Cold Ambition

by Rachel Sharpe

  “Well, I don’t think I’ll be getting this cast off for a few more weeks, so I mainly want someone to make sure it’s healing properly. Could Dr. Randall do that?”

  The nurse bit her lip, nervously. “I’m honestly not sure. We mainly deal with allergies and the flu. If you would like, I’m sure he would be happy to take a look.”

  “That’s fine, thank you.”

  She stared at me momentarily before smiling oddly and excusing herself from the room. I sat there staring at the examination chair and the small sink behind it. From behind the door, I heard her speaking softly to a man. A few moments later, there was a knock at the door and a tall, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair walked into the room. He offered me his hand.

  “Hello, Jordan. I’m Dr. Randall. How are you today?” He carried in his left hand the paperwork the nurse had taken out with her. He put it down on a small table and put on a pair of eyeglasses. “So, you’re here about your arm?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I know my nurse informed you that I am not an orthopedist.”

  “I know. I mainly wanted you to look at it for peace of mind. I’ll make an appointment with an orthopedist next week.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. Before you leave, we can help you make an appointment if you’d like.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  He motioned toward the examination table. “Would you like to take off your jacket and hop up there?”

  I obligingly removed my parka and climbed onto the table. He walked over to a small sink and washed his hands before carefully taking my left arm in his right hand.

  “So how was your Thanksgiving?” he asked, gently rotating my arm.

  “It was fine. How was yours?”

  “Great, thanks. Finished your Christmas shopping yet?”

  I laughed. “No, I haven’t even started.”

  He looked up from my arm and smiled. “To let you in on a little secret, I haven’t, either. Please bend your arm. Does this hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Did you get your Christmas tree yet? Does this hurt?”

  “No and no. I’ve never gotten one, actually.”

  He looked up from my arm with a bemused expression. “Why not?”

  “I live in an apartment. Besides, I go home for Christmas.”

  “Oh, where’s home? Lift your arm, please.”

  “New Orleans.”

  “Well you’re far from home.” He let go of my arm and removed his glasses. “Okay, from what I can tell, your arm is healing all right. If you want a better opinion, I highly recommend seeing an orthopedist. I always recommend Dr. Sophia Paci. She could remove the cast and have it X-rayed again and then recast it. I don’t have that equipment available in my office.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  “Does it hurt at all?”

  “No, not really. Unless I put pressure on it or strain it, like when I try to lift something.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t lifting things are you?”

  “Well, luggage . . . a little.”

  “Don’t lift anything else. It should heal in a few weeks, if you don’t aggravate it.” He stood up and walked toward the door. “My nurse will be in to help you set up that appointment.” He offered me his hand again. “It was nice to meet you. Take care of that arm. And have a Merry Christmas.”

  “Thank you, doctor.”

  He nodded and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Moments later, the nurse returned with a slip of paper. She handed it to me.

  “I’ve made you an appointment with Dr. Paci next Wednesday at 2:30 p.m. That is her soonest opening. I have listed her address and telephone number should you need to change the time.”

  “Thank you so much,” I replied, taking my parka and following her out of the room. She led me down the corridor and stopped at the door to the waiting room.

  “Have a nice day,” she offered before walking back toward the other end of the building. I put my parka back on and slowly walked toward the exit. I could see through the glass door that the wind had not slowed, but thankfully, it was not snowing. I took a deep breath before zipping up my parka, putting on my gloves, and opening the door.

  Although the walk from the doctor’s office to The T took only fifteen minutes, it felt a lot longer. I hurried into the subway terminal and made the train only seconds before it departed. I got off at Fenway, a familiar habit, and walked up the stairs and was back on the street again. When I finally reached my office, I realized I had left the last of my pain medicine back at my parents’ house. Sighing, I unlocked the door of “Jordan James, P.I.” I walked across the room to my desk and dropped my purse.

  “Aren’t you even going to turn on the light? What are you, broke?”

  I turned back toward the door with a jump and saw Jon, lying on my couch.

  “What—what are you doing here? How did you get in? What’s wrong with you?”

  He slowly sat up and stretched his arms. “One question at a time.”

  “How'd you get in my office?”

  He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “Your office? I thought this was our office.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He reached into his jeans pocket, extracting a key ring with four keys on it. “Because your question was dumb. I have a key.”

  I threw up my arms in frustration. “A key? I never gave you a key.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I took it upon myself to make my own copy. I just never needed it until you went out of town.”

  I turned away from him and opened the blinds. I looked outside and took a deep breath before turning back around.

  “I don’t appreciate your not telling me you made a key," I paused, "but I do owe you a great deal of thanks for all of your help after, well, you know.”

  Jon crossed his arms and looked at the ground. “I don’t know what you mean. You went out of town, so I figured, since I didn’t have any holiday plans, I may as well make use of my time.”

