Discretion

by David Balzarini

  I forward Jackson’s message to him. He looks at his phone a moment, and then slides it back in his pocket. “Hope I don’t regret that.”

  “You’ll be fine. What’s to worry?”

  “I’m not worried about me, but know that the real battle is not of flesh and blood…it’s spiritual. The real war goes on, unseen by us, for the souls of men.”

  “Here we go again.” I watch our server whisk by and she smiles sweetly. “Like between God and the devil?”

  “Yeah. But with legions of angels and demons. Thousands of ’em.”

  “Interesting idea.”

  “You don’t believe in angels?”

  You have me there. “Sure. I guess I have to.”

  “You’re coming around, little by little.”

  Change the topic.

  “On a more important subject, you’ll be my best man, right?” I say to follow Christel’s instruction. I’m happy to change the topic anyway.

  “I’d be offended if you didn’t insist.”

  “As long as I don’t have to beg. Marisa seems to be in a rush the last few days to set a date, though.”

  “The plot thickens.” A mischievous grin emerges. “When’s the baby due?”

  “You’re funny.”

  Our server drops the check on the table. I snag it before Jamal has the chance, and then laugh a little and slide it across the table. He glances at me and peers at the slip of paper nestled in the black leather folio.

  “What is it with you?” Jamal says.

  “No idea.”

  The check shows our order comped, with “Thank you” printed in pink, bubbly letters and signed Jess with a heart and a phone number.

  “Too bad you’re off the market,” Jamal offers.

  I’d rather have Marisa. “Those days are over. I’m a changed man.”

  “And I’m Mickey Mouse.”

  I hold my hand up to him. “No, really. I am. I won’t talk to her on the way out. You’ll see.”

  “Okay, let’s go. Put this theory to the test.”

  Jamal and I exit the restaurant and stop beside my car in the parking lot and he pats me on the back for passing the opportunity with our server. “So how’s my favorite ride?” Jamal says, stroking the side of my car. “You’re going to work now, right? Not some hotel?”

  I snicker back at my friend. “Hands off the car. She only likes me.”

  Jamal laughs and gives me a man hug. My back hurts after. Jamal could play tackle in the NFL, at least in size. He walks to the other side of the parking lot and I hit the road, heading back to the office.

  The building appears before my mind is ready to return to work. A slight food coma settles in, combined with the nausea of Jackson’s email getting under my skin—the images of those women, the faces staring back at the camera as if speaking to the living world. A cry for help. The lost eyes. Parted lips with blood smears, crusted hair, torn earrings. I need to help them. Someone should speak for them.

  My desk chair is comfortable enough to take a nap. I pour myself a cup of coffee from the thermos and watch the flashing colors on my computer screen. I crack my knuckles and place trades, locking in profits. I finish the coffee, craving caffeine like a mosquito needs blood.

  I check voicemail messages and try to concentrate. Thoughts take my mind back to the conversation with Jamal, the email from Jackson. What can I do, if anything? And is Natalie suddenly at risk because of this investigation?

  My father retained Jackson’s services after the original case was closed, as the media was still on the trail—everyone expected Natalie to be dead and her recovery sent a surge through the local circuit. Jackson hung around for six months for the media attention and questions because nothing added up. Arocha was silent as the grave. Natalie was oblivious that three days went by. Evidence was nonexistent. “Eerie” was the word used by the media to describe the situation, yet that never felt quite right. Eerie was just too damn gentle.

  You have a job to do.

  Yes, yes. Focus. The sea of green and red is calling to me.

  Christel, what else is there today?

  Exxon Mobile will reach 93.67 tomorrow, the high for the year.

  I place a block trade to sell Exxon Mobile, set the price to ninety-three per share. Luck and sound investing principles are acceptable reasons for taking profits and minimizing losses; a divine oracle is not. My reason for the sell is the negative outlook from the one analyst who got it right.

  In my world, technical or fundamental analysis can be used to explain why a trade was made. Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

  I hit the intercom on my phone and ask Karla to bring me an enormous chocolate brownie and a Coke. She drops the line without a word and emerges less than two minutes later with my request.

  I shove one-third of the nut-laden brownie into my face and stare at my screen, trying not to dwell on the email from Jackson. I try to remember the last time I ate junk food as a distraction because I can’t get the past out of my head.

  An email on an upcoming IPO catches my attention. The company is NuVo Lighting Inc., a revolutionary display manufacturer for tablet computers; at least, that’s what everyone thinks. After the initial six months of production problems, they get bought out and go on to revolutionize the LED television under a new brand name.

  Oh, the value of this information in advance is…priceless. I place a handful of trades and savor the upcoming profits for a moment.

  With the market closed, I print out reports for tomorrow and review the calendar. Then I open Jackson’s email on the iPad and read the remaining parts, with my feet on the desk. Jackson is taking a risk to bring me in to an open investigation.

  There must be a reason that helps him.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Lynelle Donachie is eighty-seven but feels like a sprout fifty, or so she says when I visit. Her white hair curls, what’s left of it at least. She dresses for each day as if she’s going somewhere of purpose. The notion of having no place to be is difficult, I imagine. And though she achieves very little in the eyes of most, she sleeps well and is content each night as her head rests on the pillow she’s had for many years, along with its deflated twin, which once belonged to her late husband, Nolan.

