Melissa Gordon’s features darkened. “You dare come into my house...”
“We came into your house because your husband was murdered. Killed because he knew something he shouldn’t. And somebody at your husband’s firm is very probably involved in covering it up.”
Mrs. Gordon stood up, shaking slightly. “Fine. You win. Follow me.” She led them through to the hallway. “It’s in here.” She opened a thick wooden door to reveal a cozy room filled with bookshelves. Against the far wall a messy desk spanned most of the width of the floor, piled high with papers and old copies of the Financial Times. A slim computer monitor peeked out above the sea of clutter.
“I haven’t touched it since he was last in here,” she said. “Perhaps I’d better clear some things away.”
Leopold leaned in and located the keyboard. He tapped the space bar and the screen burst into life. “Password?” he said.
“Try ‘PLUTUS999’. All capitals.”
He typed the letters. “Thank you. Here we are.” The operating system loaded. Leopold reached up and tilted the monitor, keeping his hand on the frame. “Viewing angle is a little messed up.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure yet.” He clicked on a few folders. “There must be thousands of spreadsheets and presentations on here.”
“That’s pretty much what an investment banker does,” said Mrs. Gordon. “Push numbers around, make pretty graphs, and hope to hell whoever came up with the formulas knew what they were doing.”
Leopold chuckled. “Sounds like a blast. Do you mind if I print a copy of this?” He brought up a text document detailing a list of historic transactions.
She squinted at the screen. “Sure, suit yourself. The printer’s there.”
“Thank you so much for your help.” He fished the printed document from the tray and folded it, slipping it into his pocket. “I think we have everything we need. We’ll be in touch soon.”
As Melissa Gordon’s butler closed the front door behind them, Leopold caught Mary’s expression.
“What?” he asked, heading for the car.
“You did something I’m not going to like, didn’t you?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Spill. I’ll only figure it out eventually.”
Leopold grinned, pulling an ornate Mont Blanc fountain pen from his jacket pocket. “Let’s just say this case has given me a few good ideas.” He unscrewed the nib to reveal a USB micro drive.
“You weren’t supposed to take that,” said Mary. “It’s evidence in a murder case.”
“Relax. We got all the pertinent information off it already. I was able to slip it into the port in the computer monitor. Copied over most of Teddy’s work files. I used the printout to hide the pen as I slipped it back into my jacket.” He grinned again. “We’ll be able to take a proper look without Mrs. Gordon peering over our shoulders.”
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.” She opened the car door and climbed inside. “None of what we find is going to be admissible without a warrant. Just hope to God nobody finds out.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell anyone.” Leopold climbed into the front passenger seat. “And I don’t think Jerome is going to tell anyone.”
The bodyguard shook his head slowly.
“Good. Then I believe the only person who might cause any problems is sitting in the back seat.”
“Just take me back to the station.”
“Not a chance,” said Leopold. “I’m starving. I think it’s time you and I had a little lunch date.”
“They better serve real food in here,” said Mary, eyeing up Leopold’s choice of restaurant. “I’ve got no patience with tiny portions and giant plates.”
The sign above the door to Mama Leone’s boasted “New York City’s Best” and Leopold knew it to be true. What the place lacked in sophistication, it more than made up for with authentic food and a thriving atmosphere. Leopold pushed through the door and the smell of cooking hit him immediately—roasted meats, scented oils, garlic, herbs, chopped tomatoes—making his stomach growl even louder. A waiter greeted them by the door and showed them to a cozy table for two near the window.
“Unfortunately, this place doesn’t have wi-fi,” said Leopold, settling into his seat and pulling out the laptop he had brought from the car. “But we should at least be able to check through the contents of Teddy’s hard drive while we eat.”
“Speaking of which,” said Mary, “what’s good here?”
“Everything’s good. They’ll bring the food over as soon as it’s done, so they shouldn’t be long.”
“I haven’t even ordered.”
“It’s best not to choose for yourself; you’ll only get it wrong,” he said, slipping the micro drive into the laptop’s USB port. “They’ll bring over whatever is freshest. Their menu is based on what they could get their hands on at the markets earlier in the morning. Trust me, it’s better this way.”
“I’d rather just have a cheeseburger.”
“Just stop complaining and live a little.” Leopold tapped a few keys and the laptop started to whir. “Good. The contents are all copied over, so all we need to do is find something that links Creed to all this.”
“You really think he’s behind this? I mean, my gut’s telling me he’s scum, but is he capable of murder?”
“I know he’s hiding something.” He opened a search and typed in a few keywords. “We’re looking for anything covering the last few months’ numbers. Anything that shows a steep drop in share value.”
“Like we saw at the hotel?”
“Exactly. Here, look at this.” He turned the laptop around to face her. “Consolidated accounts for the firm’s top earners. See anything unusual?”
She peered in. “No. Should I?”
“That’s just it. Where some of the share value of the smaller clients dropped through the floor, these stayed constant.”
“So?”
“So, in any given week, the investment analysts allow for a variability of up to fifteen percent. They expect around five percent in a bad week, maybe one or two percent on an average one. Either way, it’s up and down. These numbers are showing a constant growth. A perfectly straight line. Real life just doesn’t work like that.”
“Someone’s cooking the numbers.”
“Right. There’s no way millions of dollars can drop off the accounts of a select few accounts, while the top earners show zero volatility. Someone’s taking one company’s losses and turning it into another company’s profits, making everything add up nicely.”
“Gordon was behind this?”
“These aren’t Teddy’s accounts,” said Leopold. “According to Biggs, Creed was the one overseeing the management. Teddy was the one bringing in the business. He wouldn’t have had any idea.”
“So why have all this on his computer?”
“Maybe he found something that didn’t add up. Maybe that’s what got him killed. But right now, there are more important things to focus on.”
“Like what?”
“Like lunch,” said Leopold, as the waiter arrived with two plates of steaming food. Leopold shut the laptop and stashed it under his chair.
“Buon appetito,” the waiter said, laying the plates on the table.
The first dish was gnocchi sautéed in butter and olive oil, with pesto, sprinkled with parmigiano-reggiano, and accompanied by a fresh salad. The hot salty dumplings made a fine contrast to the crispness of the salad, and both Leopold and Mary finished their portions after a few hungry mouthfuls. The food kept coming—roasted sea bass with chili tomato sauce, lamb skewers marinated in garlic oil, scrambled eggs with brie, walnuts, and white truffle—Leopold drank red wine, a rich sangiovese, while Mary sipped club soda. Both ate everything, mopping up remaining sauce with hunks of herby ciabatta. For dessert, the waiter brought them tiramisu and espresso.