Cold Ambition

by Rachel Sharpe

  “What’s the magic word?”

  I fell into my chair and looked up at him. “Are you serious?”

  “That’s not it,” he replied.

  “Fine. Jon, may I please borrow your laptop?”

  After a few moments, he replied, “No.”

  I clicked on the Internet icon. “Well, too bad. I’m using it.”

  Jon walked around my desk and stood behind me and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. “So what’s up? I thought you would've been here earlier.”

  I told him about my meeting with Henry O’Neal and all that Henry told me about the case. I decided to withhold from Jon that Henry was the man who threatened him for breaking my arm several weeks earlier. Unless there was ever a point in time when they would meet, I didn’t see the need to bring that incident up. Although a great deal of what Henry told me we already knew, the most important detail that he included was the key.

  “I don’t get it. So he had a key on him. Why could this be ground-breaking information?”

  “Don’t you see? Michaels hid a key inside his shoe. His shoe! Who would hide a key in his shoe? Wouldn’t it be better and more comfortable to put it on a key ring? If he hid it in his shoe, he knew someone was after him and desperately wanted to keep that person from finding it.”

  “Well, what kind of key is it? Did he say?” Jon asked, unmoved.

  I frowned. “He didn’t know. That’s why I’m hoping Rick can get it back from the police.”

  Jon raised an eyebrow. “Rick? When did you talk to him?”

  “I didn’t. I left him a message. Henry said a relative could request the key and the police might be inclined to give it to him or at least loan it to him.”

  I turned back toward the computer and pulled up Hepstadt & Lower’s company website. Scrolling down the main page, I located the physical address and a phone number at the bottom. I was about to dial the number when my phone rang.

  “Jon, it’s Rick,” I said, hurriedly. “Listen, could you call this number and find out what Hepstadt & Lower imports and exports?” He frowned at my phone as it continued to ring. “Please?”

  Groaning for effect, he pulled his cell phone out of his jeans’ pocket, leaned over to read the number, and then dialed. I sat on the couch as I answered the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Jordan? It’s Rick,” he laughed. “I was afraid we were going to play phone tag all day. Sorry I didn’t answer the phone when you called. I was in a tax-accounting class. And yes, it’s as exciting as it sounds.”

  I laughed and glanced at Jon, who was sitting in my chair and holding the phone to his ear with an annoyed expression.

  “Thanks for getting back in touch with me so quickly, Rick.” I briefly explained my meeting with Henry, only providing needed information to keep the call short, and ended it by telling him he could request the key.

  “So you need me to go with you to the police station and ask them to return my father’s key to me?”

  “Yes, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure. I’d be glad to. Like I said, I’ll be in Friday afternoon, and we can take care of it then. I’m bringing some stuff to Jon’s place since he agreed to let me live with him.”

  “So soon? I thought you were graduating in the spring.”

  “I am. But the spring semester isn’t going to be a big deal. I just needed two more classes to graduate. Finals are next week. So I figured I would start bringing stuff over now and maybe stay with him during the Christmas break.”

  Although I was happy to hear this news, I didn’t express it for professional reasons. “Oh, okay.”

  There was an awkward moment of silence before Rick inquired, “What kind of key is it?”

  “I really don’t know,” I admitted. “The detective only told me it was an unmarked key.”

  “You think it might have something to do with my father’s murder?”

  “I don’t know yet. That’s why I need to see what it opens." My inexperienced P.I. instinct told me that there was a connection but only by obtaining that key and determining what it was used for could I test the accuracy of this hunch. After a few minutes of small talk, Rick reiterated that he would let me know when he was on his way to Boston, and we said goodbye. Glancing over at Jon, I asked, “Well? What did you find out?”

  He leaned his cheek against his fist and glanced blankly at the computer screen. I waited for about a minute before saying, “Hello?”

  He looked over at me in feigned surprise and pointed to himself. “Oh, you’re talking to me now? Goody.”

  “Jon, please don’t do this,” I cajoled. “Seriously, what did you find out?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Jon, come on.”

  “No, I’m serious,” he replied abruptly, his voice rising. “I learned absolutely nothing. I spoke to some operator and asked her what the company did. She asked who I was, but when I wouldn’t tell her, she transferred me to someone else. That guy put me on hold for about three minutes before someone took the call off hold and hung up.”

  I sat on the edge of the couch and picked at a loose thread on the left cushion. “Listen, Jon, I don’t know what’s bothering you, but if I offended you, I'm sorry. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t be anywhere without your help. I wouldn’t have a client. I wouldn’t have any leads in this case, and I’d probably be swallowing my pride and asking for my old job back.”

  As I spoke, his expression softened. He turned the chair sideways and glanced out the window. “You wouldn’t have a broken arm, either.”

  I laughed. Hoping to drop the subject, I inquired, “Are you hungry?”

  Jon raised an eyebrow. “Maybe. Why?”

  “I’m hungry. Why don’t we go get something to eat?”

  He shook his head adamantly. “No, thanks. I'm not going out in that.”

  “What do you mean? It’s not even snowing right now.”