  She worked in the steel industry in Pittsburgh for three decades. She met Nolan there the day she started and got married three years later. Their first child, a son, was born to them two years into the marriage, after some complications during her pregnancy. Despite the concerns and advice from family and doctors alike, they had a second child. And a third. And a fourth. All boys. If you ask her about why she had four children, she would say her husband just couldn’t keep his hands off of her, with a raucous cackle to follow. Talk to her awhile and you’ll find a rather ribald sense of humor.

  She hired SCG to take over the management of her money, which grew after Nolan’s death due to his life insurance payout and company stock options. The most important thing to her was to leave the funds to benefit less fortunate people.

  I was given her account by William Seaton because he knew one thing about me at the time: I would care about what mattered most to her.

  The drive to Flagstaff is unproductive, unless incessant worry is a good thing. Mrs. Donachie’s stone and stucco ranch is a smidgen under two hour’s drive, depending on traffic, from my office in the valley. The place is in a subdivision at least twenty years old, with more brick or aluminum than stucco on the area homes. Large dense trees populate the area, more so than people. The driveways are nearly all paved, but a few stubborn residents still have gravel and the old-fashioned mailboxes at the end of the street. The town has a quaint feel, and is like another world in comparison to Phoenix. Up here, people are content with a simple life. The sunsets are beautiful, the seasons are plentiful.

  It’s not common that I visit clients at home, or have contact directly at all, but with her charitable heart, I come to see her if needed. The interaction is a treat and I love to bring people good news.


  I take my usual seat at the kitchen table on entering the home. The table is six foot wide with a handmade cloth, which looks like a hallway runner, draped over the center and hanging about a foot over the edge. The embroidery is intricate and the pride of Mrs. Donachie’s work. Bay windows surround it, two at the center of the nook and one on each of the sides, behind and in front of me. Snow is melting outside, with some piles here and there around the yard. The sun makes its way through the dense clouds above and reminds me, ever so briefly, of a trip to northern California. The pond at the edge of her property lives with a steady current.

  Wildlife abounds to her red Heritage Farms Hopper bird feeder, hovering five feet above the ground and holding fifteen pounds of birdseed; I know because I helped her pick it out at the store, installed it and I occasionally reload it. The birds give her such great pleasure. She is leaving a significant sum from her estate to preserving wildlife.

  “So Mrs. Donachie, you are feeling well?”

  “I am. Thank you, Colin. Thank you for coming,” she says. Her words are frail as her body, but her spunk shines through. She takes a seat across from me at the solid oak table and rests her cane against the wall. She yawns a little, but tries to hide it.

  “A little worn out today?”

  “Nah. Well, just a little, maybe. I dunno. I’ll get some tea for you and for me and we’ll see if that helps. Always nice to have some company. Black tea okay?” She climbs to her feet and brings the teapot to the table. She retrieves a pair of saucers and cups and pours mine in front of me.

  “Helps the cold. Bet you aren’t getting much of this weather where you are.” Her laugh that follows is more entertaining than the joke itself.

  “Not unless you consider the fifties to be cold. That’s at night.”

  She smiles back at me and takes a sip of her tea. “So, how is Marisa?”

  Blood rushes to my face, though we talk about her every time I come here. It feels like discussing sex with your grandmother—it’s forever awkward. “She’s doing well, thanks. She keeps busy. You know how it is.”

  My phone vibrates. Marisa. I press Ignore and replace it, as I figure she will leave a message if it’s important. Thoughts of Jess from the restaurant circle in my head, as if she’s of importance to me. Odd.

  “Was that a call?” Mrs. Donachie says, her face lighting up like it was an unexpected surprise.

  Her candor is often helpful and she expects the same from me, which I give willingly. Few clients hear from me often. Fewer still see me in a context like this—not because I don’t want to, but time and distance restrains.

  “It was Marisa calling.”

  “You made short work of your tea. Another for you?”

  I nod. “The tea is hot and up here it’s freezing. I need all I can get to warm up.”

  Her cup remains mostly full. “That’s why I always wear a sweater,” she says with a little smirk on her face. The smile says more than her words. She has an energy about her—and a feistiness to boot.

  “You should have been here in December. It was one of the coldest ever. April so far hasn’t been too warm either.”

  “We were here for a short visit over a weekend. Marisa and I, that is. Came up for one of the winter festivals, I think. Her idea. And it was freezing, so yes I remember.”

  “You do brave the cold then, every so often?”

  “I do have some courage, but not much.”

  She laughs a little and resigns herself to getting to business. I draw out my leather companion, which contains the reports we review—the part she is least interested in, but gives her undivided attention to while I explain how her money is being managed and the performance over the past twelve months.

  Her portfolio investment performance is staggering. She earned more than eleven percent while the market declined during the same period. Compared with a correlated index, her results are four and a half percent better, after fees. She smiles during the review, a satisfying appraisal of my work. She signs all the forms meticulously, and as required, I witness her sign, in a sound state of mind.

