Cold Ambition

by Rachel Sharpe

  “Borrow?” I repeated skeptically. “How are we going to do that? His keys were stolen.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Rick muttered, refusing to make eye contact.

  A few moments later, the elevator came to a halt. It beeped loudly as the doors opened. It took several minutes for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I followed Rick through several long rows of expensive cars, both foreign and domestic models, until he stopped in front of a sleek, black sports coupe. Although I recognized the emblem, I couldn’t believe Rick was considering “borrowing” this car.

  “Is that . . .?”

  “Yeah, it’s a Lamborghini. A 1984 Lamborghini Countach to be exact.” He walked closer to the car.

  “What are you planning to do?” I asked nervously, my voice echoing across the deserted parking garage. Rick signaled for me to be quiet as he studied the car. Quickly, he grabbed the driver’s door handle and pulled. To my utter amazement, the door opened vertically and without protest; Ace left his car unlocked.

  Rick shook his head as he climbed inside, careful of the pristine black leather seats. He reached under the steering wheel console and pulled several wires down. I stood near the car, both nervous and intrigued.

  “What are you doing?” I repeated.

  “Jordan, please. Just get in the car,” he replied, focusing on the tiny wires. I didn't budge.

  “Rick, this is grand theft.”

  Rick dropped the wires and looked at me, pleading. “It’s not grand theft when the owner has just been murdered. Ace wouldn’t have minded anyway. He’s let me drive this car before. Jordan, we don’t have much time. We have to go. It’s already five.”

  The mention of the time startled me, and I checked my phone to verify his statement. It was indeed after five. I don’t know what time we had arrived at Ace’s, but we must have been there, hiding, for over three hours. The intruder would undoubtedly return and probably soon, as nightfall was rapidly approaching. I nodded and climbed into the passenger side of the car. Relieved, Rick turned his focus back to the wires. He touched two wires together, and suddenly, the engine roared. I buckled my seat belt as Rick closed his door and acclimated himself to the car.

  Shifting into gear, he pressed the accelerator. The car lunged forward and came within inches of hitting a silver Maserati. I felt my heart in my throat as Rick slammed on the brakes, which, like the accelerator, responded quickly. He looked over at me sheepishly.

  “Sorry,” he offered. “The Mercedes doesn’t have this kind of power.”

  Slowly, he maneuvered through the rows of cars and found his way to the garage door. There was a mechanical box with a keypad. I watched Rick as he stared at the box for a moment. Suddenly, he typed in four numbers. The garage door opened slowly. It was already dusk. I turned to Rick as he pulled out onto the street.

  “How'd you know the code?”

  “I took a guess.”

  “May I ask what it was?”

  Rick turned onto Central Park West. “It was 1203, the apartment number. Ace liked to keep things simple.”

  Opening the glove compartment, I asked, “Rick?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He made it simpler than you think.”

  Rick glanced over at me curiously. “What do you mean?”

  “He left a spare key in here,” I replied, holding up the metal object.

  Chapter 26

  The twenty-block drive took a lot less time than the walk did yesterday. The more time I spent with Rick, the more amazed and intrigued I became. As soon I as told him where Estelle lived, he shifted gears and found his way there without a second thought. I kept looking out the windows to see if anyone was following or watching us. It appeared that no car had followed us, but people did stare as we drove by in the Lamborghini.

  By the time we reached Estelle’s building, it was completely dark. As usual, Rick somehow managed to find an open parking space along the street. Although no snow was expected that evening, the temperature was forecast to drop into the teens. My thick parka did not feel very warm as we crossed the street and walked up the steps to the brownstone. Since I couldn’t recall the key code that Johnny, the grocery man, had used, we decided to buzz Estelle since I did remember her apartment number.

  “Yes?” she replied through the static-charged intercom.

  “Mrs. Barnes? It’s Jordan James. I came by to see you yesterday.”

  “Oh, of course. You’re Ricky’s friend.”

  “That’s right. I’m here with Rick right now, and we’d like to see you.”

  “Ricky’s here?” she squealed. “Oh, that’s so nice. Let me buzz you in.”

  Rick followed me up the stairs, and when we reached the fourth floor, I wasn’t surprised to see Estelle leaning out her doorway, smiling at us. She was wearing a celadon-colored knit sweater with khaki pants. Her hair was nicely combed and two green barrettes held the loose strands back. Her eyes lit up as Rick approached. She hugged him tightly.

  “I’m so glad you came by now. I just got home from church. I like to go Saturday evenings. Less crowds. Now let me have a look at you. Oh my, you look so much like your father,” she marveled. “How are you? How’s your mother? I think of you both often.”

  Rick smiled and followed Estelle into the apartment. I followed him and quickly shut and locked the door.

  “We’re doing well, thank you,” Rick answered, sitting on the couch. “How are you?”

  Estelle shuffled over to her orange chair and sat down, shrugging. “As well as one would expect a lady my age to be. A few creaks but nothing more. Your friend came by yesterday to talk about your father. I’m so glad someone is looking into that case again. It bothered me that those Boston police never solved it.”

