“Absolutely. What’s up?”
I hesitated. The likelihood that three-year-old Rick Michaels would remember the details of his father’s death was slim. “Well, this may be an odd question, but do you remember your father’s funeral?”
Since he didn’t answer, I peeked at the phone to make sure I hadn’t dropped the call. Finally, Rick spoke. “I do have vague memories of it. Why?”
“Do you remember if the funeral was right after his death, or was there a waiting period?”
“You know, it’s funny you’re asking me that because my mother was talking about that after Jon left on Thanksgiving. I guess she felt okay talking about it since we were discussing everything else. The funeral was two and a half weeks after his death, but she held a memorial service a week later. Lots of people attended the memorial service; not many people attended the actual funeral.”
As I spoke with him, I scanned the obituaries for the weeks following the murder. Finally, I located the obituary, and for the first time, I saw a photograph of David Alan Michaels. He was extremely handsome. Rick clearly favored his father in appearance. Both men had dark hair and light eyes, although I couldn’t tell from the black and white thumbnail if David’s eyes were blue like Rick’s. In the picture, he appeared to be in his mid-thirties and offered a mischievous half-smile.
“How many people attended the memorial service?”
“Well, I don’t remember it, but she said there were a lot of people there.”
“Was anyone there from Hepstadt & Lower?”
“His former employer?” Rick clicked his tongue. “Uh, I honestly don’t know. But I do know she kept the guest book. The funeral home provided it. It has names and addresses and personal messages.”
“Is there anyway I could borrow that book?”
“Sure. I don’t see a problem with that. My mom's in New York right now, visiting her sister, but I think I know where it is. If I find it, I’ll bring it with me tomorrow.”
“Oh great. Thank you, Rick,” I exclaimed too loudly. I heard high heels echo loudly across the marble floor, and within moments, a middle-aged woman with a name badge and a frown appeared in the doorway. “Rick, I have to go. I’ll call you back.”
I shoved the phone in my pocket as the librarian stormed into the room. “What are you doing?” she hissed. “This is a library. You cannot use a cell phone in here. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Before I had a chance to protest, Jon came to my rescue. He stood up abruptly. “Ma’am, I’m very sorry that my sister used her phone in here, but it was an emergency.”
“Really?” the woman sneered, crossing her bony arms. “What kind of emergency? She forgot her English assignment?”
“No,” he replied earnestly. “Our parents were killed when we were little kids, and we were separated by OCS. We just found each other last year, and now we have learned that we have a grandmother who has just passed away and left an estate. We were looking up our parents’ obituaries and had to call our attorney about some details.”
I was stunned by his ability to instantly come up with elaborate stories. Although affected by his story, she was not completely sold. “Really? What are your parents’ names then?”
“Reggie and Martha Walters.” She walked closer. I thought she was going to grab us. Instead, she leaned over and looked at the screen. Pursing her lips tightly, she stepped back and walked toward the doorway.
“Do not use your phone in here again,” she ordered before storming out of the room. I waited until the sound of her footsteps became a distant memory before looking at Jon in shock.
“How did you do that?”
He leaned back in the chair and shrugged. “Easy.”
“Come on,” I prodded. “How did you do that?”
“Let’s just say I was prepared.”
Frustrated, I replied, “Will you stop messing with me? How did you know?”
He leaned forward again. “Okay, fine. You want to know how I knew? Because you were talking very loudly in the library on a cell phone. These librarians are brutal when it comes to their rules. It's pretty much all they live for. I figured your little conversation might draw some attention so I studied that screen and thought up an alibi. I saw the names of that couple, Reggie and Martha Walters, and read that they had two kids. Then I embellished a bit.”
I stared at him awkwardly. Although his lively performance saved us from a humiliating and costly banishment from the library, I couldn’t help but feeling he was jealous of Rick. That would be ridiculous, though, since Rick was nothing more than a client and I felt certain I behaved appropriately despite possible feelings to the contrary. Hoping to let the moment pass without further confrontation, I turned my attention back to the obituary and read it silently.
MICHAELS, David Alan. In Boston, of Winchester, on July 15. Beloved husband of Audrey Michaels. Devoted father of Richard Michaels. Cherished son of Edward and Maureen Michaels. Funeral date to be determined. Memorial service scheduled for Wednesday, July 26 at 7:00 p.m. at Brookstone & Sons Funeral Home, 815 W. 56th Street, New York, 917-555-2388.
