“You called me, remember?” said Leopold. “Not that I don't appreciate the opportunity to lend a hand. You could certainly do with the help.”
“Oh really? You’re telling me this case has nothing to do with all the money you’ve got tied up at Gordon’s firm?”
“Believe me, I could buy Needham Brothers twice over if I wanted. The money isn’t a concern. What does worry me is what Gordon’s doing with it.”
“What he was doing with it.” She glanced over at the body.
“Right.”
“You got anything solid?”
“Not yet. Just strange things happening with the balance sheets; assets written down, or removed entirely. Inflated income reports, money filtering out of client accounts for a few days then suddenly reappearing. That sort of thing.”
“You think he’s using client money as his own?”
“That’s the most likely explanation. If we can figure out who his other clients are, we can get access to their accounts too. See if the same thing happened to them.”
“I’m guessing I shouldn’t ask you too many questions about that.”
“You learn fast.” Leopold smiled. “Listen, I know people who can get information. It might not stand up in court…”
“It could get you arrested, more like.”
“Only if someone tells on me.” Leopold tapped his nose. “Whatever helps us get to the bottom of this has got to be a good thing, right? Gordon was murdered because he knew something. Or he was pissing off the wrong investors. Whatever the reason, it has to have something to do with his, shall we say, creative accounting.”
Mary folded her arms. “I can buy that. Assuming you’ve got a shred of evidence he was mismanaging investors’ money.”
“I don’t have anything you can use. Not unless you want to lose your job, that is.” He fished a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and used it to pick up the fountain pen he had seen earlier.
“Blake, what the hell are you doing? Put that down right now.”
“Calm down. I won’t get my prints on it. Besides, the forensic team isn’t here. Who else is going to do their job for them?”
“Just put it back where you found it.”
Leopold held up the pen. It was a Mont Blanc, black resin with an accented platinum clip. “A little chunky for my tastes, but bankers love them.”
“What’s your point?”
“You see any paper in here?”
Mary looked around.
“Gone. Along with his laptop and cell phone, no doubt. Which tells me whoever killed him was connected to at least one of the client accounts he was working on. Fortunately,” he started unscrewing the pen, “I think he kept a backup.”
“What the – don’t even think about…”
Leopold separated the two halves of the writing instrument, laying the nib section back on the desk. He held the other half up triumphantly. “Voila!” In his hand, a USB micro drive where the ink refill would normally be housed.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Mary, peering closer. “How the hell did you know that was there.”
“These pens are unusually thick and heavy. You know, phallic imagery and all that. The bigger the, um, pen, the bigger the… well, you get the idea.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “Right, I forgot. It all comes down to dick measuring in the end.”
“Exactly. So I wondered why this particular fountain pen is as light as a feather quill.” He held it between thumb and forefinger, letting it dangle.
“Okay, I get the picture; it’s a decoy pen. He was smart enough to keep a backup of all his data and hide it. So let’s see what’s on that thing.”
“Oh, so now you want my help?” said Leopold, grinning.
“Just shut up and go find a computer.”
The USB drive was stuffed full of text documents, slide shows, and spreadsheets. Having requisitioned one of the hotel’s many business suites, Leopold locked the door and punched a handful of search terms into the computer while Mary stood behind his chair, peering in. The hard drives whirred and spat out a few dozen relevant hits. He opened up a few files, scrolling through them with mounting disinterest, before finding something that caught his eye.
“Here, take a look at this.” Leopold tilted the screen toward Mary.
“It’s a bunch of numbers. Is this supposed to mean something to me?”
“These are tracking lists for a number of client accounts. Automated software can keep track of any number of stock prices, and these ones appear to be particularly important. See here,” he traced his finger over the monitor, “Gordon kept these separate.”“So?”
“So, this is how it looks if I put all the data in a graph.” He clicked a few buttons and a line chart appeared.
“Wow, someone took a beating,” Mary said.
“Quite. It’s the same for all the others.”
“They all bottomed out at roughly the same time. What would cause such a dramatic dive in value?”
“It could be any number of factors,” said Leopold. “What’s more important is why Gordon was keeping track of these accounts specifically. He’s got historical data going back months.”
“Maybe he knew what was going to happen. He could have made a fortune selling the stock short.”
Leopold raised an eyebrow.
“What? Just because I’m a cop, I can’t know about stuff like that?”
“I didn’t say anything.” He smiled. “You’re right, though; if someone knew the value of a company’s shares was going to take a nosedive, he could make a killing.”
“Probably not the most appropriate choice of words, considering the circumstances.”
“We need to figure out who else had access to these accounts,” he said, ignoring her. “Someone at the bank must have noticed what was going on. It can’t be a coincidence that all these clients lost money in the same month.”
“You’re saying this is a cover-up?”
“It’s the most logical assumption.”
“Maybe we should go have a word with Teddy’s boss,” said Mary, making her way to the door. “You coming?”
“It’s after midnight,” said Leopold. “The managers go home in the evenings. The only people in the office at this time are low-level analysts. I doubt they’ll be much help.”
“Then go home,” she said. “We’ll drop by unannounced in the morning. Might surprise him enough to give something away.” She left the room, closing the door behind her.
Leopold sighed and shut down the computer, pulling out the micro drive before getting up and heading for the door. Outside, the hallway was silent, any traces of the earlier commotion long gone, and the only sound accompanying Leopold as he walked to the elevators was the hum of the air conditioning. His mind whirred, poring over the facts of the case, trying to find a connection. The alcohol dulled his senses, reminding him he needed sleep. The answers would come soon enough, he assured himself. They always did.
Thirty floors below, the city marched on, oblivious.
Leopold got home a little after two thirty. One of the local bars, an upscale joint a few blocks from his apartment, was open late and Leopold had taken advantage. The staff knew him by name and had made his usual table ready. A few hits of bourbon had finished the night on a high note, and, with no further insights forthcoming, Leopold had resigned himself to a decent night’s sleep and a fifty-fifty chance of a hangover.
His penthouse apartment was dark. The elevator opened up into the hallway, prompting the motion sensors to turn on the lights. It took a few seconds until a soft glow illuminated the ante room, then the living room and kitchen. Leopold tossed his jacket onto the coat rack and wandered through, heading for the armchair in front of the fireplace.
There was movement somewhere behind him and Leopold turned, a little too slow. A shadow moved fast, its shape blurred in the low light. Before he could move, the shadow was on him, blocking his path.