  Rick smiled at me. “Jordan is an excellent investigator,” he replied. His smile quickly faded, and he added, “Ms. Barnes, that’s the reason we’re here. Jordan learned something that may be of great help to the case, and it’s something only you can help us with.”

  Estelle looked at me and then at Rick. “I’m sure I don’t know how I could help, but if there’s a way, please let me know.”

  Rick leaned forward on the couch, resting his forearms on his thighs as spoke. “My father gave you a photo album before he left, didn’t he?”

  Estelle smiled blithely again and walked over to retrieve the leather album from the bookcase. “Oh yes, he did. It’s a beautiful album with lots of pictures of you and your mother and your father, too. He even included some shots of me, bless him. I cherish that album. Here it is.”

  Rick eagerly leaned forward and accepted the album. I moved closer to him on the couch, and when he opened it, the first page we saw appeared to be a company picnic at Central Park. There were tons of people in the photos. One three-by-five photo in the bottom right corner of the page showed David in a Yankees T-shirt carrying Rick on his shoulders. There was another man in the picture, an older man with reddish-blond hair, bright-blue eyes, and a thin goatee.

  “That’s Mr. McCready,” Estelle offered, pointing at the shot. “I believe that was taken at the company picnic in late summer of 1985. I’m pretty certain it was taken right after Mr. Michaels was promoted.”

  A man in the corner of the photo, partially hidden behind David, caught my attention because of the scornful expression on his face. His brown hair was half hidden by a Giants hat, but even so, his deep, brown eyes scowled menacingly at the camera.

  “Who’s that?”

  Estelle leaned toward us and stared at the photo. “That’s Mr. Broadsmith, not the nicest man in the world, but apparently a good businessman. According to one of my girlfriends who still works for the company, he’s been the CFO ever since Mr. Michaels left.”

  The mention of Broadsmith’s name reminded me of the urgency of our situation,
and I took the album from Rick and turned to the first page. I felt along the lining of the cover but felt nothing unusual. Carefully turning to the back inside cover, I did the same and immediately felt a large lump in the center. Rick felt it, too, and nodded. He turned to Estelle.

  “What I’m going to ask may seem forward and rude, Ms. Barnes, but may we remove the back lining of the album? It's very important.”

  Estelle looked perplexed. “What? Why?”

  “It’s best that you not know much about this situation, but it’s very important if we want to bring Mr. Michaels’ killers to justice,” I replied. “And time is of the essence. We can’t stay here much longer.”

  Rick nodded in agreement before turning his attention back to Estelle. She smoothed her hair slowly and stared down at the album in my hands. “I’d hate to see it destroyed,” she began, furrowing her brow slightly, “but if it could help your family in anyway, Ricky . . . yes, okay. Go ahead.”

  As soon as she spoke the words, I stuck my fingernail under the top right corner of the lining and began to slowly and carefully peel it back. With the black lining gone, a stack of documents was lying flat against the leather album which included data sheets and inventory lists with red circles around certain items. As we began to look at the items, Estelle’s intercom buzzed. My heart began to race, and I was instantly on my feet with Rick by my side. I rolled the documents up and stuffed them in my purse with the floppy disc and the videotape. Rick gently took Estelle’s frail hands into his.

  “Ms. Barnes, is there another way out of this building besides the front door?”

  “Well, there’s the fire escape.”

  “It’s on the front of the building,” I told Rick. The intercom buzzed again. “We have to try.”

  Rick looked at me, undecided, before turning his attention to Estelle. “Ms. Barnes, don't answer that call. Is there anyone here you can stay with and call the police?”

  “Well, sure. I know everyone on this floor.”

  Rick led her out of her apartment and into the hall. “Ms. Barnes, please go to a friend’s apartment and call the police immediately. Make sure you’re locked in the apartment, and do not open the door until you know the police are here.”

  “Where are you two going?” she demanded, a look of concern deepening to one of fear. Rick squeezed her hands, reassuringly.

  “Don’t worry about us. We’re going to be okay. I’ll tell you everything once this is all over. Now please, go.”

  She took one more look at us, hugged Rick with such affection that one might mistake her for his grandmother, and headed over to apartment 406. A frail-looking woman with a cane finally answered the door, and Estelle whispered something before they both went inside. We heard several locks engage. From Estelle’s open doorway, the intercom buzzed again. Rick looked at my arm.

  “Are you sure you want to try this? You have a broken arm.”

  “It’s the only chance we have. I’ll buzz them in from Estelle’s apartment, and while they’re heading upstairs, we can make our way down the fire escape. Hopefully, they’ll take the elevator and get stuck or something.”

  “What?”

  I shook my head. “Never mind. Is that window locked?”

  Rick crossed the hallway and pulled on the old, wooden window between the elevator and stairwell. After a few good tugs, it creaked and groaned but opened slightly. Cold air immediately invaded the hallway. I shivered and headed back to Estelle’s doorway. I leaned inside, pushed the unlock button, and then shut her apartment door. Making sure the door was locked, I raced across the hallway to Rick. He pushed the window up further, allowing enough room for us to squeeze through. Once we were out on the fire escape, he closed it again.