Like the article, the obituary left a lot to be desired in terms of useful information. It did, however, provide the name, phone number, and address of the funeral home that handled Michaels’ arrangements. I quickly jotted down the information before scanning through a few other issues. About two weeks after the accident, the first sensational story about the case appeared:
MICHAELS MYSTERIOUSLY MURDERED
BOSTON – What was initially thought to be a tragic traffic accident has turned into a mysterious “who dun it” for both Boston PD and its citizens. Three individuals were found dead following a car explosion in the area of I-93 commonly referred to as the Big Dig. Mr. and Mrs. John Oberon of Medford and Mr. David Michaels of Winchester died when the Oberons struck Michaels’ stalled vehicle at approximately 3:30 a.m. on the night of July 15 and an explosion ensued. At the time, police feared a car bomb had caused the blast. Upon further inspection, they determined gasoline containers in the trunk of Michaels’ car were to blame. It was also discovered that Michaels died approximately two hours earlier from a single gunshot wound to the head. This revelation left everyone wondering who killed David Michaels? Not many details about Mr. Michaels have been revealed to date, but it is known that he worked at Jacobson & Sons Tax Firm in Winchester as an accountant and was originally from Manhattan. His reasons for leaving New York are yet to be determined, but many speculate this led to his death. Because he was murdered and his body positioned in a manner that a violent automobile accident was inevitable, there is a strong belief that this may have been an assassination. To date, the police have no comment on the matter.
This article was the first of six sensational stories I read about Michaels’ death. Each speculated he was murdered for a different reason: mafia connections, Soviet connections, political connections, drug connections, and there was even an article suggesting he was having an affair with the wife of a prominent Wall Street tycoon who supposedly had Michaels taken care of. I cringed when I thought of how painful it must have been for Rick’s mother to raise her son alone, surrounded by such innuendos. As scandalous as these stories were, not a single article offered a solid response from the police, and not one article actually provided any clues. I leaned back in the chair and stared at my notes.
“So, what’s next? This hasn’t been a very productive morning,” Jon grumbled. As I perused my notes, my eyes focused on three groups: Hepstadt & Lower, Brookstone & Sons Funeral Home, and Jacobson & Sons Tax Firm. Since the first two companies were located in New York, I decided I would approach the local one first.
“I’m going to try to call his former employer,” I decided aloud.
“Didn’t we already do that? I think we're treading water here . . .”
&n
bsp; I shook my head. “Not Hepstadt & Lower. Jacobson & Sons–the tax firm. They might be able to give me some insight into Michaels’ behavior during his last few months.”
Jon shrugged indifferently. “Whatever.”
After searching the local yellow pages and making a few phone calls, I finally located the Jacobson & Sons Tax Firm that David Michaels had worked for back in the late 1980s before his death. I spoke with the son of the current owner, Daniel Jacobson IV, who agreed to let me come by and discuss the matter. Winchester, Massachusetts, was about nine miles from the library, and I was fully aware the subway didn’t go that far. I flipped through the yellow pages to find the number of a local cab company. When Jon saw the section in which I was searching, he sighed and closed the phone book.
“Hey, what're you doing?”
“A better question would be what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to get us to that tax firm in Winchester.”
“So why are you looking for a cab? Don’t you own a car?”
“No, not right now, anyway.” I reached for the book again, but he stopped me. “What gives? How are we supposed to get there?”
“Go back to the subway station.”
“Subways do not run that far!” I exclaimed loudly. Again, my outburst was greeted with disapproving stares, so we headed out the front door.
“Have you ever heard of a commuter rail, Genius?”
I flushed with embarrassment at my rookie mistake. “Of course I’ve heard of a commuter rail,” I snapped. “I just didn’t know that it went to Winchester.”
Jon laughed, relishing my error. “Really? What did you think–it only stopped in Jamaica Plain?”
“You’re so funny . . .”
“I try,” he replied, smiling smugly.
Twenty minutes later, after a relatively smooth train ride followed by an easy walk, we found ourselves in front of the Jacobson & Sons Tax Firm. It was a small suite inside an old concrete building off Vine Street. As I approached the glass door, I suddenly felt anxious. Unlike talking with Henry O’Neal, a man I had previously met, I would be addressing complete strangers and needed to ask the right questions if I hoped to gain both their trust and useful information from this encounter.
As I opened the door, a bell chimed, announcing our arrival. A middle-aged woman with strawberry-blonde hair and kind eyes looked up from her desk, which was positioned near the front door. Behind her were two rows of cubicles separated by a thin aisle. Despite having four people working, the office was eerily quiet–a quiet only disrupted by the sound of the heater humming and people typing.
“Hello,” the receptionist smiled warmly. “How may I help you today?”
“My name is Jordan James, and I just spoke with Mr. Jacobson on the phone. He said I could come by.”
“Which Mr. Jacobson? We have three!” she laughed. I laughed politely as Jon stood next to me, silent.
“I’m sorry. I spoke with Daniel.”
She giggled again, although this time I suspected it was more for effect, and answered, “Which Daniel? We have two!”
“That’s enough, Marie,” an older gentleman playfully chided. He was tall, at least six-foot-three, with white hair, rosy cheeks, and light, gray eyes. Unlike the others in the office who were dressed in semi-formal attire, he was wearing a tan three-piece suit with an emerald green tie. He extended his hand, and I gratefully took it. “Hello, Miss. My name is Daniel Jacobson III, but you can call me Dan.”
