Cold Ambition (Jordan James, PI)

by Rachel Sharpe

  Table of Contents

  COLD AMBITION

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  COLD AMBITION

  Jordan James, PI Series

  RACHEL SHARPE

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  COLD AMBITION

  Copyright©2014

  RACHEL SHARPE

  Cover Design by Leah Suttle

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-61935-520-0

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  I would like to dedicate this book

  to my husband and my parents

  for all that they did to help me reach this goal.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank God for always guiding and protecting me; my amazing husband, Josh, for always helping me reach that “294th step;” my wonderful parents for the constant love, support, and revisions; my “Yankee” family, especially my quasi-grandparents, Jean and Dick, for making New England feel like home (Dick, you are greatly missed); my best friend, Abby, for, well, everything; Lewis Aleman, for being the greatest literary mentor a girl could ask for; my family and friends for all your love and support; and Debby Gilbert and the amazing crew at Soul Mate Publishing for this incredible opportunity. I would also like to thank David Burgett, Justin Marquez, and Scott Sandage. To anyone who has ever encouraged my literary aspirations, especially my teachers, and to anyone I have not mentioned by name but has had an impact on my career and life, I offer my humble thanks. Finally, I want to thank you, the reader, for reading my book. You’re the reason I wrote this. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

  Chapter 1

  Perilously perched on the edge of a high-rise that offered a spectacular view of Faneuil Hall is most certainly not how I pictured my untimely demise. Call me old-fashioned, but I was kind of hoping to go out in a more peaceful manner. Unfortunately, things don’t happen exactly how you plan them, especially when your chosen profession has the uncanny ability to thrust you into the icy hands of Death. I stood there, inching toward the edge, wondering how it came to this point. But forgive me; I have a tendency to digress. Let me start at the beginning.

  On Saturday, July 15, 1989, in Boston, Massachusetts, Detectives Harold Morris and Henry O’Neal were called to the Big Dig, an area of Interstate 93 infamously known for its perpetually incomplete status and routine traffic jams. They arrived at approximately 3:43 a.m. to investigate a motor vehicle accident, which resulted in three fatalities. Mr. and Mrs. John Oberon of Medford were driving home from an evening with friends. The forty-five-year-olds, who were parents of two college students, had gone to the city to see the new movie, When Harry Met Sally, followed by dinner, and finally concluded the evening at a friend’s apartment. Although there was no toxicology report taken on Mr. Oberon, his friends verified that he had not consumed a vast amount of alcohol that evening. Regardless, driving through the Big Dig late that fateful Saturday night, John Oberon did not notice the small two-door coupe that was in his lane until it was too late. The resulting fiery explosion awoke many who lived along the Charles River as the deafening sound echoed through the lengthy tunnel.

  The explosion in and of itself was enough to grab the attention of the public for weeks, but a small detail that was discovered after the fire was put out turned the accident into an urban legend. Mr. Oberon died instantly from the impact. His wife suffered both severe head trauma and third-degree burns and died by hemorrhaging minutes after the paramedics had arrived. These injuries were consistent with the automobile accident and subsequent fire. Officer Jeremy Knight, one of the first policemen on the scene, discovered that Mr. David Michaels, the presumed driver of the parked vehicle, died from a single gunshot wound to the head from a thirty-eight revolver. This surprising detail was verified by Dr. Paul Stephens, the medical examiner, who concluded that Michaels, who received far more minor burns than the Oberons, was killed at approximately 1:55 a.m.—nearly two hours before the fatal crash occurred. As expected, this detail caused an exhaustive, media-feeding frenzy.

  All of Boston wanted to know who killed David Michaels. Everyone loves a mystery and the David Michaels’ case became legendary in and around The Hub. There were many outlandish stories about who killed him and why. The most popular theory was that Mr. Michaels, whose real name was Dimitri Ivan Mikhail according to the legend, was a Soviet spy who had immigrated to the United States illegally to steal military secrets for the Russians and had been killed when one of those missions went wrong. Since the police were never able to crack the case, the public’s interest in it died down. The 1990s began, the Soviet Union collapsed, and the mysterious death of David Michaels became just another cold case. Now, flash forward twenty-one years.

  My name is Jordan James, and I am a twenty-four-year-old woman. I just wanted to get that straight from the beginning. I am well aware that Jordan is commonly a boy’s name, but for some reason my parents decided that a normal name like Melissa or Amanda would not suit me. Regardless, my name has not caused me any trouble since an unfortunate teasing incident in the third grade. In fact, it has been quite useful in my line of work. But again, I digress.

