Cold Ambition (Jordan James, PI)

by Rachel Sharpe

  “You’re meeting him alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “In a public place, right?”

  “Yes, at the Constitution. Is that public enough?”

  “That’s something on the Freedom Trail, right?”

  “It’s a giant ship, Heather. Didn’t you take any history classes in college?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t remember everything I learned, do you?”

  “Well, no.” I shifted the phone to my left ear and raised my shoulder high enough to secure it in place while I attempted to finish brushing my hair with my right hand.

  “Do you have a gun?”

  Her question caught me off-guard, and I nearly dropped both the phone and the brush. “What? No. Why would I have a gun?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know . . . you’re a single female who lives alone in a big city and whose current choice of employment includes meeting a lot of strange men. You’re right. Why would you ever need a gun?”

  “Listen, I don’t think I need a gun to meet a semi-retired police detective. But if I ever feel the situation calls for it, I’ll look into getting one, okay?”

  “You really should.”

  “I will. Look, I hate to end this meaningful conversation, but I really need to get ready. It’s going to take a lot of effort to leave my apartment on a day like this.”

  “Snowing again?”

  “You could say that,” I grimaced, thinking about the arctic winds and knee-high snow mounds.

  “I can take a hint. Oh, before I let you go, what’s another word for a problem?”

  “A challenge?” I offered.

  “No, that’s not it . . . oh, a conundrum! That’s it. A challenge? Really? I could come up with that on my own.”

  “Bye, Heather.”

  “Later, gator.”

  After ending the conversation, I quickly finished brushing my hair and blowing it dry. All of my efforts to straighten it were literally blown away when my stubborn tresses were infused with heat. Giving in to the inevitable, I brushed my teeth and then applied eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick before heading to my closet to search for something that might keep me remotely warm. Taking into account how cold my own apartment was sans heat, I decided not to take any chances. I found a pair of black nylon, long-john bottoms and put them on before my jeans. I then grabbed an old long-sleeved T-shirt and my Brown Bears sweatshirt. I was frustrated when I discovered that, with a cast, I could not wear either without cutting off the left sleeve and making them henceforth disposable clothing.

  I scanned my closet until I came upon a long-sleeved purple shirt that I was able to stretch enough to go over my cast. I then grabbed another sweatshirt, a looser gray one, and put it on as well. I crossed my bedroom and entered the bathroom. Staring back at me from the mirror was a hobo version of myself. The parka will hide the get up, I reminded myself grimly. Plus, it’s better to be warm than fashionable.

  When I was finally dressed and ready to go, the clock told me I had forty minutes to get to the Constitution. Under normal conditions, this was plenty of time. However, considering the current meteorological challenge I was facing, I would be lucky if I made it there in an hour. With no time to waste, I gathered up my purse, cell phone, and notepad and headed out the door. I put my parka on in the elevator and was less than thrilled to see my ornery neighbor glaring at me as the elevator doors opened on the ground floor. I quickly bypassed her and exited the building before she had a chance to think of an unpleasant sentiment to share.

  Not surprisingly, the streets were all but empty and, with the exception of a severe head wind, nothing slowed down my hike through the thick powder to the subway. As I descended, I feared I would find the subways closed, but thankfully, they were running. I stayed on the Green Line all the way down to North Station where I got off and walked up the stairs to the ground level. Although it was not snowing again, it felt twice as cold, and the bone-chilling winds only intensified as I walked across the Charlestown Bridge and quickly made my way to the Navy Yard. According to their website, the Charlestown Navy Yard was established in 1800 and served thousands of vessels until its closing in 1974 at which point it became a part of the Boston National Historical Park. Both the U.S.S. Constitution, more commonly known as Old Ironsides, and the U.S.S. Cassin Young are permanently docked in the yard and open to the public.

  Tourists, locals, and school children alike visit the yard on a daily basis to be reminded of its rich history and its importance to the protection of our great nation. But again, I digress. On that frosty December morning, there were only six visitors to the Yard when I arrived. Since it was so cold, the sailor on guard allowed me to go on board without waiting for a bigger group.

  “The tour will be starting soon,” he informed me. I thanked him and crossed over to the thin, metal gangplank. Gripping the thick black rope, I walked up the steep incline and climbed aboard the ship. “The main deck of the Constitution is massive; the structure is wooden-hulled and has three masts. She is the world’s oldest, floating, commissioned naval vessel, originally launched in 1797,” the tour guide shared.

  The six people on board included one middle-aged couple, both bundled up in Green Bay Packers’ parkas; three college-aged students; and finally, a solid, elderly gentleman with a full head of white hair and a thin beard, wearing a navy-blue Patriots sweatshirt. I recognized the man instantly. He glanced up as I walked a little closer, and his eyes lit up in recognition as well. He walked toward me slowly. It appeared that he had a slight limp in his left leg. When he was about three yards away, he stopped.

  “Jordan James?”

  “Henry O’Neal?”

