Murder At Tiger Eye

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Murder At Tiger Eye - book excerpt

One

Wednesday night

Tiger Eye Investors

Scott Wilson turned off the lights and lock to his office door behind him. There was no one in the other offices or at the receptionist’s desk. All the other workers had left hours ago. Scott did not blame them. Each of them was affected by the tumultuous crash of the stock market. It was just as well. He did not want to see any of them and exchange forced pleasantries. None of them realized the future of the investment firm was on shaky ground. The only one that had kept up her spirits was Donna, the hourglass receptionist. She also knew the least about the effects of the market decline on the brokerage business.

Scott unlocked the door leading to the parking lot. His thoughts were already on another sleepless night, dreading answering the numerous phone calls he knew he would receive the coming day. He had already told them to be patient, that this was merely a correction in the bull market. But that line was quickly losing its punch with each passing day of another down market.

Slipping the keys out of his pocket, he walked into the unlit lot. He pushed the unlock button and heard the familiar sound of the door locks clicking open. Then he heard another sound. It was not coming from the vehicle but from directly behind him. He saw the reflection of a figure standing a couple of feet away. As he turned, it was too late. The letter opener thrust into his back with force. It glanced off one rib and penetrated the lower chambers of his heart. Scott Wilson was dead before you get the dark pavement. The killer left the instrument of death protruding from his back. 

Two

Thursday morning

Central

Niki Dupre looked at the stacks of papers covering her desk and smiled. No longer was she looking at piles of unpaid bills, but at the documentation of active cases in one group and prospective clients in the other. Since she had solved the murder on the mystery island case, her phone had not quit ringing as the media had dubbed it,. Now she had more opportunities than time allowed.

Niki already hired a part-time receptionist to fill the phone calls. Lauren Bell went to school at LSU on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She answered the phone and manned the front desk for Wildcat Investigations the other three days of the week. She became adept at screening the crackpot calls from the ones with promise. She also picked up the nickname of ‘Flash’ because she could get clients, potential clients, and the media off the phone in a hurry without hurting their feelings.

At ten-thirty, the phone rang. Flash’s voice was on the other end.

"Priority call. It's from your boyfriend."

Niki protested. "He's not my boyfriend," but Flash had already hung up.

The masculine voice on the phone asked, "I'm not what?"

"Oh, nothing," Niki replied; I'm flustered. "I was trying to talk to Flash."

"Me, too," Dalton Bridgestone replied. The youngest United States Senator ever to represent Louisiana chuckled.

"I love to talk to her, but I don't think she enjoys talking to me."

Niki smiled.

"The only reason you like talking to her is that she is cute as a button and has a teenage body. In five years, after she has three kids and weighs 200 pounds, you won't give her a second look."

Dalton laughed.

"You know that's not true. I admire all women for their logic and forethought. At least that's what my campaign manager says."

Niki responded, "The only thought men have about women is how firm their chest and their butts are. The only thing a man wants from a woman's mind is to agree with him no matter what."

"As your Senator, I must admonish your position on men. But I didn't call you to talk about Flash’s chest or her butt. I need your help."

She hesitated.

"As long as it doesn't take too much time. I'm backed up as far as I can go."

Dalton got serious.

"Look, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. I need you."

"At least you're starting right. You haven't said you need me in a long time."

"Well, I'm saying it now,” he replied. "I need you to drop everything you're doing and work for me."

Niki gasped. "I can't drop everything. I have six active cases working and three more potential cases that could pay my bills for the rest of the year."

"C’mon,” he said. "After you collected that million-dollar bonus for turning me in, you don't have to work."

He was referring to the case that made her famous.

She laughed. "After my friendly government took out their share to pay for your salary, I might have enough left to have fries with my burger. Your services are expensive."

“You only get the best of your willing to pay for the best,” he responded. "But seriously, I need you."

"What's up?" She asked, now curious.

"A good friend of mine, Scott Wilson, was murdered outside his office last night."

