Discretion by David Balzarini Page A

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
    T he 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