  He nodded and pointed to his sweatshirt. The man before me was the same gentleman who had been present when Jon ran into me with his bicycle and broke my arm. “I can’t believe you’re the kid who was asking about David Michaels,” he laughed.

  “Yep, that’s me. I can’t believe you’re the detective.”

  “How’s your arm?”

  I glanced at my left arm. My parka concealed the cast, but I instinctively suspected that lying about it would not be a good idea. “Uh, well, it’s broken but only a simple fracture.”

  His expression instantly hardened as he looked at my arm. “That kid . . . did he make good? Did he pay you back for medical expenses? I wasn’t kidding about that.”

  I nodded adamantly. “Oh yes, we squared things.”

  He raised an eyebrow and studied me for a moment before replying, “All right. Now what do you want to know about Michaels?”

  “Everything.”

  As the tour guide walked aboard the ship, Henry and I decided that it would be both warmer and quieter to continue our discussion inside the museum, which was conveniently located only a few yards from the ship itself. I followed him off the ship, past the sailor, standing guard, and into the museum. We stopped in front of a glass enclosure which displayed several artifacts related to the construction of the Constitution.

  “My partner, Harry, and I were called to the scene of an accident at the Big Dig,” he began, staring at the glass case. “It was a Saturday night in July of 1989. Michaels and the couple involved were D.O.A., thanks in large part to the blast, so we weren’t surprised to be called in. Michaels was driving a small coupe, and if I remember right, the other couple was in a Chrysler sedan.” We walked over to another display. This one held five different types of rope and explained their significance to the ship. Using his big hands to imitate the car accident, Henry continued, “Now, the Chrysler plowed into the back of the coupe. The other driver . . . Obermen or Oberon, I think, he must have been driving at a high rate of speed. The impact pushed his engine back into the front seat. He was killed instantly, and his wife died while paramedics tried to revive her.”

  He paused and shook his head slowly, remember
ing the macabre event. “Michaels’ car was pushed into the tunnel wall on the passenger’s side. The sedan annihilated his trunk upon impact, and it blew up. If I recall correctly, first responders initially mistook the explosion for a car bomb. Anyway, the impact of the crash is what actually caused it. Firemen found the remains of two canisters that had been filled with gas in the trunk. Now, his car was stopped when it was hit. Theoretically, he would have experienced some severe injuries and burns, but the accident would not have resulted in his death.”

  “That’s why they called you in?”

  He nodded. “We were called in when one of the beat cops noticed a bullet wound in Mr. Michaels’ left temple. It was partially hidden by his thick brown hair.”

  I pulled out my notepad and scribbled some notes as we walked up to a wall-sized image of the Constitution which appeared to be an old drawing. “If I understand you correctly, Michaels was not severely burned like the Oberons. How could they miss a bullet wound? Wasn’t there any blood?”

  Henry glanced at me and smiled. “Hey, you are a little detective, aren’t you? Yes, there should have been blood, but there wasn’t any. His head was wiped clean.”

  “And there was no blood in the car?”

  “No.”

  “So he wasn’t killed in the car.”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  I thought back to the black Mercedes Benz that Rick had picked me up in. He said it was his father’s car. “What car was Michaels in?”

  “I don’t recall exactly, but I think it was an Audi. Why?”

  “But Michaels drove a Mercedes.”

  He smiled again. “You have done your homework. The car Michaels was found in was not his personal vehicle. It was a rental.”

  “So he was sitting in a rental car dead from a gunshot wound when the couple plowed into him?”

  “Correct.”

  “Did you get the impression the scene was staged?”

  Henry looked up at me quickly with an odd expression. “What makes you use that word?”

  “Well, why was he in a rental car? If he was killed elsewhere, why was he placed in that vehicle at that location? It sounds like someone wanted his car to be hit.”

  Henry nodded. “That’s the impression we got. But our first thought was it might have been a robbery or mugging gone wrong.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Henry picked up a brochure from a stack that was neatly placed on a wooden table between two displays. He rolled it up and began to slap the palm of his hand. “Well, for one thing, his wallet was missing. At first, no one knew who he was. The Oberons both had identification on them, although Mr. Oberon’s wallet was melted to his flesh by the time the fire was put out.”

  “So how did you figure out who he was?”

  “There was a tag on the car with the name of the rental car company, so we called all of their locations in Boston and found out who rented the car from them. After that, his wife met us at the medical examiner’s office and identified the body.”

  “Did she provide you with any information?”

  Henry stared ahead and narrowed his eyes. “Let me think. You have to remember this case is twenty years old. From what I recall, she said he was going out of town on business, I believe, that Monday, and that’s why he had the rental car.”

  “Was anything missing besides the wallet?” I asked on a hunch.

  “Now that you mention it, yes. She said his briefcase was missing. His wallet turned up in some brush along I-93 about a week later, but we never recovered the briefcase.”

  “Do you know what was in it?”

  Henry shook his head. “No, she wasn’t sure.”

