Murder over broken bonds, p.1
Murder Over Broken Bonds, page 1
Rebecca Saltzer
MURDER OVER BROKEN BONDS
A Wall Street Mystery
First published by Level Best Books 2023
Copyright © 2023 by Rebecca Saltzer
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Rebecca Saltzer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-68512-292-8
Cover art by Level Best Designs
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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To my mother, Marlys Anne Hughes Saltzer
Contents
Praise for Murder Over Broken Bonds
Prologue
1. The Money Trail
2. The Shark
3. Ascending the Throne
4. Minimizing Losses
5. The Meeting
6. Flagrante Delicto
7. On or Off the Record
8. Half-eaten Scone
9. The Note
10. The Party
11. The Clink
12. Midday Call
13. The Chinese Wall
14. The Weekend Beckons
15. Let’s Make a Deal
16. The Check
17. The Three Musketeers
18. The Club
19. The Widow
20. One Hundred Pennies
21. The Opera
22. An Untimely Death
23. The Evidence
24. Betty
25. Alex
26. A Failure to Pin
27. Epilogue
Glossary of Terms
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise for Murder Over Broken Bonds
“A bond analyst at the firm of Spencer Brothers, sharp-witted and innocent Anne Scott is about to step into the back alleys of Wall Street, where corruption, murder, philandering, and fraud lurk in the corners. With a plot that builds to a tense climax and a helpful glossary for readers not familiar with Wall Street jargon, author Saltzer leads us into the heart of investment brokers, bonds, traders, and the men and women who inhabit the world of money. Murder Over Broken Bonds will shock you, scare you, disgust you by the chicanery, and delight you by the young protagonist’s determined insistence on justice. Just be sure to check your investments before you read this book.”—Libi Siporin, author of the Leah Contarini Mystery Series
“Murder Over Broken Bonds is an engrossing page-turner that sets money, greed, lust, and murder against a backdrop of financial wrongdoing within a 1980’s NYC trading firm. In her debut novel, Rebecca Saltzer weaves the lives of bond analysts, lawyers, and other questionable characters together as they try to discover the truth without becoming the next victim. Murder Over Broken Bonds is a clever, fast-paced novel that will leave the reader wondering right up until the final pages.”—Desmond P. Ryan, Toronto Police Detective (Ret’d), author of The Mike O’Shea Crime Fiction Series and The Mary-Margaret Cozy Series
“Put on your pinstripes and slog the day away in a cubicle on Saltzer’s Wall Street to make your six figures plus annual bonus. Join the in-house lawyers, bond analysts, and traders teetering on that high wire between regulation and temptation as they scheme their way to the corner office. Now throw in the mysterious death of a sleazy investment banker. Will you be cunning enough to penetrate the darkest secrets and see through the desperate lies when one of your co-workers is the culprit?”—June Trop, author of the Miriam bat Isaac Mystery Series
“Murder Over Broken Bonds is set in the fast-paced world of stocks and bonds, where big money means big opportunity for corruption. When bond analyst Anne Scott discovers irregularities in her company’s municipal bond portfolio, she’s thrust into an investigation no one wants her to pursue. Least of all, the handsome Michael Kingston, the top executive who orchestrated the shaky transactions. As Anne pursues the truth, the search turns deadly. First one, then another, of the bond developers dies a suspicious death. And Anne receives threatening phone calls. Could she be the next victim? Debut author Rebecca Saltzer delivers a powerful behind-the-scenes look at dealmakers who succumb to the biggest murder motive of all: greed. You won’t want to miss it.”—Anna St. John, author of Doomed by Blooms
Prologue
January 17, 1989
The city was just beginning to wake when the pills were stirred carefully into his favorite coffee blend, its nutty aroma rising to greet him as he walked through the door. Still shivering from his walk in the crisp pre-dawn air, he set his briefcase down and gladly accepted the warm cup.
An hour later, he swaggered into the conference room, greeting his three other business partners like long-lost friends. Had anything worked out with that lovely waitress? Wink. Wink. And what about that promised game of Squash? To a casual observer, there would be no hint they had met beforehand and developed a plan. As they continued their lively banter, he began to feel warm and clammy and a rumbling of irritation. It looked like they would be getting a late start because the woman who had insisted on the meeting had not yet bothered to arrive.
She appeared as if by magic moments later, looking vibrant and sensuous, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Ignoring the sudden urge to pull her toward him, he closed the door and pointed to the one remaining chair.
And then the meeting he had been dreading finally began.
Everyone was civil at first, unsure of what would happen. It soon became clear that the woman’s comrade-in-arms, a dry, dull lawyer, planned to walk through every excruciating detail of the financial enterprise. As his allies shifted in their seats, rolling eyes at one another and sighing deeply, he began to feel vaguely nauseous. “Is this really necessary?” he asked at one point, aware that if the stuffed shirt insisted on continuing in this manner, the meeting would never end.
