Cold Ambition (Jordan James, PI)

by Rachel Sharpe

  “That’s really funny. Who put you up to this? Mickey?”

  I glanced back at Jon. He shrugged his shoulders. “No, no one put me up to anything. My name is Jordan James, and I’m a private investigator. Mr. Richard Michaels hired me. Now may I please see the file?”

  With his laughter now completely subsided, he stared at me hard. “You’re for real?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Crossing his arms, he replied, “Well, I'm sorry, but I don’t think that’s possible, Miss. This is an open investigation.”

  “Yeah, one you haven’t solved,” Jon muttered. The man quickly turned his attention to Jon. Although Jon was tall, he was not solid. This man, however, was both.

  “Did you say something, Boy?”

  Jon stared at the ground. “No,” he answered quickly.

  “No, what?” the man challenged.

  Gritting his teeth, Jon said, “No, sir.”

  Moderately satisfied that he had received proper respect, the man motioned for me to follow him to one of the desks near the far right corner of the room. I followed him, and Jon followed me, albeit at a distance. The man pulled out a sturdy wooden chair from beneath one desk and placed it next to another one. He sat down behind the desk, and I sat in the other chair. Jon stood a few feet behind me.

  “Forgive me for not introducing myself,” he apologized. “My name is Danny Ryan, and I’m a homicide detective.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Detective.”

  “Now, Miss James?” I nodded. “Miss James, I regret my initial outburst, but that damned, excuse me, that Michaels’ case has been nearly as big a headache for my department as the Gardner one. We’ve received a lot of letters, phone calls, and visits from various characters for nearly twenty years. I’ve only been on the force for twelve years, but I cannot tell you how many nut cases I’ve seen cross that threshold. It’s our policy, because this is an unsolved, sensational case, that we do not disclose information to anyone. I’m sorry, but that’s the rule.”

  I was slightly dejected but still determined. “What if Mr. Michaels’ son requested to see the file?”

  He hesitated. “I would have to check with my boss about that. I’m sure paperwork would be involved, but it might be possible. To be honest, it’s going to take some legwork because that file is probably archived somewhere at headquarters.”

  I felt a little more hopeful until I remembered that Rick wouldn’t be around until Friday. That was almost three days away, and I hated the idea of wasting so much time. In that moment of frustration, I decided to use one of the oldest and most cliché devices known to womankind–feminine desperation. I pouted my lip and presented Detective Ryan my most sorrowful expression. I was embarrassed by my pathetic ploy, remembering all the while that dedication and hard work always got me results. It was with that philosophy that I convinced my parents to allow me to move across the country; it was with that philosophy that I graduated with high honors from Brown, and it was with that philosophy that I started my own investigation firm. Now, with one pathetic pout, I nullified all of it. As ashamed of myself as I was, this age-old ploy actually worked.

  Detective Ryan’s expression softened as I sniffled and he looked around the office, helpless. “Aw gee, Miss, please don’t get upset. I wasn’t calling you a nut job. It’s just the rules, you understand?” I squinted my eyes and sobbed silently into my left hand. “Please, Miss, don’t cry,” he sighed heavily. “Okay, Miss.”

  I looked up into his eyes. “Yes?” I sniffed.

  He looked around the office and leaned across the desk. Speaking in a low voice, he said, “Listen, I can’t let you see the file. But that doesn’t mean you can’t find out about the case.”

  I hid my eagerness, desperate not to overplay my hand. “But how can I—”

  He held up his hand to quiet me. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I don’t see what harm it would do. The two main detectives investigating the Michaels’ case were Harold Morris and Henry O’Neal. Now, Harry, he passed five years back, God rest his soul. But Henry, he’s still around. In fact, he still works here part-time.”

  Again, I tried to hide my excitement, but I could feel my heart rate increasing. “Really? Is he here today?” I asked, too eagerly. He frowned, possibly now aware of the con. He shook his head.

  “No, he only works part-time now, two or three days a week.” I frowned. Detective Ryan reached across his desk and grabbed a black pen and small yellow sticky note. He handed them to me. “Write down your name and number, and I’ll have him call you when he gets in.”

  I had a sinking suspicion that this offer was merely a polite means of getting me out of the station without further incident, but as I had no other choice, I thanked him and gladly provided my contact information. Jon and I walked down the stairs and through a long corridor which led outside. I stood near the entrance to this citadel of security, contemplating all that had transpired. Jon stood by quietly, but from the corner of my eye, I noticed him shaking as the frigid air enveloped us once more. Remembering my earlier desire for an iced coffee and Jon’s apparent need for warmth, I silently headed back in the direction we had come from. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Jon was right behind me.

  He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and picked up speed. Moments later, he was walking beside me. “Where are we going?”

  “Just up the road. I saw a Dunkin’, and I could really use some coffee.”

  “Coffee? What about this case? I can’t believe you left without any information,” he snickered. “Especially after that performance.”

