Keep Quiet (18 page)

Jake caught sight of the treeline beyond the parking lot, and the jagged branches looked like so many hunting knives, cutting into the sky. He wondered for the umpteenth time if Deaner lived in the apartment building near Pike Road or worked in one of the businesses in the Concordia Corporate Center—or if he really knew anything about the accident, at all. Last night, Jake had searched online for information about Deaner or the accident, but found nothing new. He’d told Ryan not to confide in Dr. Dave, and Ryan had agreed, still shaken from driving down Pike Road again. When Jake had left him, Ryan was beginning to tackle his homework, his
American Pageant
textbook open next to his laptop. He was studying the American Dream, and Jake ignored the irony.

He saw his own troubled reflection ghosted in the window, but checked the parking lot again. Cars began to enter, but no sign of Deaner. In time a frigid sun climbed the sky, and cars arrived one by one, first among them his ace office administrator, Amy Carlino, who parked her maroon Acura next to his rental Toyota. She got out, gathered up her big purse, and eyed his car, undoubtedly worried about why Jake had a rental. He felt touched, wondering how disillusioned she would be if she knew about Pike Road.

Jake watched the Gardenia lot fill up, and his employees emerged from their Nissans, Jettas, and SUVs, their phones to their ears, juggling travel mugs, cigarettes, purses, and tote bags. None of the spaces was officially reserved or assigned, but the employees knew where each other parked, like seats at a dinner table. So far, no sign of Deaner.

His attention turned to the farther sections of the lot, scanning it for an unfamiliar car. The lot accommodated five other companies, all of them bigger than Gardenia, so any car could have belonged to Deaner. He checked out the drivers, but none was Deaner. In the meantime, he could hear the noises outside his door as Gardenia filled up with all sixteen employees, which included five portfolio managers that reported to him, as well as specialists in banking, fixed income, research, sales, and marketing.

“Jake?” said a voice behind him, and Jake startled, then swiveled his chair around. Amy stood in the open doorway, puzzled. “I knocked, but you didn’t hear me.”

“Amy, sorry.” Jake tried to get his head in the game. A cold sunlight filled his office, which had a side wall of light wood shelves, and a beige leather couch and matching chairs across his desk. His desk had a glass top that matched the one on a round conference table. Mullioned panels flanked his doorway.

“Mrs. LeMenile is out in reception. A new client, remember? She’s on your calendar for ten o’clock. You ready for her?”

“Sure. Yes.”

“You okay?” Amy searched his face with large, espresso-brown eyes. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Jake couldn’t remember the last time he’d lied to Amy, except for her surprise birthday parties, which he lied to her about routinely. “By the way, I had a fender bender over the weekend, so expect the insurance company to call.”

“I was wondering.” Amy frowned with concern. “Meanwhile, did you hear about that hit-and-run on Friday night? The girl went to Concord Chase? Did Ryan know her?”

“No.” Jake forced himself not to show any reaction. “Also, we may get a visit from a guy I know, named Lewis Deaner.”

“Okay, I’ll go get Mrs. LeMenile. Be right back.” Amy left and returned a few minutes later with a handsome older woman. “Jake, this is Mrs. Guinevere LeMenile,” Amy said, before she slipped out, closing the door.

“Hello, Mrs. LeMenile.” Jake rose to greet her, extending a hand, which Mrs. LeMenile shook, her grip surprisingly strong. She had sleek silvery hair, which was clipped back off of her lined face, and she was tall, weathered, and lean in a camelhair jacket, jeans, with brown boots that lent her a horsey air. Her hooded eyes were a lively gray-green, alert and sharp, set off by a green silk scarf.

“Jake, call me Guinevere. Wonderful to meet you.”

“Please, sit down.” Jake gestured to his conference table and sat down opposite her. “Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

“No, thanks, I haven’t much time.” Guinevere set her leather bag on the floor and plunked down in the chair, crossing her legs. “I’m here because my friend Helen Weissman recommended you. She can’t say enough good things about you and you made her a significant amount of money.”

“Thank you, and I think the world of Helen.”