"Isn't that a case for the police?" She asked.

"Yes, and they are looking into it. But with a murder a day happening in the city, they don't have the resources to thoroughly cover them all. I want to make sure this one is covered. That's why I need you. I know you will get to the bottom of it."

"Thank you for the compliment, but I can't just drop my other six cases. That wouldn’t be fair to my clients." She protested.

"Then take this on as your seventh. I think once you get into it, you'll find enough time to solve it. Besides, I've already taken some steps that will help you."

Niki ran her hand through her long strawberry blonde hair.

"What steps?" She asked cautiously.

"You are now a special investigator for the finance committee of the United States Senate. That means you have the same authority to invest to gate investment crimes as the FBI, the CIA, or any other three-letter agency."

"How do you know your friend’s murder was an investment crime?" Niki asked.

"I don't," Dalton replied."But it was the only way I could get you enough stroke to cut through a lot of the BS you have to put up with normally. If someone lies to you now, it's a felony. That should make them more forthcoming."

“Is that legal? I mean, that's a lot of oomph from the stroke of a pen.”

"That's your friendly federal government at work. When can you start?" He asked.

“Let's go for tomorrow morning. I can find a spot in the rest of my cases to push them back or at least figure out how to fill this end with them.”

“The same fee structure okay with you?”

“You don't have to pay me, Dalton.”

“I'm not,” he laughed. “Your friendly federal government is.”

Three

Friday morning

Tiger Eye Investors

Niki walked into the professional office building at 10 AM Friday. A perky little blonde greeted her with an infectious smile. The blonde looked up, her positive vibes flowing through the room.

“I'm sorry,”she said, never losing her smile. “We're closed today. May I make you an appointment for early next week?”

“No, I'm not here to invest. I'm here to investigate what happened Wednesday night,” Niki replied.

Donna's countenance fell.

“We all loved Mr. Wilson. Who would do something like that to him?”

Niki gave her a comforting smile.

"That's what I'm here to find out. Do you have any ideas?"

"No, Ma'am," she addressed Niki with a polite title even though Niki was just about the same age. "Can you believe that took the letter opener off my desk? I bet my fingerprints are all over it. I use it all the time."

“That's okay," Niki said. "Having your prints on the murder weapon doesn't mean you're guilty. Hopefully, I'll be able to prove you didn't do it.”

“I didn’t know it. I swear. I loved Mr. Wilson. He was always doing favors for me."

“What favors?”

“When he stopped to pick up donuts for the office, he gave me this big ol' eclair full of chocolate. I love those things. I don't have to worry about getting fat with him gone.” Donna’s figure was still trim and athletic.

Niki wanted to get all the information she could from the energetic blonde.

“I know the firm provides investment opportunities. Can you give me any specifics?”

Donna grinned. “Sure. Everybody here thinks I'm an airhead. You know all the jokes about us. Right?”

Niki, whose hair was more of a strawberry blonde color than ash blonde, nodded.

“Yeah. Most guys don't think we can spell ‘cat’ if they spot us the ‘C' and the ‘T.’”

Niki knew now the Donna thought the investigator was on her side in the battle for respect.

“I know," Donna said. "They talk around me like I'm not even there. Sometimes, I wonder if they think I even have an IQ. My name is Donna. Donna Cross.”

The perky blonde stuck her hand out to Niki. Niki quickly shook it while smiling.

"I'm Niki Dupre. The Senate Finance Committee has assigned me the case. They are concerned whenever something happens to an investment advisor. I know that was Mr. Wilson's title, but what did he really do?"

"He ran a hedge fund for Tiger investments. He traded in derivatives."

"Derivatives?" Niki had a questioning look.

"Yeah. Calls and puts."

"Can you tell me what calls and puts are?" Niki asked.

“Sure,” Donna beamed, eager to share her acquired knowledge. “A call is a contract for one hundred shares of stock. Suppose you like a company that thinks it's going to do well in the market. Let’s call it the 'XYZ' company. If ‘XYZ' is trading at fifty-dollar a share, and you think it will jump to sixty, you can buy a hundred shares for five thousand dollars. With me?”

