Nick Stephenson - Eight the Hard Way

“Did anything specific happen to Mr. Gordon?”

“Teddy met his wife here at Needham,” said Creed. “Did you know that? In this line of work, it pays to have someone at your back. Teddy did well to find his early. Helped him climb the ladder. Marriage isn’t for everyone.” He turned back to the desk and drained his glass. “But I digress. To answer your question: yes, there were threats. I’ll have my secretary dig out the details.”

“Tell me more about the wife,” said Mary.

“Melissa Gordon,” said Creed. “Nice enough girl. She had drive, that one. It’s a shame really, what happened.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m guessing you’re my first port of call, so to speak,” he said, with a slight trace of amusement. “Well, I’m sure your due diligence would have turned it up anyway.” He poured himself another drink. “Teddy and Melissa met a few years ago, working a buy side portfolio for one of the bank’s up-and-coming accounts. They hit it off. She elected to take some time off after she got pregnant, but things didn’t work out. Hit them both hard. Hit her worst of all. Her career took a nosedive. Teddy worked hard to try and make up for lost time. The man’s a machine.” He drained his drink once more. “Was a machine.”

“They lost the baby?”

“Yes. And she was never the same afterwards. We ended up transferring her to a smaller office uptown, but she didn’t like the idea. Eventually, she quit.”

“What did this mean for Mr. Gordon?”

“Like I said, he worked hard to pick up the slack. Hell, it wasn’t long before he was earning more than enough money on his own, but he kept on going. Unfortunately, at the expense of some of our smaller accounts.”

“And these smaller investors got angry,” said Mary. “Maybe wanted some answers?”

Creed sat down again. “Like I said, I’ll have my secretary get the details for you. There was one guy in particular, used to show up at the office all the time. Briggs, I think his name was. Or Higgs. Something like that.”

“Anything happen?”

“Yeah, it got pretty hairy on occasion. Guy tried to follow Teddy home once or twice. He denies it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they came to blows.”

“We’ll get the details from your assistant. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Nothing that comes to mind.”

“Thank you, Mr. Creed.” Mary stood up. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

The senior banker nodded curtly but remained seated, his gaze now fixed on the remnants of the scotch. Leopold knew the look well.

Vincent Creed was hiding something.

The secretary, a young man who introduced himself as Brian, handed them a printout of names and addresses after a few minutes of fiddling with his computer. The list contained a dozen entries, each with a short description, and Brian told them to work from the top down. Leopold had thanked him and stuffed the list into his jacket pocket, before leading the three of them back down to the lobby and outside onto the sidewalk. Jerome set off to retrieve the car.

“That’s police evidence,” said Mary, reaching out a hand. “Give it here.”

“Not a chance,” said Leopold. “You need me on this case, even if you don’t know it yet. If I give you this, you’ll try to shut me out. That would be a mistake.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. What the hell do you know about murder cases?”

“More than you think.”

“Yeah? Like what?” She folded her arms, apparently annoyed at her own temper.

“Like Creed wasn’t telling us everything.”

“I know that, dumbass. I’m a cop. I can smell bullshit a mile away.”

“That’s not all. The photographs you took of the crime scene—did you happen to notice anything a little odd about the body?”

“I told you already, the autopsy won’t be for a few days.”

“I’m not talking about using the autopsy report,” said Leopold. “I’m talking about using your eyes. Actually look at the photos.” He pulled a full-page print from the manila folder under his arm and prodded the paper with an index finger. “Tell me, what do you see here?”

Mary took a step back. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Tell me what you see. Come on, you said you were a cop. Cops have instinct, don’t they?”

“Fine.” She peered at the photo. “I see a dead guy with a bunch of stab wounds to the chest and a slit throat. So what?”

“So what does this tell you about the attacker?”

“That he had a knife.”

Leopold sighed. “The cause of death was blood loss, thanks to the severed carotid arteries. When the killer slit Teddy’s throat, the blood sprayed all over the walls here, and here.” He pointed at the photo. “The blood pooling around the abdomen wounds suggests that he was alive when they were inflicted, but the lack of spreading suggests his blood pressure was very low. In short, he was practically dead already. So why would the killer stab someone who was already dying?”

“He might have wanted to make sure he’d done a good job.”

“Sure, I can buy that. Except when the victim has six stab wounds, all inflicted after the death blow was already dealt and Teddy was practically unconscious. Not to mention the wounds are irregular in depth and spacing.”

“So what? People freak out all the time.”

“The cut to the throat was a precise and deliberate attack. The stab wounds are entirely the opposite.”

“Get to the point.”

“Whoever did this was someone who knew Mr. Gordon personally. The killer would have harbored deep resentment toward Teddy—there’s a definite connection between them. There’s real hatred here. The killer enjoyed it.”

“And you can tell me what the connection is?” Mary took a step forward.

“Well, no. Not right now, but—”

“Then shut up and let me do my job. Half-baked theories aren’t going to help me get an arrest warrant, are they?”

Leopold slipped the photos back into the folder. “This doesn’t change anything. I’m coming with you to interview the first name on this list.” He patted his jacket.

“Fine. Just keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Whatever you say.”

Before Mary could respond, the Mercedes pulled up at the curb with a muffled growl. Jerome rolled down the front window and peered out. “Can we offer you a ride, Detective?”

Mary looked at Leopold. “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Leopold. “How else are you going to get there? You have no idea where you’re going.” He pulled open one of the rear doors and stepped to the side. “Go on, jump on in.”

“You know, you could enjoy this a little less,” she said, before letting out a deep sigh. “Let’s just get it over with.”

The first name on the list belonged to Joseph Biggs, his address listed in the Brownsville district of Brooklyn. Mary stared at the piece of paper, eyebrows raised.

“This guy does business with Needham. Why is he living in one of the roughest areas in New York?” she said. “Even cops don’t hang around here after dark.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” said Leopold. “Though I’d venture a guess that his investment portfolio probably didn’t yield quite the returns he was looking for.”

“We’re nearly there,” said Jerome, easing the big car into a side road.

Leopold glanced out of the window. The bustle and glamor of Manhattan seemed a long way behind them now; the Brownsville neighborhood was largely deserted, only a handful of people out on the streets. Empty cars lined the roads. Most of the stores were closed, metal shutters blocking the insides from view.