Cold Ambition (Jordan James, PI)

by Rachel Sharpe

  Realizing he hadn’t done so already, I pressed the button for the sixth floor. “Bob’s harmless. He’s just a nice old man.”

  “Yeah, maybe to you. Look, I’m not afraid of him. I just don’t like feeling threatened. Seriously, wait until I’ve done something wrong to come after me.”

  “You mean like break a girl’s arm?”

  He opened his mouth to argue but closed it quickly. The elevator beeped and announced our arrival. The doors opened slowly, and Jon followed me as I turned right and headed down a long hallway. At the end of the hall was a large window, overlooking the park. On either side of that window was a well-maintained plant. We stopped at the second-to-last door before the window. Like all the other doors in this older building, it was made of maple wood and had two panels and opaque glass. On my door in black letters were the words “Jordan James, P.I.”

  Jon stared at the door as I extracted the key from my coat pocket and unlocked it. I pushed the door open and flipped on the light to the right on the inside wall of the office. The office was not very large; according to my landlord, it was a mere 24’ by 18’. But it was more than enough room for me. I had placed one maple, six-shelf bookcase against the left wall. Straight back, in front of the giant window covered by the Venetian blinds my landlord provided all tenants, was my wooden desk. I found it at a flea market in Connecticut during my junior year of college. It was a 30” by 66” traditional wood-veneer desk with a mahogany finish. It was the most beautiful piece of furniture I had ever seen, and I had to have it. It cost me two hundred dollars, but I later learned it was worth three times as much.

  To the right of the desk, against the right wall, was my old green couch. The cushions were mostly flat after years of extensive use, and it was not the most attractive color of green. My roommate at Brown had purchased the couch during one of our many weekend flea market trips. The previous owner demanded a steep four hundred dollars for such “an exquisite piece of furniture.” After a solid twenty-six minutes of arguing, Katie had him agree to one hundred and fifty dollars. After we graduated and packed up to move out, she offered it to me free of charge.

  “You don’t want it?” I asked, perplexed.

  She shook her head. “No, not at all. It’s ugly and not really that comfortable.”

  “But you made such a big deal of haggling to get it. Why did you put so much effort into it if you didn’t want it?”

  “It was the principle of the thing,” she explained. “I knew it wasn’t worth more than one hundred dollars. I mean, look at it, Jordan. But that guy would have convinced some nice person, someone like you, to spend four hundred on it. That’s wrong. I took a fifty-dollar loss and saved someone else from a four-hundred-dollar mistake.”

  I vowed to always keep that couch as a symbolic reminder of both Katie and her principles. One should always stand up for what is right. Since I had only been in the office for a few weeks, I had not put up any photos or paintings on the walls. Jon walked inside and looked around the office. He walked up to my bookcase and began reading the titles. Most of the books were related to psychology. He then looked at my desk and walked behind it. He sat down in my chair.

  “This is a good start,” he offered. “But where are you going to work?”

  I crossed my arms awkwardly because of the cast and narrowed my eyes at him. “Get away from my desk.” I playfully ordered. He stood up and walked over to the couch. He sat down on it, but the lack of firmness in the cushions caused him to fall into it.

  “Good Lord! What kind of couch is this? How much did the bums pay you to take it out of their alley? I'm sure their real estate flourished after this eye sore was gone . . .”

  I walked around my desk and sat down. “Cut it out! There’s nothing wrong with this couch.”

  “Nothing except everything. Well, at least we have a space for my desk when you buy it. We can just throw out this piece of junk.”

  I turned on my laptop and glanced over at him. “We’re not throwing away my couch. And I don’t plan on buying you a desk.”

  “Well, how do you expect me to work then?”

  “I’m not even sure what I’m going to do with you,” I admitted, typing in my username and password. I pulled the sling out of my purse and secured my arm inside. When I looked up again, I realized that he was staring at me incredulously.

  “You don’t know what you’re going to do with me? I’m going to put your firm on the map!” He crossed his arms.

  “Okay, that would be great. How do you propose doing that exactly?”

  He turned sideways on the couch and lay down.

  “What are you doing?”

  He closed his eyes and smiled. “Waiting for inspiration.”

  I sighed and shook my head but decided to take advantage of his silence. I spent the hour that followed working on ways to improve my website and brainstorming marketing techniques. I had come up with a few good possibilities by the time he finally stirred. He sat up and looked around, clearly disoriented. He squinted at me and rubbed his eyes.

  “What—”

  “Good morning,” I replied, saving my work and shutting the laptop.

  He rubbed his eyes again. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in my office. You know, Jordan James, P.I.? The greatest unemployed investigator in Boston. You’ve spent the past hour waiting for inspiration on how you can help me get some clients. I can’t wait to hear what you’ve come up with!”

  “Inspiration?” He repeated. Slowly, his brain began functioning again, and I saw that he understood what I was talking about. “Right! Inspiration. Exactly. Okay. Here's what I’m thinking right now.”