  I’m originally from a suburb of New Orleans but moved to the Northeast to attend Brown University. I spent four fabulous years in Providence and graduated magna cum laude with a B.S. in psychology. Like most bright-eyed, eager graduates, I assumed jobs would be thrown at me as soon as I was handed my diploma. I assumed that I could take my
pick. The world was my oyster. To make a long story short, my ideas and reality did not match. After several frustrating months of searching, I decided to move to Boston. I thought this city would provide me with all of the wonderful opportunities I had been unable to find in Providence. When it didn’t, I settled and took a job as a waitress at a small Italian restaurant along the Freedom Trail near the Old North Church to make ends meet. It wasn’t a bad job; the tips were good, and the owners were wonderful. In fact, they became quasi-parents to me when I didn’t know anyone else in Boston, but I wasn’t satisfied. This job wasn’t what I had spent four grueling years studying for.

  After work each evening, I went home to my one-bedroom apartment on Sewall Avenue, counted my tips, and then spent many hours searching online for different career opportunities that might be available to someone with my credentials. Unfortunately, I had already looked into most of them and during an economic crisis, good jobs can be hard to attain. I started saving religiously and continued the search for my dream job.

  After I saved up a decent amount of money and recruited the reluctant help of my parents, I decided to go into business for myself. What career did I decide on? What job could possibly stimulate me intellectually and help me provide for myself in a manner that I could finally be on my own, both physically and fiscally? Private investigation. Yes, I decided to set up shop as a P.I. Now, one might wonder, what could have possibly led me to believe that I could make it as a P.I.? Another valid question is: why did I want to become one in the first place? The answer to both questions can be summed up in one word: Magnum. I grew up watching re-runs of the classic 1980’s show and was enthralled by both his career and his lifestyle. It was exciting and thrilling. He lived in Hawaii, drove a Ferrari that he didn’t own, and lived on an expansive oceanfront estate free of charge. Who wouldn’t want a life like that? With the black belt in Tae Kwon Do that I had earned in college, I felt more than prepared to take on a potentially dangerous job. However, even with my black belt and my education, my choice of career received less than enthusiastic responses.

  “No one is going to hire a woman to investigate anything,” my father stated when I called him with the news.

  “Oh, that is such a dangerous job. You could be killed! What’s wrong with the restaurant? In fact, what’s wrong with moving back home?” my mother inquired. I must admit I shuddered at the thought.

  “A private eye? Good luck with that one,” scoffed my older sister, Alicia, the pediatric neurosurgeon. She had graduated from an in-state university and set up her practice within thirty miles of my parents’ residence. She was always the good one.

  Despite the negative feedback, I decided to forge my new life in the home of our country’s forefathers, where liberty was conceived and it was decided that freedom was considered worth dying for. Unfortunately, the cost of living had gone up substantially since Paul Revere had galloped into history with his famous midnight ride. Finding a reasonable apartment in an area that didn’t have the police on speed dial was difficult. Finding an office that didn’t put my unborn children into debt would be a miracle.

  I learned, however, that perseverance pays off. My landlord owned an office building near Fenway Park with a tiny, unrentable office. It was smaller than all of the other offices in the building and, therefore, considered undesirable. I investigated this situation and found out that my landlord had been unable to rent it for over a year and a half. This was the perfect opportunity for me to put that minor in communications to work. Although it took nearly a month, I was able to logically convince Mr. Chambers that if he were to rent the office to me at five-eighths the normal price for six months, it would be beneficial to us both. Eventually, he saw it my way. He says it was actually because I nearly drove him to jump into the Charles River because of my incessant nagging. I like to believe it was due to my keen negotiating skills.

  So, on November 3, nearly a year and a half after graduating, I unlocked the door to my office, turned on the light, and smiled at the black letters freshly inked to the opaque glass in my door—Jordan James, P.I. Now all that I needed were clients. As fate would have it, someone was looking for a P.I., someone whose case would affect not only my career but my very existence.

  Chapter 2

  I had taken another afternoon to walk around the Boston Common when I first met Jonathan Paul Riché. To this day, I am still convinced that he invented that name and that his real name is something plain like John White. I met Jon on November 15 at 2:33 p.m. I was walking out of a donut shop after finishing a cup of flavored coffee when he rode his bicycle into me. According to Jon, I walked out into traffic and he could not swerve in time to avoid a reckless, caffeinated dingbat. My recollection of the events that led up to our chance encounter differs.

