The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  Ms Rosenberg may have had a viperous tongue and a complete lack of social graces, but she was always entertaining to be around – once your eyes had stopped watering.

  Not being able to save her has kept me awake on more than one occasion. If she’s left me any amount of money in her will, I’ll never be able to accept it; there’s no way my conscience will allow me to profit from a death I blame myself for.

  It wasn’t right that her funeral hadn’t taken place until ten days after she’d died, but the FBI had insisted on having her body undergo three separate autopsies. I was told, off the record, by Chief Watson, that they had been done to counteract whatever moves the lawyer of the men who killed her may have made.

  I get why they did it, and technically agree with their reasoning, but I do know that according to the Torah, Ms Rosenberg should have been buried within twenty-four hours of her death.

  Her funeral was a lonely affair. The only mourners were myself, Alfonse, Chief Watson and a small handful of people from the Casperton Gazette. The paper’s editor delivered a heartfelt eulogy and we all went our separate ways.

  Alfonse’s shoe bumps my ankle hard enough to bring my attention back to the room.

  Pauline’s voice now shows irritation. ‘As I was saying, my client left instructions that, in the event of her death, I was to hire AD Investigations and hand this envelope to the two of you.’ She passes an envelope to Alfonse. ‘And that I am to instruct you to find her sole beneficiary.’ She hands a folder to me.

  I share a glance with Alfonse and open the folder. There are two sheets of paper. The first is a photocopy of an old picture. It’s black and white and shows a young couple holding hands and wearing the goofy grins that are shared by lovers the world over. By the look of their clothes and hairstyles, I’d say it was taken in the late sixties or early seventies. When I take a closer look, I can see the woman is a younger version of Ms Rosenberg.

  The second sheet of paper holds some details about Ms Rosenberg’s former beau. His name is Halvard Weil, and the address she’s given for him is in Brooklyn, New York. I’ve never been to the city that never sleeps, but I’m guessing Brooklyn has its fair share of Jewish residents.

  Halvard’s date of birth shows him to be in his early sixties and there’s a place of employment listed.

  I shift my eyes from the page to the lawyer. ‘Why do you need us to find this guy? All the information on here should be enough for you to track him down with no more than a few phone calls.’

  ‘Read the footnote.’

  I do as I’m bidden and realise why AD Investigations are required. The footnote admits that the information on the page was correct when Ms Rosenberg left New York forty years ago. Through online enquiries, Ms Rosenberg had learned that the apartment block where Halvard had lived, had been torn down. She’d also admitted that Halvard would change his job every few months as he didn’t have any clear career goals other than making money.

  From the corner of my eye I can see Alfonse stuffing his papers back in the envelope and looking at his watch. That he’s impatient to be out of here means he wants to discuss the contents of the envelope with me when there isn’t a lawyer present. I guess the pages he’s read are self-explanatory as he’s not bombarding Pauline with questions.

  I have one or two for her though. ‘This Halvard, do we know if he’s still alive?’

  Pauline’s mouth tightens. ‘I don’t know. If you do find that he’s no longer with us, the inheritance is to pass to any children he may have.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  I say the words without thought as I’m trying to find a delicate way to ask the size of the inheritance. In the end, I abandon all subtlety and ask outright how much we’re talking about.

  ‘Nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and one letter. Once her house and its contents have been sold, those monies are to be forwarded to him as well.’

  A whistle escapes my lips. I didn’t expect a six figure sum, let alone one that’s within spitting distance of a million bucks. Not for a reporter in a town as small as Casperton. She’d be well paid by the Gazette, but I can’t see her earning enough to squirrel away that much money.

  I feel Alfonse’s gaze coming my way and glance at him before looking at Pauline. ‘Where did she get that kind of money?’

  ‘Not that it’s important you know; she was an author as well as a journalist. I handled some of her affairs for that side of things as well. Mr Weil will also receive her book royalties.’ Pauline’s face takes on a gentle expression. ‘I read one of her books. It was a beautifully haunting tale of a lost romance that was never rekindled.’

  ‘Did she write under her own name?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. She had a pseudonym and she refused to do any public appearances, or have her face on any of the books. She even paid a model, so she could use her picture for any online publicity that her publishers insisted on. One or two of her books even hit the bestseller lists.’

  ‘What was her pseudonym?’

  ‘Lorna Noone.’

  The name isn’t familiar to me but, if she wrote romantic fiction rather than crime or thrillers, it’s unlikely our paths would have crossed in a literary environment.

  Like Alfonse, I have a hankering to leave, but I have a final question for Pauline before we go. ‘Assuming that you’ve passed on everything Ms Rosenberg asked you to, is there anything you should tell us that she hasn’t already covered?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’ve told you everything. And quite possibly more than Ms Rosenberg would have approved of, had she been alive.’

  Pauline’s final sentence is enough to embed a mental note never to hire her. Any lawyer who is as free and easy with their clients’ information as she has been, can’t be trusted. It’s one thing to give a little more information when pressed for answers, it’s another altogether to overshare without good reason. Ms Rosenberg may have died, but she should still be afforded the same respect as the living.

