Cold Ambition

by Rachel Sharpe

“The victim’s son is the one asking for help. That’s someone directly involved in the case.”

  I stared at Jon in shock. “He was three years old. He was not directly involved in the case–he’s emotionally involved in it. I’m telling you that finding officers, witnesses, people physically involved in the case will be difficult to locate now, and that is assuming they’re still alive.”

  “His mom’s alive,” Jon offered. “She lives in Winchester.”

  “Was his mother one of the investigating officers?” I challenged. He frowned and crossed his arms.

  “You’re acting like this case is from 1929. Twenty years is not that long, relatively speaking. I know that we can solve this . . . that you can solve this. It’s just a matter of whether or not you think you can.”

  I turned toward him. “I’m not saying that I couldn’t solve it.”

  “So, then, is it that you don’t want to solve it?”

  “No, that’s not it, either.”

  Jon threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “Okay, I’m lost then. I signed on to help you with this agency. I said I could find you clients, and I did. You solve this one and your agency will be world-renowned. Think about that. Not to mention the fact that Ricky is loaded, and he will pay you some of the money up front.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “How does that work? Usually people get billed once a case is closed or when both parties decide to stop working together.”

  Jon smiled. “Well, Ricky has just as much faith in you as I do, and I might have told him that that’s how it works.”

  “I don’t know if that is ethical.”

  “Well, what does it matter anyway if you’re not going to take the case?” he snapped.

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to take it.”

  “So you are going to take it, then?”

  “Well—”

  “That’s good enough for me.” He walked toward the door and opened it. He leaned outside and motioned for someone. I began to feel extremely apprehensive.

  “Jon, what're you doing?”

  He walked back into the room and left the door open. In a lowered voice, he said, “I knew you were going to take it, so I told Ricky to meet us here.”

  “What?” I hissed. “I have a flight to catch! I can’t write up a contract yet. I need time, especially since this is my first case. Besides, how did you know I would be here today? I told you to take the day off since I was leaving for the holidays.”

  Jon sat down on the couch again, smugly. “I knew you would be here because I know you. You’re a workaholic, even when you don’t have any work. And don’t worry about the contract. I told him it would be ready after the holidays.”

  I heard the footsteps in the hall becoming louder. “Why didn’t you give me any notice? I look terrible.”

  “I didn’t give you any notice because I knew you would say no,” he answered casually. “Oh, there’s just one thing.”

  “What?”

  Jon looked back as we both heard a knock on my half-opened office door. “Don’t tell him this is your first case,” he whispered. My mouth dropped, and he winked at me. He stood up and opened the door. I instinctively smoothed my hair and tried to appear casual even though my heart was pounding in my ears.

  Standing in the hallway was a tall man with short brown hair, pouty lips, and piercing baby-blue eyes. Unlike Jon’s product-infused hair, Ricky’s was natural and brushed to the right. He was wearing an electric-blue, long-sleeved collared shirt that made both his eyes and his well-developed chest stand out; a pair of dark blue jeans; and brown shoes. He walked into the office slowly and stopped when his eyes met mine. I couldn’t deny how attractive he was, but his lingering gaze made me nervous. He finally broke eye contact and turned toward Jon. Jon put his left hand on Ricky’s shoulder and led him toward me.

  “Ricky, this is my boss, Jordan James. Jordan, this is Ricky Michaels.”

  Ricky slowly extended his hand which I readily accepted. “Pleased to meet you, Miss.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you, too.”

  He let go of my hand gently and looked back at Jon. Jon gave him a look.

  “Uh, if you don’t mind my asking, is there something wrong?” I inquired. Ricky turned his attention back to me and opened his mouth for a moment before closing it again. He stared at me apparently deciding what to say. Finally, he spoke.

  “It’s nothing, really, Miss. It’s just that Jon failed to mention something when he told me about his boss.” My heart sank. Am I that transparent? I thought glumly. He shakes my hand and knows I haven’t ever had a case before? “I wasn’t expecting a woman,” he admitted quietly.

  I stared at him blankly. After a moment, his words began to seep in, and I found myself getting angry. Trying to maintain my composure as my face flushed, I asked, “Is that going to be a problem for you?”

  He tilted his head to the side and scratched his jaw thoughtfully. Finally, he replied, “It’s not a problem. It’s just . . . well . . .”

  “What?” I demanded, a little too aggressively. He stared at me, and his eyes grew wide. Jon was standing behind him and shook his head. I took a deep breath and exhaled silently. I looked at him again, more serenely.

  “Well, my father was murdered. It’s not a routine investigation like the ones you’ve handled before.” I shot a look at Jon. He winked again. “My mother's never given me many details about what happened prior to my father’s murder. All she has ever said was that the police didn’t try hard enough to solve it. Whenever I pressed her about the issue, she refused to discuss it.”

  “There’s no chance that it was a random shooting?” I asked quietly. Ricky shook his head.

  “No, that’s not possible. I mean, we lived in Manhattan. When I was little, my parents had an apartment overlooking Central Park. Central Park! He packed us up and left it all, including his job, to move to a quiet suburb outside Boston. It just doesn’t add up, does it?”