“Yeah. I'd hope to make ten dollars a share or a thousand dollars. Where does the call or the put come into play?”

“A call can buy the right to buy that same hundred shares at one dollar each. You could probably buy a contract for ‘XYZ' with a fifty dollars strike price for one dollar a share. It's only good for thirty days. Still with me?”

“Yes.”

Donna grinned, proud of her knowledge.

“For that same hundred shares, you would only spend the hundred dollars, or you can spend the five thousand dollars that you would have spent on the shares and by fifty calls of ‘XYZ.’ That means you have the right to buy five thousand shares of ‘XYZ' at fifty dollars a share for the next thirty days. Got it?”

Niki was not sure but nodded anyway.

“That means," Donna continued. "If ‘XYZ' goes to sixty dollars, you get to buy five thousand shares for fifty dollars each, and you can sell them for sixty. That means you make ten dollars share or fifty thousand dollars. You paid five thousand, but you still make forty-five thousand dollars net for the same five thousand dollars investment.”

Niki whistled.

"That's impressive. But how often does it really happen?"

Donna smiled.

"Not very. In fact, from what Mr. Wilson tells his clients, it's a scam, almost like going to the gambling boats on the river. The odds are on the other side. He says ninety nine-percent of all call options expire after the thirty days worthless. The ‘XYZ' stock doesn't go up. It either stays the same or goes down."

Niki looked at her notes.

"Then why would Mr. Wilson do that if he knew almost all of them to expire worthlessly?"

"Because he didn’t buy them. He sold them. In our lingo, he wrote them. He sold them through the electronic exchanges. In the example we talked about, he sold fifty contracts for 'XYZ' at a fifty dollars strike."

"Where did he get them to sell?"

"Nowhere. He originated the option contracts. That means he made them up out of thin air."

Niki frowned.

"Is that legal? Can someone make up any call option contract and sell it to the market?"

"Sure canas long as there is a willing buyer for the price he sets. The markets love it. They say he is providing liquidity. I'm not sure exactly what that means."

"Wow," Niki exclaimed. "You picked up a lot of knowledge. Are you thinking of going into investments or brokering?"

"Not really. I don't know what I want to do yet. My boyfriend, Blake, is a football player at LSU. He thinks he may skip his last two years and go pro. If he does, I won't have to work. Then I can do whatever I want. Something I enjoy."

"You don't enjoy it here?" Niki asked.

"Yes, Ma'am. I do. But the only reason Mr. Wilson ever talked to me about investing was when I wore a short crest."

"A short dress? I'm not making the connection."

"Whenever I wore a dress, he would invite me to his office. We’d talk about calls and puts or whatever he thought was interesting. All the time, he was trying to look up my dress."

"Did it bother you?" Niki asked.

"A little at first, when I realized what he was doing. Then I began having fun with it. I teased the heck out of him. But he wasn't the worst by far."

"Who would that be?"

Donna sighed.

"Take your pick. Some guys tell us lewd jokes as if that's supposed to put me in the mood to sleep with them. Others make nasty suggestions. Mr. Ashton always has to touch me. Sometimes he grabs my butt."

"Why not file a complaint?"

"I need a job. Until Blake turns pro, he's a struggling college student. He's got less money than me. And that isn't much."

In his mid-forties, a well-groomed man appeared in the door between the reception area and the rest of the offices.

"Donna, I need you to get a letter out to our clients," he said.

She glanced at Niki, then replied. "Mr. Johnson, this is Niki Dupre. She's a special investigator. She needs to talk to you."

Johnson inspected Niki from head to toe.

"I would love to talk to you, Ms. Dupre. But I've already given a statement to you guys. We need to spend our time assuring our clients Scott's death will not endanger their investments."

Niki replied, "I'm not with the police, Mr. Johnson. I'm here on behalf of the finance committee of the United States Senate."

