Murder Over Broken Bonds, page 13
Typical for brokerage firm functions, spouses and significant others were specifically excluded. In addition, the functions were always held on Friday nights so that the heavy-duty partygoers would not miss work the following day.
He nodded toward the DJ, partially obscured by a partition in the corner. “This music sucks. I hope they bring out a live band later on.”
“They will,” Donna said, magically appearing by his side in a short mini-skirt with black fishnet tights. “They always do.”
Tottering on six-inch stiletto heels, she looked like she might lose her balance at any moment. But the thing that caught Anne’s attention was her eyes. They were rimmed with thick, black eyeliner and little wings on each corner, making her look like a leopard. The only thing missing were black spots.
The trader leaned toward Donna and pointed at his empty glass, “Ready for another?” She nodded, linked her arm around his, and the two disappeared toward the bar.
Anne spotted Jennifer halfway across the room, headed her way. “Brace yourself,” Jennifer greeted her with a dramatic arm flourish. “Mr. Excitement is about to speak.”
As if on cue, the lights came up, the music stopped, and the room went silent.
Everyone turned to look at the President standing on a small podium that had been erected near the front. He rolled up his sleeves, cleared his throat, and began to drone on and on. This time it was about the importance of teamwork, positive attitudes, and maintaining respect for one’s fellow employees. From the stifled yawns and continual shifting of restless bodies in the seats, Anne read the general sentiment in the crowd as one of utter boredom. How could he not sense it, too? She looked over at Jennifer, who rolled her eyes as if to say, See, I told you.
When he was finally through, he was rewarded with a loud burst of applause. Anne assumed it was both out of politeness due to his high station in the company and also out of a sense of thrill and relief that the tedious part of the evening was finally over.
Everyone moved to the huge room reserved for dinner and partying, where Anne’s suspicions were confirmed.
“Get real,” one person said to her, “our firm is the most cutthroat in the business. I don’t think most of our people even know the definition of teamwork.”
Anne couldn’t help but agree.
Another said to her, “If I don’t stab someone else first, then I’ll find myself bleeding all over the floor. A lot of good that would do my family.”
An understandable concern, Anne conceded.
As she had expected, the room was dark, the band was pretty good, and the traders and salesmen, especially the married ones, were busy getting drunk and making passes at the young clerical help. Anne and Jennifer stood on the sidelines watching the antics unfold on the dance floor.
“Typical,” Jennifer said as one of the traders removed his tie and started ripping his shirt.
“I think he did the same thing last year,” Anne replied as he climbed up on a table and started chugging his beer. “But he looks a little more wobbly than I remember.”
“The sad thing is I would actually enjoy dancing,” Jennifer lamented. “But if we go out there, we’ll just be relegated to the bimbo pond.”
Anne nodded. “I know. That’s why we’re standing here like wallflowers.” Two other guys started removing their ties, and a chorus of shouts could be heard egging them on to join the ripping frenzy. “Seems like a real waste of money. Those are probably expensive shirts.”
“My wife would kill me if I did that,” a voice boomed from the side. “She’s already ticked off that she isn’t allowed to come to the party in the first place.” It was one of the traders Anne helped from time to time, who had been sitting by the bar drinking with his buddies. He was generally friendly and easy to deal with. “And they really ought to cut Renata off. She’s barely able to walk.”
Anne looked over to where he was pointing and saw one of the secretaries stumbling toward the ladies’ room.
“She looks like she could use some help,” Jennifer yelled, heading over toward the inebriated woman. The music was thumping loudly, making it hard to hear.
“We’ve almost finished dumping those bonds you worked on,” the trader shouted over the din. “What a mess.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Strange business, Michael Kingston killing himself last week. It’s the last thing I would have expected him to do.”
“You knew him?”
“Yeah. We went to high school together. Back when his name was Otis Reichenbach.” He took a swig of his beer. “He was a real riot.”
“You knew him in high school?” she shouted back, unsure whether she had heard him correctly. “But his name was different?”
“Yeah,” he bellowed. The floor was now physically shaking, and she leaned closer to him, straining to hear his response. “His father worked the night shift at Hadley Machine Works. Like mine did. We both grew up in Paterson, New Jersey.” He moved sideways as a gyrating body came dangerously close to knocking his beer, and she followed him. “Total dump. Back then, the only thing any of us wanted was to get outta there.” He took another swig of his beer.
