Rick started to turn, and I grabbed his left arm, pulling him toward me. “No, don’t look. I thought a car was following us earlier, and now this guy shows up and, I don’t know, I just don’t have a good feeling about it.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“No, really,” I shook my head. “I’m probably overreacting.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s fine.”
“Okay,” he relented. “Could you tell me about what you learned in New York?”
“Sure,” I agreed, “let’s just talk a little lower.”
I spent the remainder of dinner quietly informing him about what Jon and I had learned during our visit to New York. He listened attentively, asking questions every now and then and patiently awaiting my response. I found it somewhat humorous that the subject of our conversation starkly contrasted with the perennially convivial Christmas music but was grateful that the owners kept it at a volume which would prevent any eavesdroppers from overhearing what Rick and I discussed.
“So you really think that Hepstadt & Lower was behind my father’s murder?” Rick asked, his blue eyes steeling with an intensity I had not yet perceived in him.
“I can’t prove anything,” I insisted, “but his behavior before quitting his job suggests he knew something and was afraid what he knew might have serious repercussions. I think that’s why he went back to the lawyer and why he practically begged Estelle Barnes to quit.”
Rick nodded thoughtfully and stared at his half-eaten meal. I glanced at the dark-haired man, who was reading something on his smart phone. From the speakers in the ceiling, a choir of children began to sing “Frosty the Snowman.”
“So what’s next?” Rick asked.
“Well, I think I need to check out that bank in Brooklyn, First Town Bank. I want to see what was so important that your father kept it in a secret safety deposit box that no one but his attorney knew existed. I think there might be something significant there.”
Rick took a sip of soda. “When do you plan to go there?”
Since most banks were open a half-day on Saturdays, it was conceivable if I left early enough I could make it to the bank before it closed. I cringed at the thought of going alone but decided to give Jon some time as he was clearly annoyed with me for some reason.
“Well, I’ll probably head out there early in the morning,” I finally answered. Rick wiped his hands on a napkin before standing up. “What are you doing?”
“It’s almost eleven. If we leave at six, we should get into Brooklyn by ten. I figure we should both go home and get some sleep, especially you. You’ve had a long day.” He picked up his plate and motioned toward mine. I nodded, and he carried both to the trash can near the front door. He then pulled his coat off back of his chair and put it on. I stared at him.
“We?” I repeated. A smile slowly crept across Rick’s face.
“Yes, we. You don’t think I expect you to go to New York alone for me, do you? Besides, you might need me there anyway. The bank will probably want to see some proof before letting you access that box.”
I smiled, thinking about how Jon provided “proof” to Paris Myers. Thinking about Jon frustrated me, causing my smile to fade quickly. His mood swings were beginning to give me a hard-core migraine.
“There’s just one problem. We don’t know the box number,” I sighed. Rick leaned against the table and crossed his arms.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how are we going to figure out which box is his in order to get into it?”
“Wouldn’t it be in my father’s name?”
“Not necessarily. If he took the time to rent a box and keep it hidden from everyone but an attorney, why would he put it in his real name? Wouldn’t he use an alias?”
“Maybe,” Rick replied quietly, staring down at the white-and-black speckled linoleum floor. Thoroughly frustrated, I shoved my hand in my right coat pocket, looking for my house keys. Instead, I found the small silver key Rick retrieved from the police station earlier that evening. I recalled my conversation with Henry O’Neal. They found a tiny silver key in Michaels’ shoe. I stared at the key, turning it over slowly in my palm. When the fluorescent lights from the restaurant hit it, it shined brightly. In the center of the key’s head, a small, engraved number caught my eye. 805. Is it possible . . . ?
“Rick, does this look like a safety deposit box key to you?” I inquired softly, hoping we were out of earshot of the dark-haired man who still had not touched his food. Rick leaned forward and looked at the key. After a few moments, he nodded.
“Possibly. They're usually that size. Or it could be a golf cart key,” he joked. I smiled at his attempt to break the tension which I had unconsciously been building up since the other man had walked into the restaurant. I glanced back. He still did not look at us, but I had a feeling he was paying attention to our conversation. I grabbed Rick’s hand and pulled him to the door. I barely noticed when the Chinese man called, “Please come again!” as we made our way back into the cold, black night.
As soon as we were inside the car, he immediately turned the heater on and allowed the car to idle in an attempt to warm it up before we departed. While waiting, I noticed the man in the black suit walk out of the restaurant and get inside a dark-colored SUV. He started the engine but did not leave immediately. Although I couldn’t see his face through the dark-tinted windows, I felt apprehensive about his presence.
“Drive,” I ordered, trying not to look at the SUV in the event he was watching us. Rick had a perplexed look on his face. For a few moments, we could only hear the sound of the heater whirling and the car idling.
Finally, he spoke. “Is this case too much?”
“What?”
He leaned closer, resting his arm on the center console. “I mean, you seem really stressed out.”
