Discretion (12 page)

“Sorry…sorry. I thought I had told you.”

She sighs. “The girls want to have a night out, so I might as well make it for Friday then, huh?”

“Sounds good. Any idea what you’re doing for lunch?”

“I’ve got plans with the girls. Beth told me that you were hitting on her.”

“That joke doesn’t get old.”

“It’s a classic. When she’s married, we’ll have to find something else. So are you and Jamal going to Hooters again?”

“It’s been seven years, can you let it go?”

“Maybe, but I’ve got to get back to work. See you later.”

M
y task for the late morning is simple—clear the email, return several calls, and then go to lunch.

My inbox contains forty new messages, neglect for the past three hours. I skim over the subjects and senders, deleting the unimportant. Messages from analysts and research reports, compliance.

The message that catches my attention is from Jennifer, per a series of trades for Lynelle Donachie, a widow I make a point to care for, though her account is far from the top. Her questions are basic and I reply with appreciation for attention to detail; she knows I will be meeting with the client this afternoon and can acquire the necessary signatures.

Seaton requires wet signatures on most paperwork. The advisor’s signature goes below the client’s, for integrity. This is a firm practice as result of a bad case.

Before I arrived at SCG, Sonia Fasano, an elderly client, had made sudden significant changes to her account risk tolerance and investment objectives. The securities in the account changed from conservative bonds to common stocks, options, and some managed futures—a complete contrast to her earlier holdings. All the paperwork came back through the mail in perfect order like clockwork; that was precisely the problem the consultant failed to take offense to, as the client was habitually tardy.

A beneficiary change caught the attention of loss prevention—it didn’t make sense considering what we knew of the client. When the forms came back, the thirty-something sack of shit son who took over his mother’s finances had clearly let his guard down, gotten cocky and gave himself away with a crucial mistake. Thankfully, it was before the 2008 market collapse.

Seaton raised hell. The consultant was accompanied by William Seaton himself, who presented the meeting as a “thank-you for your business.” It was, in reality, a coming to terms affair. The suspicions were confirmed; the client had no knowledge of the changes to her account. Thankfully, the market had been good to her portfolio and we were able to give good news. She gracefully forgave her son of his abuse and his “borrowing” of three hundred fifty thousand dollars. She removed her conniving offspring as her successor trustee and named a respectable trust company instead.

William Seaton was not so forgiving.

In the aftermath, Seaton had suspicion, based on the son’s criminal record, that he had squandered his mother’s money. Seaton hired a private investigator to ensure the matter was closed properly and Anthony Fasano could only regret his play.

One of the analysts at the firm told me the story when I was new and probably asked a stupid question to provoke it. The moral of the story was clear: Don’t ever cross William Seaton. Not for any reason.

Seaton was thrilled the client didn’t pursue legal action. In fact, she was so pleased with the attention she received that she referred friends in upstate New York who had complex investment and estate planning needs. The one hundred million in new assets was a fine way to say thanks. She passed on two years later and left her estate of fifteen million to charity.

When Mrs. Fasano died, her son, Anthony, fought the change of her estate to the trust company. Seaton thought it was comical and had the legal team efficiently put the issue to rest. Then he set the legal team on task, making the client’s forgiveness of the three hundred fifty thousand dollar theft up to the courts, which did not turn out favorably for Anthony.

Today, Anthony is still in prison.

A few summer recruits working in research got wind of the Fasano case, as it became a companywide lesson. The joke developed and it became the “Fuckano case.” It was hilarious for a short time among the interns. That is, of course, until word traveled to Seaton and they lost their jobs. Legend has it those clowns had a hard time finding work after graduation.

I pick up a printed report from research on a new IPO; it’s the craze now, but will fizzle when investors least expect it. The company, Navarro Technology Systems, to be trading in four weeks, makes a chip for smartphones, designed to bring a new era of online shopping. The problem is, no one accepts the technology because of security problems.

Another boom and bust. Christel is perfection.

