Cold Ambition (Jordan James, PI)

by Rachel Sharpe

  I re-read the paragraph carefully. I quickly realized that there was no mention of what the company actually imported or exported. At the top of the page was a series of links. One of them was labeled “About Us.” This link brought me to a page that showed twelve thumbnail photographs along with individuals’ names and titles. The company’s CEO was a white male, who appeared to be approximately sixty-five to seventy years old, with short, reddish-blond hair, bright-blue eyes, and a thin goatee. He was smiling broadly. His name was Gavin McCready. Right beneath him on the page was the company’s CFO, a man named Darren Broadsmith. Broadsmith had a thick head of dark-brown hair and deep, brown eyes. His smile appeared more menacing than McCready’s, but it was the faded scar tissue along the right side of his face that caught my attention.

  I clicked on his name, and I was taken to his biography which stated that he had started working at Hepstadt & Lower back in 1984. He was first hired as an assistant to the second accountant but quickly worked his way up to Executive Accountant in April of 1989–the month after Michaels abruptly left the company. This biography, like everything else on the Hepstadt & Lower website, said nothing of significance with a lot of eloquent words. I couldn’t find any more information about Broadsmith. Still, something told me he would be of interest later, so I jotted down his name and position.

  Before I could do anything else, another convivial attendant tapped my shoulder and informed me that we were about to begin our descent into New Orleans and that my computer needed to be put away. I closed my laptop begrudgingly and put it on the floor in front of me. The plane tilted slightly to the left, and I could see the Causeway Bridge over Lake Ponchartrain. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. In less than half an hour, I would be greeted by my family and, for some reason, I found that notion more terrifying than being stranded in East Boston alone at night.

  Chapter 8

  My fears of returning home were well warranted. As soon as I walked out of the terminal, I was greeted by my parents’ hyperbolic reaction to my cast, which I had conveniently forgotten to mention for obvious reasons. My mother ran effortlessly in her four-inch heels.

  “Oh my Lord! What did you do to yourself? Were you mugged?” She grabbed my shoulder and studied the cast. I shifted my weight uncomfortably.

  “No, Mom, I was not mugged. It was an accident.” I met my father’s gaze. He was staring at me with disdain.

  “When did this happen?” he inquired.

  “Almost two weeks ago,” I confessed. I could feel my face getting hot as my mother slapped herself on the cheek, and my father’s apparent scorn increased.

  He just stood there, staring at me, while other people in the terminal greeted their loved ones with hugs, kisses, and well-wishes. It was awkward. Finally, he spoke.

  “I received a bill from some Boston hospital about two days ago,” he began. “It didn’t go into detail about what had happened, but I gathered you broke or twisted or cracked something.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” I started. “I really meant to tell you guys, but I’ve just been so caught up in work.”

  At this, my father laughed. He leaned closer to me, his face within inches of mine. “Work? You don’t work. You pretend. That restaurant job . . . that was actually work. But you didn’t like it, so you quit. Your private investigation firm isn’t going to go anywhere. The sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be.”

  I was speechless. I wanted to tell him about my new client and the twenty-year-old case that I was going to crack. I wanted to tell him that just because I didn’t attend an in-state university and get a degree in medicine like Alicia or in law like he did, it didn’t mean I was opposed to working. I wanted to tell him that I wished he would support me emotionally in my decisions instead of just financially. But I didn’t. My mother came to my rescue.

  “Joel, let’s not get into this here. We shouldn’t be discussing Jordan’s career in the airport. We have a lot to celebrate right now.” She looked into my eyes with a big smile and grabbed both of my shoulders. “Alicia is engaged!”

  She squealed after revealing this news and hugged me tightly. I could conjure up no emotion. My father had just belittled me, and my mother decides that now is the right time to tell me that my wonderful, perfect older sister is engaged. I knew that I was going to be stuck there for the duration, so I would have to make do. I put on the biggest fake smile that I could muster.

  “That’s great! I didn’t even know she was seeing anyone,” I commented. My mother playfully slapped my good arm.

  “Didn’t know she was seeing anyone? Don’t be silly. You met him last Christmas.” I thought back to my last trip home. I felt just as apprehensive then as I did at that moment, and unfortunately Prince Charming didn’t come to mind.

  Her playful expression faded. Clearly she was waiting for a response. Taking a stab in the dark, I said, “Was he that tall, good-looking guy?”

  Her eyes lit up, and she nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! That’s Charlie.”

  I nodded, too, although I still had no idea who this guy was. At least I could pretend to remember him since I knew his name. My father stood silently, obviously bored by this dialogue. When my mother noticed his expression, she became serious.

  “Well, let’s go home now, okay? We’ve been in the airport long enough.” She abruptly turned on her heels and started marching toward the door. My father sighed as he grabbed the handle of my luggage and followed her, without a word to me. I shifted my purse and took a few deep breaths before jogging to catch up with them. It’s only for a few days, I reminded myself as I exited the airport and climbed inside my parents’ luxury sedan.

