Cold Ambition (Jordan James, PI)

by Rachel Sharpe

  “What’s wrong with you? Do you have a sudden fascination with sidewalks or a crick in your neck?”

  I glared at him but picked up the pace. I was grateful to see the signs to the subways, and we parted ways at The T. I boarded the subway and found an empty seat on the crowded car between a pregnant woman and a reverend. During the ride, my cell phone rang, and I groaned silently when I saw that it was Alicia calling. Taking a deep breath, I answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “Did you see a doctor?”

  “Nice to hear from you, too. How’s the weather down there?” I replied, smiling at the pregnant woman who returned my smile with a disgusted look. Alicia sighed deliberately and repeated the question. “Yes, I went to see a doctor.”

  “And?” Alicia was not one for beating around the proverbial bush.

  “Well, he couldn’t tell me much, but he helped me make an appointment with a specialist. I’m going to see her next Wednesday.”

  “Wait. Explain that again. What kind of doctor did you see? I told you to make an appointment with an orthopedist.”

  The train slowed to a stop and the pregnant woman rushed off, along with several others. Thankfully, no one took her place, so I moved over to the edge and left an empty seat between another passenger and myself.

  “Look, Alicia, it’s not important. What matters is I have an appointment, right?”

  “Who do you have an appointment with?”

  I closed my eyes and thought back. “Uh, I believe her name was Dr. Paci. Why? Do you know any orthopedists in Boston?”

  Alicia cleared her throat awkwardly. “No. Force of habit. I know several good ones here, but then again, you refused to see one when you were down here.”

  Great, guilt, I thought bitterly. “Alicia, is there anything in particular you called about?”

  “Well, I was calling to check in on you and see how you were doing since you haven’t responded to my emails.”

  “What emails?”

  Alicia sighed. “Jordan, don’t you ever check your emails? I sent you several emails over the past few days. What have you been doing?”

  The train stopped again. Two teenage girls claimed the empty spots near me and began an animated conversation over the contents of one girl’s Facebook page. The excited giggles increased as the train started moving again.

  “I’ve been busy,” I replied loudly. “Besides, I’ve only been home three days. What're the emails about?”

  “Well, mostly wedding stuff,” she admitted. “I need your help picking the bridesmaids’ dresses . . . oh, and I sent you a few links and some flower selections. We’ve almost narrowed the colors down. We’re going with a traditional look for the men with black tuxedos and black ties, and Charlie will be in a black tuxedo with a white tie. I just have to decide if the bridesmaids will wear a light pink or a deep maroon. What do you think?”

  I pushed some loose strands of hair out of my face. “I don’t know. Aren’t they kind of the same color, just different shades?” Complete silence informed me my answer was not appreciated. Relenting, I tried to redeem myself. “Okay, that’s not true, sorry. Well, aren’t you going for a spring wedding? I guess I would go with the lighter dress because dark colors are usually more appropriate in the fall and winter.”

  “Thank you! Now that was good advice. Why couldn’t you just say that? You’re so sarcastic sometimes.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve never been married before, so I didn’t realize how important this was to you.”

  “Speaking of that—”

  “I’m not getting married right now, Alicia,” I answered, rather heatedly. The girls sitting next to me stopped laughing and looked at me with the same curiosity one would expect a botanist to have studying a rare plant. Their interest was short-lived, and they soon returned to their shenanigans. I felt my face flush and regretted the unnecessary outburst.

  “I wasn’t asking you to get married,” Alicia replied slowly, clearly trying to avoid another sore topic. “But you do need a date. Do you have one in mind?” Rick instantly flashed in my mind, but I quickly reminded myself he was a client and considered asking Jon as a friend. While I was pondering the situation, Alicia took my silence as a “no” and softly suggested, “Now, I don’t really care for him, but mom thinks you should ask Greg Bell.”

  “What? No! No, no, no. That will never happen.” The reason for my mother’s interest in Greg Bell was so blatant that I was almost embarrassed for her. I knew that neither of my parents approved of my decisions in life, and my mother clearly believed if “that old flame” with Greg was rekindled, I would be inclined to move back home where they could monitor me more closely.

  “Okay, well the wedding is still several months away so there’s time,” Alicia muttered. I felt like she was reminding herself of this more than me. “All right. So we’ll go with pink then. Disregard the email with the maroon dresses, and focus on the email with the light pink ones. I am leaning toward the third dress, so let me know what you think.”

  “Uh huh,” I mumbled, exiting the subway at Newton Center.

  “And now flowers,” she exclaimed excitedly. “I also sent two separate emails with flowers that I thought might go with the different color options. Now, the light pink roses are a must. They symbolize elegance. And white roses symbolize purity, so those would work, too.”

  “Oh absolutely,” I agreed, rolling my eyes.

  “Are you making fun of me?” she accused.

  “Oh no, Sis, never.”

  “Very nice, Jordan.”

  “Listen, I love helping you with this, but since I’m not even in the same time zone, why not have your other bridesmaids help a bit?”

