Nick Stephenson - Eight the Hard Way

Once dressed, he found Jerome waiting for him in the kitchen, a mug of steaming coffee in one hand. The bodyguard slid the drink across the polished marble countertop and Leopold caught it. He sipped, grateful for the caffeine boost.

“Assuming you’re ready, I’ve asked for the car to be brought around,” said Jerome. “We’ll pick up Detective Jordan on the way.”

Leopold smiled. “I don’t see that happening, somehow. Mary left a message saying to meet us at Needham’s.”

“You’re on first-name terms now, are you?”

“Don’t get cute. It’s far too early.”

“You’re the boss.”

Once he’d finished his coffee, Leopold followed Jerome down to the lobby and out to the curb where a glossy black Mercedes waited. A uniformed doorman helped Leopold into the back seat as the bodyguard got behind the wheel and started the engine. The V8 growled and Jerome pulled away, merging with the traffic heading south toward Seventh Avenue. They hit the FDR Drive and settled into a comfortable cruise.

“You gonna tell me a little about the case?” said Jerome, keeping his eyes on the road. “They got you doing anything good?”

“It started off as a fraud case, part of the NYPD’s recent crackdowns. They set up a task force and apparently my connections to the finance world were judged to be an asset.”

“Started off as a fraud case?”

Leopold shifted in his seat. “Yes. Suffice to say, things got a little more complicated last night after we found our lead suspect stabbed to death in his hotel room.”

Jerome accelerated, overtaking a slow-moving truck. “You working murder cases now? I thought partnering with the NYPD was supposed to keep you out of trouble, not get you stuck in the middle of it.”

“Relax. I can handle it. We’re on our way to follow up a lead right now. You can tag along if you’re worried.”

“Who else is going to look after you?”

“Just try not to flash your gun at anyone. It tends to get them riled up.”

The bodyguard grunted something in response.

Leopold grinned. “And let me do the talking, okay?”

Mary sat waiting for them in the reception lobby. She stood as they approached, holding out a thick manila folder. Leopold took it and leafed through the contents.

“This is everything?” he asked.

“Yeah. Autopsy won’t come back for a few days, so I included the crime scene photos. Forensics didn’t find much.” Mary glanced at Jerome. “Brought some muscle this time?”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s here to make sure I behave myself.”

“You’ve not learned how to do that yourself?”

“I’ve learned to, sure. I just don’t find it much fun.”

“We’re not here to have fun, we’re here to catch a killer.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He offered a mock salute. “By the way, how are we planning on getting inside?” He looked over toward the bank of elevators, flanked by a pair of burly security guards. “I don’t think they appreciate walk-ins.”

“That’s what this is for.” She fished out her NYPD shield.

“Put that away,” Leopold put his hand over the badge. “Any of the staff notice there’s a cop here, the whole building will be on alert. How’s that supposed to help us?” He sighed. “Look, just follow my lead.”

Leopold marched off toward the reception desk, beckoning the others to follow. The young blonde woman manning the phones looked up as he approached, flashing a set of brilliant white teeth.

“Can I help you?” she said, turning to face her visitors.

“Yes,” said Leopold. “I need to speak with Teddy Gordon. Immediately.”

“I’m very sorry, sir. But all appointments need to be made in advance. I’m afraid Mr. Gordon can’t see you right now.”

Leopold pulled a business card out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk. “I’m afraid it’s urgent. Can you please call up and ask Mr. Gordon whether he can squeeze me in.”

The receptionist glanced down at the card, maintaining her courteous smile. She typed something into her computer and Leopold noticed her expression shift almost immediately.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Blake,” she said. “I’ll make sure somebody sees you right away. I’m afraid Mr. Gordon isn’t contactable right now, but one of the senior vice presidents would be more than happy to talk with you.”

“That will be fine, thank you.”

The blonde held up three plastic key cards. “Here, these will grant you access to the thirtieth floor. Mr. Creed will meet you in the lobby.”

Senior Vice President Vincent Creed was tall, very skinny, with closely cropped gray hair and a neat goatee. A well-tailored Astor and Black suit did a good job of bulking him out, but it could only go so far. The banker held out his hand as the trio drew close and Leopold shook it, surprised that Creed’s grip almost crushed his palm.

“Good morning, Gentlemen. And Lady,” said Creed, his dark eyes looking each of them up and down in turn. “Please, follow me to my office. This way.”

The thirtieth floor was a maze of corridors, branching out to connect the bank’s myriad departments into something resembling a cohesive whole. This floor, Leopold supposed, was designed to cater for the domestic efforts of their investment teams, based on the signage he could make out. Plaques above doors announced increasingly vague department names such as Intra-Continental Growth Strategy and Internal Reliability Growth . Creed kept up the pace and led them through to a waiting room at the end of the hallway, complete with receptionist, before pulling open a heavy glass door that opened up into a plush office.

“Come on through,” the banker said, stepping inside.

Leopold followed, with Jerome and Mary close behind. The room was light and spacious, with wall-to-ceiling glass providing a decent view of the city. A large desk faced the door and Creed took a seat behind it, gesturing toward the seating area against the back wall.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” said Creed, opening a drawer. He pulled out a glass decanter of amber liquid and four tumblers. “Can I offer anyone a drink? Single malt scotch, twenty years old.”

Mary pulled out her police shield and held it up. “Not today. My name is Detective Jordan. I assume you know why we’re here.”

The banker eyed Mary warily before relaxing and pouring himself a healthy measure of whisky. “It’s an ancient tradition, toasting a fallen comrade.” He raised the glass to his lips. “Terrible news. I got the call early this morning.”

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Mr. Gordon?”

Creed ignored the question, turning his gaze upon Leopold. “So, Mr. Blake. How are you wrapped up in all this?”

“I’d answer the lady’s question, if I were you,” he replied. “She has a habit of getting what she wants. Eventually.”

The banker straightened up and set his glass down on the desk. He stood and turned to face the window. “Teddy was a good man. A good worker. He looked after a great deal of money for our clients; he was always top tier. Teddy made a lot of people very rich, but there are always those who suffer as a consequence. It’s part of life. Something that Teddy knew all too well.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mary.

“There were threats. Nothing out of the ordinary. Some clients lose money; we can’t win them all. The private investors sometimes get a little passionate about their portfolios.” He sighed. “You have to understand, we take on a mix of clients. Teddy looked after mostly corporate accounts, but everyone takes a quota of private individuals looking to pad their retirement funds. Sometimes...” he trailed off. “Sometimes they don’t get as much attention. They take it badly.”