  We drove in silence for the twelve-mile trip. I was lost in my thoughts, and my parents didn’t seem eager for conversation. I looked up as we pulled into the driveway. My father had an attractive, two-story brick structure built when I was about six years old. It had two big bay windows on either side of the large, ornate front door and two gabled windows on the second floor. The house offered four bedrooms and two-and-a-half bathrooms in a comfortable forty-five hundred square feet. My insightful father had the architect include high ceilings which are both attractive and practical for air circulation.

  He pulled the car into the driveway and turned off the engine. He then leaned over to my mother and gave her a kiss. “I need to get back to the office,” he muttered.

  “Oh, really?” she pouted.

  “Yes. I have a few new cases, and I want to go over the briefs now since I’ll be starting a five-day weekend tomorrow. I won’t be late,” he promised.

  My mother nodded and climbed out of the car. Without looking back, she briskly walked up the rest of the driveway, unlocked the front door, and disappeared inside. Alone now, the silence was painful. My father coughed awkwardly and rubbed his smooth jaw line before glancing back at me. “You’ll probably want to go inside,” he muttered. He then looked at my cast again. “While you’re here, try to make an appointment with Dr. Hullen. I want to make sure that your arm is healing properly.”

  I nodded and obediently opened the car door. After lugging out my purse, suitcase, and laptop bag, I closed the car door. My father immediately backed out and drove away. I watched his car until it turned onto a side road that led to the front of the neighborhood. Aware of the fact that I was sweating, I tugged off my blue parka and tucked it under my left arm as I carried the rest of my belongings toward the house.

  Once inside, I realized that my mother was not alone. From the front foyer, I could hear her talking to someone in the kitchen. I walked across the polished wood floor and turned to go up the stairs. I walked down the hall until I reached the last door on the left. I opened it and turned on the light. I was surprised to see that it looked exactly as it did the Christmas before. My mother had joked that she would turn my room into an office for herself, and I truly believe
d she would have done so already. Instead, I saw my daybed with the white iron frame pressed flush against the left wall. My dark-purple comforter still covered the bed as did numerous throw pillows. In high school, my mother decided to upgrade me from a regular twin bed to a full-size daybed. She thought that twelve pillows made it look even more sophisticated. Although I liked the bed, I couldn’t stand the pillows. She insisted I make it every day and fix the pillows to match the bed in the furniture store’s showroom.

  I tossed my bags on the bed and carried my laptop case over to my desk. Pulling out my worn, black swivel chair, I sat down and turned my computer back on. I logged into my email to see if I had any new messages. Unfortunately, there were none. I retrieved my cell phone from my purse. I had never turned it back on after the flight began. The call log revealed that Jon had not tried to contact me.

  I sat down on the edge of my bed and stared across the room at my white sliding closet doors. Because my arm was throbbing again, I reached into my purse for the painkillers that I had received at the hospital. Suddenly, there was a knock on my bedroom door. Startled, I called out, “Come in.”

  My bedroom door slowly opened with a creak. My sister, Alicia, walked into the room, crossed her arms, and looked down at me. She was shorter than I was by about two inches, but right now she seemed taller. Her brown hair flowed over her shoulders. She smiled self-righteously. “So, you broke your arm, huh?”

  I glanced at my cast and defensively covered it with my right arm. “Yes, I did. So what?”

  She crossed the room and moved my luggage from the bed to the floor. She sat down next to me and took my arm. She inspected the cast and each one of my fingers. I pulled my arm back. “What are you doing?” I challenged. “You’re in pediatrics. This is not your field.”

  She rolled her brown eyes and took my arm back and held it firmly. “I still went to med school, Jordan. They have to teach us about all areas of the human body—not only the ones we specialize in.” She looked at my fingers again. “Your fingers look okay. And I see you were fitted for a short cast. Is this a simple fracture?”

  “Yes,” I sighed. “You’ve solved the mystery. Now may I have my arm back? It may be broken, but I am kind of attached to it.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t get you.” She looked at my arm again and then into my eyes. “Listen, I was downstairs talking to mom. She said that you broke your arm but didn’t elaborate, which leads me to believe that you didn’t tell her, either. I’m asking you out of concern. How did you break your arm?”

  I looked away. “It was an accident.”

  She picked up one of the pillows and held it. She spoke timidly, “Jordan, I’m not trying to get you into trouble. You’re an adult. We’re both adults. But you’re still my baby sister who lives halfway across the country, and now you have a broken arm. As both a doctor and your sister, I’m concerned. But I’m asking you because I’m your sister. Please tell me.”

  I looked across the room at my white, four-shelf bookcase. The top shelf held several pictures of Heather and me and one of Alicia and me when we were children. There we were, ages nine and five, respectively. I was clutching Max, the black Labrador puppy our parents had gotten for us. Alicia had her arm around me. I sighed and told her the entire situation.

  She listened quietly until I had finished. When I stopped talking, she took my arm again and examined the cast once more. Finally, she said, “Well, you’re lucky you only broke your arm. And don’t worry about your friend. I’m sure everything will be fine when you’re back up there again.”

