Cold Ambition

by Rachel Sharpe

Her smile faded. “Maybe 1983. I’m not sure. She didn’t seem the type to settle for a secretary position. Ivy League degree, that sort of thing. She was overqualified for the job. I know Mr. Michaels didn’t like working with her. He tried on several occasions to get me back, but the company refused.”

  “I see. So, Estelle, when you were no longer needed as David’s assistant, were you let go?”

  “Oh, no,” she shook her head emphatically. “No, I was offered the job of executive receptionist which meant I was in charge of all the company receptionists. I won’t lie. It came with a substantial pay increase, but I wasn’t thrilled with it. So when Mr. Michaels asked me to resign, I wasn’t too heartbroken over it . . .”

  “Wait, he asked you to resign?”

  “Yes, and I did, once I found a suitable job to replace it. I took a job at the New York Public Library. It was a wonderful place to work. I actually just retired from there last year.”

  “Did he tell you why he wanted you to resign?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask. I trusted him. If he asked me to leave, I knew there was a perfectly good reason for it. That was about two months before he quit himself. I found out he left from one of my girlfriends who still worked there at the time. I was surprised to discover he left the city. And to move to Boston?” She shook her head in wonder. “I could understand if he wanted to quit because he didn’t like how the company was being run or if it was too much to handle being CFO, but his behavior seemed a little extreme which was not like the Mr. Michaels I knew.”

  “Besides his asking you to quit, did he do or say anything else out of the ordinary during those last few months?”

  She slowly turned the cup around in her frail hands. “Well, that was a very long time ago, but I remember he did ask if Terresolide meant anything to me.”

  “And did it?”

  “No, I had never heard of it. The only reason I remember the word is because I took a little French in school, and it means solid ground or something like that. I didn’t know if it was a name or a description or what.”

  “Estelle, you were with the company before it even began,” I stated, to which she nodded. “Maybe you can answer one simple question for me. What does Hepstadt & Lower do?”

  She looked at me as if a third eye had suddenly sprouted from my forehead. “What do they do? They’re an import/export company.”

  “What do they import and export?”

  She opened her mouth to answer but then paused. After a few moments, she replied, “Honestly, I’m not quite sure. It . . . I believe it had to do with electronics, maybe.”

  “Electronics?” I repeated.

  “Maybe,” she added. I glanced over at Jon once more. His interest had once again dissipated, and his current fixation was on his cellular phone.

  “Can you think of any reason why David Michaels was murdered?” I blurted out in exasperation.

  At this question, her eyes welled with tears, and she grabbed a tissue from the pewter box on the coffee table. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “It still upsets me to think about it. He was such a good man,” she sobbed. She held up the leather, photo album. “He gave me this album before he left. It has pictures of him and his family. There are even a few of us at the office.”

  “I’m sorry to bring that up,” I apologized, feeling genuinely guilty for forcing her to recall so many painful memories. “We’ll be leaving now. I’m so sorry to have upset you, and thank you for your time.”

  I stood up slowly, and within moments, Jon was across the room, standing by the front door. Estelle wiped her eyes carefully and stood up. “Thank you for coming by,” she finally said. “It’s so nice to have visitors. Please give Ricky my best. I would love to see him sometime.”

  “I’ll pass on the message,” I smiled.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” she fretted.

  “Oh no, you’ve helped us a lot.”

  “You know, Mr. Myers might be able to provide more details about Mr. Michaels’ life after I was no longer his secretary.”

  I stopped walking. “Mr. Myers?”

  Estelle nodded and wrapped the shawl around her arms tighter. “Yes, what was his first name? It was a funny name. . .” She tapped her lip and furrowed her brow as she attempted to recall the name. “Oh! Paris. Paris Myers.”

  “Paris Myers?” I repeated skeptically. “Who is Paris Myers?”

  “Mr. Myers was Mr. Michaels’ attorney.”

  After a long goodbye during which I promised to visit again if ever in the city, Jon and I finally made our way out of the apartment, down the stairs, and out the front door. Jon let out a loud groan and glanced back up at the building, agitated.

  “That took forever,” he exclaimed, carefully smoothing his hair before placing his hat back on. “Could she have been more loquacious?”

  “Loquacious?” I repeated, nodding. “Very nice word. I’m impressed.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Don't give me that.”

  “What?”

  “Just because I’m a gorgeous actor doesn’t mean I’m ignorant. I did go to college, you know.”

  “For a little while,” I teased. We headed down the street and made our way back to 9th Avenue. After only a few blocks, my body reminded me of my hunger and how little a lukewarm cup of hot chocolate helped in quashing my physiological needs. A frigid breeze caught me off-guard, and I shivered. Jon noticed and walked closer, offering his arm. I accepted it gratefully and leaned closer as the wind picked up speed, blowing formerly settled patches of powdery snow into our faces. “I’m so hungry.”

  Scanning the area, he led me toward a small Chinese restaurant decorated with red and green Christmas stickers, conveniently located between two electronics stores that both had going-out-of-business sales. I eagerly entered the restaurant, which was playing instrumental Christmas music at an alarmingly fast tempo and happily thawed out. Jon walked up to the counter.