  It was freezing. An unexpected snowstorm the night before had left many schools and businesses closed and many people griping. I had gone to my office, as I did every morning, to try to figure out more successful ways to attract clients. I had created a website, and was listed in the phone book. I even placed an ad in the newspaper, but this led to some surprising and inappropriate phone calls, so I cancelled the ad. Every afternoon at lunchtime, I headed to the deli and grabbed a BLT–unemployed private eyes cannot afford to eat meat.

  By the second week, I was becoming disillusioned. I spent my afternoons walking around Boston and usually ended up at Boston Common. On that particularly cold day, I had decided to go inside a donut shop and treat myself to a coffee. This served two purposes. First, it got me out of the freezing weather that my Southern body was still, after six years, not acclimated to. Second, the caffeine treat eased my growing frustration. After I had finished half of the coffee, I decided I was warm enough and ready to head back to the office. As I got up from my chair, my phone rang. It was my best friend, Heather, who was living in Pasadena and thriving as a writer for a new sitcom. Although I was happy for her, I was also insanely jealous of her success.

  “Hello?”

  “How’s Beantown’s favorite P.I. doing today?”

  I sighed. “Not too well.” I never tried to hide anything from Heather. She could read me better than anyone and even if I tried to suppress something, it wouldn’t take her long to figure it out.

  “So give it up and move here,” she offered. “We can be roommates! And I know I could find you a job. Not as a private eye, but with your background in psych and communications, there are plenty of jobs for someone like you in LA.”

  “There are plenty of jobs for someone who likes to talk to crazy people in LA? That’s a shock. I’m kidding, but you know I can’t do that,” I replied. When she sighed, I added, “Quit frowning at me.”

  “How do you know I’m frowning?”

  “Because I know you. Don’t make that face either,” I playfully warned. Heather always could cheer me up, even three thousand miles away.

  “Well, whatever. The offer still stands. That is if you don’t freeze to death first. Wasn’t there a bad blizzard last night?”

  I groaned and took another sip of coffee. “Not a blizzard, but it was pretty bad. It looks like Antarctica outside.”

  “I still don’t understand why you chose the Northeast. The weather is perfect here.”

  “Well, how nice for you. Look, Heather, I’ve gotta go. I need to get back to the office, and if I’m talking to you, I won’t move as fast, and I’ll probably freeze to death.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I don’t want any of your excuses. Just call me back. Okay?”

  “All right.”

  “You better take care of yourself,” she warned.

  “I will. Chill out. Later.”

  “Later.” I put my phone into the right pocket of my powder blue parka. I tossed the now-empty coffee cup in the garbage and put my gloves on before stepping out into the frigid air. As soon as I opened the door, I was greeted with Jack Frost’s
icy breath. I zipped up my jacket, stepped onto the sidewalk, careful not to slip on any patches of ice, and headed toward the office. There were a handful of people, tightly bundled up, and there were even less cars on the road. I looked both ways before crossing the street.

  Suddenly, I heard a loud bang, felt a strong pressure, and was looking up at the dreary, overcast sky. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I had been hit. I tried to move my left arm to sit up but the pain almost made me pass out. I feared that the bone was broken. At this point, I still did not know what had happened. I would learn soon enough.

  “Oww! What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you heard of looking both ways before crossing the street?” a male voice snapped. This outburst was followed by a gasp. “My bike! My bike! Oh, God, what did you do?”

  An older gentleman looked down at me with apparent concern on his face. Carefully, he helped me up, and I sat on the curb. Once again vertical, I realized this incident had drawn a small crowd. I felt myself blushing and hoped that it just looked like windburn. A few yards away stood a young man, about my age, with striking green eyes, spiked black hair, and a frown on his face as he looked from me to his bicycle and back again. He was dressed impeccably, wearing dark-blue designer jeans and a lime-green, collared shirt beneath a charcoal-gray cashmere overcoat. Around his neck was a green cashmere scarf with gold pinstripes.

  He refused to kneel on the icy, wet sidewalk but opted to squat by his bicycle. Again, he glared at me. Realizing that nothing interesting was going to happen, most of the spectators moved on. The man who helped me up, however, stayed. He gently took my left arm and put a small amount of pressure on it. I cried out in pain.