Discretion

by David Balzarini

  “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.

  “I’ve just decided these things are good for me,” Bob says.
>
  I nod in agreement. “They are. Much like managing an insane amount of other people’s money in a volatile market.”

  We both laugh and I pick up my coffee cup from the stone ledge. I offer my cup to Bob in cheers and he clanks with a tumbler, filled with two inches of bourbon sloshing about. I do a double take at the glass and he notices.

  “Thought I would have one last drink before I jump off the ledge,” he says. A substantial swig goes down his throat.

  I can’t help laughing. “So why are you smoking my cigar?”

  “Well, I was just going to jump, but then I thought I should at least say goodbye to you and since you weren’t in your office I waited a minute, figuring you were in the bathroom and would be right back. And so, when you didn’t return, I thought to have a cigar and smoke it out here. Kinda like a commemorative ceremony. A little bourbon and a fantastic cigar. Can’t go out in a better way.”

  “This isn’t high enough, Bob. I’m not sure this fall will kill you,” I say, struggling to get the words out while laughing.

  “Oh, it won’t. I’m not planning to die from the fall.” He shakes his head and finishes the glass of bourbon. “My plan is to fall right in the center of those fucking flowers you see there.” He leans over the edge a little to point to them with his chubby index finger. “Then it will just maim me and I’ll be able to collect disability until I’m dead. I’ll technically be still employed, so I’ll get the company benefits and the works.” He takes a puff and starts laughing a little with me. “And I’ll get a lot of sympathy to boot. Should be great. I wonder why I didn’t think this shit up years ago.”

  “The flaw in your plan…”

  “Yes?”

  “Is that you may not live long enough to really take advantage.”

  He agrees with a head nod and grins back at me. “True. But I figure I’ll live until at least next year if I’m resting comfortably in the hospital, hopped up on painkillers. Who knows? I might even get a hot nurse to help me pass the time.”

  “Could be an intern.”

  “Mmm. I like your thinking. Twenty? No, twenty-one. That’s a good age.”

  “You dirty old man.”

  “I’m not that old.” He puffs a minute in silence. “But yes, you have identified me correctly. Now, what are you doing out here?”

  “Trying to keep from going clinically insane.”

  “You passed that a while ago,” he says, as if stating a known fact printed in a report somewhere.

  “How so?”

  “When you accepted the job as a PM, you just self-diagnosed.”

  “So why are you drinking on the job, if I may ask?”

  “I’m resigning.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Bullshit. This job is going to kill me. I’ve got to get out. Been at this too many years, my friend.” He flicks the cigar, staring into space.

  I turn toward him to make eye contact. “Don’t. You can do this.”

  “It’s not that. I want to quit. I’ve been at this many years and I’m spent. Done. Finished. No more gas in the tank, at least not the kind the company wants. Besides, I’ve got more money than I can spend, three houses—two I want and one that I don’t. A plane of my own that I don’t take enough trips in and kids I barely know anymore. Enough.”

  I concede he’s right and wish him well. We talk about the market and the tremendous amount of disinformation available to investors today. He gives me a bear hug before walking back in and I return to my office moments later, to see that I have seventy-six minutes of time left—more than enough to finish what I must get done. The news today, to be announced after the close, will send a few important equities down, with little to be done about it since volume of aftermarket trading is low—a significant reason I neglect the aftermarket hours.

  The stroll back to my desk is short and uneventful. I attack my to-do list intently and put my personal life out of mind. The pep talk with Bob and a fantastic cigar, combined with a few breaths of freshly polluted air, does my mind some good.

  Finish trades for the day. Email. Return calls. Review questions for the TV interview later on. A strange pang settles in—doubt.

  I’ve known it before, years ago on the boat that day and not a moment since.

  But now, a sense that Christel is keeping information from me about this source of Jackson’s, who may be able to bring the missing link—the key witness that takes the ring by storm. And she’s silent with the details, which she must know.

  Christel disclosed the source is a he, yet she waited to tell me.

  I’ve never had a reason to doubt her. Until now.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Christel guides me and never gives reason to distrust. Always timely. Always accurate. And gives to me what I want most. It’s her insight, her foreknowledge I cannot live without. I’m not sure I would even know how to go on. I don’t much want to, either. Her knowledge of the future is essential for my work; so many good causes would suffer without her guidance. She gives with rare demand from me—often acts of charity, which I willfully give in exchange.