  The old fire escape groaned in protest as we peered down at the street, four floors below. Parked in front of the building was a black SUV similar to the one that had chased us through Boston the night before. Surveying the area, it became apparent that no one was outside; whoever was there had gone inside and was heading upstairs. As quietly as possible, we headed down the stairs. Once we reached the second-floor level, Rick pressed a lever to the right of the landing to release the remaining stairs. After a few attempts, he glanced up at the fourth floor before looking at me.

  “It’s stuck.”

  I stared down. The ground was easily twelve feet below us. A jump like that could break both my arms. Suddenly, a loud noise came from above. The fourth floor window had been yanked up so hard that it shattered the glass. A silhouette appeared and stared down at us. It was the dark man. Over his right shoulder another man appeared. This one was also wearing dark attire but he had blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. I glanced down again. Although the ground was twelve feet away, about six feet from the fire escape was a van. I turned to Rick.

  “We have to jump.”

  “What? You can’t be serious. You have a broken arm . . .”

  “Can you think of another way out of this?”

  Rick looked up and saw that the blond man was trying to squeeze through the window. He was obese and having a difficult time. Sighing, he shook his head. “No.”

  “Plus that dark guy may be heading downstairs to trap us.”

  An alarmed expression crossed Rick’s face, and he nodded again. “Okay, let me go first.”

  Rick stood up and grabbed hold of the stairs above us. Pulling himself up, he climbed over the railing and looked down. He groaned and shook his head before taking a deep breath, bending his knees, and jumping. As he made contact with the roof of the van, he rolled onto his side. The icy sheet which blanketed the roof of the van prevented him from getting traction, and he slid off the roof and landed in a pile of snow-covered trash bags. He stood up and dusted some powder off his jacket before glancing up at me and letting out a deep sigh of relief that was suddenly cut short.

  “Jordan, you have to jump now.”

  I turned and saw the portly blond man had nearly maneuvered his way to the second floor. His coat was open, and in the moonlight, I saw what appeared to be a gun in a holster. I groaned as I tossed my purse with the tape, disc, and documents down to Rick. I then quickly climbed over the railing and held on with my right arm. I leaned forward and prepared to imitate Rick’s roll-type landing. The man was suddenly next to me and grabbed at my arm. Startled, I propelled myself into the air.

  “Hey!” the larger of the two men exclaimed.

  Seconds later I made contact with the van. Although I managed to bend my knees and curl up slightly in the moments before impact, I still hit the van at an awkward angle. Searing pain shot through my left shoulder, and I feared I might have broken it, too. My brain quickly overlooked the pain as I became aware that I was still moving. I flew off the van roof and realized in horror I was going to miss the trash bags and fall onto the pavement. I closed my eyes to brace for the fall.

  When I did land, I was shocked not to feel searing pain but only a momentary jar. I opened my eyes and saw that Rick was lying beneath me. He apparently had noticed my trajectory and attempted to change my course. He was again lying on the trash bags.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. I nodded slowly. “Okay, then we have to go. Now.”

  Still infused with adrenaline, I stood up and grabbed my purse off the ground. We ran to the Lamborghini. We barely made it inside before the dark man was upon us. Rick shoved the key in the ignition, shifted into gear, and peeled out. He raced down several side streets before merging onto I-95 North. I leaned back in the seat and let out a sigh of relief. No sooner had I exhaled then Rick mumbled, “We’ve got company.”

  I turned around and saw two headlights approaching rapidly. Although it was too dark to see the vehicle clearly, I knew, as the knot in my stomach tightened, that it was the dark man. Rick muttered something before shifting and accelerating. The car roared in response as we p
icked up speed. There was little traffic on the road which made it easier to create distance between our car and the SUV. Rick glanced back in the rearview mirror once more and frowned. Turning around, I mirrored his frown when I realized the dark SUV had somehow managed to catch up.

  The trees in the wooded area along the interstate, leafless and still, became one, solid blur. I glanced over at the speedometer. It read ninety-five.

  “You know thirty miles over the speed limit is a felony,” I called over the roar of the engine. Rick glanced in his rearview mirror. The SUV’s headlights grew closer.

  “I’m willing to take that chance right now.”

  For nearly forty minutes, Rick drove with extreme precision, hitting every curve like a race car driver. Maddeningly, although the SUV was unable to maintain the Lamborghini’s speed, we were unable to shake him.

  “We’re gonna have to get off,” he declared.

  “What? Why?”

  “I can’t lose them on the interstate. It’s just not possible. Where are we right now anyway?”

  I tried to focus my eyes on the exit signs, but we passed them too quickly for my eyes to adjust in the dark.

  “I’m not sure. I think I saw a sign for New Haven, so I guess we’re in Connecticut now.”

  “I know New Haven," Rick muttered to himself. "That’s good. We’ll stop there.”

  “For how long?”

  “To be honest with you, my nerves are shot, and I’m exhausted. I don’t think I could drive another three hours without a break,” he replied while passing an eighteen-wheeler with a large, fast-food advertisement logo on the trailer. I read the clock. It was nearly ten. “Okay, I’m taking this next exit. Sit back and hold on.”