There was a short, still silence while Mr. Boring considered his reply.
Of course, the lawyer insisted on continuing in the same plodding and tedious manner, egged on by his fawning accomplice, who sat in rapt attention, a small smile playing on her silky lips. He found himself growing increasingly annoyed by the pair, but particularly with the uppity young Brit, his nondescript suit, and clipped manner of speaking. It was obvious the pinhead was going to be a problem.
Ignoring the headache that was clamoring for attention, he turned his thoughts to the vacation house he had recently purchased in the Caribbean, imagining his girlfriend lounging comfortably on the veranda. She would look perfect in a banana-yellow bikini with a margarita in her hand as she basked in the sun’s warm rays and slowly turned a golden shade of bronze. Just envisioning the scene caused a wave of heat to pulse rhythmically within his chest. He twitched as the warmth rose up his neck, fanned over his cheeks, and then slowly drained out through his fingers and legs. Hoping that no one had noticed, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to mop his wet brow.
“Do you have anything to add?” The lawyer fixed his reptilian eyes on him, waiting for a reply.
“Not right now,” he said, his headache throbbing painfully as his vision began to narrow. Was he coming down with the flu? It was the height of the season, after all. He tried to focus on the conversation at hand. It was important to get through this meeting and convince these two twerps to focus their attention elsewhere and forget about the bonds.
And then his most reliable partner began to erupt, spewing brainless comments, his face a deep shade of red. The rest of the coalition looked at him warily, obviously wondering the same thing. Why couldn’t the idiot just sit still and shut up? Normally malleable and easy-going, Red-face was becoming a huge liability and had to be stopped.
Immediately.
Summoning his remaining energy, he called a recess, and the partners privately reconvened in his office to review their strategy. It wasn’t rocket science. All they had to do was pretend to cooperate. Were they in agreement? They nodded. No more outbursts. Everyone would stick to the script.
He lingered behind for a minute with the excuse that he needed to make a quick call. But the truth was that he needed a moment to catch his breath and briefly rest. He was feeling light-headed and wobbly, as if he might fall, and there was an odd tingling in his feet, almost a trembling, that seemed to be moving upward toward his knees.
He moved his finger toward the intercom button, intending to summon his secretary. She could bring a glass of water and two aspirin to quell his banging head. At the same time, he would instruct her to destroy the checks. The tiny slips of paper had long ago served their purpose and were now the last piece of evidence linking him to the transactions in question.
But before he could complete the operation, his world turned dark.
Instead, she would open the door a few minutes later with a relaxed, cheery smile, no idea anything was amiss. She would assume he had fallen asleep after arriving at work so early that morning and gently tap his shoulder in an effort to avoid startling him. But that light touch would be enough to upset t he delicate balance, causing his chair to roll sideways and his lifeless body to slide. The shiny mahogany desk, carefully polished to glimmer and gleam, would provide no opposing resistance to the motion, and she would watch in horror as he landed on the floor with a loud, echoing thump.
1
The Money Trail
Two Weeks Earlier
It began as a routine check on some housing bonds that one of the traders had acquired earlier in the day. Vito had purchased them blindly, at a bargain basement price, and now it was up to Anne to fill in the details so he could turn around and sell them at a profit. She began by calling the bank overseeing the terms.
“We’ve had no problems with them.” The trustee sounded bored. “The interest payments have always been on time. It’s a solid performer.”
She knew Vito would be relieved. He had taken a risk in buying them without having that information securely in hand. She tapped her pen lightly on the desk and asked idly how much money the bank was holding in reserve, in the event of a cash shortfall, thinking it would complete her records.
“I don’t have the exact numbers in front of me,” he replied. It was almost imperceptible but nonetheless caught her attention. She was certain he had hesitated before answering, “It’s whatever’s spelled out in the prospectus.”
Anne abruptly stopped tapping her pen.
“How much cash do you have on hand?” she asked carefully and then waited, feeling a bit like a fox hunting a rabbit, closing in on its den.
The ensuing silence spoke volumes. In her mind, she began to take aim. “Are you telling me there’s no money set aside?” and in response to his stuttered replies, “At all?!” As the answers slowly trickled out, she continued digging deeper, recording little nuggets of information on the notepad in front of her.
After hanging up the phone, she left her tiny, brown cubicle on the edge of the trading floor and walked briskly past five equally drab cubicles that housed the rest of the municipal bond research staff, coming to a stop as she scanned the trading operation. She spotted Vito sitting in his regular spot, tucked in a long row of desks that was one of many rows of desks filled with traders who bought and sold municipal bonds for Spencer Brothers in New York City. The floor around them hummed with the sounds of people talking, phones ringing, photocopiers grinding, fax machines beeping, and an occasional harried trader barking orders across the room to one of the support staff. The arrangement reminded her of a busy parking lot in which all the available spaces had been taken, and the cars that didn’t already have one were left to mill around, waiting for one to open.