  Not everyone can say they make other people millions. Not everyone can make a difference like this. Christel’s wisdom allows me to accomplish more in an hour at my computer than what many hardworking people will do in a lifetime. It’s not fair, but I suppose that is life.

  My mind drifts to the source, and the mystery around this person and Christel—why does she keep him a secret, yet divulge some information…so to whet my appetite? I can’t help wonder how many are looking for the missing people who left, hidden by the cunning effort of the source, while family or friends are left in wonder of what ever happened.

  A tap at my door startles me and Jennifer Trigueiro stands outside my office, peering in through the glass with papers in her hand. I wave her in, as my heart slows to the normal rhythm. She needs signatures for new accounts and trade confirmations.

  Graced in a black and white form-fitting dress that holds to her hips and heels to match, she marches as if on a mission and takes a seat across from me.

  “The favorite chair again,” I say.

  “Yes, it’s my favorite.” She pauses a moment. “So am I the only one who’s been in this chair lately?”

  I decide to ignore that question. I know where it goes and it could mean trouble. I return a grin and sign the documents. She waits in silence, her mind churning on the question and three other tasks she needs to do, among them if she turned off the porch lights this morning or if the cat got fed.

  “So how’s Felix?” I say.

  She is startled by the question. “Uh. He’s good. Getting fat again.” She laughs. “We have to put him back on that diet he was on last year.” She sniffs and continues, “Joe wants to get rid of him, insisting that he’s too expensive.”

  He’s a doctor and he’s cheap. What do you expect?

  I laugh and slide the forms to her with my signature affixed. “He’s your cat.”

  She shrugs. “Well, he’s our cat now. I don’t understand why Joe has a problem with him. It’s not that much money.”

  Sweetie, he’s going along with the wedding costs because he’s not paying for much of it, trust me.

  “He’s being frugal,” I say, proposing peace.

  “Are you defending him?” She smirks.

  “No. Just stating the facts. He sees the cat as yours, and he doesn’t want to pay for an eight hundred dollar diet for a cat. A second time.”

  She sighs while smiling a little. “I’m crazy, aren’t I?”

  “Flamboyant, yet sophisticated.”

  She smiles as if she’s flattered. “Sounds like a wine review.”

  “You’re ninety points, Jennifer. Full bodied.” I joke, only to realize the mistake after the words part my lips. I must have a subliminal sickness that loves to prolong what I know is bad for me. Her mind makes no secret of her internal conflict over me; she allows herself to entertain ideas. She gets an emotional connection from me she longs
for—a dangerous place for both parties.

  Jennifer wants someone to listen. Not offer advice or tell her what to do or how crazy she is. Just accept and say nothing. She knows most of the things she frets about are unhealthy, but she wants to explain them, to better understand herself.

  She stands, grabs the stack of papers and waves quickly on her way out. I exhale in relief, a breath that lingers past comfortable.

  The clock shows I have a few minutes before I need to leave for the conference room and the interview. Little can be done by sitting around, worrying about the world around me, which, despite influence and money, I cannot control. I call research on a few reports and leave a message. It will take but a minute to answer my questions, or so I suspect. Minor annoyance, save for tomorrow.

  A text message arrives from Marisa, who has an update on plans for the evening. She won’t be around for dinner, but is going out with a college friend who needs to go drinking. I tell her not to have as much as last night and that I will see her late. It figures for another long night, between Jamal and then going to see Jackson so I can get my facts straight. Hard to say whether he will let me in on his little secret. And I need to work out. Maybe I can get up early and go for a run tomorrow. Should have time for a good five-mile run to start Wednesday.

  The iPhone buzzes again, this time to remind me of my appointment down the hall. I lock my computer and walk down to the conference room, where the television crew is scrambling to get ready.

  Two large green screens are set up on tripods for the backdrop and two canister lights sit on tall black stands, beaming on a single chair. It looks hot under those lights, especially since I’m wearing a suit. One cameraman is a few feet away from the table and the conference chairs have been pushed to the opposite side to make room. He stands and points directly at the chair, waiting for me. Two helping hands, a young energetic woman, who looks a bit frazzled, and a middle-aged man, who is taking the stress with ease, are waiting for me.

  He introduces himself, but I forget his name almost immediately. The energetic woman has me sit and starts my makeup, with paper napkins in my shirt collar. Another woman from behind adjusts my hair and in a few beleaguered minutes of prep, I get instructions for the interview. More like a crash course. I play along. The SCG staff walking by slow down or stop to watch.