Nick Stephenson - Eight the Hard Way

“Here’s the address,” said Jerome. “We can pull in here.” He steered the car onto the curb and down a wide alleyway, parking just out of sight. The door locks clicked open.

“This is the place?” Mary asked, climbing out of the back seat.

“According to this, yes.” Leopold held up the list of names. “Apartment B. Sounds like a basement apartment.”

“Great. Nothing better than confronting a potentially violent suspect when you’ve got no escape routes.” She patted her hip instinctively.

“Relax. Just try not to wave that thing around.” Leopold eyed the bulge of her firearm. “And keep that police shield to yourself. I don’t think this is a registered neighborhood watch area.”

“You can say that again.”

Leopold glanced around as Jerome locked the car. Across the road a group of young men huddled around a wooden bench. Some were smoking, others handed around a brown paper bag with something inside, probably alcohol. A couple of others sat engrossed in their cell phones. The few pedestrians in the area gave them a wide berth.

“Cloccs,” said Mary. “One of the smaller gangs. But they try to make up for it.”

“Let’s just hope they don’t try anything stupid,” said Leopold, glancing up at the bodyguard. “Lead the way.”

The entrance to the apartment building looked out onto the alleyway. The door was reinforced steel, with a panel of buzzers mounted off to the side. Jerome jabbed the call button for Apartment B and waited. After a few seconds, he pressed it again. With a short burst of static, an irritated voice came on the line.

“Who the hell is this?” The voice was male.

Mary stepped forward before Leopold could speak. “Mr. Biggs?” she said. “We’re here to talk to you about Teddy Gordon.”

Silence.

Mary tried a different approach. “We might have some news about your accounts at Needham. Can you let us in?”

Leopold heard a faint scuffle on the line and the door locks buzzed open. Mary pushed through into a darkened hallway and waved the others forward. Inside, the smell of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air, mingled with stale cooking smells. Chinese food. Curry. The stink of grease. At the end of the hallway an unmarked door led down a flight of steps to the basement. Apartments A and B were at the bottom. Mary knocked on Biggs’ front door, one hand resting against her hip, just underneath her jacket.

The door opened a crack, the chain still attached. A pair of bloodshot eyes peered out.

“Mr. Biggs?” said Mary. “Can we come in?”

“Who are you?” said Biggs, his voice scratchy. He looked and sounded like he hadn’t slept in days.

“My name is Detective Jordan. I’m with the NYPD.” She held up her shield. “We’re here to talk to you about Teddy Gordon.”

The door slammed shut.

“I told you to keep that thing to yourself,” said Leopold. “How are we going to speak to him if he won’t let us in?”

“What else was I supposed to do? It’s standard procedure. I have to identify myself as a police officer, otherwise anything we get from him is inadmissible.”

“You don’t get it. We’re not looking for admissible evidence, we’re looking for a link to Teddy. We can find the evidence once we know where to look. And now we’ve hit a dead end. What do—”

He was cut off by a scrabbling sound from behind the door. The hinges creaked again and Biggs opened up. He stood in the doorway, dressed in shorts and a stained white vest that showed off an ornate tattoo across the shoulder and neck. A protruding gut and several days’ stubble completed the look—classic white trash.

“You comin’ in or what?” Biggs said, turning his back and heading for a tattered sofa in the corner of the room. He slumped onto the cushions and let out a burp.

“Erm, thanks,” said Mary, stepping inside.

Leopold followed close behind. Biggs’ apartment was a small studio, with a kitchenette and bedroom-slash-lounge taking up most of the space. Empty beer cans littered the carpet, which was stained and worn even without the fresh beer spills, and the sickly-sweet aroma of flavored tobacco permeated the atmosphere. Leopold noticed an empty pipe discarded on the coffee table, its burned-up contents tipped out into tiny piles of black ash. Jerome closed the door behind them.

“Can I get you something to drink?” asked Biggs, eyeing the insides of a crumpled beer can. He tipped it upside down and shook. Nothing came out.

“We’re fine, thank you. Like I said, we’re here to talk about Teddy Gordon. You were one of his clients, right?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“Can you tell me about him? Were you happy with his work?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“Mr. Biggs, we know you and Mr. Gordon argued about the money you had tied up in Needham. Can you tell me what happened?”

The man sighed, throwing the empty beer can to the floor. “Look, shit happens, right? I came into some money a few years back. Big lotto win. Blew most of it on coke and hookers, but a buddy of mine convinced me to invest whatever I had left.”

“And how did that work out for you?” asked Mary.

“Went pretty good at first. Gordon promised me twenty percent in the first six months and the guy over-delivered. It was frickin’ unbelievable. It’s like the guy figured out how to print money or somethin’. After that,” Biggs shrugged, “the shit hit the fan. Returns shrank. A year later and my investment’s only worth half what I paid into the fund. As you can expect, I’m pretty frickin’ upset.”

“What did you do?”

“I went to see Gordon to ask him what the hell was going on. He blew me off, like I figured he would. Said he didn’t look after the small funds no more. Said the market goes up and down, and there’s nothin’ can be done about it. Told me to file a complaint with his boss or take my money elsewhere. Not that there was much left at that point.”

“How much?”

“Less than a hundred grand. I took the cash, blew it all. Wound up here. Like I said, shit happens.”

“We have a witness who says you and Mr. Gordon fought. Thinks you and him might have come to blows once or twice. That ever happen?”

Biggs laughed. “You gotta be kiddin’ me, lady. How the hell you think a guy like me is ever gonna get close enough to a guy like him? Not that I didn’t occasionally fantasize about socking him in the face...”

“You could have followed him home. Gone to his office.”

“What’s the matter, you simple or something? Gordon had a driver take him home each night. Took him in mornings, too. Spent all day in the office. How the hell is a guy like me gonna get past that? I never even bothered trying to get an appointment. We spoke on the phone. That was it.”

“You never met him in person?”

“I had a couple meetings early on, sure. But once the problems started, he didn’t wanna give me the time of day. Told me to speak to his boss.”

“Who was that?”

“Guy named Creed. Gordon said he was the one in charge of my account. Told me to take it up with him.”

Leopold stepped forward. “Vincent Creed? He was the one managing your account, not Gordon?”

“You deaf? That’s what I said. Gordon was the one bringing in the clients, laying the groundwork. Least, that’s how he put it. Creed was the one managing the day-to-day. Seemed a little weird to me; the boss man running the accounts. Apparently, he only did that for a select few. Made me feel pretty good about the whole thing, ‘til he messed it all up.”

“And you’re sure about this?”

“Of course I’m frickin’ sure. You think I’d get forgetful about money, a man in my position? It might sound like small change to those Needham assholes, but it was everything I had.” Biggs paused. “Why you here anyways? You got news about my money?”