The Lost Diamond

One of the most peculiar cases I had to turn down was that of a widow, a mysterious woman who wanted to hire my services immediately and exclusively. In other words, she asked me to abandon anything else I might be doing to dedicate myself solely to her.

Following her instructions, I waited to meet her at a corner near the Central police station. However, it wasn’t she herself who came to fetch me but her accountant, who, in his own words, was a person of utmost trust. I got into the accountant’s car, and together, we drove to a modest restaurant on the outskirts of the city, almost an hour away. Everything was very strange, from the meeting on a street corner to all the nervous changes of direction during the trip to avoid being tracked by someone else.

Some of my jobs have these characteristics. A spiritualist, shaman, witch, or healer, call me what you will, can be a powerful tool for solving a problem, but at the same time, it can be a detriment to a public figure who relies heavily on their public image. For instance, a photo in the media of a presidential candidate talking to a spiritualist could project an image of weakness or even dependence on the “beyond,” which would certainly spell the end of any chance for success. This is why I had to meet potential clients in unusual circumstances several times, just to keep us out of sight of potentially harmful individuals.

This seemed to be one of those cases. We sat waiting for my client in that humble, air-conditioning-free restaurant. The accountant ordered a beer, and I requested a bottle of mineral water. He then suggested I try one of the house specialties, which I politely declined, stating that I preferred to focus on the conversation with my client.

We started by talking about the weather, then about how that restaurant was known for some kind of food with a strange name, and later he became interested in the characteristics of my job. He asked me questions like whether I really spoke to the dead or if I could predict things that would happen in the future. There came a point when the conversation became quite tedious.

The lady arrived nearly an hour later. She was wearing very tight-fitting black sportswear, a cap of the same color, pale pink sneakers, and quirky sunglasses as if she were a movie star. When she greeted the accountant, I sensed that there might be a relationship beyond the purely professional between the two of them, but I didn’t pay much attention to it as it wasn’t a topic of interest to me.

“I got in touch with you thanks to one of my husband’s employees; he told me that you are very good at this,” she began, without taking off her sunglasses. She appeared quite uncomfortable, even nervous, as if she were searching for the right words to describe her need.

“My husband passed away three months ago. He was...” She couldn’t finish the sentence due to the emotion and placed her hand over her mouth as if trying to hold back tears. Everything seemed surreal. She gathered her strength and began to speak again. “He was a good person... but some of his business dealings were... well, they weren’t... they were, I don’t know how to say it... I’m very nervous.”

“Mr. Anderson had some involvement in businesses that weren’t entirely legal. He was killed three months ago by some competitors,” the accountant interrupted.

Having already passed the most difficult part of the introduction, the widow took the center of the conversation again.

“He never let me lack for anything. He always treated me with a lot of love and was very generous to me. Unfortunately, some killers took away the person I loved most in life, they took everything,” and then she began to pretend to cry again. By this point, I was feeling quite uncomfortable. She asked for water, and after taking two or three sips, she continued speaking.

“The person who recommended contacting you told me that you were the best of all, that if you can’t help me, no one can. Money won’t be a problem, Mr... what was your name?”

“My name ‘was’ Brandon Nagha, ma’am... and it still is Brandon Nagha,” I replied.

“Of course,” she said, “I was telling you that money won’t be a problem, Mr. Brandon. Just tell me how much you want to charge, and you’ll certainly deserve it.”

“What is it that you need?” I asked, trying to get to the point as quickly as possible.

“Well... my husband... he... handled a lot of money, a lot. And he couldn’t always declare everything he earned, you understand, right? He also couldn’t keep it in the bank, right?”

I nodded slightly, signaling for her to continue. I was starting to worry that I might be getting involved in something illegal myself.

“He had a lot of money hidden somewhere, a lot. But when he died, he took the secret of where that fortune was hidden with him. I searched everywhere I know, and I found nothing. The authorities have frozen all our assets and what little money was in the bank, so I’m almost broke. I need your help to talk to him and have him tell me where he hid all his money. I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”

“Do you want me to talk to your husband?” I asked, quite surprised by how casually she referred to the matter.

I remembered that just a few minutes before meeting the accountant, I had tried to contact my car mechanic. However, the weak signal on my cell phone caused me to drop the call three times, and in the end, I had to postpone it for another time. And I can guarantee that the mechanic was very much alive. How much more difficult it would have been if he were dead!

“Well... yes,” she said timidly, then added. “Or I can speak to him through you, meaning he enters your body and tells me where he hid the money. It works like that, doesn’t it? You don’t have to worry about anything because I’ll give you a share of the money we recover...”

“Ma’am,” I interrupted. “I don’t do that kind of work, and honestly, I doubt you’ll find any honest person willing to assist you in what you just mentioned. Consider this, what do you think would happen if I were to find out where the money is, and then provide you with false information? How can you be sure that neither I nor someone else would take advantage of you, either by charging you for doing nothing or by deceiving you and ultimately keeping all the hidden fortune? Again, I’m sorry to tell you that the type of work I do is not related to lending my body to people in the other world. I’m very sorry, but our meeting is over.”

The poor woman’s world came crashing down. Perhaps I had been her last hope, whether real or fictitious, of returning to a life filled with luxury and excess. This time, she was genuinely crying, softly, but for the first time, I saw tears falling beneath her superstar sunglasses. The accountant tried to comfort her, but she wasn’t in the mood for cuddling, so after pushing him away with her elbow, she asked me once more if I truly wouldn’t help her. In the end, she said a quick goodbye and I never saw her again.