“And his name was different?” She asked again, in disbelief.
“Yeah. He changed it after he went to prison.”
“Prison?” The music swelled up in a roaring frenzy, mimicking her furiously beating heart.
“He got caught stealing a car with another guy at school. Happened a few weeks before graduation. He was always pulling stunts like that. Conning people. Stealing things. He would make stuff up like it was nobody’s business. And he got away with it a lot of the time too.” The trader shrugged and then added, “He was a really sharp guy.”
Anne was dumbfounded. Nothing that related to Michael Kingston was what it seemed. The lights began strobing as the music died down to a low rumble. She seized the opportunity to ask another question. “How long was he in prison?”
“Less than a year. Probably 9 months. When he got out—man, was he built! He must’ve lifted weights the entire time he was there. I ran into him a couple of times at Keene College.” The music began another crescendo.
“I thought he went to Harvard,” she screamed, trying to be heard over the deafening noise. “That’s what the papers reported.” She felt vaguely disoriented, unsure whether it was due to the contradictory information she was hearing or if she was simply suffering from sensory overload.
“That business about him going to Harvard and Stanford was all bullshit,” the trader yelled back. “He went to Keene College for a few semesters and never even graduated. And the Rhode Island stuff? He must’ve just made it all up. He was a con artist through and through.” He laughed as he spoke, as if he was impressed by how much the man had gotten away with, perhaps even envious.
“And you’re sure that Michael Kingston was this Otis guy you knew in high school? Absolutely sure?” Anne’s throat was starting to hurt from all the yelling.
“No question about it. I bumped into him on the elevator a few years ago. That’s when I found out he worked at Spencer Brothers, just like me. It’s a small world.” He drained his beer.
“Did you tell anyone? Like his boss?”
He shook his head. “Why would I? He’d served his time. And he could’ve been a useful person to know if he hadn’t gone and killed himself.” He pointed at the empty bottle and said, “Time for a refill,” and then headed back to the bar.
Anne tried to process what she had just heard, but the pounding music made it hard to think. Did it matter that Michael had changed his name? It certainly meant he had reinvented himself. But did that figure somehow into his murder? If he was indeed murdered. Maybe he had gotten tired of the charade and simply decided to throw in the towel. Or, maybe…
“How’re you enjoying yourself?” It was one of the salesmen interrupting her train of thought. A nice guy she enjoyed helping on occasion, he took his fiduciary responsibilities seriously and would only sell risky bonds to sophisticated investors who understood the financial implications. Likewise, he appeared to imbibe responsibly, wandering around with a drink in hand but not completely plastered. They chatted amiably for a few minutes before he moved on and started talking with someone else. She looked over toward the ladies’ room and saw Jennifer emerging with Renata in tow.
“Does Vito have a girlfriend?” Renata asked with a loud slur after Jennifer had helped her over.
“I don’t know,” Anne replied.
“Let’s find out,” Renata said, rocking from side to side. “He’s kind of cute.” She turned around and saw him standing a few feet behind her. “Oh, God!” She gasped, followed by a loud burp. “Do you think he heard me?”
Anne had no idea but agreed to sleuth out his availability status when she got a chance. As the evening wore on, more salesmen and traders wandered by to say hello and chat for a few minutes, leaving no time for her to think about Michael Kingston. She was having a fairly pleasant time, all in all, until the band stopped playing, and a pair of secretaries wheeled out a cake for Peter Eckert. With some guidance from senior management, all three hundred members of the department sang happy birthday to him. Afterwards, someone yelled, “Make a wish!”
Peter smiled broadly as he looked around the room. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but what I’d really like…” he raised his beer in the air, nodding in the direction of the secretaries, “is to take one of these pretty young girls home tonight.”
Most of the crowd laughed.
Give me a break, Anne thought to herself and instantly decided the cake was her cue to leave. “I’m out of here,” she told Jennifer. “I’ve made my obligatory appearance and seen enough for one night.” She was anxious to get home and mull over what she had learned.
“Me too.” Jennifer followed her to the coat check room, where they retrieved their jackets and headed out to the street to pick up one of the hired cars.
The firm had begun providing private car service after one of the traders had gotten behind the wheel of his fancy sports car following one of these parties, inebriated, killing an innocent bystander. Despite the sad history behind the benefit, Anne found it provided an easy and relaxed way to get home from these affairs. She settled into her seat and waited for Jennifer to climb in on the other side so they could be on their way.
