Lost Distinction (Jordan James, PI Series)

by Rachel Sharpe

  As I drove along, I thought about the pictures of Arthur in his youth. He appeared to be a happy child. It was curious that Rick referred to Arthur as “troubled.” Whatever troubles he may have had, he seemed to overcome them well enough to become a respected professor who cared enough to want to give back to the institution that made him the man he had become. Despite the threatening message on the obituary, nothing seemed to point to foul play.

  Chapter 10

  It was a quarter to two when Charlie waved us through the wrought-iron gates. The great house was silent and it appeared all the lights were off. I pulled Edward’s car up next to Stuart’s and turned off the engine. In the passenger seat, Michelle slept soundly.

  Thanks to my college roommate, Katie, I have seen what I look like asleep and suffice it to say, it is not a pretty sight. Michelle, however, somehow managed to look gorgeous even while asleep. When I nudged her arm, she opened her eyes slightly.

  Blinking, she yawned, “Where are we?”

  “Home,” I replied, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Well, your in-laws’ home anyway.”

  She ran her fingers through her silky hair, sighing. “What time is it?”

  “Almost two.” Rick walked around the car and opened my door. “Thanks.”

  He offered his hand and helped me out of the vehicle. My legs were stiff. “Don’t mention it.” He glanced back at the mansion. “I guess everyone’s asleep. Do you have a key?”

  Michelle had climbed out of the car and opened the door to the back seat. She found her designer handbag and grabbing it, closed the car door again. Still yawning, she pointed to the car keys in my hand. “The small, silver one next to Eddie’s car key.”

  I handed the keys to Rick. After grabbing my purse, I followed Rick up the steep steps to the ornate, front door. He unlocked it and pushed it open, slowly. We tiptoed inside and Michelle and I waited by the stairs as Rick locked the door. While standing there, I looked around. In the distance, I noticed a small ray of light reflecting off the well-polished wooden floor. Michelle followed my gaze.

  “Someone must be up.” She yawned.

  “I haven’t been this tired since my last semester of college.” Rick sighed, stretching.

  Although I was exhausted, my curiosity about the light outweighed my exhaustion. “You guys go. I’m wondering who’s still awake.”

  Michelle walked to the stairs. “Normally, I’d go with you, but I’m beat.”

  “Good night. And thanks. For everything.”

  She stood on the bottom step and grinned. “Not a problem. Thank you for everything. I haven’t had this much fun since my last trip home.”

  She said good night and headed up the stairs, her heels echoing in the distance. I glanced at Rick. “You can go, too, if you’d like. I’m good.”

  Rick raised an eyebrow. “The last time I left you alone, you raced off to Connecticut without a cell phone. I think I’ll keep an eye on you.”

  “If you insist.” He offered a dubious look before laughing. “What’s so funny?”

  He brushed my hair off my left shoulder. “Only you would race off on an adventure in an evening gown.” I glanced down at my outfit and blushed. “If I were those guys and saw two women running around campus on a Saturday night, I think I’d have probably asked for photographic evidence, too.”

  “Ha-ha, right. But they weren’t interested in me.”

  “Then they were blind.” He led me down the long hallway. We walked past the ballroom and several other rooms before stopping in front of a half-closed door. Rick rapped his large knuckles against it.

  “Come in,” a deep voice called, wearily. Rick pushed the door open. I found myself entering a room with rich mahogany walls and floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

  In a corner of the room, Ambassador Gatlin Cross sat in a burgundy-leather chair. In his right hand was half a glass of scotch. He turned the glass around in a circular motion before taking a long drink. His appearance startled me. His silvery, blond hair was disheveled and there were deep circles beneath his eyes. It appeared as if he aged dramatically from the time we last saw him at the country club, only a few hours earlier. “”Hello, Richard, Miss James.” He stood up, drained the glass, and walked to a well-stocked bar. “May I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you,” Rick replied, eyeing him cautiously.

  The ambassador coughed and placed the glass on the bar. Grabbing the nearest bottle and pouring the dark liquid in his glass, he muttered, “Well, I sure as hell need one.”

  At this, Rick strode up to the bar and grabbed the filled glass as the ambassador reached for it. The older man’s face turned a bright shade of red and his temples began to pulsate as he desperately reached for the drink. “Give me that before I blacken your other eye, you impudent sod!”

  Rick seemed unfazed by this and backed up, glass in hand. “What’s going on, sir?”

  The ambassador swung and missed. It became apparent he had been drinking heavily and it seemed to have impacted both his judgment and his balance. He fell to the floor and landed on his knees. Gripping them in agony, he shut his eyes and cried out.

  Finally, the ambassador exhaled in short, choppy breaths and muttered, “He’s dead.”

  Rick’s eyes widened then narrowed. He swallowed hard and tentatively leaned closer to the large man, still on the floor and holding his knees. “What? Who? Arthur?”

  No longer aware of our presence, Mr. Cross let out a silent sob. He covered his face in his massive hands.