  4

  I park outside the bank and turn to look at Alfonse. As we were travelling across town from the lawyer’s office, we swapped information on the contents of the folder and the envelope given to us by Pauline Allen.

  The point I can’t get past, is Ms Rosenberg’s second life as an author. That she’d trodden the well-worn path from journalism to novel writing didn’t make her unique. The way she’d hidden behind a pseudonym didn’t mean much on its own, lots of authors do that, but when you add in the fact that she had turned down all public appearances, and had gone to the length of paying a model for an image to pass off as herself for publicity material, you have a situation that doesn’t add up.

  My experiences of her may have been limited, but I’d learned she was more of a towering sunflower than a shrinking violet. The desire to remain unknown is one that many people have, but few of these people carve out a career where they are constantly in the public eye. It would be fair to say that Ms Rosenberg’s journalistic skills hold a large amount of responsibility for the lack of corruption in local politics. Alongside the regular news articles that she contributed to the Gazette, she had a weekly column that carried her picture at the top of the page.

  Try as I might, I can’t connect the vivacious and often abrasive Ms Rosenberg I knew, with the reclusive Lorna Noone. It’s like they were twins: identical in looks but poles apart in personality.

  There’s also the envelope Alfonse was given. It contains a sheet of paper, and a key for a safety deposit box. The sheet of paper holds instructions for Alfonse and me. It tells us that we are to open the corresponding box in the Grand Valley Bank, and use what we find to unleash justice.

  It sounds melodramatic, on a bright sunny morning, so I pass her choice of words off as journalistic embellishment.

  The bank is busy. The advent of online banking has meant there are three tellers working at a counter set out for eight.

  When our turn comes, Alfonse shows the safety deposit key to the teller. She asks us to
wait a moment and fetches the manager.

  When the manager comes, he’s tall, thin and wearing the kind of suspicious expression the public usually reserve for politicians.

  ‘Gentlemen. If you’d follow me, please?’

  The manager doesn’t give his name, and I don’t ask, as he leads us to a small consultation room. A whiff of expensive cologne emanates from him, but a look at the poor fit of his suit tells me he’s not a preening showbird. I guess the cologne is a gift from a long-suffering wife or lover who are doing all they can to smarten him up.

  The three of us sit down and the manager rests his hands on the table with his fingers interlocked. If I was a cynical person, I’d suspect he is using his body language to forewarn us of a refusal.

  Alfonse must have had the same thought. Before a word can be said he passes across a letter of authority from Pauline Allen, which grants us access to Ms Rosenberg’s box.

  The manager reads the brief letter with furrows lining his brow. Once or twice his mouth opens and closes again, as if he’s about to say something and thinks better of it.

  He can act like a goldfish all he wants in his own time. We’re here on business and the sooner that business gets done, the sooner we can get on with finding Halvard Weil, and inform him of his inheritance.

  I’m happy to try being polite first, but have no issue escalating to rude, or even intimidating, if necessary. This guy is the type of pen-pushing jerk who makes me glad I toss drunks for a living. ‘I think you’ll find everything is in order. If you’d be so kind as to fetch us Ms Rosenberg’s security box?’

  The manager scowls at me and takes another look at the letter of authority. I presume he’s trying to find a loophole that’ll allow him to refuse our request. His next scowl is aimed at the paper, and he pushes back his chair as he rises.

  ‘One moment, gentlemen.’

  Something tells me he’s going to keep us waiting as an act of defiance. I’m glad to be proven wrong when he returns within two minutes, carrying a flat oblong box – an inch or two bigger than a regular sheet of copy paper and four inches deep.

  Alfonse uses the key to open it.

  I find I’m holding my breath, but I don’t quite know why.

  Alfonse removes two standard envelopes from the box, takes a quick look at them, and hands them to me.

  They both have my name on them, written in an old fashioned cursive script. They’re also numbered 1 and 2.

  The manager’s face now has an inquisitive expression.

  I’m tempted to open the envelopes straight away but something tells me that their contents shouldn’t be advertised.

  Before we leave, I have a question for the manager.

  ‘When did Ms Rosenberg first take out this safety deposit box?’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. It’s been open as long as I’ve worked here and that’s coming up on twenty-five years.’

  Judging by his age, I’d say he must have started here the day after he left school and worked his way up to manager.

  There’s no way those envelopes have been waiting for me for twenty-five plus years.

  ‘When did she last come in and ask for this deposit box?’

  The manager looks to the wall, in thought, before answering. ‘I’m not sure exactly, but I’d say it was about a month ago.’ He flaps a dismissive hand. ‘We only have a dozen of these security boxes in use, and in all my time here I’ve only known Ms Rosenberg to access hers on a couple of occasions.’

  What he says makes a certain amount of sense. Ms Rosenberg must have updated the information in it to correspond with the changes to her will that Pauline told us about.

  My desire to open the envelopes is growing by the second, but I’m more convinced than ever that they should be opened somewhere where only Alfonse and I will see their contents.

  5

  Cameron lifts his eyes from the paperwork strewn across his desk and rubs his nose. He hopes he’s wrong in his suspicion that the tickle is the beginning of a cold.