“My seatbelt doesn’t seem to connect—” Jennifer began, before being interrupted by a loud rapping on the window. It was one of the traders, looking to join them in their car.
“You guys live in Hoboken, right?” he asked after she had finally gotten the window down. “I’m going across the river too.” His speech was slurred, and his movements uncoordinated. “To Morristown.”
Indeed, their two stops were on the way to his house. The driver could easily drop them off first and then continue on. Jennifer shrugged and then slid into the middle, inviting him in.
As the car slowly snaked its way through Manhattan, Anne and Jennifer chatted quietly in the back. The trader eventually fell asleep, and Anne relayed what she had been told about Michael Kingston.
“From prison to Wall Street?” Jennifer said with obvious surprise. “I guess it kind of makes sense. In a twisted sort of way.”
“I’m not sure it even matters.” Anne looked out the side window. The car entered the Holland Tunnel and began to pick up speed, its yellow lights casting distorted shadows on the wall. “But for some reason, it’s unnerved me.”
“So what if he changed his name?” Jennifer replied. “People do that all the time. It sounds like he screwed up in high school and just wanted to leave it all behind.”
“You’re probably right,” Anne said, but found herself unable to believe it.
They arrived at Jennifer’s apartment first, and she got out, leaving Anne alone with the trader, who was still asleep. As the car pulled to a stop in front of her building a few minutes later, he jerked awake in surprise and then leaned forward, hurling the remains of his dinner all over the back seat. Anne sprang out of the vehicle, but not quickly enough. Her coat was going to need a trip to the cleaners.
The driver took one look and said, “I’m not taking him any further,” and insisted the trader immediately exit the vehicle. He stumbled out and sat down on the stoop of her building.
“You can’t leave him with me.” Anne protested. “I hardly know him. He still needs to get home.”
“Call a cab,” the driver muttered and then sped off in a cloud of smoke.
Swearing under her breath, she brought him into the building so he could call his wife. As luck would have it, one of her neighbors walked by and caught a whiff of him just as she was unlocking her front door.
“A new boyfriend?” she asked, looking horrified.
“No!” Anne felt her face go red. “He’s just someone I work with.”
“Hmmm,” her neighbor said in a judgmental sort of way.
“The driver refused to take him home,” Anne said, thinking it might help to explain.
“I’m not surprised.” Her neighbor gave a withering look.
Anne ushered him out of the hallway and shut the door from her neighbor’s prying eyes. Her dog took one sniff and quickly moved away while Anne stood, mortified, replaying the interaction with her neighbor again in her mind.
He pointed at the couch. “How about if I just sleep here?”
She shook her head and handed him the phone. “While you call your wife, I’ll make some coffee.”
Red-faced and tight-lipped, a woman dripping with diamonds appeared about 30 minutes later, looking about as angry as Anne felt.
“Hi,” the trader slurred as he stood up to greet her and began to sway. Anne hoped he was not about to throw up again.
His wife gave an exasperated sigh. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Those were Anne’s thoughts exactly as she watched him stagger toward the door.
His wife gave her a quick nod. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” Anne replied with a perfunctory smile, relieved when she was finally able to lock the door behind the two of them. She stepped out of her heels and peeled off her dress and hose, leaving a trail of clothes across the floor. The week had been exhausting, and she felt overrun with information. First suicide, then murder, then not really murder. And on top of that, Michael Kingston had fabricated huge parts of his life. As she dropped into bed, she wondered what she had gotten herself into.
11
The Clink
Monday, One Week After the Meeting
“And if you can believe it, we let him into the car,” Anne said, rolling her eyes as she recounted her adventures the following Monday morning.
“You should make him pay for your dry cleaning,” clucked Donna, whose bright purple eyeshadow and aqua eyeliner gave her the appearance of a tropical fish. “It’s the least he can do.”
“I don’t know if he even remembers what happened. He hasn’t said a word, and I’ve already been out near his desk twice this morning.”
“Scumbag,” Donna said, chomping on the ever-present wad of gum.
“Getting back to what I told you earlier—” Anne looked around to make sure no one was listening. “—about Michael Kingston. Do you think there’s any chance…? I mean, we all know how the traders love to pull a fast one.”
“No,” Donna said firmly. “He wouldn’t make up something like that. He might leave a wad of wet paper towels in your briefcase.” She blew a big bubble. “Or arrange for the delivery of a dozen dead roses to liven up your cubicle…something more along those lines.”
