Discretion

by David Balzarini

  “Ready?” She’s in the hallway with her Louis Vuitton bag. She laughs a little at me. “You’re out of it, aren’t you?”

  “One minute,” I say, feeling defensive. I reach for my leather bag and thermos of Barrington coffee. The boss keeps sending crates of it to my door. It’s some of the best on the planet.

  The door from the kitchen to the garage slams shut in the distance. I hustle to catch up with the woman who won’t be patient.

  “You got your coffee. Good,” Marisa says and stretches her legs in the passenger seat of my car.

  “Yes, thanks. Would be an awful start to the week.” I open the garage and the engine rumbles to life; the silver SLS AMG Mercedes idles to the circular brick driveway.

  The garage has space for three vehicles and the fourth port is used for storage of the quads, a dirt bike, and a Honda CBR 600 motorcycle Marisa seldom rides.

  “You fed Max, right?” she asks.

  “Shit. I’ll check the food supply.” I run in to the kitchen. Max’s head rises from his down pillow bed for a moment. His hopper is about half full, so I hurry back to the car.

  “Good?” Marisa says, staring at her phone.

  “Yes.”

  Marisa and I met at Yale nine years ago, which is like another lifetime. Christel brought us together when Marisa had a bodyguard her father hired—a round-the-clock babysitter. My task was to rescue her and get the hero’s welcome.

  The Agua Fria Freeway is packed near the AZ 51. I put on sports talk radio to hear about the upcoming NFL draft. The air is warm and dry; smog hangs over downtown, a curse that comes with limited rain.

  Marisa and I make small talk. She enjoys the NFL and is excited to talk about the draft, though it’s painful as she roots for the fucking Cowboys. America’s team, my ass. The Cardinals seem to keep beating them each time they play, no matter the record, but rubbing that in only starts a fight. We make tentative plans to meet for lunch, but we know it’s optimistic.

  The company we work for, Seaton Capital Group, is among the best in the business of separately managed accounts—a fantastic firm with good structure and open doors for hardworking people.

  Marisa and I worked together in research after graduation. We covered industrials and had fun. Marisa moved into management, while I became an analyst under Christel’s guidance; then a portfolio manager.

  The insight Christel gave me helped the firm fight through some of the toughest times in history. Colleagues said I have a gift of insight: an uncanny understanding of what is to come, what is behind the earnings, what management team will lead to grandeur or irrelevance. I earned the nickname ‘The Prophet.’ However, ‘The Profit’ is more appropriate spelling. A few colleagues called me ‘Oracle’ but that never felt quite right. Warren Buffet invests to make six percent in a year. I’m disgusted with less than thirty.

  We arrive at work and wave to the security guards behind the glass and enter through the revolving door into the lobby. Shining marble floors and shimmering waterfalls with rimless glass windows from floor to ceiling at the front of the building greet visitors. The glass is a dark tint, giving a dim effect to the entrance. The staircase rails are a pristine gold with intricate inlays. Classic cars sit on display.

  Marisa and I part company with a kiss at the top of the stairs, as is our custom. Her department is on the second floor. I take the elevator to the sixth.

  My desk is cleared for the moment and I savor it, a triumph. My office window spans from floor to ceiling and the busy street and vast mountains complete the view. The building shakes slightly as a pair of F-16s fly overhead, making way rapidly into the distance among sparse clouds. My desk sits catty-corner near the window, with two fine leather and dark wood chairs in front. Behind me is the credenza with a hutch. Volumes on economics, FINRA regulations, compliance, accounting, taxes, and law cover the lower space. My framed credentials rest on a polished cherry wood surface along with pictures of Marisa. My favorite is a spectacular shot of us in Lucca, Italy.

  There was once a collection of pictures from high school which were abruptly removed by Marisa, as Natalie was in all of them.

