Cold Ambition

by Rachel Sharpe

  “Rick, I’m sorry,” he started. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, and I’m sorry about the wallet. You have to understand though, as an attorney, I have to be very careful. My career and reputation are all I have, and I can’t disclose personal information to just anyone. To be completely honest, if your father were still alive, I couldn’t discuss anything with you. But it’s been a long time so . . . what the hell. What do you want to know?”

  Jon wiped his eyes and glanced at me again. I sat down next to him. “When did Mr. Michaels first hire you?”

  Paris walked back to his desk and sat on the edge. “I believe it was in the fall of 1985. His wife was pregnant with you,” he motioned to Jon, “and he wanted to draw up both a living will and a last will.”

  As I took off my parka, Paris’s eyes flickered at the sight of my cast.

  “What happened to your arm?” he inquired eagerly. I glanced at Jon and shrugged it off.

  “Just an accident.”

  “Are you sure? If someone is responsible, I have people who could make him be held accountable. One of my guys is licensed throughout the tri-state area,” he insisted.

  Jon turned pale, and I shook my head. “No, really. It was just an accident.”

  Paris frowned. “Anything else you want to know?”

  “You mentioned his desire to write up wills in 1985. What else did he contact you about?”

  Paris picked up his phone and dialed a five-digit number. “Marie? Would you pull the David Michaels’ file for me? No, it’s an old one. From the eighties. Yes. Thank you.”

  He hung up the phone and looked back at us. “One moment.”

  Less than a minute later, an attractive, thin blonde floated into the room with a file under her emaciated arm. She batted her eyes at Paris as she handed him the file. “Anything else, sir?” she breathed. He didn’t even make eye contact as he dismissed her.

  “I should get a job here,” Jon whispered. I playfully punched his arm, and he snickered to himself.

  After perusing the file, he replied, “According to my records, Mr. Michaels did not contact me again until 1988.”

  “And what did he want?” I pressed. Paris rubbed his neck again and stared at the file. “I just have notes here about him asking me a lot of hypothetical questions.”

  “What kinds of questions?”

  “Liability, immunity, and non-disclosure of information— things of that nature.”

  “What did he want to know about them?”

  “I didn’t write any specifics. He insisted they were hypothetical.” Paris glanced down at the file again. “Hmm. He mentioned the witness protection agency. I don’t remember that.”

  “There are no specifics in your notes?” I pressed, becoming slightly agitated.

  “No, I’m sorry. I don’t remember. Please keep in mind that it’s been twenty years since I’ve even thought about this. With all the clients I have and all the people I know, the fact that I remember you,” he motioned again at Jon, “or your mother is quite remarkable.”

  His arrogance was beginning to wear on my patience. “So, the last thing you have is that he asked you a lot of hypothetical questions?”

  Paris looked down at the file again. “It looks like he asked me about the questions in 1988 and then again in March of 1989. He came by and updated his will and set up a trust fund for you, Rick.”

  “And that’s all?”

  Paris glared at me before with flipping through all the pages again. “The only other thing in here is that he mentioned a safety deposit box in Brooklyn at First Town Bank.”

  “A safety deposit box?”

  Paris closed the file and tossed it on his desk. “Yes.”

  “Are there any details about it?”

  He sighed loudly, alerting us of his mounting frustration. “No, it just says that he had a safety deposit box and that I was not to mention its existence unless something happened to him, and Audrey inquired about it. You’re not Audrey, but I figured he wouldn’t mind Rick knowing.”

  My mind raced as I considered all the possibilities. Although the most logical explanation was that there were legal documents in it, David Michaels’s decision to keep his safety deposit box secret “unless something happened” to him suggested there was something of great importance inside.

  “Did he give you a box number or a key?”

  Paris looked at his watch. “No and no. I’ve told you all that I know. I’m sorry, but I have an appointment in ten minutes. Normally I would bill someone five hundred dollars for taking up this much of my time, but seeing how your father was one of my first clients, I’ll make an exception.” He leaned over and picked up the receiver for his phone again. After speaking softly into it, he hung up and looked at us again. “Dawn will show you out.”

  As if on cue, Dawn opened the door and waited at the threshold. “If you’ll follow me, please.”

  We stood up, Paris nodded at me politely and shook Jon’s hand. Within seconds, we were outside Paris Myers’ office and walking down the hall to the elevators. As soon as we were far enough away, I nudged Jon.

  “Tears? How did you pull that off? And that story . . . it sounded legitimate.”

  Jon didn’t look at me as he pushed the elevator button. “I told you I’m a good actor. And that story was legitimate. I was Rick’s roommate, you know. He does have his dad’s wallet, and I’ve seen that picture. I’m just glad Myers bought it.”

  “I almost bought it,” I marveled as we stepped into an elevator. Jon was silent from the moment we left Myers’s office until we were a few blocks from Penn Station. The overcast sky was growing darker by the moment, and I felt apprehensive about walking around the city at night. It was almost five-thirty when we set foot inside Penn Station. I pulled the folded papers I had brought with me from my pocket and retrieved the number for Hepstadt & Lower. Jon’s interest was piqued but quickly turned to alarm as I dialed the number.

