Cold Ambition (Jordan James, PI)

by Rachel Sharpe

  “Miss, I really couldn’t tell you. That was over twenty years ago. My boys were in elementary school then and look at them now.” He pointed through the window in his office at two young men with auburn hair in their mid-to-late twenties. “All I can tell you is it was a white guy in a dark suit with a dark car.”

  “Why did you remember the plates were from New York?”

  “Because I’m constantly checking to see who comes inside, and sometimes I look at cars and license plates for fun. It’s not uncommon to see a Connecticut plate, and I always see Massachusetts plates. But New York? I don’t see those too often.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “A black sedan. I don’t recall the make or model, but the plates were private. I do remember that.”

  “You don’t happen to have any surveillance cameras, do you?”

  “I don’t, but there are a few on the building. I don't think they were there in 1989 though. I'm pretty sure the building super added them a few years back when one of the offices was vandalized.”

  I know my disappointment was evident on my face because Dan offered a sympathetic smile. Trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism, I asked, “Now, when the police investigated his death, did they come here and interview you or your staff?”

  Dan leaned back in his chair and stared out into the office. Following his gaze, I noticed Dan’s sons were assisting two clients and his interest was no longer on our discussion. I cleared my throat politely, and he turned his attention back to us. “Uh, the police? Yes, they came here and spoke with us.”

  “What did they ask?”

  Dan leaned forward and stared at the clients again. “Routine questions, I think. Questions like the ones you’re asking.”

  “Did you attend his funeral?”

  At this, Dan faced me, surprised. “Yes, I attended his funeral. It was in New York.”

  “Now, did you attend the actual funeral or that memorial service?” I scribbled quick notes as I spoke, so I didn’t realize Dan was offended until I looked up.

  “I attended both,” he replied abruptly.

  “I’m sorry. I wanted to ask because Rick said hardly anyone showed up to the actual funeral.”

  “Who’s Rick?”

  “David’s son.”

  Dan threw his head back and laughed. “I’m sorry to laugh while discussing such a serious matter, but I didn’t know toddlers had such good memories.”

  I glanced at Jon again, who had his arms crossed and a blank expression on his face. “He has since discussed the matter with his mother.”

  “She said I wasn’t there?”

  “No, no, she didn’t tell him who came to the funeral. She just said not many people showed up.”

  Dan nodded gravely. “That’s true. The memorial service was nice. There were about thirty, maybe forty people there. But the funeral,” he shook his head, “I think there were maybe ten people including my wife and me.”

  “Was it only family members besides you and your wife?”

  Dan nodded to himself before shaking his head. “No, hold on, let me think. His wife and son, his parents and in-laws . . . there was someone else. A woman in her forties. Her name was Sheila or Shelly, something like that. It was close to my mother’s name, and her name was Shelly. Anyway, she said she was his old secretary at another job. It was funny, now that I think about it. She stood in the back by herself and didn’t want to be noticed, but I could tell she was grief-stricken. I talked to her briefly.”

  “How did she and Mrs. Michaels interact?”

  Dan scratched his chin. “I don’t recall if they did. She stood in the back, kind of like she didn't want to be seen. I thought that was odd.”

  As I scribbled notes, my mind went wild with ideas about who this mystery woman was: a mistress, someone associated with his secret business/family trips, or maybe she was his secretary. Now more than ever, I wanted to see the guest book from the funeral. Dan spent this interlude watching his sons in action with a mixture of pride and fear. Realizing there was probably nothing else he could tell me, I stood up to leave. Jon did the same, and Dan looked at us again.

  “You’re leaving?” Dan inquired, unsuccessfully hiding his excitement. I nodded, and he jumped out of his chair, eager to be a part of the thrilling tax accounting action. We followed him through the office where he paused near the clients and offered, “I’ll be right with you.”

  As we stood by the front door, he shook our hands and insisted we call him if we had any other questions. “David was a good man. I hope you find whoever did this.”

  I nodded and thanked him again as we walked outside into the brisk afternoon air. The sky transformed from a bright blue to a cloudy, ashen gray as we traveled from Winchester back to Boston. On the trip, we discussed the new information Dan provided us.

  “So you think the mystery man in the black sedan killed Michaels?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure, but it is suspicious. So, we now know Michaels was neither spending time with his family nor handling business on these trips he took,” I began.

  “Oh, he might have been handling business, just not the kind you’re thinking about,” Jon winked. I rolled my eyes and groaned.

  “Listen, I’m not going to subscribe to your affair theory until I have solid evidence supporting it,” I replied. “And if you plan on having Rick live with you and share the expenses, I wouldn’t recommend broadcasting that theory.”

  Jon’s smile fell, and he nodded somberly. “You’re right. That would be a low blow to Rick. Well, who do you think that guy was?”

  “Jacobson said the man was in a dark suit and drove a black sedan. Something about that sounds like a government vehicle, doesn’t it?”

  “He did say the plates were private," Jon agreed. "But if he were a G-Man, why didn’t the cops know?”