“Hello, Dan. My name is Jordan James. I’m a private investigator hired by the Michaels family to look into David Michaels’ death, and this is my associate, Jon Riché.”
“David Michaels,” he repeated, shaking his head and staring at his beige carpet. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in years.”
“I spoke with the other Mr. Jacobson, and he said it would be all right for me and my associate to come by and ask a few questions.” Dan raised an eyebrow. “We’re trying to get a picture of Mr. Michaels’ life during the months leading up to his death.”
“Aren’t you a bit young to be a private investigator?” Dan asked, crossing his arms skeptically. “Is this a joke?”
I squared my shoulders and stood up as straight as I could. “No, sir. I am a private investigator, and I am investigating the Michaels’ case. May I please ask you some questions about Mr. Michaels’ tenure here?”
Dan stood silently, arms crossed, and eyebrow raised. I stood before him, unfaltering. Finally, he spoke, “All right. Come with me.”
We followed him into an enclosed room beyond the cubicles. He invited us to sit in the two wooden chairs located in front of his large, oak desk. He closed the door and then sat down behind the desk. He glanced at Jon.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Jon leaned forward and extended his hand. “My name is Jon Riché. I’m Miss James’ associate.”
“Associate, huh?” Dan repeated, shaking Jon’s hand quickly. “Well, what can I do for you two?”
During his brief conversation with Jon, I pulled my notepad and a pen from my purse. Glancing at previous entries, I queried, “So when exactly did Mr. Michaels begin working for you?”
Dan clasped his hands together and began rocking back and forth. “Let’s see . . . David started working here in 1989, the year he was killed.”
“Do you remember the date?”
Dan stopped rocking and stared at me. “Are you a lawyer?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay,” he replied amiably, rocking again. “I don’t recall the exact date. Marie might be able to locate something in our old records, but I do know it was in March of 1989.”
“Why did you hire him?”
“Why did I hire him?” Dan stared at me blankly as if such an obvious question had not once occurred to him. “He was a nice guy with an accounting degree looking for a job when I was looking to hire someone. It just worked.”
“Your decision to hire him had nothing to do with his prior employment at Hepstadt & Lower?”
“Hepstadt & Lower? What’s that? A CPA firm?”
I shook my head. “Mr. Jacobson—”
“Dan,” he interjected, smiling.
“Dan, did Mr. Michaels provide you with a resume when you hired him?”
Dan leaned forward in his chair and rested his arms on the desk. “Would you consider yourself a good judge of character?”
I stared at him, momentarily speechless. After glancing at Jon, I replied, “Sometimes.”
“Well, I’m always a good judge of character. It’s one of my best attributes. I can tell good people from bad ones. You may think I’m old and that I run some small town tax firm, but that’s not how I see it. To me, I run a successful small business. My father started this company in 1974, and my sons have helped me run it since 1998. My being a good judge of character is one of the reasons this company is successful. I use that ability with clients, employees,” he looked at me, “and people who walk in off the street. So to answer your question, yes, he did provide a resume, but that wasn’t the reason I hired him. I didn’t verify his references. We spoke, and I decided David was the kind of man I wanted working for my firm. It’s just a shame his life was cut so short. He was a good man.”
I suddenly had a deeper respect for Dan Jacobson. Not wanting to veer off topic, I persisted, “So you’ve never heard of Hepstadt & Lower?”
“No.”
“While he worked here, did Mr. Michaels ever discuss his former employers?”
Dan chewed his lower lip intensely, thinking back. Finally, he replied, “David seemed, how should I put this, on edge when he first came to work for us. He was nervous whenever anyone came in for an appointment. Gradually, he seemed to relax and even enjoy his job.” Dan paused and then suddenly his
eyes lit up. “One of the strangest things I noticed about him was that, two or three times, he requested a day off to go out of town with his family. I’m a family man myself, and I could tell it was important so I agreed. But he never seemed happy about these mini-vacations, which was odd because when I saw him with his wife and son, he was always happy and proud. It didn’t make sense to me.”
“Did he tell you where he was going on these days off?”
Dan shook his head. “No, I didn’t ask. It was none of my business, but he always seemed anxious about those trips. In fact, I believe he had one scheduled for the Monday after he died.”
“Did he ever receive any strange clients or phone calls?”
Dan shook his head momentarily before his eyes lit up again. “No strange clients, and I couldn’t tell you about phone calls because this has always been my office so I can’t hear employee phone calls unless I’m out there. The Friday before his death, however, he did seem more upset than usual. I noticed a man loitering outside our office. I wouldn’t have noticed him had David not become so upset. Anyway, David quickly stormed outside and pulled the man away from the building. They stood next to a black sedan with New York plates parked in front of the office. David was yelling, and his face was red. Finally, he stormed back inside and walked straight to the bathroom. The man threw his hands in the air before getting in the car and driving off. David came out a few moments later, composed, and apologized for the scene, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was about. He just said, ‘This is it.’”
“What did the man look like?”
“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.”
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