Nick Stephenson - Eight the Hard Way

The maître d’ glanced at the shield. His expression relaxed a little. “Given the circumstances,” he said, straightening his tie. “I’m sure I can make an exception. Please,” he stepped to the side, “go on through.”

Leopold brushed past without a word and headed for Creed’s table. The senior banker was engrossed in a heated conversation with the other diners that Leopold couldn’t make out. As he drew closer, Creed noticed and halted the conversation. The banker got to his feet and left the table, drawing Leopold just out of earshot of his companions.

“Can I help you, Mr. Blake?” he said, keeping his voice low. “I’m in the middle of a meeting.” He spotted Mary and nodded. “Detective Jordan. A pleasure, as always. Where’s your big friend?”

“He’s in the car,” said Leopold. “He never did like fusion food.”

“Me neither, I’m afraid,” Creed said. “But these guys seem to. God knows why. It’s all sushi as far as I’m concerned. Now, what is it I can do for you? I really must get back.”

“We spoke with Biggs, the man you said had assaulted Mr. Gordon.”

“Good. And he was of some help?”

“Yes. Though he said that Gordon wasn’t the one looking after his account. He said that you were. He believes you’re responsible for the loss of his fortune.”

Creed’s calm expression flickered momentarily. “Look, this really isn’t a good time. I dealt with a lot of accounts, we all do. I already told you everything I know about Gordon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an important account on the hook here. It’s not going to reel itself in.”

“Mr. Creed...”

“Mr. Blake, if you need to speak with me again, either set up an appointment with my assistant or get yourself an arrest warrant. Now please excuse me.” He turned around and walked back to his table, slipping back into his chair just as his lunch arrived.“You think we can get a warrant?” said Leopold.

“Based on what?” said Mary. “The guy’s an asshole, and he’s definitely not telling us everything, but we can’t get a judge to sign off without some hard evidence.”

“We’ll just have to go dig some up. There must be someone out there who dislikes Creed enough to talk to us about what goes on at the bank. Someone who works with him, maybe.”

“Or worked. Preferably someone with a grudge. How do we narrow that down? There must be hundreds.”

Leopold grinned. “I know exactly who can help.” He turned and marched back toward the door. “Follow me.”

The brownstone home of Teddy and Melissa Gordon was situated in one of the leafier parts of the Upper East Side, squeezed in between two other identical buildings about halfway down one of the many pristine side streets. Jerome rolled the Mercedes up to the curb and killed the engine.

“Nice place,” said Mary, looking out the window. “Don’t you live around here?”

“I have an apartment, yes,” said Leopold. “Closer to the park.”

“What’s the matter? Couldn’t afford a real house?”

“Let’s try to stay focused, shall we?” he said, opening the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk.

“No need to be so sensitive.” She followed suit and joined Leopold outside. Jerome waited in the car.

“I’m guessing we won’t have to worry about the Mercedes around here,” said Mary. “The other cars parked out here are worth at least twice as much as yours.”

Leopold rolled his eyes. “Are you determined to get some kind of reaction from me?”

“Oh calm down. You can be such a baby.”

“Can we just get this over with? Creed is going to be on the defensive now, so time is short. We need to find something solid to link him to Gordon’s murder. If he was really trying to sabotage his investors and Gordon found out, that’s as good a reason as any. Hopefully Mrs. Gordon can help with that.” He walked up to the door and rang the bell. “Otherwise we’re back to square one.”

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to get all sensitive.”

“I’m not sensitive, but that doesn’t mean I have the patience to pretend your little remarks aren’t getting annoying. Why don’t you just spit it out? You clearly have something to say.”

Mary opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by the sound of the intercom crackling into life.

“Gordon residence. Mrs. Gordon isn’t taking visitors, I’m afraid,” the disembodied voice said. “Kindly call her assistant to set up a meeting for another day.”

Leopold leaned in to the microphone. “I’m afraid it’s imperative that we speak with Mrs. Gordon today. Right now, actually. We have some important news regarding Mr. Gordon’s estate.”

Mary shot him a fierce look.

Leopold ignored her. “We need to go over the details immediately.”

There was a brief pause.

“Please wait there,” said the voice. The line went dead.

“What the hell are you doing?” said Mary. “We’re not here to talk about the estate. The minute she finds out we lied...”

“By that time, it won’t matter. I had to say something to get us inside, and if you whip out that damn badge she’s only going to be on the defensive.”

“I’m required to identify myself as a police officer. And, if you want any of the testimony from Mrs. Gordon to be worth a damn in future, you have to identify yourself as a consultant for the NYPD. Otherwise we’re wasting our time.”

“Relax. I only need a few seconds. You can tell her what you want after that.”

Mary sighed. “Fine. Just try not to get us into any trouble.”

The intercom buzzed and Leopold heard the locks disengage. The door swung inward, revealing a tall man dressed in a butler’s uniform. The man stepped to the side and waved them inside.

“Please, follow me. Mrs. Gordon will meet you in the drawing room.” The butler led them through to a spacious room toward the back of the house, complete with high ceilings and neoclassical furniture—delicate tables, cabinets, and chairs with finely crafted tapered detail and gold leaf accents. The floors were polished marble, the walls clad with bold wooden panels. The room would not have looked out of place in the Palace of Versailles. A woman, presumably Mrs. Gordon, sat attentively on the sofa. She got to her feet as Leopold and Mary were ushered through.

“Good afternoon,” she said, a weak smile forcing its way onto her lips. “Please, take a seat.” She indicated two armchairs opposite her.

Leopold settled into his seat. “I’m afraid I must confess we’re not here to talk about Mr. Gordon’s estate. We’re here to talk about who killed him.” He paused. “What can you tell me about Vincent Creed?”

Melissa Gordon flinched. “Who are you people?”

“Ma’am, we’re with the NYPD,” said Mary, holding up her ID. “I’m Detective Jordan, this is Leopold Blake. He’s a consultant.”

Mrs. Gordon took a moment to let the words sink in.

“I know this must be difficult for you, ma’am...”

“You know nothing of the sort, Detective,” she said, taking a seat. “My husband was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die. I would advise not trying to empathize with me right now.”

Mary nodded. “I understand, ma’am. We’re very sorry for your loss. Did you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”

“He was a successful man. A lot of that success came at the expense of other people. But that’s just business. I can think of dozens who would hold a grudge, but that’s no different from any other successful trader. You’ve met Mr. Creed, I assume?”