“No, this case is not stressing me out," I insisted. "There are a lot of things stressing me out right now, but this case is not one of them.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Do you have a magical method of getting rid of personal drama?” I quipped sarcastically.
“Well, there are plenty of pills that would help,” he grinned, “but I wouldn’t recommend them.”
“Seriously.” I glanced over at the SUV again. It still had not moved. “Well, if you really are coming with me in the morning, we should probably both get home and get some sleep. I can’t believe it’s almost midnight.”
Rick nodded. “What time do you want me to meet you?”
I hesitated. Asking Jon to meet me early caused a scene which got us kicked out of a bookstore. “Well, if you’re driving, what time do you think we should meet?”
He scratched his chin pensively. “It’s about a four-hour drive with good weather and traffic, so if we want to get there at, say, ten o’clock, I’d guess five? Five-thirty?” My shocked expression must have made him think that was too early for me, so he offered, “But we could get up at seven. It just might be cutting it close.”
“No, five is great! I was just shocked you were willing to meet me at that hour,” I marveled, thinking about Jon again. Rick laughed and his eyes twinkled despite the darkness.
“Five’s not that early. Especially when you need to be in New York in the morning. I mean, it just makes sense.”
“It does make sense,” I agreed, glancing past Rick at the SUV again. Rick took my sudden silence as a cue, and after putting the car in drive, slowly crept back onto the icy road. We drove in silence down Massachusetts Avenue. I pretended to be re-applying lip gloss in order to open my vanity mirror without catching Rick’s attention. Behind us, three car lengths away, was the black SUV. Be calm, I told myself. Massachusetts Avenue is a well-traveled street. There’s no reason for alarm. Yet.
My att
empts to calm myself were less effective when Rick turned onto Tremont Street and the black SUV did the same. I felt a chill and shivered slightly. Rick noticed this and turned the heat up. I was unable to hide my concern, and Rick kept glancing over at me with a worried expression on his face.
“Are you all right?”
“Do you see that SUV in your rearview mirror?" I muttered, my muscles tensing. "The dark one?”
Rick glanced in his rearview mirror and nodded. “Yeah.”
“That’s the guy from the Chinese restaurant.”
“What? Why would . . . are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. As soon as you turned onto Massachusetts Avenue, he began following us. I thought I was imagining things until we turned onto Tremont and he turned, too.”
Rick gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned snow-white. “We’ll see about that.”
He abruptly turned right onto Gurney Street. I checked and saw that the black SUV copied our movement. Rick turned left onto Station Street then right onto Parker Street. The black SUV did the same, although he continued to maintain a three-car distance. Rick cut left onto Horadon Way and sped up. Before I knew it we had circled the block and were back on Parker Street. My heart was pounding, and I couldn’t swallow the lump in my throat. In the rearview mirror, the black SUV reappeared. Rick cursed under his breath. Just as he was about to speed up again, flashing lights appeared in the mirror. I exhaled deeply as a police car signaled for Rick to pull over. His knuckles loosened, and for the first time since the car chase began, he exhaled, too.
While the police officer walked up to our car, I noticed the black SUV slowly and quietly pass us. I kept my eyes on the vehicle until I could no longer see the red taillights. After the police officer issued Rick a speeding ticket and drove away, Rick turned to me.
“Are you okay?”
"Yeah."
“Then . . . can you tell me something?”
“What?”
“What was that about?”
I shook my head slowly. “I don’t know.”
“Did that have something to do with my father’s case?”
A memory from the day before flashed across my mind at the mention of the Michaels’ case. Dan Jacobson mentioned a black sedan, driven by a dark man who came to see David shortly before his death. His visit caused David a great deal of distress. I told Rick about the interview with Jacobson and the visit his father had received from a dark man.
“You don’t think that’s the same guy, do you? It’s been twenty years.”
I shook my head emphatically. “No, I know that can’t be the same guy but, I think I’m onto something. I think someone is trying to scare me off.”
Rick was silent. After a few moments, he pulled back onto the road. “Where do you want to go?”
“What? Home. Why?”
I caught him checking his rearview and side mirrors periodically. “Are you sure you feel safe going there?”
“Yes. He didn’t follow us to my street. Plus, my building is locked, and you have to have the access code to get inside.”
Rick frowned but obligingly drove back onto Tremont and turned left on Sewall. He pulled up to the door and, as there were no open parking spots along the curb, he parked in the street. I climbed out of the car and hurried to the building as a strong gust of wind almost blew me over. I was surprised to see Rick standing beside me in a protective manner. He kept looking around and shoved his hands in his coat pockets as I entered the key code and the door buzzed. I held the door open and turned to face him.
“Thanks for everything.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to see you to your apartment? It wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“No, I think it’s safe. Whatever that was, it was a warning. If he had wanted to do something, he wouldn’t have kept his distance.”