“I’m a widow, and my husband died two years ago, leaving me with an estate of $5 million.” Guinevere’s manner was authoritative, and she didn’t pull out any bank statements, notes, or scraps of paper like many of his first-time clients. “Two million of that are the proceeds from his life-insurance policy, one is our combined savings, 401(k), and pension fund. I live in our home, which is worth two. My money is currently in short-term Treasury bills and I’m making nothing, but I’ve become very dissatisfied with the fees I’m paying my current financial planner. Even though I negotiated them down from 1 percent to .5 percent, it still seems utterly ridiculous for what is essentially a liquid asset, don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Jake answered, because she was absolutely right. Suddenly his attention was drawn away by activity at Amy’s desk, but he could only see part of what was going on through the mullioned windows.

“I think I’m ready to put that money to work for me, so I’ve come to you. Why don’t we begin by your telling me about Gardenia?”

“Sure. Right.” Jake wondered if it was Deaner at Amy’s desk, which would be odd. Guests had to wait in reception before being sent back. “We have almost a hundred … million dollars under our management.” Jake felt himself falter, distracted. “We look for high-quality stocks from established companies, ones that pay dividends, and—”

“I read that on your website.” Guinevere waved him into silence with a wrinkled hand. “I’d rather you explain how you make your investment decisions, exactly.”

“I would be your portfolio manager, but here we make our investment decisions as a group.” Jake tried to look past Guinevere to see what was going on, but couldn’t. “The investment committee, which I head, uh … meets three times a week and we share our expertise. We invest only in quality growth stocks, er, and there are only approximately thirty to forty of those.”

“Like which ones, for example?”

Jake had to think a minute, though he’d picked the stocks himself. “Disney, IBM, Eaton Corporation, Qualcomm, ExxonMobil, Johnson & Johnson, and Chevron, to name a few.”

“That list could use some tweaking, don’t you think?” Guinevere sniffed. “It doesn’t include the biotech companies, which are a very good buy right now.”

Jake could tell he was losing her, by a new distance in her demeanor. He tried to get his head in the game. “That brings me to an important point about Gardenia. We don’t follow trends or crazes. If you read the biotech companies are hot, that doesn’t cause us to rebalance your portfolio.”

“Why not? You’ll miss out. Rather,
I
will.”

“Our view is long-term.” Jake felt his mouth go dry when he saw Amy getting up. He caught a glimpse of her talking to someone, but couldn’t see whom. “A bubble can burst and a fad stock … can turn out to be a dog, and we don’t want you in that position. We diversify where appropriate to lower your risk.”

“Well, obviously.”

Jake couldn’t get back on track. He couldn’t have Deaner out there, on the loose, saying God knows that. “Nor do we … churn your portfolio. Our turnover average … is 15 to 25 percent over a year, much lower than the typical 75 percent.”

“But your fees are higher than a place like Vanguard.”

“That’s true, but … we charge nothing to manage Treasury bills or similarly liquid assets, and we charge 1.5 percent on stocks and 1 percent on—”

“That’s not insubstantial.” Guinevere lifted a graying eyebrow. “It’s higher than Vanguard, which is essentially offering its services at cost.”

“You’re comparing apples with oranges. They administer index funds, which are—”

“I know what an index fund is.” Guinevere frowned, a fissure deepening between her bright eyes. “Please don’t condescend to me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Jake swallowed hard. Amy left her desk, and people were milling around in the area. “Vanguard has $2 trillion under management … and 28 million clients—”

“What difference does that make?” Guinevere’s eyes narrowed. “They told me that at my asset level, they would assign me to an asset manager, just like you.”

“But we have a more personalized approach … not only in the stocks we select, but in the … uh … ancillary services we offer.” Jake couldn’t focus. He didn’t know where Amy was. “We view your portfolio … er, as merely one part of the whole that we will provide for you or your loved ones—”

“My husband and I had no children. There’s just me. When I die, my money goes to Thorncroft Equestrian Center.”

“Okay, then we can help you find an accountant and an estate lawyer—”

“I have an estate lawyer, and my will is in place, as is my living will and power of attorney.”

“Good, well, then.” Jake was kicking himself. He knew she’d have her ducks in a row. He reached onto the middle of the table, picked up a Gardenia promotional folder, and offered it to her. “This sets forth all of our ancillary services. For example, in the event of your incapacity or illness, we will step in and liaise with your estate lawyer. We can even pay your household bills for you—”

“In other words, you do a lot of hand-holding.” Guinevere set the Gardenia folder aside. “But I don’t need my hand held. I have a horse and a pony and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of both. In fact, they’re provided for in my will. So why do I need Gardenia?”