  I started to mention our argument but thought better of it. If Jon wanted to pretend the incident never occurred, that would at least save us some time discussing the issue. “Well, I’m glad you did. Rick’s mother provided us with a lot of details. I feel a little more informed about this case. I also did a little research on David Michaels’ former employer, but there doesn’t appear to be much information available despite it being a powerful, Fortune 500 company.”

  Jon stood up and slowly walked over to his desk. He turned the chair around and sat down. “So you and Rick hung out yesterday?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it hanging out,” I replied casually, sitting down behind my own desk. “He just offered to pick me up at the airport since we planned on meeting anyway. What exactly did you tell him about a contract?”

  Jon shrugged his shoulders. “I improvised. I figured you would write something up, so I just made up some legal-sounding jargon.”

  “Did you give him an amount?”

  “No, I figured that you had rates already planned, and I didn’t want to over or undercharge him.”

  I exhaled slowly. “Okay, good.”

  Jon tossed his keys in the air. “So, did you have a nice trip?”

  Images of Greg Bell’s assaulting me, my father’s judging me and Alicia’s putting me in a teal, shoulder-padded bridesmaid dress crossed my mind. I cringed inwardly but replied, “Yeah, it was fine. How was yours?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t go home, so I went over to Rick’s mom’s house. It was just the three of us. It was nice.”

  I considered asking him why he didn’t go home but decided against it. Instinctively, I reached down to open my laptop but realized in my hurry to make the d
octor’s appointment, I’d left it at home.

  “Great,” I muttered. “Now I have to go all the way back home to get that stupid computer.”

  “How did you forget your laptop?” Jon marveled. "I thought that thing was attached to you or something."

  Sighing, I replied, “I was in a hurry to make a doctor’s appointment.”

  Jon looked at me, concerned. “Are you sick? You can’t afford to get sick.”

  “No, I’m not sick. It was for my arm.”

  Jon’s face turned bright red. “Oh. So what do you want to do today?”

  I unzipped my parka. “Well, I was thinking about going down to the police station. I wanted to see if I could get my hands on the police report.” A smile crept across Jon’s face. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all. So tell me. When did you file a motion for that?”

  “I didn’t. I assumed that, since the case is over twenty years old, I’d be able to take a look at the report.”

  Jon laughed. “Yeah, we’ll see, but don’t hold your breath.” He stood up, shoved his keys in his pocket, and put his sweater on, which he had thrown on the couch at some point before my arrival. I stared at him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You said the police station, so let’s go,” he replied, adjusting the sweater. I continued to stare at him. Apparently, he had completely forgotten that I had released him from his obligation. “What are you waiting for? Get up, let’s go. It’s supposed to snow tonight, and I don’t want to be out in that.”

  I obligingly stood up and zipped up my jacket. “All right, let’s go.” With that, I, Jordan James P.I., walked out of my office and into my first case.

  Chapter 14

  Jon and I took the Green Line until Boylston where we transferred to the Silver Line. On the ride, we discussed the information about David Michaels.

  “How'd you manage to get Rick’s mother to open up?” I marveled.

  Jon crossed his arms and offered a smirk. “Oh, it wasn’t hard. He just never had good timing like I do.”

  “And what was so good about your timing?”

  “Oh, I broached the subject after she had started her second glass of Chardonnay. She had no problem talking after that.”

  I groaned. “Jon, if she was inebriated, who’s to say she’ll talk to me if I decide to visit her when she’s sober? And who’s to say her information was accurate? People aren’t exactly thinking clearly when they’re two sheets to the wind.”

  A middle-aged man wearing a charcoal suit was sitting next to us reading his newspaper. As the train stopped at Union Park, he promptly stood up and exited. Four teenagers jumped on and attempted to sit next to us on a bench meant to hold only four people. As the train started, they began laughing hysterically because one red-haired girl, looking to weigh no more than ninety-eight pounds, was nearly thrown to the other side of the car. Between Union and Worchester Square, they managed to find a bench for themselves.

  “Trust me. Mrs. Michaels was in her right mind. She’s not a lush. She was just feeling more relaxed. She was fully aware of what she was saying, and I don’t think she would mind talking to you. I mentioned you to her.”

  “Really? What'd she say?”

  “She said that it was nice you were looking into the case but warned Rick not to get his hopes up. She said the likelihood of a private investigator solving a twenty-year-old case was low.”

  “Well, there’s still a chance,” I muttered defensively. “I know there must be a connection between his secret trips to New York and that company.”

  “Not necessarily,” Jon replied.

  I crossed my arms. “And why not?”

  “Well, because his wife said she suspected a mistress.”

  I groaned. “Oh, come on, Jon! She didn’t have a shred of evidence suggesting a mistress. That’s just a paranoid housewife.”

  “School teacher,” he corrected.

  “Whatever. She couldn’t offer any proof.”