  “Maybe they did know. Maybe Michaels knew something. Oh, I don’t know. I just have a feeling there is something right here in front of us and I’m missing it.”

  Jon cracked his knuckles and leaned back against the uncomfortable red and blue fabric seat. “So what next? It’s almost two-thirty, and I’m starving.”

  “We can get some lunch in town, but I think I’m going to call that funeral home,” I replied. “Rick may or may not be able to get his hands on the guest book from his father’s funeral, so hopefully, they have some information available. I’m interested in this mystery woman from the funeral, too.”

  “Seriously? You’re calling a funeral home about one dead guy from twenty years ago?” Jon shook his head incredulously. “You’re an eternal optimist.”

  I smiled and pointedly replied, “Someone’s got to be.”

  Chapter 19

  Several attempts to call the Brookstone & Sons Funeral Home only led to the discovery that it was still in business and that it had an answering machine that worked. Once back in town, we grabbed a couple of burgers at a fast food restaurant and argued about our next move.

  “No,” Jon repeated emphatically, between sips of cherry cola. “I’m not going to New York.”

  “What’s wrong with New York?” I countered. “I’ve been there several times. It's very nice.”

  He popped a fry in his mouth. “I don’t like it. It’s a big city, and it’s dirty and dangerous.”

  “You live in Boston. That’s a big city.”

  “Not as big and it’s a lot safer here. Cleaner, too.”

  I paused to take a bite of my hamburger and reconsider my approach. “Look, Jon. You got me this case, and I’m very grateful, but we’re not going to be able to solve it here.”

  “Why not? He was killed here.”

  “Yes, he was, but before a hasty and unexplained move, he lived in Manhattan. He left a six-figure job for a dead-end job
in Winchester. Come on, Jon, think about it. There has to be some connection here. I can’t find all the pieces unless we go to New York.” He continued to shake his head. I finally conceded, “Fine, you don’t have to come.”

  He chewed on another fry and narrowed his eyes at me. “So you’re going whether or not I come along?”

  “Of course. I told you I have to. I need to go to this funeral home and get that woman’s name. Hopefully I’ll be able to look her up, and maybe she’ll be willing to talk with me. While I’m there, I might stop by Hepstadt & Lower.”

  I picked up my tray and threw away the remnants of my meal. Jon followed and did the same.

  “This isn’t fair,” he moaned as we walked outside the restaurant and down the street.

  “What’s not fair? I said you don’t have to come.” I zipped up my parka. High above us, several cumulonimbus clouds had formed, and it began to rain lightly. Jon frowned at the sky and then at me as we hurried to a bookstore nearby and walked inside.

  “You know I can’t let you go to New York by yourself,” he groaned. The store clerk, a blonde with thin wire glasses, glanced up from a book as the chime announced our arrival. After acknowledging our entrance, she returned to her novel. This bookstore, like a lot of businesses in Boston, was located in an old building which was subdivided for financial gain and, therefore, appeared very cramped. The dark, wooden shelves reached to the low ceiling and were stuffed with all kinds of literature. I grabbed a book from the section crudely marked “Mystery” and thumbed through it casually.

  “Jon, I can take care of myself, so don’t worry about me.” I put the book back and grabbed another.

  “Sure, you can take care of yourself in New York with a broken arm,” he mocked sarcastically. I noticed the clerk glance up from her novel and stare at me briefly before returning to the story.

  “I’m fine,” I repeated, returning the book to its proper place. Jon threw his hands in the air.

  “Fine, okay, fine. I’ll go with you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “No, I want to. When are we going?”

  I glanced at the clock on my cell phone. “Is it too late to go today?”

  He scoffed. “You’re joking, right? It’s almost four. New York is about a five-hour train ride. You really expect to go to those places at night?”

  I frowned. He was right. New York was the city that never slept, but businesses like Hepstadt & Lower and Brookstone & Sons were not likely to be open at eight o’clock on a Thursday night. I picked up a historical novel. “You’re right. Okay then, we’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Aren’t you meeting Rick in the afternoon?”

  “Right. We should leave first thing in the morning.”

  Jon raised an eyebrow. “What do you consider to be first thing in the morning?”

  I shrugged. “Eight?”

  “Oh no, that’s not going to work for me.”

  “And this isn’t working for me!” the clerk exclaimed, slamming her book closed and standing up. “Look, if you’re not going to buy anything fine, I get that. But you two won’t shut up, and I can’t take it anymore. So zip it or get out.”

  I was left speechless. Jon, however, was not. After he berated her with a series of colorful insults, I took my cue to leave before she decided to call the cops. Jon followed me outside into the wet afternoon. We headed back toward the subway and decided to meet up there again the following morning at nine.

  The next morning I was surprised to find Jon waiting for me at the Amtrak Back Bay Station. That morning he was dressed in thin, gray slacks and a maroon sweater under a black, wool coat. He was also sporting a black fedora. I decided against offering the usual insults since he was willing to accompany me to New York. I hadn’t ridden on Amtrak since my last year of college and I had forgotten just how long those rides could be with constant stops. Jon was on the edge of his seat by the third hour. When the train stopped in New Haven, I had to cajole him to keep him from getting off.

