“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?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled. “Then you know what I mean. He’s hardly one to give off an aura of amiability, wouldn’t you agree?”
Mary shifted in her seat. “I wouldn’t know, ma’am. Did you and Mr. Creed know each other well?”
“Oh yes,” she leaned back and folded her arms. “My husband and I actually met while we both worked at Needham, did you know that? After a few years, we started working in Creed’s division and I took time out to have children.” She paused. “As you can probably tell, that didn’t work out. I was forced out of the firm not long after. Thankfully, Teddy managed to keep things going by himself. He always was a hard worker.”
“Did any of your husband’s clients express any negative feelings toward him?” asked Mary.
“He never spoke about work; I think he felt it might upset me. He would sometimes work from home, but most of the time he was at the office. He liked to keep his personal and professional lives separate.”
“Did he keep a workspace here?” said Leopold, leaning forward.
“Yes, he had a study just down the hall.”
“May we take a look?” He stood up. “There might be something we can use to figure out whether anyone at Needham might have been involved. Mr. Creed wasn’t exactly forthcoming in that respect.”
“I’m not sure my husband’s private business is something I’m comfortable you seeing.”
Leopold sighed. “His private business is what got him killed, Mrs. Gordon. If there’s something about this case I know for sure, it’s that somebody’s not telling me everything. There’s someone at Needham working to keep a secret and I’m going to find out what that is. Do you really want to stand in the way of that?”
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.”