  I pull together the completed documents and return the iPad to its case.

  “Colin, can I ask you something?” Her tone has a motherly flair to it that startles me.

  She will ask how you know so much.

  A discomfort settles in. Though I know what she will ask, and I know how I will answer, the discomfort comes with the very deception of it. And the knowledge that I have no choice makes it worse.

  “Sure,” I say. She can tell I am reserved.

  My phone vibrates: an incoming call from Jackson. I send him a text to let him know I’ll call him later.

  “Do you need to take that?”

  I shake my head. “It can wait.”

  Bad timing. Now I’m going to wonder what he has to say. He doesn’t leave a message.

  “What I’m asking is, how do you know all this?” She pauses a moment and moves her teacup aside a few inches. “What I mean is…how do you know what to do when no one else does? And…at your age.”

  Tell her you are well-educated.

  I smile at her. “A good education never hurts.”

  And a spirit that knows the future. Strange that I don’t think about this more often. Perhaps I take Christel for granted, but then, how much of my work is my own effort?

  She nods, a dismissive gesture. “Well…you’re a young man and you have…an understanding for this…it’s just that I’ve worked with financial planners, er, advisors in the past and they’ve always had a gauge on this or that in the market or had this or that for a strategy, but they’ve always spread me around like they don’t have a clue. Yet, you’ve directed my money and…I’m astonished. You are so sure of what you’re doing…and you seem to know something they didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry if I come across as being arrogant—”

  “No, no, no. Dear, I’m not saying that…”

  She pauses and I let the silence settle while she gathers her thoughts.

  “I guess I’m trying to understand, that’s all…” She pauses a few moments, staring at nothing in particular. “I guess I’m just like everyone else, and I need a little reassurance.”

  “On the performance?”

  She waves her hands in the air. “No, no. I know you can manage the money, Colin. I think it’s just that when you get old, you…worry about everything. At least, I do.” She pauses to laugh at herself. “And you worry that it’s not as good as it seems. Like it’s great only for so long, then the curtain drops or something happens and…poof! It’s all gone and nobody saw it coming. I’m leaving this to charity, as you well know, but I…I want the best for them.”

  I smile at my client. She needs to know she’s not dreaming this up.

  “I know you’ll do a better job than anybody. But no matter how many times I see you, I always want to know you’re for real. I think that’s the way to explain it—you seem too good to be true.”

  “All things come to an end and you’re concerned about when that end is coming.”

  She manages a smirk, and then a wink of the eye. “You get me better than the man I married when I was a kid.” She chuckles a little at the quip. “So when that end comes you’re going to tell me, right?”

  “I suppose that’s what nobody knows.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  The drive back to the office is laden with distracting thoughts of Jackson’s email and Natalie.

  I turn the radio louder than normal and try to find something on XM that I can sing to, for the sake of doing instead of thinking, but it fails to drown out negative thoughts.

  My phone shows a number of emails have hit my personal inbox. More than half of them are junk mail. Marisa left a voicemail, which I play on speaker, and then call her back.

  “Colin, what’s going on?” she says, or rather demands.

  “On my way back to the office after an appointment.” Silence lingers on the line a moment before I decide to ask,
“So how was lunch?”

  “It was fun, okay. No big deal.” Her tone makes her annoyance known. “How was yours with Jamal?”

  “I ate too much but I had company. Should suffice until dinner. Where do you want to go, by the way?”

  “I could try to cook,” Marisa offers, though she is not really volunteering to cook, but merely suggesting; much like a peace offering before a war. She knows I won’t bite her lure, as the last time she attempted to cook it was rather disastrous and ruined some expensive meat, which was inedible in the end.

  “I think that’s an…” I start.

  Marisa clears her throat.

  “Acceptable idea. But isn’t there a new place you wanted to try?”

  “Oh, yeah. You remembered!” Marisa says.

  “I keep track. Think about it and call me back. Or text me. Your choice. Jamal says hi and I really need to get some coffee.”

  She laughs and comments on my need for coffee. We say goodbye and I set the phone aside on the center console. I stop for a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, which is high-rated in my book and provides caffeine. The sixteen ounces isn’t left waiting in the cup for long and I’m back on the road. Crossing mid-afternoon, the freeway is metered at every entrance and traffic is littered on the road like waste after a three-day concert. The sky is clear and sunny—how I wish my life would look.

  If only I had some company, I could jump in the commuter lane and make this drive a whole lot quicker.

  Watching the road helps only a little. The sea of red brake lights is not beneficial to my mood either. After five thirty during the workweek, speeds here will peak out around thirty-five if the stars are aligned just right. Bad traffic and it’s a dead stop. The Mercedes is beautiful, but this is why I live close to the office. I dial Karla, my assistant, to check messages and kill time. Nothing of note going on, so I play with the radio until traffic starts moving.

  My thoughts drift to a text message from Natalie, left a few weeks ago, and navigate on my phone to find it, and then skim the contents, but I’m not sure why I’m even looking. It’s nothing important…an invitation to go running up the mountain, just like old times.