“What d’ya mean the bank doesn’t have the money?” Vito asked, drawing his head back and squinting his eyes. “They always have the money. That’s their job,” he insisted, “to handle the money.” He looked as if he didn’t quite believe her.
She, too, had been flabbergasted to discover that the trustee did not actually hold any of the bond proceeds or manage the interest payments. She had never heard of a municipal bond issue where the real estate developer was handed the construction funds to spend as he wished, when he wished, without any sort of direct supervision. “It’s odd,” Anne agreed. “I’m not quite sure what to make of it. The good news is that all of the interest payments have been on time so far.”
“Vito!” A junior trader sitting diagonally across interrupted. “A hundred of those Detroit bonds just came up.” His face had a look of eager anticipation, like a dog expecting to be taken for a walk.
“Sit tight!” Vito ordered, glancing quickly at his screen. He swiveled around to face her, his eyes darting back and forth as he spoke. “What about the project? Does it look profitable?”
That was just one of many questions she had. “He doesn’t know,” she replied, making sure to stand tall, with both of her feet firmly planted on the floor, knowing that if he sensed any hint of insecurity, he would rip her apart without a moment’s hesitation. “He suggested I ask the builder, but I haven’t been able to reach him.”
The trader shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his large frame straining against the stark white shirt he wore, causing a button near the center to look perilously taut. After a string of expletives, he said, “I own a bunch of these bonds. You need to get ahold of that guy.”
Anne nodded. It was crucial she reach the builder. Not only to confirm what the trustee had told her, but to make sure there was sufficient cash flow to pay the upcoming interest that would be due in a month. For all they knew, the bonds were on the verge of default. “It’s my highest priority.”
His shoulders relaxed, and Vito resumed studying the numbers dancing lazily across his computer display, alternately offering bonds for sale and then listing ones that had already been taken. “Let me know when you have something more,” he said, his eyes still glued to the screen.
She started to turn toward her cubicle, but stopped when she heard her name being called out from somewhere to the left. She pinpointed the source standing halfway down the row with a phone in each hand.
“Hang on,” the stalwart trader said into the receivers and then pressed them both to his chest. “Got a sec?”
She nodded and took a step in his direction, bracing herself for whatever might come next.
The trader returned the left phone to his ear for a moment and mumbled something before slamming it down. “Eat that!” Chuckling, he put the remaining phone back on his right ear. “I’ll take six hundred.” He high-fived his trading assistant, mouthing sucker, and then picked up where he had left off with Anne. “Any progress on those Nebraska Airport bonds?”
After updating him on the financial state of the bonds (surprisingly stable, probably a good buy), taking down the name of another that a junior trader was interested in purchasing (probably a pass, but she’d confirm and get back to him), and clarifying a complicated bond provision for one of the salesmen (his client would be second-to-last in the bankruptcy line), she finally made her way off of the trading floor, grabbed a Coke and Hershey’s chocolate bar with almonds from the snack machine, and returned to her cubicle. She kicked off her shoes, pulled the tab off the can, and called the real estate developer’s office in Atlanta, again without success.
“Anne!” One of the secretaries yelled out, just as she took her last bite of chocolate. “There’s a broker on line two who’s having a cow about some hospital in Philly.”
She twisted her dark blond hair into a bun, securing it with a pencil, before picking up the phone and beginning the post-mortem: the hospital was in receivership, there was no chance of making the bond investors whole, the financial picture was grim.
Anne looked up from jotting some notes to see Donna, one of her co-workers, standing at the entrance to her cubicle. A chain smoker, she rolled an unlit cigarette back and forth between her fingers, which sported neon pink, glittery polish on long, pointy nails.
“Vito’s sweating bullets out there,” Donna said, followed by a raspy cough. “A million more of those same bonds just came up for sale.”
Anne drew a sharp breath. It was possible somebody was dumping them, that they knew something was terribly wrong.
“Is the housing project okay?”
Anne bit her lip. It was the million-dollar question. “I don’t know,” she said, feeling like a failure as Donna’s bloodshot eyes scrutinized her. “I’m having trouble reaching the developer. Every time I call, his secretary says he’s in a meeting.”
“Keep pushing.”
Anne looked at her, surprised. The two of them were peers who normally worked independently. It wasn’t The Puff Queen’s place to tell her how to do her job. And she had been pushing. Quite hard. She began to wonder, why the sudden interest?
Donna leaned toward her, reeking of stale cigarettes. “I just overheard some discussion about layoffs,” she whispered.
Layoffs? Anne blinked. It was the last thing she needed to hear. It had been less than six months since she had bitten the bullet and purchased a condo, discarding the random assortment of banged-up second-hand tables and chairs from her apartment-renting days, instead filling it with sleek, modern Crate and Barrel furniture and trendy rugs that coordinated in style and color. Between the mortgage and other general expenses, she would be in a tough spot if she lost her job right now. And her smug sister would have a field day.