  “Because you’re the maid of honor,” she insisted. “And you’re my sister. This is important.”

  “Okay, okay. I wasn’t saying I don’t want to help. I just thought it might be easier on you, that’s all.”

  “Well, that’s nice of you, but I still want your help.” I heard a beep. “Oh, Jordan, that’s the hospital. I need to go. Please check your email tonight and get back to me. Please?”

  “All right, I will.”

  “Thank you. Bye.”

  “Bye.” I put the phone in my coat pocket and enjoyed the first few moments of silence I had had all day. The sun had nearly set when I reached my building. Once inside my apartment, I threw my parka on a dining room chair and tossed my purse on the far end of the couch. I found my laptop charging on the side table and decided to check Alicia’s emails before I forgot and received another call from her. As soon as I opened my inbox, I realized that I had not checked my email for several days. There were alumni messages from Brown, a few forwards from various friends, eight clearly labeled messages from Alicia about the wedding, and finally, a message from an unknown address with a subject line that simply stated “Hey.”

  My curiosity was aroused, so I opened this message first, assuming it would be a spam email, which insidiously found its way through my spam guard. I was alarmed when I began reading the email and realized it was not spam, but a message from Greg Bell. In it, he apologized for how we ended our date. I didn’t realize it was a date, I thought dryly. He went on to tell me how he thought of me often and wished our relationship hadn’t ended as it did. He mentioned Alicia’s wedding and how he would be honored to take me. I almost gagged. Finally, he concluded with his phone number and asked that I call him soon.

  I considered several responses but, while all would provide momentary satisfaction, none would be appropriate, and all would most likely cause me grief later. My phone beeped about the same time that I decided to ignore his message, and instead, focus on my maid-of-honor duties for Alicia. Jon sent me a text reminding me to have a contract ready for Rick on Friday. I was almost grateful for him until I saw a second message that said
he expected me to pay him an assistant fee for services such as this message.

  I sighed and made a mental note to create a contract after I finished with Alicia’s assignment. By six-thirty, I had emailed Alicia my suggestions, successfully completed half of my Christmas shopping on-line, and created a contract for Rick’s case. Since I was completely oblivious as to what a legally binding private investigation contract should look like, I did what everyone in my generation does when such an incident occurs: I googled it. I found numerous websites from which I composed my contract including a very helpful one which told me everything I could ever possibly need to know about private investigation contracts. Unaware of how much to charge, I went by several other contracts I encountered and came up with what I believed was a reasonable rate.

  Although this task was not arduous, I was exhausted once I was done and, after eating a bowl of cereal for dinner, decided to go to bed. Little did I know the next day would be the first step on the path which would lead to my untimely demise.

  Chapter 18

  For once the meteorologists were correct in their prediction–Thursday was a beautiful day. The sky was a radiant azure with few clouds to block the sunshine. It almost looked like a spring day except for the thick patches of snow on the ground and the fact that it was thirty degrees outside. The beautiful weather brought out the best in people, and everyone I passed on my way to the library was smiling. Jon apparently did not spend enough time basking in that morning’s fantastic weather as he was in a foul mood when we met up.

  “Why are you so happy?” he grumbled when I met him inside. I rolled my eyes and took my scarf off.

  “It’s a beautiful day. Why would I not be in a good mood? Isn’t this building amazing?” I marveled, looking across the room. As I spoke, an elderly woman with ashen skin, silver hair, and a drab, high-collared dress approached us with several encyclopedias in her frail hands. She presented us with an expression I gathered would pass, in some countries, for a warm smile.

  “You know,” she began, “there are several branches of the Boston Public Library, but this one, the McKim Building, is one of the most famous ones. It was built in 1895, and it is one of the oldest library branches in the city. Personally, I find it to be quite an imposing sight architecturally. Did you know it favors the Renaissance Revival of the 19th century?”

  Her remarks were genuine, but Jon’s facial responses to her were memorable. As she clutched her books in earnest, Jon replied, “This is the research library, right?”

  Her rigid smile crashed to the marble floor. She stood up so stiffly I feared Death might be confused and tend to believe that rigor mortis had set in. With tight lips she replied, “Yes, it is.” She promptly turned on her heels and walked away.

  “You hurt her feelings,” I hissed curtly, genuinely sorry to have witnessed her dreams of imparting valuable information onto the next generation shattered.

  “She’s an imposing sight architecturally,” he muttered, shoving his hands deep in his jacket pockets and walking toward a sign marked Bates Hall. He turned back and glanced at her.

  “That’s so mean,” I countered, feeling my annoyance growing at his callousness. “She's very knowledgeable and passionate about her job. That’s a good thing, Jon.”

  “Of course she knows about this place. She was probably here when they broke ground in 1894,” he quipped. I let out a loud laugh which caused several patrons to glance in our direction and frown. Silently apologizing, I followed him down a long hallway. We spent about an hour perusing the newspaper archives from July of 1989. Since twenty years had passed since that time, the newspapers had been converted into microfilm.