  A young Chinese girl glanced up from a tabloid magazine. She was wearing a black-and-silver, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of dark-blue jeans. When she started to look down again without a word, an older woman screamed at her in a foreign tongue. The girl made a face and said something I couldn’t make out before turning her attention back to Jon.

  “For here or to go?”

  “Uh, for here,” Jon replied. “What do you want?”

  I walked closer as my legs had warmed up and glanced at the brightly colored and well-lit picture menu. “Sweet and sour chicken, I guess.”

  I reached for some money, and Jon held up his hand. “I‘ve got it. One sweet and sour chicken and one chicken fried rice with no onions.”

  “Drinks?” the girl asked, punching in our order and refusing to look up. Jon glanced back at me.

  “Water is fine.”

  “Two waters. Two bottled waters,” he clarified.

  “Twenty-five forty-seven,” the girl mumbled. Jon handed her his card reluctantly, and she swiped it and gave him a receipt to sign. Once the transaction was completed, the mother came back and took the order slip and walked to the back again. Jon and I chose a table and sat down, waiting for our order. I pulled out my cell and noticed several text messages—two from Alicia and one from Heather. I was about to read them when my phone rang. It was Rick. I smiled and answered it on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey Jordan? It’s Rick. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Jon and I are in New York.”

  “New York?” he repeated, sounding alarmed. “What are you doing there?”

  “Working on your case.”

  “Oh, right,” he muttered. “Well, I’m stuck in traffic, but I’m about half an hour outside the city. Boston, I mean. I thought we were going to meet up and go to the police station to get that key.�
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  I was frustrated by my forgetfulness. “Oh, right. What time is it?”

  “Almost four.”

  “And tomorrow is Saturday so we may not be able to go to the station,” I trailed off.

  “Do you want me to get the key? I mean, I’m the one who has to request it anyway, right?”

  “Would you mind?” I exclaimed, too eagerly. He laughed.

  “Not at all. What time are you guys coming back?”

  “We’re heading back right now, actually. Just stopped for a very late lunch.”

  “Oh, well, I was going to see if you wanted to meet up and get dinner but—”

  “I’d love to but that all depends on how late you eat.”

  “I can wait,” he chuckled. “Look, call me when you’re almost back in Boston, and we’ll figure out a time and place. Hopefully I’ll have that key for you.”

  “Thanks, Rick. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate all the trouble you’re going to for my sake. I had no idea you'd have to go to New York.”

  “It’s my job,” I replied. I could feel that I was blushing and was grateful that he couldn’t see it. Jon had again busied himself with his phone and ignored me when I got off mine. “Jon?”

  He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “What?”

  “That was Rick,” I began.

  “I figured,” he answered dryly. Ignoring the comment, I caught him up on our conversation. Our waitress brought us our meals. She started to walk off when Jon reminded her about the bottled waters. She muttered something under her breath but retrieved the waters.

  “While you were talking to Rick, I did a little research,” Jon began, lifting a steaming forkful of rice to his lips. Staring at it, he scowled, "Onions. It figures."

  “What did you look up?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “First, Paris Myers.” He took a sip of water for dramatic effect and picked up his phone again. “Paris Myers is also a law firm. It’s actually located on 36th Street which is only a few blocks from here. We could stop by on the way back to Penn Station.”

  I nodded in agreement and finished chewing. “That’s very convenient. I’m glad it’s not too far. I’m not in shape for all this New York walking.”

  Jon rolled his eyes again. “Whatever.”

  “What else did you find out?”

  He took a swig of water. “Uh, this food is atrocious. I can’t believe how much money it costs. And the atmosphere is nauseating.”

  “What else did you find out?’ I pressed, determined not to deal with another Jon Riché meltdown before the train ride home.

  “Terresolide,” he finally replied. “I looked it up. A lot of foreign links came up, but there was one for a company that designs military equipment.”

  “What kind of equipment?” I asked, feeling my heart begin to race. He shrugged.

  “I don’t know. My screen is scratched, and the text is small. Plus the lighting in here sucks, so I couldn’t really see the print too well.”

  “Oh,” I mumbled. “Well, at least that is something. I’m not quite sure what a military equipment company has to do with an electronics company, but you never know.”

  We finished our meals quickly and once more headed out into the arctic winds. The sky was overcast, and I feared it might snow. Jon insisted, however, that the weatherman promised no snow until Sunday. We hurried along, dodging both happy shoppers and anxious businessmen. Before I knew it, Jon took a left. We were on 36th Street.

  I followed closely as he maneuvered his way through another cluster of people and finally stopped in front of a large, glass-and-steel structure. A rotund doorman with crimson cheeks hesitantly let us in. Jon strode up to the receptionist and learned Paris Myers’ firm was on the eighth floor. We hurried to catch an elevator about to depart. We arrived at suite 808. Jon pushed the door open, and a striking African-American woman in a vibrant, lavender top looked up from her computer screen. She smiled hesitantly.