She flashed the ID card the Dalton furnished.

"I'm afraid I must insist that you talk with me."

Johnson hesitated.

"Okay. Give me a few minutes. Donna, please come to my office. Ms. Dupre, Donna, will let you know when I am available."

He abruptly turned and left the receptionist area. Donna gave Niki a thumbs-up sign and grinned. She picked up a pad and followed Johnson into the back offices.

Niki examined the modestly designed office. Portraits of wildlife adorned the walls. One was of an alligator, its mouth wide open, on the bank of Lake Maurepas. Another depicted a brown pelican, a Louisiana state bird, in flight. Others displayed various ducks from the mallards to the green-winged teal, floating down to natural waterways in the southern part of the state's marshes.

After ten minutes, Donna reappeared.

"He can see you now," the young lady said. "I love how you handled him. He's not accustomed to being challenged, especially by a woman. Be careful, though. He has more tentacles than an octopus."

Niki laughed. “I've had a few dates like that. I can handle him.”

She entered the hallway leading to the back. The investigator correctly assumed that Johnson's office would be at the rear of the hallway. Entering his office, she noted the shark contrast in the furnishings and artwork in his office compared to the reception area. The art on Johnson's wall was original paintings by some of Louisiana's most talented artists. The intricate details and unique Cajun ambiance capture by the local painters amazed Niki. His desk and matching credenza were made with the finest bald cypress available, not a normal use of the natural timber.

"What can I do for you, Ms. Dupre? I must warn you that my time is limited, even for special investigators."

Niki took a seat in an adorned leather chair.

"Then I'll get down to business, Mr. Johnson. You are a partner in this business. Correct?"

Johnson nodded while ogling at Niki.

"Mr. Wilson was also a partner. Correct?"

Again the broker said nothing.

"There is a third partner, a man by the name of Hugh Carter. Is that correct?"

"Yes, but Hugh is a silent partner. He is not involved in the day-to-day business affairs. He made a significant investment to help Scott and me get started."

"According to the records, all three of you were equal partners. Has that changed?"

"No, that is still correct," Johnson replied.

"What happens to Mr. Wilson's share of the business now?"

"We have a succession plan filed with the SEC. I'm sure you've seen it." Johnson challenged Niki.

She smiled and pulled some papers from her briefcase.

"I have a copy. The problem I have with it is that it isn't specific. It says that in the event of one partner's death the other partners have the right to buy the decease’s share from his estate. Can you clarify that provision for me?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Which of you will by Mr. Wilson's share of the business, and who sets the price?"

Johnson chuckled.

"You get down to business, don't you? I will procure Scott's interest in the company. His wife has no interest in it other than as a source of revenue."

"And the price?" Niki asked.

"We haven't gotten that far yet."

Johnson looked away.

"Sheila, that's Scott's wife, and I are good friends. We won't have problems working something out."

"How would you describe your relationship with Sheila Wilson?"

"What are you implying?" Johnson's voice rose.

"I'm trying to get the facts. Did you and Mrs. Wilson have a relationship beyond friendship?"

"No way. Scott was my friend and my partner. I could not do that to him. I am happily married. How do you get off asking that kind of question?"

The unmistakable anger was written all over Johnson’s face.

Niki pulled out another package from her briefcase.

"According to the phone records, there were numerous calls to the Wilson residence from this office."

"Scott called Sheila all the time. He enjoyed talking to his wife."

Niki looked down at the records.

"There are so several phone calls from your extension, Mr. Johnson. How do you explain that?"

Johnson coughed nervously. "Sometimes Scott and I worked in my office. I guess he called her from my phone while he was in here."

Niki smiled.

"Then, he also borrowed your cell phone?"

"Huh?"

"There are numerous calls to the Wilson home from your cell."

Sweat poured down Johnson’s face despite the cold air in the office.

"I must have been calling Scott. Sometimes he worked from home."