  With my iPad in my lap, I open Jackson’s email message, unable to resist temptation. I spend a few minutes scrolling through articles and case studies on Arocha, including mental and psych evaluations. Jackson is right; Arocha is nuts and his testimony is worthless, which is why the FBI can’t use him. An Excel file is included in the zip archive, containing names of young women, who, according to the notes, are victims in sex trafficking. Beautiful. Young. And dead. Homicide photos are attached, most of them gory with deep cuts and bruises to the head, neck, and chest. There’s also a list of associated people, a truncated file based on dozens of entries.

  Dasher is a great mystery. He has no criminal record, no loony past—meaning he would have been a stellar witness, but he’s dead because of me. Was he an innocent bystander in all this, made to look like he played a part? Perhaps he was just a stupid college student who’d do anything for a lay and a few beers.

  Fifteen years of wondering and the truth is close; justice can be found for Natalie and all these young women photographed here, who died in horrible ways at dark alleys or tied to filthy beds. What links them?

  The tattoo on the right wrist of each victim: beautiful and intricate with vibrant color. It’s strangely familiar.

  SEVENTEEN

  Jackson’s file is an hour-long digital pile of newspaper reports and online anonymous interviews of women who were abducted and beaten, drugged, raped and forced into prostitution. Families were threatened with violence if the captive woman was noncompliant. Lives were held in the balance. Some of the victims escaped to tell their stories—meaning they are alive somewhere and could be witnesses. But, like Jackson pointed out, they are criminals, with as much to hide as their former captors. They run from the past.

  I close the file and drop the device on my desk, but images of the grisly dead calling out from the grave stick with me. Shit. I don’t want to be involved in this, but Natalie…what if she remembered? Could she be a target like the rest of these women were?

  Good question.

  Jackson picks up on the first ring. “What do you think?”

  “This is crazy, Jackson. Why leave Natalie alive if these people are still out there and she was a part of it?”

  “My bet is all the people involved with her abduction are dead, so she’s not a threat. She never worked for them, plus she was drugged and her lack of memory became national news. My hope and our best bet is whoever gave her a ride from your boat wasn’t tied in with the group, but an unwilling bystander to the crime—a partygoer who was in the wrong place, wrong time.”

  “So you still think it’s Mike and Mayra?”

  “Strong possibility.”

  Yes, he does.

  “Lifelong friends. Forget about it,” I say.

  “People get ugly when money is involved, man. You’ll see a side you never thought existed,” Jackson says.

  “How much does Natalie know about this?”

  “This is sensitive and I don’t want her to panic. It’s not in that file, but I managed to get Arocha to start talking to me three weeks ago and he had few words of encouragement. The connection is the tattoo on his forearm, something I noted before, but it didn’t click until I saw all of those articles together. Because Arocha is alive, the police didn’t make a big fuss about his tattoo—the same tattoo the victims have on the right wrist.”

  “The pentagram with wings and clouds, kinda bright colors?” I ask.

  “Hard to miss once you notice, right? It’s intricate and would take time from a very careful, meticulous artist.”

  “It is and I noticed all the victims have one, am I correct?”

  “Yeah, it’s what links the murders. The police noted the tattoos on several victims that turned up around the city and made the connection. Dasher didn’t have the pentagram, as I think he was an idiot college kid, so no connection wa
s made right away with Natalie’s case.”

  “Why would criminals tattoo the girls? Doesn’t that make it easier for them to get caught?”

  “Not really, Colin. Gang members have tattoos and clothing to show where they belong. That’s protection, since it tells would-be assailants who he runs with. The tattoo in this case identifies who the owner is, so it protects the girls and sets the price for services, probably. Those couldn’t have been cheap and they would take time and be painful. So, the girls must have gotten them voluntarily. May have been requested.”

  “You mentioned Arocha, but I didn’t see anything new about him. Was he a part of the syndicate?”

  “Had to be at some point, but he’s useless. The guy is a recluse. He’d rather be locked up. I bet he’s safer that way, if you ask me. And I think he gave himself some scars, too.”