  He crossed his arms. “Doesn’t matter. It’s still freezing out there, and there’s snow everywhere. I’m not wearing boots. I’m wearing tennis shoes, and they’re still wet from my last trip outside. No one's going outside today. They even closed the schools! I can’t believe you intentionally went to the Constitution in this weather. Come on. That’s right on the freakin' water! Are you sure you’re from the South? My first guess would be Alaska.”

  “All you have to do is dress appropriately,” I answered self-righteously. After a few more minutes of arguing, we agreed to order a pizza. While we waited for it to be delivered, I decided to try my luck at Hepstadt & Lower. I dialed the number on my cell phone.

  “Good afternoon, Hepstadt & Lower. How may I direct your call?” a perky woman inquired. Although she presented the question politely, her voice lacked genuine emotion. I crossed the room and grabbed my notepad from my purse.

  “Yes, may I speak to Mr. Gavin McCready?”

  Silence on her end of the line confirmed my suspicion that this was an unusual request. Finally, she replied, “May I ask what this call is in regard to? Mr. McCready is a very busy man.”

  I glanced at Jon who was staring at me, both amused and intrigued. “My name . . . is Mast. Julia Mast. This is a legal matter.”

  “What kind of legal matter, Miss Mast?” Her tone had turned from surprised to unnerved.

  “Is Mr. McCready there?” I asked in my most professional tone. After another moment of silence, she finally spoke in an icy tone.

  “One moment, please.” I heard a click, and suddenly the sound of easy listening elevator music poured through the phone line.

  “What’s going on? Are you being connected?” Jon demanded. I opened my mouth to answer, but at that moment the line clicked again and another female voice, this one older and less cordial, invaded the line.

&nb
sp; “Hello?”

  “Yes, hello. Who is this?”

  “This is Janine Posey, Mr. McCready’s executive administrative assistant. I was informed that you are a lawyer, and that this is a legal matter. What exactly is this about?” she demanded in a slight accent I couldn’t quite place.

  My mouth went dry, and I swallowed hard. I hadn’t been expecting this response. Taking a deep breath and clearing my throat, I answered, “My name is Julia Mast, and this is a matter that only Mr. McCready can address. May I please speak to him?”

  “Mr. McCready is out of the country right now. Any business, legal or otherwise, that you have with him can be directed to me. Now what is this really about? Are you really a lawyer?”

  My heart rate increased, and as each second passed, my nervousness increased. Hurriedly, with a vapid excuse about an incoming call, I stated that I would be calling back to speak personally with Mr. McCready later in the week and then, ended the call. I exhaled slowly to try to calm my nerves and then stood up and walked over to my desk, where Jon still sat and stared at me.

  “Move. Please.”

  He stood up without a word and backed away, leaning against the wall again. I sat down and perused the website, looking for personnel. Finally, I located a small blurb about Janine Posey which included a thumbnail-sized photo of her. She was an imposing woman with white-blonde hair, approximately forty-five years old with fierce, gray eyes and rigid, thin lips. Her biography was short, and the photo seemed out of place as everyone else shown on the website offered luminous smiles.

  I felt Jon leaning over me, and he whistled. “Is that who you spoke to just now?” I nodded slowly, still reading her biography. Albeit brief, it stated that she was Mr. McCready’s executive administrative assistant and that she graduated summa cum laude with an MBA from Columbia. Jon was apparently reading her biography as well because he let out a loud laugh and walked around the desk and settled once again on the couch. “You tried to bluff that woman?”

  “I didn’t know I'd be speaking to her,” I protested, still focused on her biography.

  “What exactly was your plan?”

  I looked up at him and frowned. “I wanted to speak to Mr. McCready about David Michaels.”

  Jon chewed his lower lip and shook his head thoughtfully. “I’m assuming that McCready is in charge of Hepstadt & Lower, right?” I nodded. “And this is a large, international firm, correct?” I nodded again. “So you thought you would call with a fake name and a bogus story and the company CEO would tell you about a former employee who was murdered twenty years ago?”

  As much as I hated to admit it, Jon was right. I had approached that situation completely wrong. The only thing I could hope for was that the company did not have caller identification, and if it did, that they did not note my number as one of interest. Before I called them again, I would need to have a better grasp of the situation.

  “If you’re going to call and pretend to be someone else, you have to have a character in mind with a full backstory. You need to have every angle covered and believe what you’re saying.”

  He had piqued my interest. Recognizing a receptive audience, he stood up, rolled his neck from left to right, and took a few deep breaths. He then clapped his hands together. “Okay. So let’s say you do call again as Julia Mast or whatever that name was, which I would strongly discourage. She needs a history. She’s a lawyer, right? Okay. You’re young, so she’s just out of law school. Let’s say she graduated from NYU. She’s practicing property law and has an ownership dispute between several of Mr. Michaels’ relatives. She’s trying to ascertain whether or not he had legal ownership of, I don’t know, a building. No. An apartment. So she wanted to go through his personnel file and see where he was living in 1985.”

  I stared at Jon in disbelief. In a matter of seconds, he created an entire, plausible story for my fictitious character. He even gave her a brief backstory. He watched me intently. Finally, he exclaimed, “Well? What do you think?”