  “That is a bit unusual, but maybe he got a better offer here in Boston?”

  Ricky shook his head. “No. It wasn't anything like that. He just suddenly left this high-paying job in New York and took a job at some small town mom and pop company here. I can’t prove it, but I think somehow his sudden and unexpected exodus from New York has something to do with his murder. That’s what I want to know, need to know. Did his old life in New York lead to his murder?”

  Ricky sighed deeply, turned, and walked over to my couch. He sat down and stared at the floor. I watched him sympathetically and then turned my gaze to Jon. He was staring at me intently. I had only known Jon for a short while, but I knew that he was trying mentally to will me into taking this case. I glanced over at my wall clock. I had a little more than four hours until my flight, and I still had not finished packing.

  I knew in my mind that, logically, I was not prepared to handle a case of this magnitude at this point in my new career. It made more sense to take on a few lighter cases, and then, once I was more experienced, I could approach this case. There was only one problem: I’m a dreamer. If I weren’t a dreamer, I wouldn’t have tried to start this agency in the first place. I thought of Magnum and all the exciting cases he handled and how many people he helped. I’m probably going to regret this, I thought.

  “Okay, Mr. Michaels, I would like to help you.” I began pacing. “But you have to realize that there is a chance this might have just been a random, tragic murder.”

  Ricky looked up at me. “I understand. I don’t think that’s the case, but I know anything is possible.”

  “I don’t know if Jon told you this, but I have to go home for the holidays. I’ll be flying back here on Monday morning. I can start then.”

  He nodded. “That’s fine. I have to go to my mother’s anyway. Jon just got me so excited that I wante
d to come by and meet you.”

  “Even though I’m a girl?” I laughed. He smiled.

  “Especially because you’re a girl.” He stood up and walked toward me. “So we have a deal, then?”

  “Yes. When I come back, we’ll fill out the contract, and I’ll need you to get me all the information that you have on this case. When you’re at your mother’s house, can you talk to her about it?”

  He bit his lip. “I can try,” he replied hesitantly. “But she really doesn’t talk about it. Maybe I can rummage through my dad’s stuff and see if there is anything there worth examining.”

  I nodded again. “Good. We’ll meet up again Monday afternoon, if that’s all right.”

  “That should be fine. I’m off for my fall break all this week, and my Monday class was cancelled as well.”

  I turned back toward my desk and grabbed a small piece of notepaper. I wrote my phone number down and handed it to him. “That’s my cell phone number. If you learn anything, please call me.”

  He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and typed in the number. I felt foolish giving him a slip of paper instead of a business card, but I couldn’t afford them yet. He finished saving my number and stuck both his phone and the paper back into his pocket.

  “Would you like my number, too?” he offered.

  I opened my purse and got my cell phone out. “Sure, what is it?”

  “It’s 402-555-2787.”

  I typed it in and saved the contact. “All right, then. I guess I will see you again on Monday afternoon, Mr. Michaels.”

  “Please call me Rick.”

  “Rick? Okay. I thought you went by Ricky?”

  Rick glanced over at Jon and smiled. “I haven’t gone by Ricky since I was twelve years old. Your assistant here has just always called me that.”

  I shot Jon another dirty look. Turning back to Rick, I smiled politely. “Well then, Rick, I hope you have a nice Thanksgiving, and I will see you here on Monday. Will four o’clock work for you?”

  “That would be fine,” he replied. “If anything comes up, I’ll call you, or you can call me. I hope you have a nice holiday, too.” He started for the door and paused. “I hope you won’t find me too forward if I ask this.”

  I looked at him perplexed. “What?”

  He motioned to my arm. “How did you break your arm? Was it on the job?”

  I looked over at Jon again. His face turned white. He was standing behind Rick, shaking his head, and mouthing the words, “Please, no.” I smiled and nodded. “Yes, you could definitely say that.”

  Chapter 7

  As Jon and I walked down the street toward the Green Line, I was in a state of shock that I finally had a client. He, on the other hand, was ecstatic.

  “See? I got you your first case. Told you I was good,” he gloated as he crossed the street and headed for the stairs to the subway.

  “Yes, you did. Thank you.”

  “That’s it? ‘Thank you’? Jordan, I have just handed you the best case you’ll ever get on a silver platter! This case will make your career!”

  “Or break it,” I reminded him as we headed down the stairs with a crowd of others. “You found me a twenty-year-old unsolved murder.”

  Jon rolled his eyes. “You can solve that. It’s no big deal.”

  I inserted my Charlie Card into the machine to check my balance. Seeing that I still had enough money, I climbed aboard the subway. He followed.

  “Jon, what are you doing? I have to get home and finish packing. I have about one more hour to kill before I need to be at Logan. You don’t even live in this direction.”

  He scratched his nose and grinned as the doors closed and we started moving. “I know. I just wanted to talk a little bit more before you left. You’re not going to be here for almost a week, and I didn’t know what you wanted me to do in the meantime.”