  “So he inflicted wounds? What does this have to do with the kidnapping?”

  “He could be possessed by something for all I know,” Jackson quips. “I can’t be positive and he doesn’t remember, but like I said, it got me on the trail to find some of those victims who were forgotten or lost in police files as gang-related violence. I had to go way back to find some of them.”

  I ponder this a moment, and Jackson continues.

  “The world reveals a sick truth that we don’t want to see, Colin. The key here is the contacts—people hidden in different parts of the country who were pulled into this shit. I need to find one who will talk. I have a source who is helping me out.”

  “It’s people being evil. Nothing new,” I say.

  “Do you believe in the devil?”

  “No.”

  “Well, three weeks ago I’m with you.”

  “Get to the point. How does this involve me or Natalie?”

  “I’m getting there. You’re asking me to condense fifteen years of work.” Jackson clears his throat. “I showed Natalie the tattoo on Arocha’s arm, and she opened up to talking, so it must have triggered some memory, at least that’s my best guess. Anyway, she’s not like these victims, as you noted—she’s alive—but I think she knows something that she’s afraid to remember.”

  “I bet she is,” I say, and then reach for my glass of water. “Why doesn’t this source come forward? Sounds like the key witness you’re looking for.”

  “My source has to stay private for protection, just like the women who escape the life.”

  “There has to be a way to protect a source while getting information.” I stand from my desk chair and walk to the window, just to change scenery.

  Jackson says, “The challenge is credibility. The people who profit from this business are well-to-do with a high-caliber front company—people you might think of as untouchable. To charge them with a crime, let alone convict, you’ve got to have a witness who can pass credibility testing.” He pauses a moment. “The last young woman who came forward faced drug charges, so it’s the guilty ratting out the guilty.”

  “Un huh. So if your source thinks this is the devil’s fault, then why not lock him up?”

  “I love the skeptic in you, Colin.”

  Get off the phone. Jennifer on approach.

  “Gotta go. Talk more later,” I say and set the phone on my desk. Jennifer is outside my door.

  I have work to do and no time to rebury my past.

  EIGHTEEN

  A light tap at the window and Jennifer Trigueiro appears, her five-foot-four stature enhanced by two-inch heels. According to her, they provide a commanding presence. She’s two years older than me and in the throes of buying a home and planning a wedding. A waft of her perfume hits me, and then the sound of her tiny frame compressing air from the leather seat. Her half grin and crossed legs under a red skirt imply she has something on her mind, though this comes as no surprise.

  She missed you.

  “So, do you want to hear the latest?” She pushes her long, dark hair away with her left hand to show off the two-karat diamond ring—a princess cut, no less. Her smile transitions to cheery and she leans forward, eager to update me on wedding plans. She can’t be more excited to get married in the fall, and she’s at my desk to share her adventure. She has girlfriends for this talk, but they offer advice; Jennifer wants a sounding board.

  “I’d be delighted. Do you have some famous recording artist playing? If so, I’d love the chance to guess who.” I fold my hands on the desk.

  “No, but I like that idea—if I could swing it. The plan is a quartet for the music. Booked them right after the photographer. But I’m going to tell you…”

  My phone beeps: a text message from Marisa, which can wait.

  “Continue,” I say, carefully. The overzealous brown eyes of my boss watch me, a few feet away.

  Jennifer talks with her hands wildly, explaining the details about her perfect dress by Maggie Sottero and the fit for her petite figure. I glance periodically at my calendar and itinerary for the day while I listen. Christel feeds me her thoughts, mostly sexual fantasies of me—it’s hard to listen to two women at once.

  “So what’d ya think? I’m the craziest bride ever?” Her giggles are like a school girl.

  “Six grand is a lot for a dress.”

  Her eyes widen. “Did I tell you how much it was? I didn’t think I did…did I? I must have…how…”

  I wave off her questions. “I guessed, I guessed. I have no idea how much it was. I’m sure it’s beautiful.” Another harmless test for Christel—once a doubter, always a doubter.