  “I’m—I’m really impressed, Jon. You really do have talent. I mean, when we went to that dank clinic and you said you were a med student and I was your sister, I didn’t think about what you were doing. You’re good. You shouldn’t give up on your dream. To be able to come up with something like that, well, that’s not a talent everyone has. You should have been our lawyer,” I laughed.

  He grinned widely. “Yeah, I don’t think Julia Mast should be calling Hepstadt & Lower anytime soon, though.”

  I buried my face in my hands in embarrassment. “I can’t believe I did that,” I wailed. “If I had used my real name, I could have blown this entire case.”

  He walked over and sat on the edge of my desk. He reached over and put his hand on my shoulder and patted it. “Don’t worry about it. It was one mistake. Next time I’ll prep you before we get into a situation where you have to lie,” he said, shaking his head with feigned sorrow. “Apparently, lying is not your forte.”

  Chapter 17

  We spent the remainder of the afternoon at the office, discussing the case. The pizza arrived about forty minutes late, so our lunch tasted like gooey cardboard. At four o’clock, we agreed to call it a day and meet up the next morning at the public library on Boyston Street.

  “What time do you want me there?” Jon asked, shutting down his laptop and carrying it back over to his desk. I closed the blinds, pushed my chair under the desk, and grabbed my purse and parka.

  “Would ten work for you?”

  He frowned. “I guess.”

  “It’s not going to snow tomorrow,” I reminded him cheerfully. “It’s even supposed to warm up at bit.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Warm up a bit? Were we looking at the same weather channel? They said it would be in the thirties tomorrow.”

  I tugged the sleeve of my parka over the cast before slinging my purse onto my shoulder. Jon carried a thin designer fleece and waited in the hallway while I turned off the lights and locked the office door. We walked down the hallway and waited for the elevator in silence. The doors opened after a few minutes, and a middle-aged man with long, salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a ponytail and a pencil-thin goatee stepped out. He brushed past us without even a glance. He wore a dark suit beneath a wool overcoat. Jon frowned at him as we stepped onto the elevator and the doors closed.

  “Who was that guy? He didn’t even look at us.”

  I pushed the ground floor button and shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. What does it matter?”

  Jon crossed his arms and watched the light illuminate each floor as we descended. “It doesn’t. I just thought he was rude.”

  The elevator beeped, announcing our arrival at the ground floor. The doors opened up to the lobby, richly decorated with Christmas lights; two ten-foot, pre-lit Christmas trees; and numerous wreaths. I saw Bob Warren leaning against the desk, apparently nodding off. The other elevator beeped, and a woman with white-blonde hair pulled back tightly in a bun got off and crossed the lobby in a mad dash. Her entrance woke Bob, and he noticed me as we neared the exit. He smiled widely at me before glaring at Jon suspiciously.

  “How are ya, Jordan?” he called.

  “I’m fine, Bob, thanks. How are you?”

  “I’m doing well,” he replied, eyes fixated on Jon. “Everything going all right?”

  I nodded and put my hand on the glass door to leave. “Yep, it’s going well. How was your Thanksgiving?”

  “Fine. Yours?”

  “Very nice, thank you.” I felt a cold rush of wind envelop me and realized Jon had opened the other door and walked out. Bob narrowed his eyes at Jon. “Well, I have to go now. Take care and stay warm.”

  “You, too, Jordan,” he smiled kindly. “And let me know if you ever need anything.” He nodded in Jon’s direction, making it clear his intention. I left qu
ickly, hopeful to avoid anymore awkward encounters. Once I was outside we started heading toward the subway. I followed him with my arms crossed tightly and my head down as we walked into the wind. A few blocks from the office, Jon slowed his pace and began to walk alongside me.

  “I don’t like that guy,” he muttered.

  “Oh, come on. He’s harmless.”

  “Yeah, to you,” Jon snapped. “That guy has done everything since I started working with you except call the police and have me arrested for trespassing. I mean, when I come in and you’re not there, I get a creepy feeling he’s watching me the entire time. I don’t like him.”

  “Well, I’m glad he’s vigilant,” I replied. “I’d rather have an attentive guard than an oblivious one.”

  “What could he even guard? He’s like a hundred years old!”

  I grinned. “It doesn’t matter how old you are if you can shoot a gun.”

  The color drained from Jon’s face, and he stopped walking. “Oh my God, you mean that geezer is packing heat?”

  “Of course. He’s guarding the building. Why wouldn’t he have a weapon? I don’t think a criminal would behave just because Bob strongly chided him.”

  “That disturbs me, Jordan. I think you should look into getting an office in another building now that I know Barney Fife’s grandpa not only has it in for me but he has the means to do away with me as well.”

  The snow along the sidewalks was no longer white and lovely but black and grimy from hundreds of people tracking through it. Although we walked fairly quickly, I was still conscious of my steps as I didn’t want to suffer another accident. Jon noticed my fixation with my feet and felt the need to comment about it.

  “What’s wrong with you? Do you have a sudden fascination with sidewalks or a crick in your neck?”