  I nodded unenthusiastically. Although it was nice to be able to share this information, I now felt uneasy and feared that my parents would hear it soon. “Alicia, please don’t tell Mom or Dad any of this. I don’t feel like dealing with their reactions while I’m in the same zip code.”

  She held up her hand. “I swear I won’t say a word.” I saw something shimmer in the sunlight. I grabbed her hand and examined the ring. She grinned. “I’m sure Mom already told you I was engaged.”

  I returned the smile genuinely. “Yes, she did. That’s great! I must admit, though, I don’t know who he is.”

  Alicia rolled her eyes and laughed. “You’re going to be a great detective, Sis. You have such an eye for detail. Charlie Coyle. You met him last Christmas. Think. He was the tall guy with dark-brown hair who came over on Christmas Eve.”

  Thinking back, I remembered that I had met him. He was quiet and didn’t really interact with the rest of my parents’ friends. I was so preoccupied with everything going on at the time that I didn’t realize he was there with Alicia. “I think I know who you mean,” I began, “but I thought he was a lawyer.”

  She nodded as she put the pillow back in its proper place on my bed. “He is. That’s how I met him. He was working as an intern with Dad’s company last summer before he took the bar exam.”

  “Does he still work there?”

  She shook her head. “No, he works with Ryan & Cartwright. He enjoyed working with Dad but felt it would be best not to continue there once we began seeing each other. He didn’t think it appeared professional, and he didn’t want the other associates to think any accolades he earned were due to nepotism.”

  “Hmm. Well, that’s good.” I glanced over at my computer. Alicia noticed and stood up.

  “Well, I’ve got to get some paperwork finished before dinner.”

  “Paperwork? You’re a surgeon.”

  She laughed. “Yes, I am. But insurance companies still want to know why they're paying so much. That’s one of the most gratifying parts of the job. Anyway, I’ll see you at dinner?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Talk to you later, Jordan.”

  With that, she walked out of the room, and I returned to my work.

  Chapter 9

  The day before Thanksgiving was relatively mundane. The only true excitement was when Heather called and informed me that she was coming home for Thanksgiving, and we planned to meet up on Friday. Since we hadn’t seen each other in nearly a year, I was thrilled. I tried to call Jon again and still, he refused to answer my calls.

  This frustration was compounded by the lack of information I had been able to find in the David Michaels’ case. In college, I spent many hours in the Brown University Library, researching papers and case studies, and although I always used books and encyclopedias, I was also able to locate a great deal of needed information from academic databases and Internet searches successfully. It was difficult to accept that there were things one couldn’t look up online.

  My gut feeling was that a connection existed between Michaels’ murder and this enigmatic corporation. I decided that I’d take a trip to New York as soon as I returned home. I prayed there would be more information available there. Unable to work on my case, I found myself thoroughly bored by twelve-thirty. My mother had gone out after lunch to run her pre-Thanksgiving errands. As much as I appreciated the many meals she prepared for me when I lived at home, she was by no means a culinary master, and since my father oftentimes invited his associates and their families to Thanksgiving dinner, my mother wisely opted to have our banquet catered every year.

  Alicia left that morning for her office as did my father, and this left me alone in the house. I found the silence of suburbia unnerving after living in both Providence and Boston and decided to go for a run to clear my head. I had not packed appropriately for the mild winter weather I was experiencing and mentally cursed myself for forgetting this obvious climate difference. Instead of wasting a great deal of money, I decided to rummage through Alicia’s closet and was pleasantly surprised to find that her workout clothes still fit me even though I hadn’t had the occasion to steal any of her clothes in nearly a decade.

  Downstairs, I laced up my tennis shoes and grabbed a spare house key from one of the kitchen drawers
before heading out the back door and down the driveway. During my run, I unfortunately noticed my ex-boyfriend from high school, Greg Bell, was using a leaf blower on his parents’ front lawn. When we made eye contact, a shocked look appeared on his face. Please just nod and don’t turn off the blower, I prayed silently. My prayers were clearly not heard. He turned off the blower and quickly strode across the lawn and stopped in front of me as I politely attempted to pass.

  “Jordan James. What are you doing here? I heard you lived up North somewhere now . . . Maine? What did you do to your arm?” He wiped dots of perspiration off his forehead and smirked.

  I pulled my earbuds out and looked down at my cast. “Long story. And I live in Boston, not Maine. I’m here because it’s the holidays. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  He coughed and scratched the back of his neck. “Yes, that’s why I’m here,” he motioned at his parents’ house. “But I didn’t move across the country to avoid my family like you did. I live on the Northshore now. I’m a political science teacher at one of the private schools over there. What do you do? I heard you went to Brown.”

  It was rather creepy that Greg Bell knew all of these details about my life since we had not really talked since high school. He still looked exactly as I remembered him. He was tall, about six-foot-three, with sandy-blond hair, and piercing green eyes. Although he played both basketball and football in high school, he was not imposing. He was simply a talented athlete. I could tell that he still took care of himself physically. I endured a few more minutes of pointless conversation in which I successfully managed neither to reveal the cause of my fracture nor my current occupation. Before I left, he asked how long I would be in town.