  “Do you know why there were gas canisters in his trunk if it was a rental car?”

  “Don’t you think I would have told you already if I knew that?”

  I found myself growing agitated. I greatly appreciated Mr. O’Neal’s meeting me. I knew that he didn’t have to do this, so I was truly thankful, but nothing he told me shed any light on this case. It sounded like the police did not know what to make of it and didn’t put too much effort into solving it. After a few more minutes of carefully worded questions, I finally got the break I was looking for.

  “So the case went cold because there weren’t any leads?”

  Henry inhaled slowly through his nose and exhaled even more slowly. “Yes, it did. That was by far the most frustrating case I have ever worked. There weren’t any real clues, and it seemed like his wife barely knew him. I got the impression he had another life, but we were never able to uncover anything about that other life. We never even found out what that key went to.”

  My ears pricked up. “Key? What key?”

  “Didn’t I mention that?” I shook my head. “Oh well, like I said, David Michaels did not have any form of identification on his person when he was found. But when the M.E. performed the autopsy, he found a small silver key tucked away in Mr. Michaels’ left sock.”

  “What kind of key?”

  Henry shrugged and tossed the crumpled brochure in a black metal trashcan against the wall. “It was tiny and silver. It wasn’t a car key or a house key, and it certainly wasn’t a skate key,” he laughed.

  “Was it a post office box key?”

  Henry narrowed his eyes, thinking back, and then shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t think so. Those keys are usually well marked with USPS or something to identify them. This one just had a number.”

  My heart was pounding in my chest with excitement. This unknown key had to be a part of the puzzle that the cops had overlooked. “Where is this key now?”

  “The last I checked it was still locked up in evidence because Mrs. Michaels didn’t want it. She didn’t know what the key went to.”

  “Could I borrow it?”

  “I don’t think that’s possible. The case is still open and that key’s evidence.”

  “Is there any way to get the key?” I asked desperately. We had walked around the entire museum which conveniently ended in front of the gift shop. I followed Henry inside and waited as he picked up a book on the Constitution and thumbed through the pages.

  “Well, like I said, this is evidence in an open case. But seeing how the case is over twenty years old and not being actively investigated, I don’t think anyone would object to the owner of the key requesting its return,” he replied, staring at the book.

  “The owner of the key?” I repeated.

  He put the book down and picked up a small replica of the Constitution. “Yeah, you know, his wife or a kid. Someone in the immediate family.”

  A smile slowly crept across my face as I realized what he was suggesting. I thanked him thoroughly for his time. He put the plastic ship down and looked at me.

  “Listen, you have my number. Call if you need anything. This is an old case and, well, I’m not saying you can’t solve it, but it would be difficult. And be careful, okay?” He glanced at my arm, frowning.

  My smile widened in appreciation. “I will, thank you, Henry.” I turned again to leave but paused. “Henry, did the name Hepstadt or Lower ever come up in the investigation?”

  He furrowed his brow and looked away momentarily before replying. “Was that his former employer?” I nodded. “We interviewed his former boss, but it seemed clear there was not a connection there. Why?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing. I was just wondering. Thanks again, Henry. I owe you.”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry about it. But you call me if you need me, okay? And be careful.”

  “I will.” I headed out the front door and into the bitter New England weather.

  Chapter 16

  My first instinct after leaving the meeting with Henry O’Neal was to call Rick and ask him for his help in obtaining the mysterious key. I w
as disappointed when his phone went straight to voicemail but decided to leave him a message.

  “Hi, Rick. It’s Jordan. Listen, if you can give me a call, I’d appreciate it. I have a situation I could use your help with. Thanks.”

  I ended the call and swiped my Charlie card to get through the turnstile and was relieved to discover that there was still some money on it. As I boarded The T, I made the decision to head to my office instead of my apartment. Although I left my laptop at home, Jon always kept his at the office, so I planned to use his for a little research. Twenty-five minutes later, I unlocked the door to my office. I switched on the lights and was greeted with a groan. Jon had been asleep on my couch prior to my entrance.

  “Couldn’t you warn a guy before you do that?” he moaned, rubbing his eyes and slowly rising to a seated position.

  “Don’t you have a home?” I retorted, throwing my parka on the arm of the couch. “Besides, I thought you hated my couch.”

  “It’s terrible,” he replied, deftly smoothing his hair. “But it’s better than that lumbar nightmare you call a chair.”

  “I didn’t buy you that chair. You got your own desk and chair.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t blame you for it. You should have provided me with better accommodations.”

  I grabbed his laptop off the small desk and carried it and my purse over to my desk. Opening the blinds, I said dryly, “If you have problems, leave your complaints with maintenance. I’m sure they’ll get right on it.”

  He jumped up wide-eyed and pointed at his laptop as I turned it on. “Hey. That’s not yours.”

  I rolled my eyes. “No, but I need it.”

  He crossed the room. “Well, maybe I need it.”

  “Right this moment?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “To do what?”