  I glared at him, but despite my scowl, I wasn’t nearly as mad at his comment as I was at myself for behaving in that manner. I made a fool of myself to no avail. We walked the rest of the way in silence. We spent most of the afternoon in the coffee shop, discussing the case. While my focus continued to be on the unseen, but most likely, obvious connection to Hepstadt & Lower, Jon had some interesting theories of his own.

  “Now, I think there’s something to be said about this couple who happened to crash into his car in an empty tunnel late at night,” Jon insisted, through a mouthful of ham and cheese. “I mean, the car exploded.”

  “Really, Jon, why would a yuppie couple from Medford kill David Michaels? Besides that, why would they kill themselves in the process? That doesn’t even make sense. Were they kamikazes? No, they had to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all.”

  Jon lifted the half-eaten flatbread sandwich. “That’s what everyone said,” Jon muttered between bites. “But you know what? No one has solved this thing so, in my opinion, everyone’s a suspect.”

  We argued until about four o’clock. As the sun began to set, Jon insisted that he needed to go home before it was dark. “It’s supposed to snow tonight, and I don’t want to freeze.”

  We headed to the subway and parted ways at the Green Line. I was two stops away from my exit when my cell phone rang. An unknown number flashed across my screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah, is this Jordan James?” An older man with a thick Boston accent inquired. My mind was a complete blank. Who could be calling me? Was this possibly a new client? “Hello?”

  I cleared my throat and shifted on the uncomfortable plastic bench provided by my tax dollars. “Yes, yes. This is Jordan. May I ask who is calling?”

  “My name is Henry O’Neal. I work for Boston PD. Danny Ryan told me you had some questions about the David Michaels’ case?”

  My heart nearly leapt from my chest at his words. “Yes!” I exclaimed too eagerly. “I mean, yes, I have some questions about the case.”

  He coughed. “Okay, well, when do you want to meet?”

  I glanced around the half-empty subway car. My initial instinct w
as to meet him right away, but common sense advised me of three small factors: first, it was nearly dark, second, and the forecast predicted another snowy evening, and third, despite his alleged credentials, it would be wiser to meet this man in a public setting in broad daylight.

  “Well, could we meet tomorrow morning?”

  “Well, that depends. What time?”

  “Um, what time is good for you?”

  He was momentarily silent. “Eh, I guess around ten should be okay. Would ten work for you?”

  I waited a few moments, pretending to be looking through my daily agenda before replying, “Yes, ten should be fine. I look forward to seeing you.”

  “Uh, Miss?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where did you want to meet?”

  I felt my face flush at my amateur mistake. “Well,” I thought aloud. “How about somewhere along the Freedom Trail?” Although I had lived in Boston for nearly two years, I still felt most comfortable in these familiar tourist areas.

  “The Freedom Trail covers a lot of ground,” he commented. “Anywhere in particular?”

  “Um . . .” The train slowed to a stop at Newton Center. I waited for the automatic doors to open before stepping across the threshold. On the far wall was an advertisement for Old Ironsides. “How about the Constitution?”

  “Old Ironsides?” he questioned, sounding a little surprised. “Well, sure, that works. Yeah, that would be fine.”

  I walked up the cement stairs and headed in the direction of my apartment. The cloudy skies were darker than when I had boarded the train, and I was positive I felt a few icy snowflakes land on my face. “Okay, great. I’ll meet you tomorrow at ten o’clock at the Constitution. Wait, how will I recognize you?”

  “Hmm . . . I’ll be wearing my Pats sweatshirt.”

  I stifled a laugh. A cop in Boston wearing a Pats sweatshirt was as ubiquitous as a cop in New Orleans wearing a Saints T-shirt. Suppressing my sarcastic nature, I replied, “That sounds great. And thank you so much. I look forward to seeing you.”

  “Okay, goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Chapter 15

  After an uneventful evening, I went to bed early. I awoke early the next morning and climbed out of bed. Lifting the blinds, I peeked out the window. The weatherman’s prediction of a light dusting was a gross understatement. Although nowhere near as devastating or incapacitating as a Nor’easter, from my window, neither the sidewalks nor the streets were visible. The Christmas decorations attached to the light posts were buried as well. The world was covered in a beautiful, white blanket. As I looked through the window, I deeply regretted my choice of rendezvous.

  The frigid, early morning air made me acutely aware that I had forgotten to turn the heater up the night before. I grabbed my mauve, cotton bathrobe from the closet and quickly put it on. Hurrying through my bedroom, I dashed into the living room and turned up the heater. Although the clock on my side table read seven, the sun had barely broken through the overcast Boston sky. I loved winter and snow, but the constant sunless days sometimes got to me.