  Rick dropped the glass. It exploded as it hit the floor, sending wet shards everywhere. Although Rick was a tall man with an almost perfect physique, even at six-foot-three, he was smaller than the ambassador. Somehow, he managed to grab the ambassador’s shoulders and pull the older man to his feet.

  Rick led him over the puddle of scotch, bits of glass cracking beneath their shoes as they walked. He helped the ambassador into the armchair. I glanced nervously between the two men. Neither was aware of my presence. The desperate look on Rick’s face bothered me. Behind his usual, cool exterior, I saw panic flicker like a flame desperately fighting against the constant wind.

  He knelt in front of the leather chair and braced himself by holding the right armrest. “Can you hear me? Mr. Cross!” Finally, the man’s gaze met Rick’s. “What’s going on?”

  Drops of perspiration blotted his tan forehead, despite the cool air blowing in from the numerous vents in the large room. “I need a drink,” was all he managed to croak.

  A frustrated scowl crossed Rick’s face, distorting his gorgeous features. He balled his right hand into a fist and slammed it down on the chair’s armrest, causing both the chair and the ambassador to shake. “Damn it, sir, talk to me! You said, oh God, I hope I misheard you. What did you say? What’s going on?”

  “He—he’s dead.” He doubled over in the chair and covered his face again. “It’s all my fault.”

  Rick staggered backwards. He fell onto the leather couch across from the ambassador’s chair. I rushed over to him, taking his limp hand in mine. He, too, stared into space as the truth of the statement filled his mind. A heavy silence fell upon the room, smothering us, its occupants, with this macabre revelation.

  Despite my never having met Arthur, I felt as if someone had knocked the wind out of me. My mind returned to the menacing letter. Had its author made good on the threat? If the Cross family let me investigate right away, could this have been prevented? And if he had any concern for his son at all, why did Mr. Cross waste time at the Vineyard? As I replayed the ambassador’s remarks over in my mind, I realized how little the grief-stricken man had revealed.

  Removing Rick’s jacket and draping it on the edge of the couch, I decided that if someone was going to break this agonizing silence, it would have to be me. I squeezed Rick’s hand once before letting
go and standing up. Smoothing my dress, I crossed the room to where the ambassador sat.

  He still had his head in his hands. It was unnerving to think such a man, a man who had brought himself and his sons to such political heights, could sit in such an ornate room in his mansion, alone, and drink away his sorrows. I reached for his left shoulder but hesitated, unsure how to approach the situation.

  Taking a deep breath, I tapped him quickly. The ambassador dropped his hands and stared up at me with large, red eyes. Despite my reservations about this man’s character, my heart went out to him as I considered how devastating it must have been for him to lose his son. “When did you find out?”

  He stared at the vivid Persian rug. “This evening, when we returned home from the club. I’d had a tough time fixing that mess the boys caused. But I did fix it. As usual. Devin, my assistant in London, called. He said that they found his body in our flat.”

  “Wait–he was in your apartment? I thought you said he was missing?”

  The ambassador narrowed his eyes at me and offered a perplexed expression. “Missing? No, he wasn’t missing. Granted, I should have kept a better eye on him, but he never vanished. Well, not for long anyway.”

  As I stood before Ambassador Gatlin Cross, my mind began to race as fast as my heartbeat. Swallowing hard I asked, “Are you talking about Arthur?”

  He looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “What? No, I wasn’t talking about Arthur. I’m talking about Henry. He—he must have overdosed. It happened sometime within the last few hours.”

  “Hold on.” Within moments, I realized what he was saying. My heart rate slowed. “Henry’s dead?”

  The ambassador swallowed hard and nodded. Standing up, he crossed the broken glass, crunching it further beneath his black-leather shoes. He grabbed another glass from behind the bar. I looked up at the different bottles on display.

  I recognized the names of some of the bottles as being very expensive brands. He had several thousand dollars worth of alcohol at least. His cheapest bottles would be top shelf at most bars. Finally, he settled on a brandy and filled the glass to the brim.

  “It doesn’t exactly come as a surprise, I suppose.” Ambassador Cross turned the glass around in his hand.

  I glanced over at the couch where Rick sat. He was staring at the ambassador intently, no longer paralyzed by the fear that his favorite cousin had perished. I turned my attention back to the ambassador as he took a sip.

  “Why isn’t it a surprise that a man in his late twenties died suddenly?” I asked, hoping the question didn’t come across as callously as it sounded. To my relief, he didn’t even notice.

  “Henry has been dying for years.”

  Rick glared at him. “Henry was an addict.”

  I walked over and sat beside Rick. “An addict?”

  Still staring at the ambassador, Rick replied, “Coke.”

  At this, the ambassador seemed to arise from his near-comatose stupor and sprang into politically self-protecting action. “Richard, please. My son was not a strong man. He had his faults, as do we all, but now let’s let them be. God rest his soul,” he finished as he took one last gulp of the fiery liquid.

  Rick leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and clasping his hands together. “Does Mrs. Cross know?”

  His eyes widened. “No, God no! And she’s not going to know until I can fix this.”