“But if Michael Kingston actually went to prison, he should never have been able to get his securities license or a job on Wall Street. It should have turned up on the background check.”
Anne still remembered the lie detector test she had been required to take as a condition of employment. After being wired up with a metal sensor on her finger, a pressure cuff on her arm, and yet another pressure cuff wrapped around her stomach, the man operating the polygraph machine asked dozens of questions about whether she had a history of stealing or any motivation to do so (Had she ever shoplifted? Tried marijuana or snorted coke? Did she gamble? Did she live with people who did any of these things? The same questions asked multiple times, in different ways.) Presumably, Michael had had to pass a similar test as well.
“If he was a juvenile at the time he stole the car, his record was probably sealed, and then the whole thing expunged a few years later.”
And armed with a new name, he’d have a squeaky-clean slate.
“Michael Kingston wouldn’t be the only one around here to make things disappear,” Donna chuckled. “One of the guys in the derivatives group was arrested last year for drunk driving after he totaled his car. A few weeks later, the case file magically vanished from the court docket.” As she spoke, she smacked the gum in her mouth against her cheeks. “And Vito had a rap sheet a mile long. You just have to know who to pay off.”
“Vito?” Anne lowered her voice to a whisper. “Renata was asking about him. She thinks he’s kind of cute, but if he…”
“It was petty juvenile stuff. Nothing serious.” Donna spat her gum into a nearby trash can. “But I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend anyway.” Her eyes darted over toward the figure slithering toward her office. “With William on vacation, I wasn’t sure Elise was going to make it in today. You know that he’s in the Bahamas this week, right?”
Of course Anne did. It meant they would be shorthanded. Hopefully, the Ice Princess would actually help take up some of the slack in his absence.
As she walked away, Donna called over her shoulder, “Make that cheapskate pay for your dry cleaning.”
Anne started to walk back to her cubicle and then made a U-turn and headed for the corporate library on the 17th floor. When she arrived, she asked the librarian to help her search the local Paterson, New Jersey newspapers from 1976-1978. The woman looked pleased to have something to do and immediately set to work, pulling out microfiche boxes and scanning the indexes. After a few minutes, she handed Anne six rolls of film. Anne kicked off her pumps and began scrolling through the pages.
He nodded toward the DJ, partially obscured by a partition in the corner. “This music sucks. I hope they bring out a live band later on.”
“They will,” Donna said, magically appearing by his side in a short mini-skirt with black fishnet tights. “They always do.”
Tottering on six-inch stiletto heels, she looked like she might lose her balance at any moment. But the thing that caught Anne’s attention was her eyes. They were rimmed with thick, black eyeliner and little wings on each corner, making her look like a leopard. The only thing missing were black spots.
The trader leaned toward Donna and pointed at his empty glass, “Ready for another?” She nodded, linked her arm around his, and the two disappeared toward the bar.
Anne spotted Jennifer halfway across the room, headed her way. “Brace yourself,” Jennifer greeted her with a dramatic arm flourish. “Mr. Excitement is about to speak.”
As if on cue, the lights came up, the music stopped, and the room went silent.
Everyone turned to look at the President standing on a small podium that had been erected near the front. He rolled up his sleeves, cleared his throat, and began to drone on and on. This time it was about the importance of teamwork, positive attitudes, and maintaining respect for one’s fellow employees. From the stifled yawns and continual shifting of restless bodies in the seats, Anne read the general sentiment in the crowd as one of utter boredom. How could he not sense it, too? She looked over at Jennifer, who rolled her eyes as if to say, See, I told you.
When he was finally through, he was rewarded with a loud burst of applause. Anne assumed it was both out of politeness due to his high station in the company and also out of a sense of thrill and relief that the tedious part of the evening was finally over.
Everyone moved to the huge room reserved for dinner and partying, where Anne’s suspicions were confirmed.
“Get real,” one person said to her, “our firm is the most cutthroat in the business. I don’t think most of our people even know the definition of teamwork.”
Anne couldn’t help but agree.
Another said to her, “If I don’t stab someone else first, then I’ll find myself bleeding all over the floor. A lot of good that would do my family.”
An understandable concern, Anne conceded.
As she had expected, the room was dark, the band was pretty good, and the traders and salesmen, especially the married ones, were busy getting drunk and making passes at the young clerical help. Anne and Jennifer stood on the sidelines watching the antics unfold on the dance floor.