"That's odd. The records show that Mr. Wilson's extension was being used several times whileyou placed phone calls on your cell phone to the Wilson home. Would you like to take another stab at that one, Mr. Johnson?"

The broker wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his expensive shirt.

"I guess one of the other guys was always using his office while he was home."

Niki pulled out another sheet of paper.

“According to the ticket log, Scott Wilson was fulfilling stock purchases and sales while on his own phone with his customers. Want to take another shot at it?”

"Where did you get all the information so quickly?" The bewildered man asked.

"Your firm is registered with the SEC. They watched their members closely since the Bernie Madoff fiasco. The Senate's finance committee has access to all their records, which means we have access to all your records."

"But I have constitutional rights to privacy."

Niki smiled.

"That is correct. You sure do as a private citizen. But you don't as a registered representative. Your firm has no expectation of privacy when doing business with the public."

"Maybe I should call my attorney."

"No problem. Have him talk to Senator Dalton Bridgestone. He's on the committee. He will be interested in finding out why you're lying to me."

Johnson sighed.

"Okay. What do you want?"

"It would be nice to start with the truth. I always find that's as good a place to begin as any."

Suddenly, the broker collar was too tight. He kept pulling on it with his finger. The confident demeanor he showed in the receptionist area was replaced with nervous tics.

"Sheila and I are seeing each other. She is twenty years younger than Scott, and with all the turmoil in the market lightly, he hasn't been able to meet her needs."

"So what you're telling me is that you were screwing her as a favor to Scott because you're such a fine gentleman?"

The frankness from the investigator with all-American features surprised him.

“I―”

"That's okay, Mr. Johnson. Now, if you can cut out all the superfluous self grandidization and stick with the facts, we'll get through this a lot quicker."

Johnson gave her a defeated shrug. "Sheila and I are having an affair. If my wife finds out about it, I'll be ruined."

Niki smiled.

"I'm not interested in ruining your life. I'm interested in finding out what happened to Mr. Wilson. Nothing more."

"Then why are you asking me all these questions about my personal life?"

"Because I need to know who would benefit from Mr. Wilson's demise. I know of at least two people that fit that category. You and Sheila."

"Wait. You are wrong. This thing between Sheila and me is not that serious. We are only fooling around."

Niki closed her eyes, rubbing them before looking at the stockbroker again.

"I thought we were past that. Would your wife say your ‘thing’ wasn't that serious?"

“Well, no―I mean, yes. But that is different. She's not exactly an unbiased observer.”

"Neither are you, Mr. Johnson. You are married, aren't you? You are partners with your lover's husband, aren't you?"

"Can we just get on with the pertinent questions? I told you I'm busy."

Niki looked at her notes.

"I believe these questions are pertinent. And relative." She paused. "Who else besides you and Mrs. Wilson would benefit from Mr. Wilson's death?"

"You won’t quit, will you?" He asked. "For your information, Scott was not the most beloved person in our office. He didn't get along with anyone. Except maybe Donna."

"What were his problems?"

"Scott didn’t think the youngest members of our staff were technically proficient."

"Meaning?"

“Scott believed in technical analysis. That meant he interpreted charts of the stock prices. He believed history would repeat itself, and its past can determine the price of a stock.”

"How? I don't understand."

The broker regained his composure, knowing he had the upper hand in this field.

“It's called technical analysis for a reason. Plotting the prices of stocks over time, usually, the closing prices will reveal certain patterns. Stocks trade in channels. Technicians call the bottom of the channel ‘support’. And the top of the channels ‘resistance’. They believe it is likely that a stock's price will normally trade between support and resistance.”

"What happens if it doesn’t?"

"Then, depending on which way it breaks out, the old support becomes the new resistance, or the old resistance becomes the new support."

"That seems simple enough."

"There is more to it. The charts reveal certain patterns like a 'head and shoulders', a 'flag,' a 'pennant', and a bunch of others. Scott didn’t think most of us, including me, correctly interpreted the patterns."

"Who was right?"