  Realizing I had nowhere to go for a few hours, I decided to make myself a bowl of sugary cereal and watch some cartoons. To my dismay, I discovered the current variety of animated programs left a lot to be desired so I flipped through a few morning shows before giving up the search entirely. With nothing to watch and nothing else to do, I decided to take a nice, hot shower. Taking showers is one of my all-time favorite things to do. During college, showers and the library were the only places I found complete solace. I have found hot showers to be the most perfect form of free relaxation available. Over the last few weeks, my relaxation had been hampered by the thick, plaster cast attached to my left arm. Now, unless you have actually tried to take a shower with a cast, it may be hard to imagine how truly difficult the process is. While I am proud to say I never needed any help showering with one arm, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t an arduous task to accomplish.

  Changing in and out of clothes was not the difficult part; I was lucky enough to have a simple fracture and therefore only required a short arm cast. The difficult part was the actual shower. One never truly appreciates the little things in life, such as the use of both arms, until that option is eliminated by a spastic prima donna on a bicycle. Despite the difficulties, I managed to get through my shower. I had just shut off the water when I heard my cell phone ringing in the next room. I stepped out of the shower and slipped on the wet tile. Had the white fiberglass sink not been directly in front of me and easy to grab, I would have broken the other arm or, with my luck, cracked my skull.

  My soaking wet hair created another nice puddle of water on the linoleum floor that almost led to a second disaster. Still soaking wet, I grabbed the phone and found Heather on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  “What’s another word for exaggeration?”

  “Hyperbole?” I offered, grabbing my robe and throwing it on before I could add pneumonia to my growing list of maladies.

  “No, that’s not it . . . oh! Overstatement! Yes, that’s the one I wanted. Hyperbole? You expect me to have a sixteen-year-old millionaire beach bum say hyperbole? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nice to hear from you, Heather.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Yeah, well, since someone never responds to texts, I figured I better check in every now and then to make sure you’re still alive.”

  “Yeah, I’m alive.”

  “What’s up? You sound weird.” Heather was never one to mince words.

  “Nothing,” I sighed. “I’m just mourning the loss of my beloved shower time.”

  “Oh, the cast, huh? What'd the doctor say? You did see one, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I went to a doctor.”

  “Why am I sensing there is a ‘but’ in here somewhere?”

  “But, I went to the wrong kind of doctor.”

  “Jordan, please tell me you didn’t ask a gynecologist about your arm?” She cackled.

  “No,” I snapped. She didn’t relent.

  “What kind of doctor did you go to?”

  “A general practitioner.” The laughter on the other end of the phone reached a volume and frequency which could have destroyed my eardrum. I quickly pulled the phone away and placed it on the bathroom counter. I finished drying off while she laughed and had nearly removed all the tangles from my partially dried hair before I heard her voice again.

  “Jordan? Did you hang up on me?”

  I put down my hairbrush and picked up the phone. “No, I’m still here. Are you finished?”

  “Yeah,” she laughed.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny about seeing a family doctor about my arm,” I griped.

  “It’s funny because it’s you. You’re in Boston, Jordan. One of the most medically-advanced cities in the country, and you can’t locate a single doctor that specializes in fractures?”

  “I went to a doctor, okay?” I insisted. “Now are you finished?”

  “Yeah,” she repeated, still laughing. “I have to admit, though, you totally just made my morning.”

  “Speaking of that, what're you doing up so early? It can’t even be six in the morning yet where you are.”

  “Try five-thirty,” Heather mumbled grimly.

  “Why are you up?”

  “Rewrites again. Apparently Alson Andrews, the teen dream, is unhappy with his current contract. So the producers are, in turn, unhappy with precious Alson and told their overworked and underpaid writers—ahem—to write the royal pain out of this week’s episode. Honestly, I think it’s a ploy to scare him into signing another three-year contract on the series but we’ll see, I guess.”

  “Alson Andrews,” I repeated. “I think he was on the early show this morning. That’s the guy everyone is going crazy
over? How old is he, twelve?”

  “Try sixteen, Sweetie,” Heather clicked her tongue. “My dear, you are showing your age . . .”

  “We’re the same age,” I reminded her.

  “Actually you’re seven months older,” she corrected.

  “So when we’re in the nursing home, I’ll collect social security before you. Score.”

  “Nursing home? Speak for yourself, Girlfriend. I’m going to make so much money out here I’ll buy someone’s youth and live again.”

  “Not on a writer’s salary.”

  “Touché,” she replied. “Well, give me some good news. How’s that case of yours going? Anything new with your boy toy?”

  “Who?”

  She gasped playfully. “You little hussy. How many do you have?”

  I didn’t have to look up into the mirror to know my face was beet red. “None. I just meant—”

  With a more serious tone, she interrupted, “You don’t have anyone over there, do you?”

  “No, I swear. No one is here. Your question confused me. Jet lag.”

  “Uh huh. Well how’s your case regardless?”

  I gave her a brief update including all the information that Rick and Jon were able to extract from Rick’s mother. I withheld a few facts, such as Rick’s age, his good looks, and his soon-to-be status as Jon’s roommate. All I needed was for her to dream up a wild scenario and turn my life into an episode of her show. She listened quietly while I finished by telling her I would be meeting Henry O’Neal in the next hour.