’s nothing of consequence to be done at my desk, I might as well attempt to decompress. Hopefully, Jackson is making progress on the accident from last night with Jamal.

I dial Jackson’s number and he picks up after two rings. He sounds like he’s hung over. Or exhausted. He swears instead of saying hello.

“Are you working?” I say.

“I can’t afford to take the rest of my life off like some people, so yeah.”

“I deleted the email, Jackson.” I sigh. “I think I need to remove myself from this…mess. It’s not getting me anywhere—”

“Jesus, Wyle. Shut up and listen.” He pauses a moment and I hear rapid clicking in the background, coming in short bursts. “Hang on a second. I’ve got to finish this.” He fumbles about, swears under his breath, then he’s running for a few moments, and then a door slams. He pants into the line. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

“What are you doing? Wait…do I even want to know?”

“Ah, no. Not really. Cheaters. Caught ’em red-handed. Too bad for them I’m a heartless bastard who would gladly sell these to a high bidder, in addition to providing them for the client.” He chuckles a little. “A little afternoon delight, captured on film, brightens my day. Now I can get rid of some dead weight.” He grunts, working in the background.

“What did you find?” I ask.

“You’ve seen the latest on the accident?”

I pause a moment to digest what that could entail and brace myself for the worst. “No.”

“Well, the skinny is…this is a crazy coincidence if these dead guys, who caused the accident, weren’t targeting Jamal. Maybe the driver was following Jamal and made a mistake…not intending to get himself killed, but I think that’s a stretch. Can’t think of why he’d be tailing unless he intended to get him somewhere private and bury him in the desert, which is a possibility…but strikes me as pointless, since the email is no secret. Unless of course, there’s more to the equation with Jamal.” Jackson pauses a second. “Any guess why Jamal would be a special target?”

“No. Should I be worried?”

Jackson ponders, and then says, “It’s possible the syndicate is agitated this investigation is going on, and they picked a no-name to attack. Kind of like a warning sign, flexing of the muscles, whatever. But on you being worried—have you seen anything abnormal?”

I think a few minutes back through the day. “Can’t say. I wouldn’t notice someone who didn’t want me to, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Probably true.”

I will keep you safe.

Am I doubting Christel? Disregarding her protection? “So when will we know more? I mean, if this guy, this crime ring, was targeting Jamal?”

“We may never, that’s just it. He and his passenger are dead and witnesses don’t know what he was thinking at the time he blew that light and caused a five-car collision, followed by six more benders, so we may never find out what happened. The guy could have been playing with the radio and got sidetracked, for all we know.”

“What do the feds make of all this? Or your source?”

Silence lingers a few seconds. I dare not say anything, just to be safe.

“It’s a traffic accident, so no attention yet. Phoenix police got the case going and the sheriff’s casework for Natalie got their attention, but it was the tattoo on Dasher that reopened it as part of the nameless ring. Feds got involved once those tattoos turned up on dead people in California and Nevada. They took over, you might say.”

“Hit up your source then. He probably has someone—”

“You can’t. Just leave that topic alone,” he says.

“I think I can help him.”

He pauses a moment too long, giving information away. “Who said it’s a him?”

“I guessed. Look, I can help your source and I think your source can help me. If we can save lives at the same time, solve this case and put this ugly past to rest, then all the better.”

Jackson says, “How can you help the source?”

“That’s complicated, but we can talk about it later on.”

He will never believe you.

The source is a man, then.

Yes
.

Jackson groans. “I’ll think about it.”

“If it means preventing other young women from being pulled into the same fate as the victims in the file, then it’s worth a try, and a witness means the feds will be distracted with real progress and stop looking at my deposition. And the medical examiner’s report of the very dead Dasher that points all fingers at me.”

“You’re not cynical enough for this line of work,” Jackson says.

“Yeah. Okay. Call me when you’ve made up your mind.” I end the call and slip the phone in my pocket. The landscaping blows and sways.

Why is Jackson impeding progress? It feels as if he can get this source to give him information—so why doesn’t he try all avenues? And Christel—why is she keeping information about the source hidden from me? Obviously she has information and is revealing it only when no other option exists. Curious.

Footsteps crunch gravel behind me.

“You’re losing your marbles too?” a man’s voice says.

I glance back at Bob, and manage a grin for him, and then continue puffing away on the cigar. He pats me on the back and stands at my side, a cigar from my office clenched between his teeth. He lights it without a word and watches the world alongside me.