Free Jay Giles by Blindsided (A Thriller)

anything. Those aren’t transactions I executed for Joe. Maybe someone else made them for him.”
          “Are you sure? They have your number on them.” He was referring to the identifying number assigned each broker.
          “My number? Can’t be.” I switched on my computer, called up the trade blotters that detailed Joe’s file. I knew they wouldn’t be there. They weren’t.
          “You say they’re on my buy/sell confirmation forms?”
          “They’re not on your forms, no.”
          “Well, that’s it then,” I said confidently. “Somebody is throwing those trades my way.” Throwing a trade was how brokers described giving someone else credit for the transaction. Usually, it happened if you had someone in your office who was sick or needed additional income for some reason. Even though you made the trade, you put their number on the transaction so they earned the commission. “What’s the company? Maybe we can clear this up.”
          “I’m afraid it’s not going to be quite that easy.”
          “Why?”
          “It’s your old firm—”
          “Merrill Lynch in Detroit ?”
          “Merrill Lynch here in Sarasota .”
          “That doesn’t make sense. They helped me when I first moved down here, but since I set up my brokerage I haven’t had any dealings with them. I’m a local competitor.”
          “That may be, Mr. Seattle, but the fact is these transactions have your number on them.”
          “What about dates? What about Merrill’s blotters? This is all trumped—”
          “Mr. Seattle, please, my purpose in calling you was to shed light on these transactions. At the proper time, you’ll have your chance to refute them.”
          I wasn’t so sure about that. There wasn’t any mystery to me about why these transactions had suddenly surfaced. Nevitt must have calculated I wasn’t to the four hundred percent automatic loss of license yet, and had someone throw some trades my way. I had Fowler repeat the buys for me, asked him to fax me copies of the slips. When we were finished on the phone, I did the math. Sure enough. I was at four hundred and two percent.
          I went back to my rolodex, found Tory’s number. She could uncover who threw the trades. I dialed her number, got her machine. At the beep, I said, “Tory, it’s Matt Seattle. I could use your help again. I need to find out who at Merrill Lynch made some stock transactions and put my broker’s number on them. Can you give me a call and let me know a time we can get together. Thanks. ‘Bye.”
          I hung up the receiver, started to check my voice mail, changed my mind. “C’mon, Eddie,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
          Back at the condo, I changed into my workout clothes, headed down to the gym. I did an hour on the machines, hour on the treadmill. By the time I finished, I felt it. Eddie and I went for a quick walk. I took a shower, and went to bed.
          I didn’t have dreams that night but woke to a torrential downpour. August was the rainy season, but that August was unusually wet. I stood and looked out the bedroom window. Rain fell in sheets. Eddie didn’t like going out any more than I did, but he cooperated with a very quick walk. Didn’t help, we still got soaked.
          The drive to work was a mess. With Florida ’s poor drainage, the roads—especially the ones around St. Armand’s Circle—were flooded, water often half way up the Saab’s wheel wells.
          Eddie, sitting in the front passenger seat, was trembling. He didn’t like the noise of the high water under the car. I reached over and patted him. “Not a fit day out for man or beast, I know, but we’ll get there.”
          We got our second soaking of the morning making the dash from the car to the front door. Inside, Eddie shook. My third soaking. Finished, he gave me kind of an oh-did-I-do-that look