  I tucked some of the loose hair that had fallen into my face behind my ear and grabbed one of the poles. “Well, to be honest, you got me a client. I can’t imagine anything else I can ask of you. And since this is only one client, I don’t know if I could start paying you regularly. You’ve paid off your debt. You’re free to do whatever you want again.”

  His smile faded, and he stared at me. He grabbed the pole across from me when the subway turned abruptly. “What?”

  “Yeah, you’ve helped me out so much. I can’t in good faith keep having you work for me for free. If I could pay you, I would, but right now I can’t. To be honest, I don’t know how you can support yourself since I’m not paying you,” I admitted.

  Jon was silent. He loosened his cashmere scarf and unbuttoned his khaki overcoat. Even though there was a great deal of background noise from the subway and the other passengers, to me there was silence. I found his silence deafening despite the chatter from the passengers and the rumble of the subway train. Finally, Jon answered, “My father has plenty of money. Just because I gave up on his dream doesn’t mean he gave up on me. I have a generous monthly allowance, if you must know. And maybe this surprises you, but I like working for you. I’m not doing it to make money. I enjoy your company, and I know that you’re going to make it as a P.I. I wanted to be part of that. But I get it.” The subway slowed to a stop at Chestnut Hill—the stop before mine. Jon let go of the pole and headed for the exit.

  “Jon, wait,” I called.

  “Have a safe flight and a Happy Thanksgiving,” he muttered as the doors shut and the subway started moving again.

  I stood in silence for the rest of the ride. I couldn’t believe what had happened. I never intended to offend him. I genuinely felt that he had paid off his debt, but apparently he was getting more from our partnership than I realized. I kept trying to reach him on the phone as I walked to my apartment. I was so focused on reaching Jon that I didn’t even hear my nosy neighbor yelling at me until she tapped me on the back with her pointy finger as I was unlocking my door.

  “Ow! What?” I cried, rubbing my back. She angrily pointed at my apartment door.

  “You left your television on. It’s loud and annoying. You should be considerate of others and the environment, too. That’s a waste of energy.” She frowned at me.

  I sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I had left it on.” I could have tried to explain why I had left it on, but I decided that it was none of her business that my stress over making my flight caused me to forget to turn it off.

  She shuffled away and slammed her apartment door once inside.

  “Happy Thanksgiving to you, too,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. I unlocked my door and walked inside. Indeed, my television was on. I walked into the living room and placed my purse and computer bag on the couch. Grabbing the remote, I turned the television off and sat down. I had an unpleasant feeling in my stomach. I pulled my phone out of my purse and tried to call Jon again. His voicemail immediately picked up. Sighing, I tossed my phone back into my purse and walked into the bedroom. I would have to try to talk to Jon when I came back after the holidays.

  I finished packing and spent some time cleaning the apartment and making sure everything was turned off. Satisfied that all was in order, I grabbed my carry-on suitcase and purse and headed out the door.

  It took nearly thirty minutes to get to Logan, but airport security almost caused me to miss my flight. Thankfully, I got to the gate in time, just before boarding began. As I walked onto the plane, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jon. I didn’t like how we left things. I wanted him to work for me when I felt that I could financially afford it. He didn’t give me a chance to express that sentiment.

  Knowing that my non-stop flight to New Orleans would be unbearably long if I continued to think about Jon, I decided to turn my attention to the case I had just received. Although I have a broadband card for my laptop, it tends to be temperamental, as do mo
st electronics in my possession. By the time I had the Internet working, a perky flight attendant walked by and asked me to put my computer away or store it securely beneath the seat in front of me because we were about to take off. I was frustrated but obediently did as I was told.

  The flight was smooth and relatively uneventful. I sat on the aisle seat on the right side of the plane. The middle seat between me and a narcoleptic teenager, who occupied the window seat, was empty. For this I was grateful. I didn’t feel cramped as I checked different search engines and wrote important facts and names on my notepad.

  From a basic Internet search I was able to find out that Hepstadt & Lower, a well-known New York company that handled imports and exports internationally, had employed David Michaels. They traded globally and had offices in London, Paris, Venice, Tokyo, Hong Kong, and even Mexico City. Prior to his move to Boston, Mr. Michaels had worked his way up to Executive Accountant, a position that carried with it a lot of power. According to bits of information I was able to recover from several archived articles written about his death in 1989, he was in charge of the entire accounting department of the company. I was unable to find any further information about the company or his position there. All of the articles went on to say that he left Hepstadt & Lower in March of 1989 and moved to Boston, where a small accounting firm that handled IRS tax problems had hired him.

  None of the articles answered the most pressing question: Why did he leave Hepstadt & Lower? I found their website link and spent twenty minutes searching the site but could not find a single clear explanation about what the company actually did. The welcoming message said, “Hepstadt & Lower has handled your global importing and exporting needs since 1975. With the most experienced employees and technologically advanced equipment in seven countries, we can guarantee high-quality results. At Hepstadt & Lower, we transport trust.”