  “Good afternoon. Welcome to the Paris Myers’ Law Firm. Do you have an appointment?”

  I stepped forward. “Well, no ma’am, but we really need to see Mr. Myers. It’s urgent.”

  Maintaining her friendly façade, she replied slowly, “Well, it may be urgent, but you have to have an appointment—”

  “Tell him David Michaels’ son is here to see him,” Jon declared. I glanced at him, wide-eyed. He shot me a look, and I quickly hid my surprise. The woman stared at him briefly, clearly deciding whether to call security or the police. Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed a number. I prayed it was neither.

  “Hello, sir? Yes, yes, I know not to bother you. I understand. Yes, sir. I apologize. Yes, sir. There’s someone here to see you. He says he’s David Michaels’ son. What? Really? Okay.”

  She hung up the phone and stared at it momentarily. She then smiled at us, this time with confusion in her eyes. She stood up. “Mr. Myers will see you now. Please follow me.”

  As she stood up, I realized that she was not only very attractive but her height and figure made her more suited as a super model than as the receptionist of a lawyer’s office. We followed her down a short hallway lined with doors on each side. Each one had a different lawyer’s name on a brass nameplate. At the end of the hall was a door with a larger plate on which was inscribed the name PARIS MYERS. She timidly knocked.

  “Come in,” a muffled voice commanded from the other side of the door. She grasped the brass handle firmly and pushed the door open. We followed her into a room that was much larger than I expected. Paris Myers’ own office was three times larger than my entire office. The walls were painted beige, and there were hardwood floors. There were tall, green plants and two dark-wooden bookcases against the far left wall, which were filled with law books. One wall was filled with framed diplomas, chronicling his various academic achievements.

  Directly in front of the large window in the center of the room was a great oak desk. Mr. Paris Myers was sitting behind it. He was clearly in his late fifties, but with the help of modern medicine, not all of his features were original which offered the illusion that he was younger. He was tall, just an inch or so taller than Jon, and obviously spent a great deal of time at the gym as his muscles were well-complemented by his gray suit and blue silk tie. He walked straight up to Jon and extended his hand. Jon reluctantly accepted it. Paris smiled widely at Jon before remembering his receptionist’s willowy presence.

  “That’s all, Dawn,” he stated bluntly. She nodded and quietly exited the room. Paris walked back to his desk and sat on the edge. He studied Jon. Finally, he laughed. “You know, you look nothing like your father.”

  Jon offered a modest half-smile. “Yeah, I'm told I look more like my mom’s side of the family.”

  Paris nodded. “So who is this lovely lady? Girlfriend?”

  I felt my face flush, and Jon answered quickly, “No, no this is Jordan James. She’s a private investigator I hired to look into my father’s murder.”

  At this, Paris’s facial expression shifted from amusement to suspicion. He laughed, but I suspected it was feigned laughter. “This pretty girl is a P.I.? Come on, you’re joking, right?”

  “No, sir.”

  Paris stood up. Rubbing his neck, he walked behind his desk and sat down. “Well, Rick, what can I do for you today?”

  Jon glanced at me and nodded. I cleared my throat before stepping forward to begin. “Sir, after a bit of investigating, I learned that you were Mr. Michaels’ attorney.”

  “Yes, yes, I was. That probably wasn’t hard to find out. What was his wife’s name? Audrey? Yes, Audrey could have told you that.”

  “Well, I learned that from a different source. This source stated that Mr. Michaels was in contact with you a great deal during th
e months leading up to his death.”

  Paris nodded. “Yes, he was one of the top executives in a multi-million-dollar international corporation. One would expect a lawyer would be needed.” He smiled at Jon.

  “Would you be willing to discuss the nature of your business dealings?”

  Paris’s smile faded. He glanced from me to Jon. “I take it that you can show me some identification verifying that you are who you say you are. I mean, anyone could walk in off the street and claim to be Rick Michaels.”

  I felt a lump grow in my throat. My mouth went dry and my heart was racing. I had images of being arrested and charged with identity theft and conspiracy. While fixated on my fears, I heard Jon cry out which thrust me back into reality.

  “Son of a—ahh!” he exclaimed. He threw his hands up in the air and whirled around to face me. “Do you have it?”

  “Have what?” I asked, genuinely confused.

  “My wallet!” he screamed, patting his pockets. “My wallet. Somebody stole it.”

  I began to realize where he was going and played along, all the while doubting a super lawyer like Paris Myers would fall for such a cheap trick. At first, Paris’s expression validated my fears. He wasn’t buying it. He didn’t buy it—until Jon began to cry. He threw himself onto the couch, and with his knees supporting his elbows, he cried into his hands.

  “That’s great,” he sobbed. “My dad’s dead. I never knew him really. I’m trying to find answers. I come all the way to New York, and you don’t believe me. I don’t care about the money. That wallet was my dad’s wallet, and it had a picture of us together at the park. He kept that picture in the wallet, and I never took it out. Now it’s all gone.”

  Paris Myers seemed to be stunned. I hurried over to console “Rick.” Finally, he cleared his throat and stood up. He walked over and offered Jon a handkerchief.