The email from Jackson comes to mind again and lingers, like the feel of a headache coming on. Tempted to look at it again, I try to blot the images from my mind’s eye—and it’s challenging not to imagine Natalie in such a position, as I’d never forgive myself. The villain is still out there and that’s discomforting—nausea washes over me. This email has merit and perhaps it’s the key to Natalie’s disappearance. Perhaps, with the right help, Natalie can remember and become a credible witness.

Jackson mentioned there are big names involved; people I’d think of as unreachable.

My cell vibrates, startling me. A text message from Jamal, wondering whether I’m at the restaurant yet.

Damn, I’m late for lunch.

I
’m scheduled to meet Jamal a few minutes from now, the location easily twenty minutes away.

I test the car’s handling on the freeway, to ninety miles per hour, and weave through congestion with the nimble Mercedes. Traffic is heavy, yet I drive like there’s prize money for first place. Around the curve, I spot a cop on a BMW motorcycle, sitting three hundred yards away at best, on the right side of the road. There’s no doubt—he has me.

Smile and wave.

I raise my hand at the command, and smile at the officer. He’s watching me like a lion to his prey. I make no effort to slow down. From the rearview mirror, he doesn’t give me a second thought, as if he didn’t see me at all.

Christel, where would I be without you?

I park the car, fifteen minutes past schedule. Shooters Bar & Grill is a gem, in a renovated building in old town Scottsdale. The exterior is like a Western movie set meets modern charm, with a congested intersection for the view. The buildings are close together with shared parking in the back. The parallel spaces are tempting to get into and almost impossible to get out of. Nearby is a family-owned Italian place, an upscale chic salon, and a boutique selling high-end kids’ clothes.

A hostess has her back against the heavy wooden front door, propping it open. I enter the dense crowd. Suits, dresses, and the occasional sport jacket are typical for this ambitious group. Noise level is consistent for a full lunch crowd, with easily three hundred people here. I search for Jamal among the pack.

“There you are. Where’ve you been?” Jamal says from behind me.

I turn around and embrace the man. “Work. Let’s get a table.”

Jamal holds up the black circular pager like an item of value. I take it from him and give it to the hostess standing behind a dark wood podium. She grins like she’s embarrassed and shows Jamal and me to a high top about twenty paces away, concealed behind a wall, with surprising effect on noise reduction. I do my best not to watch her slink away.

Jamal grins a little while he grabs the menus, and then slides one to me. “Beautiful girl. And yet you didn’t invite her to join us.”

“Yes, she is. And there was a day when I’d have kicked you out to have her join me.”

Jamal’s eyes narrow at me, and then he laughs. “Casanova, now how did you get this table? The pager never blinked. She told me not a second ago the wait would be fifteen minutes. At least.”

I sigh and take a drink of water. “It worked, so what’s to gripe about?”

“C’mon.”

“All right,” I say. “When I gave the pager back—”

His eyes shift to the crowd and his brow creases. “What did you say?”

I glance around the restaurant for her, but she is nowhere to be seen. “I told her she has beautiful eyes.”

He stares at me, processing, deciding whether I’m serious. When he figures it out, he grins. “Whatever. You didn’t say anything. That’s what I can’t figure out…this influence you have. You know her, right? An ex-girlfriend you’re still on speaking terms with?”

“I’m on speaking terms with all of them.”

“That’s news to me. I thought you and—”

“Resolved.”

“Oh, really?” Jamal says.

“That was resolved a couple months ago. Just a misunderstanding I had about her. She set it right and moved on.”

“But that was years ago. How long did you two date?”

“A year plus.”

“Who ended it?” he asks.

“Why does this matter now? Like you said, it was years ago.”

“Trying to fill in the blanks,” Jamal says.

“Are you writing a biography about me?”

“I should, since it’s already got a title.”

“I’m not that way anymore. I’m settling down, I’ve…”

“Do you and Marisa have a wedding date yet?”

“What is the issue with everyone wanting a date? We’ve been engaged a few months. Why the rush?”

