Murder Over Broken Bonds: A Wall Street Mystery

By Rebecca Saltzer

Anne Scott always knew that working on Wall Street wasn't for the faint of heart, but she never expected to see a senior investment banker storm out of a meeting and then turn up dead in his office a few minutes later. As she unravels the man's financial shenanigans, she encounters a web of shady partners, c

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: May 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685122928

Rebecca Saltzer

Rebecca Saltzer worked as a bond analyst on the trading floor at Lehman Brothers in New York City in the financial heyday of the eighties. Like the protagonist in her novel, she sometimes encountered fraud and other questionable business practices, except in real life, none of it led to murder. In 2021, Rebecca received the William F. Deeck-Malice Domestic Grant for unpublished writers. When she's not writing, she enjoys hiking with her two rescue dogs and exploring the great outdoors.

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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

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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 the 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.

Equities lost a wad last month, Donna hissed, revealing her nicotine-stained teeth. Word is that Spencer Brothers is scrounging for cash.

No wonder the atmosphere on the floor had seemed more fierce than usual the last few days. Anne took a deep breath and looked at the folders and financial statements scattered over her desk. Just like Pinkerton Investments, she said slowly. The previous week Pinkerton had closed up shop without warning, giving their employees one week of severance pay.

Donna twisted the point of her long black heel back and forth on the carpet. Exactly. Now’s not the time to get on Vito’s hit list. The last time there were layoffs— She was interrupted by the sound of Anne’s phone ringing. Hopefully, that’s the builder, Donna said, tottering away.

Anne felt a rush of anticipation as she turned to answer it. Maybe she would finally get some answers. And Vito off her back.

Miss Scott? A deep, gravelly voice said cheerfully. I’m glad I finally reached you.

She tapped one foot against the other, willing the conversation to be short, while the broker on the other end of the line began to explain his customer’s financial predicament.

* * *

As trading neared its close, Anne dialed the number for the developer in Georgia once more.

I’m sorry, his secretary spoke pleasantly, with a slight southern accent, but he’s on the other line. Would you care to leave a message?

Anne frowned. She had already left several that day to no avail. There was no question in her mind that he was trying to avoid her. I’ll hold.

I’m not sure how long he’ll be.

Anne said nothing in reply, letting the awkward silence hang heavily between them.

Wouldn’t you rather leave a message?

No, Anne said firmly.

The woman sighed. Let me see what I can do.

Anne swiveled back and forth in her chair as she waited, oblivious to the various conversations and political maneuverings taking place in the adjoining cubicles. Her attention was riveted on the problem before her and the growing impatience she felt at this man’s deliberate game-playing.

After several minutes, his secretary returned to the line. Miss Scott?

Anne could tell from the woman’s tentative tone that she was in the unenviable position of delivering bad news. Again. Her eyes narrowed as she waited to hear the excuse this time.

He asked me to tell you that he’s gotta’ scoot and suggested you call back in the mornin’.

Scoot? Anne snapped forward in her chair. That was it. She had had enough of his runaround. She took a deep breath and ramped up the pressure. "You tell him if he doesn’t pick up the phone this instant, I will contact the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and whoever else I can think of! Does he really want that kind of adverse publicity?"

She had begun by speaking slowly, in measured terms, but by the end, had accelerated her pitch and speed so much that the words came out quickly and forcefully. Perhaps too forcefully.

Oh! My goodness! I’m not sure that’s necessary.

The secretary sounded stunned, and Anne felt a pang of guilt. Her issue was with the builder, who refused to take her call, not this poor woman on the other end of the line. As Anne waited to see what would happen next, she hoped none of the bond analysts in the adjoining cubicles had overheard her. She could already envision the potential jokes it would engender about her being overwrought, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and in immediate need of a chill pill. But it was imperative to reach him. He was the next link in the chain, and threatening to contact the newspapers was the only concrete idea that had flashed into her mind as a way to get his attention. It was times like these when she wished she had more privacy.

Let me just check— the secretary sounded flustered. Perhaps he— There was a rustling that sounded like her hand was covering the phone. Well, what do you know!

Miraculously, he was now available to take the call.

I’m fixin’ to leave in just a few minutes, he began with a gracious southern drawl, but I can chat with you briefly.

Anne explained that she was a bond analyst at Spencer Brothers, an investment bank in New York City, and then inquired about the housing project the bonds were supposed to finance.

It ain’t been built yet.

She felt her eyes widen. Why not?

The ground’s frozen. We’re waitin’ for it to thaw.

But it’s been four years….

We’ve got lots of projects on our plate.

He paused, and she heard what sounded like spitting in the background. Chewing tobacco?

Honey, how old are you?

What? she sputtered.

Your age, he drawled. I’m wondering—

Why do you ask? she replied warily, reminded that she would be turning thirty in three months’ time and was still single, not that it was any of his business.

You don’t sound like you have much experience with financing construction projects.

Seriously? He was going down this path? She took a deep breath. Actually, I’ve been a bond analyst at Spencer Brothers for the last eight years. In my experience, a four-year construction delay is…unusual.

Don’t know what to tell ya.

There was a brief pause, and she debated whether to push him harder on the issue.

Is that everythin’? he said, with a tinge of annoyance, followed by another spitting sound.

Not quite. She shifted to the subject of the construction money. The trustee tells me they turned the entire $45 million over to you when the deal closed. Where has that money been sitting while you wait to break ground?

Listen, honey, he replied slowly and deliberately, whoever gave you that piece of manure is dumber than a sack of rocks. I ain’t got the money.

She felt her pulse quicken, but tried to maintain a level tone. Are you saying the bank never gave it to you?

That’s right, honey. I never touched it.

"Then who did they give it to?"

Dunno.

She blinked, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. If you don’t have the money and the project hasn’t been built, then how are you paying the interest due every six months on the loan?

Lady, he answered in a tone of slight alarm. I ain’t got nothin’ to do with that loan. It gets paid in some other way.

What way?

Cain’t say for sure.

You have a $45 million construction loan, and you don’t know how it gets paid off, and you don’t know where the money actually is? She knew her tone sounded incredulous, accusatory even, but she didn’t care. She was fed up with his nonsense and determined to get to the bottom of the missing funds.

Y’all are barkin’ up the wrong tree. His voice had risen an octave. You should be talking to Marvin Goldberg. Not me.

Who?

Hang on.

He put her on hold and then returned after a few moments with a telephone number.

"Marvin runs a small boutique up in your neck of the woods, Onyx River Investments. He paused, and she heard him spit again, louder this time. He’s the one you should’ve called in the first place, honey. Knows all about the bonds and the money."

And how would she have possibly known to call this Marvin person? He was not mentioned in the prospectus. In fact, it seemed like a number of pertinent details were missing from the official documents she had pulled that afternoon while waiting for this potato head to take her call.

"Now, I was