Jake found himself shifting in his chair, to see the hallway better. Amy still wasn’t back, and for a second, he felt a bolt of fear that Deaner could have done her harm. Anything was possible.

“Jake, that’s it! Am I
boring
you? Because you keep looking over my shoulder. Hmph!” Guinevere reached down and grabbed her bag. “You know, I had been worried that I was a rather low-net-worth individual for Gardenia. I saw on your website that many of your clients have assets of $10 million and up, and I’m concerned that my account wouldn’t get the attention I deserve.”

“Guinevere, wait, I assure you that $5 million is a lot of money by any measure, and it’s a lot of money to—”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve just made my decision.” Guinevere stood up and tucked her bag under her arm. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be on my way.”

“No, wait.” Jake jumped to his feet. “Hold on, please reconsider. I can assure you that here, you would get kid-glove, personalized treatment.”

“I’d rather save the fees.” Guinevere charged for the door, with Jake on her heels.

“But if you would—” Jake followed her out, only to find Lewis Deaner standing with Amy, in front of her desk.

“Jake?” Amy turned to him, in confusion. “Mr. Deaner says you asked him to stop by this morning, but I told him you were in with Mrs. LeMenile. I asked him to wait in reception, but he doesn’t seem to want to—”

“Hello, Jake.” Deaner’s eyes bored into Jake, from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Did you forget about our appointment?”

“Hmph!” Guinevere said, striding past the desk. “Just as I suspected. You double-booked the appointment. You’re worse than my gynecologist!”

Chapter Twenty-two

“What the hell is this about?” Jake folded his arms, standing against the windows while Deaner’s light blue eyes flitted around, taking in the glass desktops, watercolors pressed between glass panes, and crystal awards. It struck Jake for the first time that almost everything in his office was breakable.

“Jake, you should ask me to sit down.” Deaner met his gaze coolly. “Isn’t that what you do with clients?”

“You’re not a client. Tell me why you’re here.”

“Then what am I? Or more accurately, what are we going to tell your employees I am?” Deaner spoke quietly, and his tone was reasonable. He had several fine lines in his forehead, so he must have been older than Jake had thought at the game, maybe in his fifties. “Because if Amy doesn’t think I’m a client, you’re going to have to explain who I am and why I’m here. Unless you want me to.”

“Sit down, then.” Jake hated that Deaner knew Amy’s name. He must have gotten it off the website.

“You should sit opposite me, shouldn’t you? Play your part, Mr. Financial Planner.” Deaner unzipped his parka, and lowered himself into the chair.

“Tell me what’s this all about.” Jake stood his ground, behind the chair.

“Shouldn’t I look like I’m taking notes? That’s what clients do when you talk, isn’t it, Jake? They write down what you say?” Deaner slid a pad and pen from the center of the table, wrote something, and flipped it around to show it to Jake. It read,
Go, Ryan, go!

Jake’s heart thudded in his chest. “Why are you here? Who are you? What’s your real name?”

Deaner didn’t reply, but set down the pad and picked up the Gardenia promotional folder. He slid out a brochure, which had a photo of Jake in shirtsleeves, smiling confidently. “Nice tie.”

“Answer my question.”

“Slick materials. Very upmarket.” Deaner waved the brochure. “No one would ever guess where you and Ryan were Friday night.”

Jake froze. He forced himself to stay in control. Not to confirm or deny. Deaner could be bluffing, or he could be an undercover cop or a private investigator, even wearing a wire.

“Now, sit down. You’ll need to.”

Jake lowered himself into the chair. His chest tight, his mouth dry.

“I figure you make almost a million bucks a year.” Deaner set the Gardenia folder aside. “Your house is probably worth about $550K, and I bet it’s paid off. You’re not a flashy guy. You live below your means. You’re cheap, which means you have a ton of dough in savings, pension plan, 401(k), college fund for Ryan. I’m guessing almost a million, and you trade your own account. You’re trying to grow it. How’m I doing?”

“Get to the point.”

“Fine. I know what happened Friday night.” Deaner pushed up his glasses with a finger that had a bitten-off nail. “Ryan was driving your car and he hit the jogger. You both got out of the car. You switched seats with him and drove away.”