“Man, don’t hold a grudge that people care. Everyone likes you and they want to be a part of it and knowing Marisa’s extravagance, it’s gonna be a heck of a party. Virgin Islands? Jamaica?”

“It will be a grand time.”

“Ya, man.”

A dark-haired female appears at the side of our table, with a tablet computer held in both hands. We place our order and she hurries off.

“Now, how is Marisa? I’ve not spoken with her in months it seems,” Jamal says.

“She’s been working more lately.” I add salt to the basket of chips and take one. “I get the feeling she wants to move up. She’s been in the same position for a while and probably bored.”

“Bet she’s excited to get married. Any idea where she’s at in the planning?”

I shake my head. What Jamal doesn’t understand about Marisa is she’s terrified of getting married—being tied up so to speak. And that detail is best left alone. “I’m staying out of it since I’ve been too busy. I told her to hire the best planner she can find and let that be it, but she won’t.” I shake my head. “Can’t release the reins.”

“It’s her big day; I understand. Joanna didn’t want to hand off anything either. The family gets along so much better that way.”

We laugh, knowing what he really means.

“So, you talked with Natalie recently?”

He nods and grabs a chip, loads on the guac and stuffs it in his face. “She’s about the same, I think.”

“You remember Jackson Mattocks?”

He pauses a moment, and then his brow creases. “Still searching?”

I give a short nod. “He sent me something that’s freaked me out and he seems to think I can help, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to.”

He takes a slow drink from the diet Pepsi. “Go on.”

I give him the short version of what’s in the email and he listens intently. I offer to forward the email and he ignores the question.

“That was, what…fourteen years ago?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen…okay. Well, I’d ask first of all, why involve you in a case that’s a big secret? Why take that risk?” He shakes his head and continues attacking the chips. “And from what you’re describing, it’s like the case is dead anyway…who’s alive to testify? Sounds like a bunch of unsolved murders pooled into one, to me.”

“What about the tattoos?”

He stops eating. “Tattoos?”

“Yeah, a pentagram with wings and clouds, real colorful and detailed. It’s like a work of art and always on the underside of the right wrist. It’s on all the dead bodies—girls, employees, everyone. It’s like they were labeled.”

Jamal stares at me, blank faced for a long moment. “Could it be a gang, maybe?”

“That was discussed and that’s how some of the victims were first pegged—as gang violence, but Jackson thinks it’s not a gang, but an organized crime ring. I figure if you want to hide a crime, why do something that ties them together and draws attention? Why create a pattern to follow?”

“If it keeps the police chasing a ghost, then it worked,” Jamal says.

I watch him a moment. “Fitting you said that.”

His face screws up a little.

“Jackson thinks some…spiritual force of evil is behind these types of heinous crimes. I think he got the heebie-jeebies from talking with Arocha.”

“Aro…who?”

“Arocha. The kidnapper who survived,” I say.

“Oh, yeah. The nut who got out of prison after a few years. Insanity plea, right?”

“Sort of. Various mental issues…can’t remember how the court categorized it. But he said some things to Jackson, which coincided with what Natalie could remember and these tattoos gave him a trail to follow, which led to the file he sent me.”

“You know this is torture to the poor woman, right?”

“Sorry?”

“It’s torture to keep bringing it up to Natalie. She can’t change the past. She was abducted. Thankfully she remembers very little. But to keep asking questions after all these years…you’re not going to solve anything by doing this. The one man alive who did the crime served his time. There’s nothing to be gained.”

Lunch arrives, our plates piled high with steaming food. Jamal watches me, waiting for a response.

“There’s more to this than what I told you.”

J
amal shakes his head and starts eating the Reuben he ordered. “I’m not sure I want to know any more about this history…but go ahead if you must. It was torture for my family, yours, and Natalie’s, and now you’re pulling it out of the scrapbook like there’s some fond childhood feelings there.”

My face contorts on its own. “Dasher was killed by me, not the cops.”

He sets his sandwich down and acts like he’s curious. He suspects I’m only joking. His head tilts to the side and he eyes me a moment. “You’re saying that the reports were—”

“Make-believe, yes.”