  He sat up and felt his hair. Whatever product was holding it up that morning lost its luster during his nap. It was flat and looked greasy. He frowned.

  “Yes? You were going to tell me what insight you’ve come up with, right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. So I think the best way to begin our work on marketing you better is to go get some coffee.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Really? Coffee? That’s your great insight? I could have come up with that on my own. In fact, I came up with a few ideas while you were, uh, resting.”

  He started to spike his hair up again. Surprisingly, it was working. “Look, I’m sure your ideas are good, and I’d like to be able to discuss them with you rationally, but unless I get some coffee, I’m going to be a zombie. Didn’t I already mention this?”

  “You are the most high-maintenance assistant I have ever met. I feel like I’m working for you.” He smiled. His hair was fixed again. I'm not going to win this argument. I stood up. “Fine. Let’s go get some coffee. There’s a donut shop down the street. I’m hungry anyway.”

  He happily stood up and pretended to gasp. “A woman willing to eat a donut? Did I wake up in a parallel dimension?”

  Ignoring his comment, I removed my sling and put my coat back on. The doctor insisted that I keep the arm in a sling at all times, but when it came to a sling or my coat during a particularly cold New England winter, the coat wins out every time. I turned off the lights and locked the door. We walked down the hall in silence. We didn’t speak again until we were outside of the building and heading toward the shop.

  “You know, I’ve come to Boston all my life, but I’ve never spent that much time in this part of town.”

  “You never went to see a game in Fenway as a kid? Your dad didn’t take you and your brothers?”

  Jon laughed and shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “My dad is analytical and scientific. He's not really a sports type of guy. I mean, I went to a few games with my uncle, but I never really got into it.”

  “So you don’t like sports or just baseball?”

  “I don’t mind watching them socially, but I’m not really into any teams.”

 
Reaching the shop, he opened the door for me. We quickly rushed inside. The rich smell of sugary-dough and perked coffee invaded my senses. It was mentally stimulating me before I even took a sip. The warmth of the shop also helped make it a pleasant experience. We walked up to the counter and placed our orders. Jon only ordered a medium iced coffee while I went all out and ordered two chocolate-glazed donuts and one French vanilla coffee. Once we received our orders, I followed Jon to a small table near the window. The sun had come out, and the snow was starting to melt.

  “I hope it doesn’t snow again,” Jon muttered, sipping his coffee and staring outside.

  “I think snow is fun,” I offered, tearing a small piece off one of the donuts and eating it.

  “Snow is fun?” He rolled his eyes. “You can’t have lived here long if you still think that. Did you transfer to Brown?”

  “No, I went there for four years, and I’ve been up here for six years now. I just love the snow. It’s cold and a pain to drive through, but it’s also beautiful and kind of magical. I guess you don’t appreciate it because you’ve never been without it.”

  “And you over appreciate it because you haven’t dealt with it long enough,” he retorted. As he watched me eat my donut, he asked, “Who taught you how to eat donuts? I’ve never seen anyone pick it apart before.”

  “Well, I never stuff food in my face like a glutton if that’s what you mean, and this is an easier way to eat it one-handed.”

  My reference to my broken arm silenced him again. I smiled and took the last bite. After taking a sip of delicious coffee, I pushed the plate with the other donut toward Jon. He looked down at it inquisitively.

  “What’s this for?” he asked suspiciously.

  “I’m full. I thought I could eat two, but I can’t. I wanted to offer it to you before I callously threw it in the trash can. If you don’t want it, though, I’ll throw it away.” I stood up and reached for the plate. He blocked me and picked up the donut.

  “I’ll eat it,” he stated, “but if you poisoned it, I’m suing you.”

  “Go right ahead,” I replied, taking another sip of caffeinated goodness. “I’ll counter sue you for breaking my arm and for defamation of character.”

  “Touché,” he concurred as he took a bite.

  Chapter 6

  Jon had been working for me for nearly a week before he actually provided me with some genuine help. I did enjoy having someone in the office to talk to, but not having any clients was taking its toll on my patience and my nerves. During that week, Jon had managed to find himself a small, wooden computer desk at a second-hand store and started to bring his laptop to the office with him each day.

  Most days he played on the Internet and looked for local auditions advertised online. It was November 22, the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and the day I was planning to fly to New Orleans to spend the holidays with my family. I decided to go to the office to check on things before I left and, to my surprise, Jon was standing outside my office with a giant grin on his face.

  I eyed him suspiciously as I unlocked my office door and he followed me inside. “What’s gotten you so excited? Did you land a commercial or something?”

  He gave me a dirty look, but it faded away quickly and his smile returned. “I found our first client!”

  I dropped my purse mid-step and tripped over it. I almost fell to the ground, but he caught me and started laughing. Once I regained my balance and composure, I picked up my purse and hit him in the arm with my cast. He yelped in pain but kept laughing.

  “It’s not funny!” I complained. “I almost fell and broke my other arm.”