  Jennifer grins and sits back. “Okay. Whew. Well, between you and me, that was a lucky guess.”

  I act surprised. “Really?”

  She laughs, throws her hands in the air, enough so the pearls around her neck slide side to side. “Nuts, huh?” She doesn’t think so but I laugh since I’m playing along. My meetings with Jennifer are a mix of the naughty boss and a game of house with the girls next door when you’re six.

  “You said it, not me. So did you have any business to discuss this morning?”

  She thinks for a second. “Nice work on the Welderman case. That took awhile, didn’t it?”

  It takes five hours to play a round of golf with that hacker, so I suppose so. “Not really. He was in the right frame of mind. The board votes with him, so once he came to an accord, the deal was done.”

  She manages a smile. I am among the few managers who will go out gallivanting with a client. The norm is to pawn the responsibility off as marketing’s job.

  “Okay, well, I better get back to work.” She walks out of my office, taking slow, deliberate steps like a girl learning to walk in heels. I ignore her effort to the best of my ability.

  My smartphone chimes again with reminders for the day and market alerts. I shake my head.

  I’m behind already.

  NINETEEN

  The phone rings and I stare, willing it to stop.

  My job is fairly simple—make people money. Lots of it. I manage a tad over two billion dollars; most of that is in stocks and derivatives, with the required minimum in bonds. Christel reveals future stock prices, so there’s little need for research beyond a skim of reports. What few people realize about the world of investments is that what’s printed, everyone knows; what’s not printed, but understood, is what’s truly valuable—and understanding those unknowns is the key to what I do, which Christel provides. Of course, I can’t talk about prescience—bad for business.

  “Good morning, Beth,” I say on answering my desk phone. She refers to herself as a cool fat chick. Her personality is a starburst of positive energy with a sense of humor.

  “You always know it’s me. Am I that predictable?”

  “Must be. Did you have a fun weekend?” I multitask by reviewing reports. My quotes system comes alive on the trio of twenty-five inch LED screens, a sea of red and green on a black background. Stocks. Commodities. Options. Christel is redefining the term ‘angel investing.’

  “Yeah, it was okay,” she says. “We did see a movie. Had a dinner
date, that type of stuff. Nothing like your life, player.” She laughs a little, snorting at the end. She’s thirty and engaged but in no rush to the altar. Her fiancé is an analyst and they work together. They are from Austin, Texas and return every chance they can.

  “Now, now. I’m not like that anymore. I’ve settled down.”

  She giggles. “Really? You lived up to your name of Casanova when you were…”

  “I know. I’ve got to get moving, but you’ve got a lead on Pfizer for me, right?”

  A moment of silence passes. “How did you know that?”

  “Must be my lucky day.”

  “Can you tell me how my marriage will turn out?”

  She thinks it will last forever. Divorced, five years.

  How can I tell her that? I won’t have any friends if I tell people the truth. “Sorry. Not at liberty to say; you know how it is.”

  “Oh, well. Have you got a minute to go over the report?”

  “A minute for you.”

  She highlights the important details and it’s useful information, but nothing I don’t know. I thank her for her time and end the call.

  It’s difficult to focus with details about Jackson’s email clouding my mind. Visions of those dead bodies keep coming to view, as if it’s my own haunting past. Hard to believe that after all these years, a trail exists, however crazy it may be. Could all just be a waste of time, if no evidence exists to put the guilty behind bars.

  The Monday morning debrief is at eight in the main conference room. A meeting such as this should be before market hours, but the higher-ups grant beauty rest to the weary. The portfolio managers like myself and several investment consultants, the politically correct title for sales rep, will attend along with the analyst team and one or two people from research.

  The conference room is a two-minute walk from my office, consisting of glass walls along the south side; the entry way double doors are glass except for a minimalist gold frame. The SCG logo is etched on both doors. I join a dozen people in the room, taking the seat next to Bob Garafola, my old mentor.