“Typical,” Jennifer said as one of the traders removed his tie and started ripping his shirt.
“I think he did the same thing last year,” Anne replied as he climbed up on a table and started chugging his beer. “But he looks a little more wobbly than I remember.”
“The sad thing is I would actually enjoy dancing,” Jennifer lamented. “But if we go out there, we’ll just be relegated to the bimbo pond.”
Anne nodded. “I know. That’s why we’re standing here like wallflowers.” Two other guys started removing their ties, and a chorus of shouts could be heard egging them on to join the ripping frenzy. “Seems like a real waste of money. Those are probably expensive shirts.”
“My wife would kill me if I did that,” a voice boomed from the side. “She’s already ticked off that she isn’t allowed to come to the party in the first place.” It was one of the traders Anne helped from time to time, who had been sitting by the bar drinking with his buddies. He was generally friendly and easy to deal with. “And they really ought to cut Renata off. She’s barely able to walk.”
Anne looked over to where he was pointing and saw one of the secretaries stumbling toward the ladies’ room.
“She looks like she could use some help,” Jennifer yelled, heading over toward the inebriated woman. The music was thumping loudly, making it hard to hear.
“We’ve almost finished dumping those bonds you worked on,” the trader shouted over the din. “What a mess.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Strange business, Michael Kingston killing himself last week. It’s the last thing I would have expected him to do.”
“You knew him?”
“Yeah. We went to high school together. Back when his name was Otis Reichenbach.” He took a swig of his beer. “He was a real riot.”
“You knew him in high school?” she shouted back, unsure whether she had heard him correctly. “But his name was different?”
“Yeah,” he bellowed. The floor was now physically shaking, and she leaned closer to him, straining to hear his response. “His father worked the night shift at Hadley Machine Works. Like mine did. We both grew up in Paterson, New Jersey.” He moved sideways as a gyrating body came dangerously close to knocking his beer, and she followed him. “Total dump. Back then, the only thing any of us wanted was to get outta there.” He took another swig of his beer.
“And his name was different?” She asked again, in disbelief.
“Yeah. He changed it after he went to prison.”
“Prison?” The music swelled up in a roaring frenzy, mimicking her furiously beating heart.
“He got caught stealing a car with another guy at school. Happened a few weeks before graduation. He was always pulling stunts like that. Conning people. Stealing things. He would make stuff up like it was nobody’s business. And he got away with it a lot of the time too.” The trader shrugged and then added, “He was a really sharp guy.”
Anne was dumbfounded. Nothing that related to Michael Kingston was what it seemed. The lights began strobing as the music died down to a low rumble. She seized the opportunity to ask another question. “How long was he in prison?”
“Less than a year. Probably 9 months. When he got out—man, was he built! He must’ve lifted weights the entire time he was there. I ran into him a couple of times at Keene College.” The music began another crescendo.
“I thought he went to Harvard,” she screamed, trying to be heard over the deafening noise. “That’s what the papers reported.” She felt vaguely disoriented, unsure whether it was due to the contradictory information she was hearing or if she was simply suffering from sensory overload.
“That business about him going to Harvard and Stanford was all bullshit,” the trader yelled back. “He went to Keene College for a few semesters and never even graduated. And the Rhode Island stuff? He must’ve just made it all up. He was a con artist through and through.” He laughed as he spoke, as if he was impressed by how much the man had gotten away with, perhaps even envious.
“And you’re sure that Michael Kingston was this Otis guy you knew in high school? Absolutely sure?” Anne’s throat was starting to hurt from all the yelling.
“No question about it. I bumped into him on the elevator a few years ago. That’s when I found out he worked at Spencer Brothers, just like me. It’s a small world.” He drained his beer.
“Did you tell anyone? Like his boss?”
He shook his head. “Why would I? He’d served his time. And he could’ve been a useful person to know if he hadn’t gone and killed himself.” He pointed at the empty bottle and said, “Time for a refill,” and then headed back to the bar.