  “Hey, that’s not my fault,” he laughed. “I can’t help it if you’re clumsy.”

  I stormed over to my desk and tossed the purse on it. I then turned and faced him. He was still standing near the doorway.

  “I have a flight in five hours. If you’re joking about a client, so help me . . .”

  He held up his hands and desperately tried to stop laughing. “No, no, I swear. I’m not joking. I found our first client.”

  “Who? How?”

  “All right, do you remember when I said I went to college for a few semesters?”

  “Yeah, how long did that last? A year?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Funny. Do you want this client or not?”

  “I do, I do.”

  “Good. Then show me some respect.”

  I thought about saying something but decided not to. Instead, I reached across the desk and grabbed the wire coat hanger I had straightened and used to scratch my arm beneath the cast. My skin usually gets extra dry in the winter and unfortunately this included my arm, which was in a plaster cast and difficult to scratch. I managed to get it inside the cast about half an inch but it wasn’t far enough. Frustrated, I dropped the hanger on the desk.

  “Anyway,” he continued. “When I was in school, my roommate was this guy named Ricky Michaels. He was an accounting major.”

  “Okay.”

  “So anyway, even after I dropped out, Ricky made a point of keeping in touch with me through the Internet. You know, email, Facebook, Skype, stuff like that.”

  “Okay,” I repeated.

  “Well, Ricky sent me this email last night. He’s graduating this spring, a year earlier than expected. He’s already been offered a position at an accounting firm here in Boston. He wanted to see if maybe we could room together again.”

  “That’s great, Jon,” I replied. “But I’m having trouble following you. How does this relate to my agency’s getting a client?”

  Jon closed the door, which was still partially open, and sat down on the couch. He then peered at me sideways. “Have you ever heard of the unsolved murder of David Michaels?”

  “No,” I mumbled, trying in vain to fit my fingers between the cast and my arm to scratch a maddening itch. “Is it a big deal?”

  “It’s only one of the most fascinating unsolved cases in Boston. People wonder about it just as much as they do about the Gardner Heist of 1990.”

  “Well, I’ve heard of that one,” I replied defensively. “Someone stole more than fifteen works of art from the Gardner Museum the day after St. Patrick’s Day in 1990. It’s one of the biggest unsolved art thefts in American history. What happened to this David Michaels guy?”

  Jon lifted his shoulders and shrugged. “That’s just it. No one knows. One night in 1989, a couple was killed in an explosion in the Big Dig because they plowed into another car. The other driver was David Michaels. He was a big shot accountant from New York who had worked for a very lucrative international corporation. He had just moved to Boston with his wife and their three-year-old son when he died.”

  “I’m sorry, but something doesn’t add up,” I interjected. “There was a car wreck and an explosion. How is this a big mystery? It sounds pretty straightforward to me.”

  Jon smiled eerily. “That would seem straightforward except for one detail I left out.”

  “What’s that?”

  “David Michaels was dead from a bullet wound to the head prior to the explosion.”

  “What?”

  “Now you’re interested, aren’t you?”

  I was interested. I didn’t know exactly where Jon was going with this story, but I was very interested. I attempted to cross my arms but the cast prevented me from doing so. I held the cast up with my right arm.

  “So where does my agency come into this story?”

  Jon stood up and walked across the room. He peered through the Venetian blinds at the bustling city below. “My roommate Ricky was David’s son.” He paused and allowed this to sink in, still looking through the blinds. “Ricky mentioned this case often to me. It bothered him that the police never solved it. He said that, according to his mom, they really didn’t try very hard. I
t was easier just to let it sit there and eventually become a cold case.”

  I shook my head. “That doesn’t make any sense, either. It sounds like he’s jumping to a conclusion because he’s emotionally involved in this case. I’m sure the police tried their best to solve the case. Cops don’t just let cases go cold.”

  Jon shrugged. “I’m just telling you what he told me.”

  I scratched the back of my head and sighed. I was grateful to be able to scratch that itch. “Okay, now that I know the backstory, tell me about our prospective client.”

  Jon walked away from the blinds and headed back toward the couch. This time, he sat on the arm of the couch. I grimaced. I hated it when he did that, and he knew as much but didn’t care. “Well, like I said, Ricky emailed me about moving to Boston next summer and wanted to know if I would be willing to room again. I said that that would be cool. So, he emailed me back and thanked me and asked how my career as an actor was going. I responded ‘not so well,’ but I had a job working for a P.I.”

  I peered at him sideways, and it finally dawned on me why he gave me Ricky Michaels’ backstory. “No . . .”

  He stood up and smiled. “Yes.”

  “Jon, are you telling me that Ricky wants me to solve an unsolved murder from twenty-something years ago that trained police officers couldn’t?”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  I stood up and walked toward the window. “That’s a pretty intense case to crack right off the bat . . .”

  “Consider it baptism by fire,” he quipped.

  “It’s a twenty-one-year-old case. Finding missed evidence . . . even finding people involved in the case will be difficult.”