  “This is ridiculous!” he wailed. “We would have been there an hour ago if it weren’t for all these stupid stops.”

  “We’re almost there,” I repeated for the umpteenth time. He stormed off to the dinner car and ordered another diet soda. Less than two hours later, we exited the train and entered Penn Station. After walking through a sea of people, we found ourselves outside at Pennsylvania Plaza, facing Madison Square Garden.

  “Okay, we’re here. Now what?” Jon asked as several people walked between us. In my jeans’ pocket I had phone numbers and printed directions to both Hepstadt & Lower and Brookstone & Sons. Jon recommended we go to the funeral home first because it was only twenty blocks away. Despite his resistance to accompanying me to New York, he appeared quite at home walking across the bustling streets. After a twenty-minute walk down 8th Avenue, he brought us straight to West 56th Street where the funeral home was located.

  As with most businesses in New York, the Brookstone & Sons Funeral Home was located on the first floor of a seven-story brownstone which housed several other businesses. We knocked on the solid, oak door with sizable brass letters spelling out the company’s name. An elderly woman answered. She was wearing a lavender, flowered dress with a gray sweater and sensible, tan shoes. She squinted her eyes at us from behind a pair of pink glasses.

  “Yes, can I help you?”

  “Yes, hello. My name is Jordan James, and I was hoping to speak to Mr. Brookstone.”

  She cupped her hand to her right ear, revealing a hearing aid behind the silver tresses. “What?”

  “Mr. Brookstone.”

  “What?”

  “Mrs. Wynstein! It’s all right. I’ll take care of this,” a middle-aged, bald man exclaimed, putting his hand gently on her shoulder.

  “Deke?”

  “Yes, I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you have a seat?” He led her to a desk and helped her sit down before returning his attention to us. “Hello. My name is Deke Brookstone. How may I help you?”

  I explained to him the situation and requested to see any information they might have kept on David Michaels’ funeral. He politely nodded every now and then. When I was finished, he replied, “This may be the first time anyone has ever asked to see our files.” He tapped his index finger on his chapped lip, thinking. “Well, to be honest, I’m not sure if I can legally release any information to you.”

  My heart sank. “We don’t need to see any private notes.”

  “Do you have a record of who attended the funeral?” Jon asked bluntly. Deke looked at him and inhaled deeply.

  “I really don’t know if I can do this,” he frowned.

  “How about this,” I suggested. “We have a first name. Could you maybe give us the last name?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Please? We came all the way from Boston,” I pleaded. He frowned but ushered us into the waiting room. The walls were a pastel green, but the color had faded over time. Above Mrs. Wynstein’s desk was a row of dated, floral-framed pictures. We sat on metal chairs against an opposing wall by a room that appeared to be a chapel. A mahogany casket sat along the far wall, beneath a simple wooden cross. A podium stood right of the casket, illuminated by recessed track lighting. I eyed the casket warily as Deke excused himself and went through a wooden door near the desk. The morbid silence was only interrupted by the wheezing of an ancient radiator that was loudly fighting its inevitable demise. Despite its condition, it still produced a stifling amount of heat, leaving the room uncomfortably warm.

  “This place is depressing,” Jon muttered, staring at Mrs. Wynstein and the paintings. I nodded in agreement. Suddenly, Mrs. Wynstein stood up, carrying a spray bottle and cloth, and walked past us and into the chapel. She hobbled over to the casket and, with tiny arthritic hands, began to polish it meticulously
. “Do you think that one is hers?” Jon whispered. Unnerved by the macabre image he provided, I tried to ignore the entire scene. Several minutes later, Deke reappeared, carrying a weathered and water-stained black-leather volume. He vainly attempted to wipe the dust from its cover.

  “All right,” he finally said. “This is the volume for 1989. What date was the funeral?”

  I glanced at Jon, and he shrugged. “Well, we don’t know exactly when the funeral was, but the memorial service was on July 26.”

  Deke nodded and put his foot on an unoccupied chair. Using his leg as a makeshift table, he scrolled through the yellowed and wrinkled pages to the month of July. He noticed my expression at the condition of the book. “We had a water pipe burst a few years back,” he explained. “It damaged a lot of our paperwork. Okay. Here’s July 26. What name are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know the exact name, but it’s something like Sheila or Shelly.”

  Deke frowned but obligingly scanned through the names. Finally, he shook his head. “There isn’t a Sheila or a Shelly.”

  My heart sank again. “Are there any names close to that?”

  He looked again and wiped sweat from his brow. “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Do you know when they held the funeral?”

  Deke slowly scanned every page. Finally, he stopped. “David Michaels’ funeral was held on Friday, August 4, in the morning.”

  “Is there a Sheila or a Shelly?”

  “This list is a lot smaller than the previous one,” he muttered to himself. “No, but there is an Estelle Barnes.”

  Estelle was close to one of the names Dan recalled. “Is there an address listed?” I pleaded.

  Deke glanced at the page then at me. “I’m really not sure if this is legal.”