The hotel elevator opened up into the hallway of the twentieth floor, offering a fine view of midtown Manhattan. The streets below were a blur of taillights, mostly taxis, and the nighttime sky was a muddy orange blur. The thick windows kept out most of the noise.
Mary pulled out a credit card. “He’s in room 2037. We’ll rattle the door, pretend we’ve got the wrong room. This should pass as a key card.”
“And if he doesn’t answer?”
She shrugged. “I’ll have housekeeping drop by.”
“It’s not exactly covert,” said Leopold.
“You give people far too much credit. Worse case scenario, he stiffs on the tip.” Mary led the way down the long corridor until they reached Gordon’s room. “Ready?”
Leopold nodded. “After you.”
Mary rattled the handle and leaned her weight against the door. She jostled the handle again, louder this time. Leopold glanced down at the floor, noticing the strip of light under the door. If Gordon came to the peephole, he’d cast a shadow. Mary tried the handle a third time and swore, a little louder than was necessary. There was no movement from within.
“Is there another way out of the hotel?” she asked.
“Only for staff.”
“Maybe he figured out we were tailing him and bolted.”
Leopold shook his head. “He had no clue.”
“We could have missed him. We’d better check downstairs.”
“No. The lights are on inside. With these systems, they go out whenever you leave the room and take your key card with you.”
“Maybe he forgot.”
“Or maybe he’s ignoring us.”
Mary nodded and slipped her credit card back into her clutch. She pulled out her NYPD shield. “Okay. Looks like we might have to go find the manager.”
After a heated argument with one of the hotel supervisors, Mary threatened to make a scene. The man acquiesced and sent them back upstairs with one of the housekeeping staff, an aging gentleman who smelled of pipe tobacco. He swiped open the lock and waved them through.
Mary pushed open the door slowly. Leopold saw her right hand drift down to her thigh, resting just above the hem of her dress. Now he was looking closer, he could make out a subtle bulge under the material. He had wondered where she was keeping her gun. Mary stepped through, as quietly as possible, and Leopold followed.
The hotel room was spacious, though modestly appointed. There was a small desk and seating area near the window. The view looked out toward Central Park a few blocks away, the treetops just visible. The room itself would have been unremarkable if it weren’t for the smell; there was a sweet, sickly scent filling the air—like raw steak left out on the countertop to get warm. Leopold felt his stomach clench.
The mutilated body of Teddy Gordon was splayed out on the bed like a torn rag doll. Blood adorned the walls, what looked like arterial spray, a thicker pool forming on the sheets. Gordon’s skin showed pale white where it wasn’t soaked in red, a deep gash across his throat. There were several darker spots across the abdomen and the eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling. The housekeeper stepped through behind them and gagged.
“Dial 9-1-1,” Mary said. “And tell your security team to seal off the exits. Whoever did this might still be in the hotel.”
The doorman nodded and scampered away without a word.
“Blake, don’t touch anything,” she said, as Leopold noticed an ornate fountain pen lying on the desk.
“Relax.” He walked over and leaned in, taking a closer look. “I know the protocol.”
“You do when it suits you. Now just behave; I need to call this in. I can have a forensic team here in less than twenty minutes.”
“What about our friend with the key? You told him to get the police on the phone.”
Mary smiled. “I just needed him out of here. Whoever did this is long gone.” She glanced down at the body. “I have to say, as far as surveillance operations go, this doesn’t exactly rank in my top ten.”
“Since when did you get mixed up with the fraud unit?” the tall detective eyed Mary, looking her outfit up and down. “They’ve been tailing this guy for weeks. Never found nothing. Then you show up and we got a corpse? Maybe I should haul you in.” He laughed.
“You never heard of sharing resources?” she replied, arms folded. “Captain Oakes volunteered me.”
“And him?” the detective jerked his head in Leopold’s direction.
“Like I said. Sharing resources.” She broke off the conversation and joined Leopold at the desk, leaving the detective alone next to the body on the bed. The forensic team was late.
“Friend of yours?” Leopold asked.
“That’s Bullock. Works homicide with me. Thinks he’s God’s gift or something.” She shrugged. “Though you’ve got to admit, it doesn’t look good. We take over the case and the guy winds up dead.”
“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.