  “What are you doing?” he questioned suspiciously. I held up a hand and walked a few steps away from him.

  “Good evening, Hepstadt & Lower. How may I direct your call?” a bubbly voice inquired. I wondered if this was the same receptionist I had spoken with before.

  “Yes, may I speak to Mr. Broadsmith?” I replied as professionally as I could.

  “Mr. Broadsmith?” she repeated slowly.

  “Yes.”

  “One moment, please.”

  After a few moments of elevator-style Christmas music, another voice came on the line.

  “Hello, this is Lydia Maize. I’m Mr. Broadsmith’s executive assistant. How may I help you?”

  I cleared my throat. “My name is Jordan James, and I’ve been hired by the Michaels’ family to investigate the death of Mr. David Michaels. Some new information has led me to his former employer, Hepstadt & Lower, and I would like to speak to his replacement, Mr. Broadsmith, about a few matters that have come up in the investigation.”

  The line was silent for a few moments. I feared she had hung up, but she suddenly answered, “Mr. Broadsmith has left for the weekend, but if you leave me a number at which he can reach you, I’ll be glad to relay the message.”

  I gratefully provided my number and ended the call. Jon had purchased our tickets, and I followed him downstairs toward the train headed for Back Bay Station. Once we were onboard and seated, he began to question me.

  “What was that about? Why did you call them again? We don’t know anything, and you made it sound like you have evidence to implicate them.”

  I leaned against the rough seat. “I have a feeling about this. He quits a high-paying job and moves out of town. He draws up wills and talks to lawyers about things like immunity and the witness protection agency. He receives late-night calls then ends up murdered and his car blown up a
few days before he was supposed to leave on another mysterious business trip. I don’t know the connection yet, but I know that company is somehow involved in all of this. I just know it!”

  Jon took off his hat and smoothed his hair. He began to laugh. “You’ve watched way too many detective movies. Maybe that company has nothing to do with this. Maybe he really was killed in a mugging and the gas cans in his trunk were his own. Those things happen all the time.”

  I felt almost betrayed by his comments. Something was bothering him, and I felt certain he was attacking my theory because he was actually too passive to address the real situation. Before I could reply, he extracted a pair of earbuds from his coat, attached them to his cell phone, and closed his eyes, signaling clearly that he wanted to be left alone. I took the hint and decided to call Rick. He answered on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Rick. It’s Jordan.”

  “Hi. I have great news. I got the key.”

  “You did? Oh, thank you so much. That’s such a big help. I really appreciate it.”

  “Oh, it was no trouble, really. Someone named Henry seemed to anticipate my visit because he had all the paperwork ready for me to sign. He also wanted me to tell you ‘hello’ and to remind you to call him if you needed anything. The one catch is that he did insist it be returned before the end of next week.”

  “Oh, okay. That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Okay, good.”

  “I have a little bit of bad news,” I admitted, glancing over at Jon. His eyes were closed, and he had his fedora positioned slightly to cover his face.

  “Oh, no. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  “No, no. It’s not serious, but we just left Penn Station. I don’t think we’ll be back until nine-thirty or maybe even ten. I just didn’t want you to wait forever to get something to eat on our account.”

  Rick was quiet but then said, “I can get a snack. I’m a night owl, so it’s no problem. Where did you want to meet? Do you want me to pick you guys up?”

  “That’s really sweet, but I don’t want to impose anymore,” I insisted.

  “It’s not imposing. If we’re meeting up anyway, I can just pick you guys up and after dinner drop you off, and Jon and I can head to his place.”

  “Well . . .”

  “It’s no trouble. Where are you stopping?”

  “Back Bay Station.”

  “Okay, cool. Well, I’ll be there at nine-thirty. Call me if you get in earlier or if the train is delayed.”

  “Rick, thank you. You really shouldn’t be going to all this trouble. After all, I’m working for you.”

  “And I appreciate it. This is my way of saying thanks.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I hung up. Almost instantly my phone rang. It was Alicia. I let out a groan before answering the call.

  “Hey, Alicia.”

  “Jordan, have you talked to Greg Bell lately?”

  “What? No, not since I left. Why?”

  “Well, it seems that Mom gave him the impression you would be delighted to go to the wedding with him.”

  “What?” I screamed so loud that Jon sat up straight and knocked his hat on the floor. Several others in the car stared at me. I quickly made my way to the adjoining dinner car. “When did she do that?”

  “I guess yesterday. I heard her talking to Dad. She mentioned that if he were going to be your date, they needed to invite him to our engagement party in a few weeks.”

  “What engagement party?”

  “Oh, Jordan. I swear you’re killing me. Do you ever check your emails or texts?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “We’re having an engagement party at the club on the 23rd.”

  “December 23rd?”

  “Yes. That’s in a few weeks. Did you book your flight home for Christmas yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But that is a top priority, right? As in, you’re booking it within the next twenty-four hours?”