Rick nodded again, but his expression appeared doubtful. “You’re the investigator,” he agreed. “So is five still okay? It’s past midnight as it is.”
“Maybe five-thirty,” I conceded. “You know, I’m either going to have to adjust your contract or put you on payroll. You’re doing half the work!”
Rick laughed. It was nice to see him smile. “Well, we’ll see. I still need to sign that contract.”
“Oh! Definitely. Tomorrow,” I promised. Another blast of arctic wind caught us both. I shivered. “Well, good night, and thanks again.”
“See you tomorrow,” he replied.
“Tomorrow,” I repeated. I watched him as he ran to his car. He turned and waved once. As soon as he pulled away, I closed the door and headed toward the elevator, eager for both sleep and a few moments of peace.
Chapter 22
Five o’clock came a lot sooner than I thought it would. I rolled over, groaned, and hit the alarm. I realized that I was tangled in the sheets, and after a brief fight, I was able to free myself from the cloth bondage. As I regained control of my brain, the events of the previous day slowly replayed in my mind, ending with our escape from the dark man in the SUV. Jon’s latest drama would have to wait because the dark man was a far greater concern. What did I do or say that caused him to follow us? I decided it must have been something that happened in New York because, apparently, he followed us from Back Bay Station.
The likelihood that Estelle Barnes had us followed was so minute I didn’t even give it a second thought. There were only three people who could have called in the intimidator: Mr. Brookstone, the perspiring funeral home director; Paris Myers, the high-priced attorney; or Darren Broadsmith, the elusive CFO of Hepstadt & Lower. Mr. Brookstone also seemed an unlikely source for the dark man. He seemed more preoccupied with the dead than with the living. In addition, I doubted that he would have someone killed just so that his business could prosper.
Thinking about Paris Myers, I came to a similar conclusion. Myers was a narcissist, but nothing during our conversation led me to believe that he had any reason to feel threatened by the case or by me. His interest in ending our discussion seemed driven more by the fact we were not paying him for his time. That led to one possible suspect: Darren Broadsmith. It was conceivable that, between the time I spoke with his secretary and our arrival in Boston, he could have called in someone. Jon did warn me about my message being misleading. I slowly stood up and stretched. I was immediately greeted by screams of protest from my calf muscles. Apparently our walking tour of New York had caused me more pain than another Jon Riché outburst.
I headed for the shower. Upon finishing, I attempted to quickly blow dry my hair, apply makeup, and get dressed. I reviewed the finished product in the bathroom mirror and shuddered. I considered putting my hair up in a ponytail instead of leaving it down, but my phone rang and Rick informed me he was downstairs. I grabbed a granola bar, threw on my parka as best I could with one, functioning arm, and headed out the door.
Downstairs, I saw his car parked in the same area along the street where he had dropped me off the night before. He was leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, and still looking around. His brown hair fell effortlessly to the left, and the bit of sunlight available managed to dance across his blue eyes every time they changed direction. He was wearing a long, black-wool overcoat over a gray sweater and a pair of dark blue jeans and brown shoes. Both his eyes and his mouth smiled when he noticed me opening the side door to the apartment building. I returned the smile eagerly but then reminded myself he was a client, and his interest was solely in the resolution of his father’s case.
“We meet again,” he grinned, walking around to the passenger’s side and opening the door for me.
“A little too soon,” I yawned. He continued to smile and waited until I was inside the car to close the door and cross to the driver’s side. He started the engine and slowly headed down the street. Somewhere before I-9
0, I must have fallen asleep because, when my cell phone rang, I opened my eyes and didn’t know where I was. The sun was high in the sky and beaming brightly into my face. I lifted my neck, which had been resting against the doorframe, and looked around, slightly disoriented. My cell phone continued to ring, and I pulled it out of my coat pocket.
“Hello?”
“What took you?” a female voice demanded.
“What?”
“Jordan?”
“Yeah.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“Huh?”
“JORDAN!”
“What? I’m awake, okay?” The cobwebs began to clear, and I realized I was speaking to Heather. As I looked around, I discovered I was in a car parked next to a gas pump and the doors were locked. The engine was not running, and I felt chilly. When I finally remembered that I was with Rick on the way to New York, my anxiety dissipated.
“What’s going on with you? You asked me to call you today. What're you doing?”
“Uh, I’m on the way to New York,” I replied nonchalantly, watching an obese, middle-aged man drive up to the pump behind Rick’s car and put his maroon sedan in park. He slowly shuffled to the gas pump and removed the nozzle but was clearly debating which grade of gas to purchase.
“New York? Why?”
“For business.”
“And how are you getting there?” This was not a casual question. She sounded like a four-star general, ordering a subordinate around.
“Rick’s driving me.”
She groaned loudly into the phone. “Jordan, your guy drama is making my head spin. Which one is Rick? The assistant?”
“No, the client,” I replied sheepishly.
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