Anne tried to process what she had just heard, but the pounding music made it hard to think. Did it matter that Michael had changed his name? It certainly meant he had reinvented himself. But did that figure somehow into his murder? If he was indeed murdered. Maybe he had gotten tired of the charade and simply decided to throw in the towel. Or, maybe…
“How’re you enjoying yourself?” It was one of the salesmen interrupting her train of thought. A nice guy she enjoyed helping on occasion, he took his fiduciary responsibilities seriously and would only sell risky bonds to sophisticated investors who understood the financial implications. Likewise, he appeared to imbibe responsibly, wandering around with a drink in hand but not completely plastered. They chatted amiably for a few minutes before he moved on and started talking with someone else. She looked over toward the ladies’ room and saw Jennifer emerging with Renata in tow.
“Does Vito have a girlfriend?” Renata asked with a loud slur after Jennifer had helped her over.
“I don’t know,” Anne replied.
“Let’s find out,” Renata said, rocking from side to side. “He’s kind of cute.” She turned around and saw him standing a few feet behind her. “Oh, God!” She gasped, followed by a loud burp. “Do you think he heard me?”
Anne had no idea but agreed to sleuth out his availability status when she got a chance. As the evening wore on, more salesmen and traders wandered by to say hello and chat for a few minutes, leaving no time for her to think about Michael Kingston. She was having a fairly pleasant time, all in all, until the band stopped playing, and a pair of secretaries wheeled out a cake for Peter Eckert. With some guidance from senior management, all three hundred members of the department sang happy birthday to him. Afterwards, someone yelled, “Make a wish!”
Peter smiled broadly as he looked around the room. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but what I’d really like…” he raised his beer in the air, nodding in the direction of the secretaries, “is to take one of these pretty young girls home tonight.”
Most of the crowd laughed.
Give me a break, Anne thought to herself and instantly decided the cake was her cue to leave. “I’m out of here,” she told Jennifer. “I’ve made my obligatory appearance and seen enough for one night.” She was anxious to get home and mull over what she had learned.
“Me too.” Jennifer followed her to the coat check room, where they retrieved their jackets and headed out to the street to pick up one of the hired cars.
The firm had begun providing private car service after one of the traders had gotten behind the wheel of his fancy sports car following one of these parties, inebriated, killing an innocent bystander. Despite the sad history behind the benefit, Anne found it provided an easy and relaxed way to get home from these affairs. She settled into her seat and waited for Jennifer to climb in on the other side so they could be on their way.
“My seatbelt doesn’t seem to connect—” Jennifer began, before being interrupted by a loud rapping on the window. It was one of the traders, looking to join them in their car.
“You guys live in Hoboken, right?” he asked after she had finally gotten the window down. “I’m going across the river too.” His speech was slurred, and his movements uncoordinated. “To Morristown.”
Indeed, their two stops were on the way to his house. The driver could easily drop them off first and then continue on. Jennifer shrugged and then slid into the middle, inviting him in.
As the car slowly snaked its way through Manhattan, Anne and Jennifer chatted quietly in the back. The trader eventually fell asleep, and Anne relayed what she had been told about Michael Kingston.
“From prison to Wall Street?” Jennifer said with obvious surprise. “I guess it kind of makes sense. In a twisted sort of way.”
“I’m not sure it even matters.” Anne looked out the side window. The car entered the Holland Tunnel and began to pick up speed, its yellow lights casting distorted shadows on the wall. “But for some reason, it’s unnerved me.”
“So what if he changed his name?” Jennifer replied. “People do that all the time. It sounds like he screwed up in high school and just wanted to leave it all behind.”
“You’re probably right,” Anne said, but found herself unable to believe it.
They arrived at Jennifer’s apartment first, and she got out, leaving Anne alone with the trader, who was still asleep. As the car pulled to a stop in front of her building a few minutes later, he jerked awake in surprise and then leaned forward, hurling the remains of his dinner all over the back seat. Anne sprang out of the vehicle, but not quickly enough. Her coat was going to need a trip to the cleaners.
The driver took one look and said, “I’m not taking him any further,” and insisted the trader immediately exit the vehicle. He stumbled out and sat down on the stoop of her building.
“You can’t leave him with me.” Anne protested. “I hardly know him. He still needs to get home.”
“Call a cab,” the driver muttered and then sped off in a cloud of smoke.
Swearing under her breath, she brought him into the building so he could call his wife. As luck would have it, one of her neighbors walked by and caught a whiff of him just as she was unlocking her front door.
“A new boyfriend?” she asked, looking horrified.
“No!” Anne felt her face go red. “He’s just someone I work with.”
“Hmmm,” her neighbor said in a judgmental sort of way.
“The driver refused to take him home,” Anne said, thinking it might help to explain.