  We scanned articles that ranged from national to international significance, such as a renewed question about the decision to legalize abortion and the Angolan government’s suspension of peace talks, to local matters, such as problems with the local university transit system and the increase in subway tolls. After searching through several different newspapers, we found the first mention of David Michaels’ accident on Sunday, July 16, 1989:

  TRAGIC ACCIDENT LEADS TO THREE FATALITIES

  BOSTON — A tragic automobile accident on I-93 resulted in three deaths last night. Mr. and Mrs. John Oberon of Medford struck the stalled vehicle of Mr. David Michaels of Winchester at approximately 3:30 a.m. Following the collision, the Oberons’ vehicle exploded, leaving Michaels and Mr. Oberon dead and Mrs. Oberon in critical condition. She died later as the paramedics tried to resuscitate her. It is believed that alcohol was not a factor in this accident.

  I re-read the article. It was apparent that this piece was added shortly before the newspaper was printed that morning because of its length and inaccuracies. I glanced at Jon. He was sitting with his arms crossed and his brow furrowed.

  “What is it?”

  “We’ve been looking at this tiny screen for an hour and this is all there was?" He whined. "I thought this was a big story! How is there a folk legend about four sentences?”

  “I doubt this is the only article about the case. This is probably just the first one written. Look at the date. This was the day after the accident.”

  Jon threw his hands up in exasperation. “What? Then why did we waste all that time looking at other stuff?”

  I slowly turned the knob on the machine and the page changed. “We weren’t wasting time,” I replied, scanning the page and turning the knob again. “We’ve been searching through four different newspapers. That’s bound to take a little time.”

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “My eyes hurt. The lighting in here sucks. Why couldn’t we have looked this up on-line?”

  I flipped through four pages quickly. “Because there is a fee to use those on-line services.”

  “So? Charge Rick.”

  “Look, if this is too difficult, you can go home," I snapped, unable to hide my irritation.

  He sat up straight and offered me an indignant look. I paused and studied a political cartoon ridiculing several gas companies. “Jon, your mom died when you were little, right?”

  His expression became stoic. “Yes, from cancer. Why?”

  “I’m really sorry to bring that up.” I twisted a strand of hair between my fingers nervously. “You know, my grandfather died when I was younger, too. It was some form of rare disease.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Jon replied blankly. “What is this about?”

  I pointed to the screen. “Well, obituaries.”

  “What about obituaries? Look, I’m not in the mood for games right now.”

  “I’m sorry,” I stared at the screen again. “How long . . . I mean, how much time would pass before someone’s obituary would be posted in the newspaper?”

  Jon whistled. “I don’t know. How would I know that?”

  “Excuse me, Miss?”

  Startled, I whirled around to face the baritone voice addressing me. It came from an African-American man in his mid-thirties, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a navy blue suit.

  “Yes?” I replied.

  The man was holding an attaché case and two books. “I couldn’t help overhearing your question, and if I may, I think I can answer it.”

  “Oh, yes, please.”

  He took a maple-wood chair from the microfilm station beside mine and sat down. “I’m Ronald Dawson.”

  “My name is Jordan James, and this is—”

  “Just Jon,” Jon interrupted. Ronald nodded.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you both. I’m a grad student at BU studying political science.”

  He paused as if waiting for me to reveal my occupation. Taking Jon’s lead, I decided to refrain from sharing too much information with a complete stranger. He cleared his throat and tapped lightly on the two books he held in his lap.

  “Anyway, my father died last month. Lun
g cancer.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He held up a hand. “It's all right. I’m not telling you this for sympathy. You wanted to know how long it takes for an obituary to be posted after someone has died, right?” I nodded. “Well, for my father, the obituary was in the papers the next week.”

  I smiled slightly. “Thank you very much. I really appreciate your help.”

  He nodded again and stood up. “That’s quite all right. Good luck with your research.” He walked across the room and paused. “My father’s death was obvious, so we had everything already prepared. It’s terrible to say, but we were, in a way, waiting for him to die. We didn’t want him to suffer any longer.” He looked at the books and tapped them again. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, whoever’s obituary you’re looking for—if his or her death was not natural—it might take longer for an obituary and a funeral because autopsies would have to be performed and investigations handled. Things like that take time. Just a thought.”

  I thanked him again before he left. Once he was gone and we were again alone in the room, Jon crossed his arms and shook his head. “That was weird.”

  “No, that was fortuitous.” I paused and looked at the screen again. “David Michaels was found murdered on Saturday, July 15, 1989. He had been shot, so it was obviously not a natural death. There was an autopsy and a police investigation.”

  “And they couldn’t find anything, and the case went cold,” Jon interrupted, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Despite that, it would have taken time for a funeral because they probably wouldn’t have released the body right away.” I pulled my phone out of my purse and, disregarding library regulations, I called Rick. I was just about to hang up when he answered.