  “Not the next twenty-four hours but maybe the next seventy-two hours,” I replied, smiling because I could picture her almost literally pulling her hair out as we spoke.

  “Please don’t joke about this. Do you have a date or not? I don’t like Greg, but he’s here and he’s available, so . . .”

  “No, no, no. No! What happened to ‘Oh, there’s still time. It’s several months away’?”

  “It is, but it would be nice if your date accompanied you, my maid of honor, to the party.”

  I grabbed one of the chairs securely bolted to the ground as the train bounced along the tracks. “I’ll take care of it,” I promised. “Listen, the reception isn’t good here. Can I call you later?”

  “If by later you mean within the next day then, yes, you may call me later.”

  “All right, I will. Please tell Mom to cancel her plans with Greg. I will not be going with him.”

  “I’ll tell her that when you give me solid proof you have a date,” she replied bluntly.

  “Fine. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I walked back through the car and sat next to Jon. He had his earbuds in and appeared to be asleep. I text Heather, asking her to call the next day. About two hours into the trip, I fell asleep. It was not a deep sleep, as the train continued to start and to stop at what felt like every station between New York and Boston, but it was enough to overlook the weighted silence between Jon and me.

  We finally pulled into Back Bay Station at a quarter of ten, and I was happy to see Rick waiting for us. He walked toward us, unable to hide a big grin. As soon as he was near, he pulled a small, silver key from his charcoal-wool overcoat and handed it to me. While I studied the key, I noticed Jon shake his hand and then walk past us toward the exit to Dartmouth Street.

  “Where are you going?” I called after him. He paused and turned around, hands in his coat pockets.

  “I can find my own way home. I have an audition in the morning, so I need some sleep. Later.”

  “Audition? You never mentioned an audition.”

  “You never asked,” he shrugged. Rick stepped forward and pointed at the frosty windows.

  “Jon, hold on. It’s been snowing all day. Are you sure you don’t want a ride? I have my car. It's no trouble if . . .”

  “No, don’t worry about it.”

  “Is it cool if I stay tonight? I brought some stuff to start moving in,” Rick added.

  Jon took two steps forward and pulled a small key ring out of his pocket. He took one key off the ring and tossed it to Rick.

  “You know the number. I’ll see you guys later.”

  Before I could protest or say another word, Jon was off into the cold, night air. I turned and faced Rick. He smiled reassuringly.

  “That’s Jon,” he offered. “Sometimes he can be a bit . . . tempestuous.”

  “Sometimes?” I repeated. He started to laugh as we headed out to his car.

  Chapter 21

  Even though it had snowed, apparently no one felt the need to do a thorough job of plowing the roads. Rick drove slowly and methodically on our quest for an open restaurant, which appeared to be a nearly impossible task. Finally, as we neared Massachusetts Avenue, we came across a small Chinese restaurant with a neon sign glowing “Open” in the festively decorated window. The similarities between this Chinese restaurant and the one Jon and I ate at that afternoon were uncanny. I silently laughed at the irony while Rick parked the car across the street and turned toward me.

  “Is this okay?” he asked earnestly.

  “Yeah,” I laughed. “It’s fine.”

  “What’s so funny?” he inquired, a slight smile forming on his face. I shook my head.

  “You had to be there.” He shrugged and turned the en
gine off. When Rick opened the driver’s door, we were accosted by a strong gust of icy wind. Rick swiftly exited the vehicle and, after closing his door, carefully made his way over to my side of the car. He opened my door and offered his hand.

  “Be careful,” he warned. “There’s a huge patch of ice right here. Try to step over there. That’s just powder.”

  I accepted his hand and followed his lead. I couldn’t believe that it had actually gotten colder during the fifteen-minute drive. We carefully but quickly crossed the snow-covered street. The sound of powder crunching beneath our shoes was only slightly muted by the loud winds wailing around us. Once inside the restaurant, a bell chimed that announced our arrival to a surprised, middle-aged Chinese man. He seemed very excited.

  “Welcome!” he exclaimed, motioning for us to come up to the counter. I glanced at Rick, who followed me up to the counter. Unlike my previous experience, this restaurant was managed and staffed by a caring family who took great pride in their food and their service. We were served steaming, fresh entrees less than ten minutes after we ordered them.

  I had only taken a few small bites when the bell chimed again, prompting me to turn around. A middle-aged man with shortly cropped, black hair, wearing a long, black trench coat entered. He removed black gloves and dusted the powder off them. The Chinese man who greeted us was even more thrilled.

  “Hello, welcome!” he exclaimed once more. The man walked slowly into the restaurant and passed our table without a glance. For some reason, his presence made me uncomfortable. Rick looked up from his General Tso’s chicken and noticed my expression.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, taking my left hand in his right. The gesture caught me off-guard, and I pulled back. His tan complexion turned crimson. “I’m-I'm sorry.”

  “No. It’s okay, really,” I stammered, my gaze on the dark man who had ordered and was now sitting on the other side of the restaurant facing us. “It’s that guy.”