“I’m not surprised.” Her neighbor gave a withering look.
Anne ushered him out of the hallway and shut the door from her neighbor’s prying eyes. Her dog took one sniff and quickly moved away while Anne stood, mortified, replaying the interaction with her neighbor again in her mind.
He pointed at the couch. “How about if I just sleep here?”
She shook her head and handed him the phone. “While you call your wife, I’ll make some coffee.”
Red-faced and tight-lipped, a woman dripping with diamonds appeared about 30 minutes later, looking about as angry as Anne felt.
“Hi,” the trader slurred as he stood up to greet her and began to sway. Anne hoped he was not about to throw up again.
His wife gave an exasperated sigh. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Those were Anne’s thoughts exactly as she watched him stagger toward the door.
His wife gave her a quick nod. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” Anne replied with a perfunctory smile, relieved when she was finally able to lock the door behind the two of them. She stepped out of her heels and peeled off her dress and hose, leaving a trail of clothes across the floor. The week had been exhausting, and she felt overrun with information. First suicide, then murder, then not really murder. And on top of that, Michael Kingston had fabricated huge parts of his life. As she dropped into bed, she wondered what she had gotten herself into.
11
The Clink
Monday, One Week After the Meeting
“And if you can believe it, we let him into the car,” Anne said, rolling her eyes as she recounted her adventures the following Monday morning.
“You should make him pay for your dry cleaning,” clucked Donna, whose bright purple eyeshadow and aqua eyeliner gave her the appearance of a tropical fish. “It’s the least he can do.”
“I don’t know if he even remembers what happened. He hasn’t said a word, and I’ve already been out near his desk twice this morning.”
“Scumbag,” Donna said, chomping on the ever-present wad of gum.
“Getting back to what I told you earlier—” Anne looked around to make sure no one was listening. “—about Michael Kingston. Do you think there’s any chance…? I mean, we all know how the traders love to pull a fast one.”
“No,” Donna said firmly. “He wouldn’t make up something like that. He might leave a wad of wet paper towels in your briefcase.” She blew a big bubble. “Or arrange for the delivery of a dozen dead roses to liven up your cubicle…something more along those lines.”
“But if Michael Kingston actually went to prison, he should never have been able to get his securities license or a job on Wall Street. It should have turned up on the background check.”
Anne still remembered the lie detector test she had been required to take as a condition of employment. After being wired up with a metal sensor on her finger, a pressure cuff on her arm, and yet another pressure cuff wrapped around her stomach, the man operating the polygraph machine asked dozens of questions about whether she had a history of stealing or any motivation to do so (Had she ever shoplifted? Tried marijuana or snorted coke? Did she gamble? Did she live with people who did any of these things? The same questions asked multiple times, in different ways.) Presumably, Michael had had to pass a similar test as well.
“If he was a juvenile at the time he stole the car, his record was probably sealed, and then the whole thing expunged a few years later.”
And armed with a new name, he’d have a squeaky-clean slate.
“Michael Kingston wouldn’t be the only one around here to make things disappear,” Donna chuckled. “One of the guys in the derivatives group was arrested last year for drunk driving after he totaled his car. A few weeks later, the case file magically vanished from the court docket.” As she spoke, she smacked the gum in her mouth against her cheeks. “And Vito had a rap sheet a mile long. You just have to know who to pay off.”
“Vito?” Anne lowered her voice to a whisper. “Renata was asking about him. She thinks he’s kind of cute, but if he…”
“It was petty juvenile stuff. Nothing serious.” Donna spat her gum into a nearby trash can. “But I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend anyway.” Her eyes darted over toward the figure slithering toward her office. “With William on vacation, I wasn’t sure Elise was going to make it in today. You know that he’s in the Bahamas this week, right?”
Of course Anne did. It meant they would be shorthanded. Hopefully, the Ice Princess would actually help take up some of the slack in his absence.
As she walked away, Donna called over her shoulder, “Make that cheapskate pay for your dry cleaning.”
Anne started to walk back to her cubicle and then made a U-turn and headed for the corporate library on the 17th floor. When she arrived, she asked the librarian to help her search the local Paterson, New Jersey newspapers from 1976-1978. The woman looked pleased to have something to do and immediately set to work, pulling out microfiche boxes and scanning the indexes. After a few minutes, she handed Anne six rolls of film. Anne kicked off her pumps and began scrolling through the pages.