  Rick stared at him, a frown beginning to furrow his brow. “Fix this? You aren’t going to tell her the truth, are you?”

  The ambassador smoothed the lapels of his black jacket and brushed a strand of hair from his face. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead and rosy cheeks. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Richard.”

  Rick ran his hand through his hair as he began to pace the room. Finally, he stopped. “Sir, you do know what I’m talking about.”

  Ambassador Cross folded the handkerchief and placed it in his pocket. “Careful, Richard.”

  Rick motioned at me. “You don’t want to talk in front of Jordan? Why did you demand I bring her here?”

  The ambassador glanced at me so quickly that I questioned whether or not the look occurred. He pulled a pair of glasses from his jacket pocket and put them on. “It’s important to be aware of what you say and to whom you say it. Besides, this is a family matter.”

  Rick threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. “Then once again, why am I here? Why is Jordan?”

  “Because you are family.” Turning to me, the ambassador said, “My dear, I hope you don’t find me abrupt, but there are some matters that should be handled quietly and kept private. You understand, don’t you?”

  I stood there, considering my words carefully. I have dealt with high-profile clients before. I have dealt with rude ones, too. I wasn’t phased by either. At the end of the day, it was simple. It was business. What made this less simple was one tiny, minor fact. This was my boyfriend’s family.

  “I do understand,” I began, forcing myself to try and walk that narrow line. “I understand that your method of keeping things private is not working for you.”

  The ambassador’s jaw clenched but he said nothing.

  “You didn’t address Henry’s problem,” I continued, hoping the nerves I felt weren’t visible. “Unfortunately, it’s too late for him. Forgive my bluntness, but that’s the truth.”

  My heart pounded. Mr. Cross glared at me, but remained silent. Beside me, I felt Rick’s gaze, too, but I didn’t look. If I did, I might lose my nerve.

  “Arthur’s out there somewhere and he needs help. Now, I know you had Rick bring me out here to evaluate me. To see if I was competent, trustworthy. I can understand that’s important for someone in your position,” I paused, taking a deep breath. “So, what I would like to know is, have I passed your tests? If I have, I’d like to discuss Arthur’s case with you. If not, I believe Rick and I will be on our way. No need to waste any more of anyone’s time.”

  I crossed my arms and waited. Both men stared at me incredulously for what felt like an eternity. As each second ticked by, my anxiety elevated. Finally, the ambassador let out a laugh.

  “My God, you found yourself a little spitfire, didn’t you, Richard? I’m impressed. Most people wouldn’t have had the nerve to speak to anyone that way, let alone me. You’re right. I have been evaluating you and quite frankly, I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather handle this case, bearing in mind this matter must stay quiet.”

  “Mr. Cross, I practice the utmost discretion with all my clients, regardless of their social status.”

  “I have a question for you, Miss James.”

  “Yes?”

  “What would you say the most important part of any job is?”

  “Any job?” I paused, thinking. “That’s quite a broad range. I don’t think there’s one thing except, maybe, a strong work ethic.”

  The ambassador began to pace. It was clear he was now in his element. “That is important, but not the most important part. Image is the most important part of anyone’s job. You have to maintain a certain image of yourself and your abilities in order to succeed in this world. Your image will either make or break your career.”

  I glanced at Rick. He sat on the couch with a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. Although he opened the book, I could tell his thoughts were elsewhere. The ambassador stood with his chest puffed out and his hands behind his back, staring at me expectantly.

  “I agree with you that image is important,” I began, “but I don’t think it’s the most important factor. If a person doesn’t do a good job, it doesn’t matter how he looks when he’s failing at the task.”

  The ambassador replied with a slight smirk as he sat in the leather armchair. Staring up at me, he asked, “Had you not seen me moments ago at my worst, would you
have had any inclination that I am dealing with the most horrific nightmare any parent could imagine?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Would you have even for a moment doubted my judgment, thinking I would be acting irrationally due to personal tragedy?” I shook my head. “You see, Miss James, that is image. The image one shows the public will either bring you to riches or to ruins and I never intend to be in ruins. That’s why we moved Henry to London with us after that, well, unfortunate incident.”

  “What incident?”

  He shook his head. “It was nothing significant.”

  “Henry performed open heart surgery while high on cocaine. If there hadn’t been another surgeon in the operating room, the patient would’ve died,” Rick said.

  The ambassador’s mouth nearly fell to the floor. Quickly, he remembered his “image” and played his surprise off, asking casually, “How did you know about that?”

  “Arthur told me when it happened,” Rick answered, still refusing to make eye contact, pretending to keep his attention focused on Dumas’ classic novel. “He was mortified.”

  “Well, Arthur always does tend to overreact.”

  Rick slammed the book, causing both the ambassador and I to jump. “Overreact? Your junkie son nearly kills someone and you think Arthur was overreacting? It’s no wonder he avoids this family!”

  Before the ambassador had a chance to respond, I interjected, “This is getting us nowhere. Mr. Cross, you have in essence agreed to hire me to find your son, correct?”