  “What about the late night phone calls? Who hangs up without talking? A woman who doesn’t want his wife to know about her . . . or maybe a him. Could it be a him?”

  “Jon, you’re an idiot. I’m not even going to respond to that.”

  “Fine, you’re right, David sounds pretty straight but what about the phone calls?”

  “Let’s see. Who wouldn’t want to talk to Mrs. Michaels? Maybe someone with something to hide. Maybe someone who told David not to let anyone know if he were coming back to New York.”

  “Okay, but who? That could be a mistress.”

  The train came to a stop at Massachusetts Avenue. Jon and I hurried off as quickly as we could to avoid further contact with the four obnoxious teenagers who, between Worchester and Massachusetts, had started singing show tunes very badly. As soon as we started up the steps, I felt the icy winds envelop me. I shivered and crossed my arms tightly. The distance from the subway to the police station was approximately six blocks, but with the bitter weather and Jon’s incessant whining, it felt like we were walking across the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway Bridge to New Orleans, a twenty-four-mile-long drive.

  “Come on, Jon, seriously,” I begged in exasperation after his third rant. “Could you not take this walk as an opportunity to voice every complaint you’ve ever had about . . . everything? Please?”

  Jon glared at me, furrowing his brow. “Listen, I’m here to help you. I’m putting my life in danger to help you with this case.”

  I stopped walking. We were in front of Chester Park. “How exactly is my case putting your life in danger?”

  He crossed his arms and tried to stop shaking. “Well, for one thing, I could freeze to death. Or I could catch pneumonia.”

  Before me stood, quite possibly, the most complicated man I had ever met. Unlike the narcissistic and vacuous Greg Bell, Jon was more complex. Sometimes he was the most unbearable pain in the neck; other times, he was completely selfless and kind. The one constant in his personality was his sense of style, which did not always lend itself to comfort, or in this case, warmth.

  While I was bundled up in my light-green wool sweater, jeans, and a heavy parka, Jon was wearing designer jeans, black boots and a cotton burgundy pullover. Surprisingly, he did not have a coat or even a muffler scarf on. Despite my parka, the cold was getting to me; Jon must be legitimately freezing.

  “Healthy twenty-something’s do not die from pneumonia, Jon,” I replied, continuing on with our walk. I turned back toward him. “And why aren’t you wearing a coat anyway?”

  Jon jogged to catch up with me again. “A coat? No one would see my sweater under a coat.”

  I motioned at the few people walking past us. Each person was bundled up and offered the same, uncomfortable expression at varying degrees. “I don’t think they care about your sweater, Jon.”

  He scowled but didn’t reply. I was grateful for the silence as we continued our walk. I noticed a Dunkin’ and made a mental note to stop there on our way back. This was definitely a day for some caffeinated encouragement. When we reached the intersection of Massachusetts and Harrison, we took a left on Harrison.

  “How far is the station?” I asked. Jon rubbed his arms in a vain attempt to warm up before pointing east. I nodded, and we continued our walk. It occurred to me as we neared the station that in my six years living up North, I never needed to call the police once. I never had any accidents, before the mishap with Jon, and never found myself in so much trouble that their services were required. This would be my first trip to the police station, and thankfully, it would be on my own terms.

  Less than ten minutes later, we had arrived. It was a large, three-story red brick building. Once inside, we went through normal security measures and made our way to the homicide division. It was an expansive room w
ith cream-colored walls; thin, gray carpeting; and twelve, large oak desks, carefully lined up in rows of three. There were three glass-enclosed rooms, two on the far right side and one on the left, against the back wall. Between these glass rooms were five, large windows. In an attempt to fill the place with holiday cheer, cheap green garland was hung above each window and big, red velvet bows adorned each window frame corner. Had this structure been built elsewhere in the city, it could have offered a breathtaking view; as it was, it only offered policemen and civilians a large view of several buildings across the street.

  As we entered, a large man in his late thirties with fiery-red hair and large, green eyes approached us. He was not dressed in blue, as most of Boston’s finest were, but instead wore a brown suit with a white-collared shirt and light-green tie. He smiled politely at me and then narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Jon.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I hope you can. I was wondering if I could take a look at the David Michaels’ file, please.”

  Now it was my turn to receive his suspicious glare. “And why would you like to see that, Miss? Are you a reporter?”

  I shook my head. “No, sir.”

  “Then why do you want to see the file?”

  I glanced to my left at Jon. He nodded at me reassuringly. The man watched our silent exchange with growing wariness. I squared my shoulders and replied, “I am a private investigator hired by the Michaels’ family to investigate this case.”

  He stared at me for what felt like an eternity and did not blink. Suddenly, a great big smile covered his face, and he started to bellow. His reaction caught the attention of several other detectives, and they looked at each other quizzically. When he finally regained control, he wiped a few tears from his eyes and looked at me again.