  Whether he’s getting a cold or not, he has work to do. It’s not the type of work he can boast about in the bars that he frequents on a nightly basis. Rather it’s the sort of job you keep quiet about, say nothing to anybody, and hope like hell that the wrong people don’t find out what you do for a living.

  The house he lives in is functional with a lot of clean space and bare walls. To some people it would be empty and lifeless; to him it’s just perfect. He has no need for clutter and no desire to burden himself with belongings that have no practical purpose.

  Possessions are anchors to a free spirit, who drifts with the wind and makes occasional lurches upstream when he senses a better opportunity.

  The thought of calling his work “a way to make a living” always raises a wry smile from Cameron, as he knows that his job may one day be the death of him. Not the industrial accident kind of death: the buried-in-a-shallow-grave-with-a-bullet-in-the-back-of-the-head kind.

  He blows his nose on the pristine handkerchief that he keeps in his pocket, and returns his eyes to the rows of columns. To a lot of people, they’re just rows of numbers, listing income and expenditure for a lot of different businesses, but to Cameron they’re something else. To him they are evidence, confirmation and opportunity.

  Evidence for his employer.

  Confirmation of the suspicions he shares with his employer.

  Opportunity for him, and him alone.

  With his sixtieth birthday fast approaching, Cameron wants to settle down to a life that doesn’t involve regret, fear and debt.

  He’s a smart man and he knows that, were it not for this opportunity, he wouldn’t be able to dream of a future without fear and debt. The regrets he learned to cope with long ago.

  Yet here it is. The possibility of enough money for him to see out the rest of his life in comfort has dropped into his lap with the softness of a falling feather.

  There are risks attached to the opportunity, but he lives with risk daily and, if all goes to plan, there will be sufficient money available for him to start over with a new name, in a new location. He’s good at doing that. He’s done it twice so far, and he’s already laid the groundwork in case he needs to move on at short notice.

  His pen traces row after row as his brain seeks out weaknesses he will be able to exploit. The more he assesses, the more he formulates his plan to seize the opportunity that has been granted to him. His planning is in the early stages but, if he gets things right, he’ll be able to make sure the finger of blame is pointed elsewhere.

  Whatever happens he knows that, if he puts his plan into action, he’ll either live a life of luxury, or die screaming.

  6

  It took all my self-control to not open the envelopes once we’d climbed back into my Mustang, but Alfonse made the excellent point that we’d be better waiting the five minutes it would take us to get to his apartment, so I could give the contents my full attention.

  He switches his coffee machine on while I sit myself at the breakfast bar and tear open the first envelope, only to find a typed letter:

  Boulder

  If you’re reading this, I’m dead.

  Not that you would, but I don’t want you to weep for me.

  What I want, is for you to do something I had neither the skill nor the nerve to do.

  In the second envelope there are clues for you to follow. They will explain why I left New York, fearing for my life, forty years ago.

  I would like to have been less cryptic with my methods, but behind my brash exterior, I’m still the scared little girl who trembled listening to the tales her parents told of the pogroms, and of how entire families were snatched in the night and never seen again.

  I cannot claim to know you well, but what I’ve seen of you tells me that you believe justice should be delivered to those who deserve it.

  Many years ago, through fear for myself and my beloved Halvard, I failed to ensure that justice was delivered, by running away to Casperton.r />
  I’m asking you to deliver this justice for me.

  Please, Boulder. Show the courage inside you, follow my clues and find what I left. When you find it, raise all the hell you can behind a cloak of anonymity.

  I implore you, if you do take on this task, not to expose yourself. You may think me melodramatic, but when you see what I have left for you, you’ll understand that attaching your name to any of this, is akin to putting your head in a noose and insulting the hangman’s wife. Your buddy, Devereaux, will be able to put this information in the right hands without anyone knowing where it came from.

  Read the second letter now, and know that if you choose to have nothing to do with an old woman’s regrets, I cannot blame you for fearing to do something I dared not.

  Ms Rosenberg

  P.S. I’m guessing that by now you’ve learned my Christian name. If you tell it to anyone I shall haunt you until the end of time.

  I can’t help but chuckle at the postscript she’s left me. It shows the prickly, vivacious carapace that encased a soft heart, and, what I can only guess is a lifetime of regret and self-recrimination.

  As the pieces of her life are being shown to me, I’m starting to form a picture of her that she didn’t present to the world. Behind her bluster and putdowns, she was still pining for the man she’d left behind in another place and time.

  I can imagine her torturing herself with questions about Halvard’s happiness; whether he had found a new girlfriend and settled down to raise a family. She’d probably tried to imagine what he looked like as he’d aged.

  I begin to wonder what she had done by way of tracking him. Had she scoured online obituaries – the print ones in major newspapers? Had she hired a private eye to track him down and update her on how Halvard’s life had turned out?

  Everything I think of paints a picture of a lonely old woman, filled with regret at a road never travelled.

  My thoughts return to the real purpose of the letter. It’s a clarion call to arms. She’s given enough details to pique my interest but held back on the real story. The letter is also written in the way a psychologist would call coercive, as she invokes words like courage and justice to request my help. There is a get-out clause for me, but it’s laden with reverse psychology.