Cold Ambition (Jordan James, PI)

by Rachel Sharpe

  “What harm is there in telling us?” Jon interjected. “Miss James is working for the Michaels family, so she could get it from them but then we would have to make another trip out here. Plus, what are the odds the address is still valid anyway?”

  Deke stared at the book momentarily. “She’s listed at 328 West 44th Street.”

  “That’s ten blocks from here!” Jon grumbled. He stood up and headed toward the door, crossing his arms in irritation. I stood up as well but paused.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Brookstone,” I offered, hoping to smooth over Jon’s rude behavior. “I have one other question if it isn’t too much trouble.”

  He eyed me warily. “What’s that?”

  “Do you recall the Michaels’ funeral or the memorial service?”

  Deke gripped the warped book and shook his head. “No, I’m sorry but I don’t. I was working here then. I was helping my father, but I don’t recall any particular funerals. They all seem to blend together after a while as callous as that sounds.”

  “No, I understand,” I nodded. “Thank you again.”

  I followed Jon through the door, down the hall, and out the building. The difference in temperatures resulted in an uncontrollable shiver down my spine. We walked nearly a block in silence before Jon paused and looked back, shaking his head.

  “That place was creepy. I don’t understand why Rick’s mom had his dad’s funeral there. I mean, they had, excuse me, they have money. That seems pretty cheap.” He glanced up at the street sign. “Okay, 44th Street should be this way.”

  We crossed the street and began heading south on 9th Avenue, joining a large crowd of well-insulated pedestrians and bicyclists. “Don’t be so judgmental. I’m sure his mother had a good reason for choosing that place. Maybe she wanted something discreet and out of the way because of how he died. Maybe there was a family connection. Maybe it was a lot nicer when the other Mr. Brookstone ran it twenty years ago,” I offered.

  “Or maybe she was cheap,” Jon repeated. We stopped suddenly when one of the bicyclists abruptly cut in front of us and sped across the street, missing the front bumper of a black and yellow taxicab by mere inches. The cabbie responded to the cyclist with both auditory and physical gestures that made me uneasy. Jon took my arm and forced his way through a crowd. After passing a wall-mounted ATM and crossing beneath the bright, turquoise awning for a fancy French restaurant, which boasted a doorman, we found ourselves walking beneath a large, metal scaffold, replete with disgruntled city workers.

  The row of trees that lined both sides of the street glimmered with snow, but they were otherwise lifeless. While Jon dragged me twelve blocks at breakneck speed, I focused my attention on not slipping on any patches of ice which were as ubiquitous here as the angry motorists. Through a set of outdoor speakers, Christmas music blared at the corner of 9th and West 47th, but even the jolliest of holiday melodies did not soothe several groups of irate holiday shoppers we masterfully dodged.

  We passed numerous restaurants, ranging from a burger joint to Middle Eastern cuisine. The delicious smells made me realize how hungry I was. I began to slow my pace which, in turn, forced Jon to slow down. He glanced at me, annoyed.

  “What? What is it?”

  I nodded toward the restaurants. “I’m starving.”

  He stopped walking and released my arm. At that moment, a jogger slammed into him and nearly spun him around completely. Jon let out a surprised yell, but the jogger, equipped with both earbuds and indifference, didn’t turn back to apologize. Jon smoothed his coat and adjusted his hat.

  “I hate New York,” he muttered before turning his attention back to me. “Listen, we’re literally a block away from 44th Street. You can’t wait until after we see this Estelle woman to eat?” He glanced at the restaurant names. “There isn’t even anything good here.”

  After a few minutes of persuasion during which time we were actually moving slowly to avoid being trampled by the sea of people, I agreed to wait until after we attempted to see Estelle Barnes before getting something to eat. This decision was easier to make than to stand by, as 44th Street was as replete with restaurants and commercial enterprises as 9th Avenue was. Finally, we stopped in front of a six-story, tan brick building with a rusty, iron fire escape affixed to the front of the structure.

  Unlike most of the buildings on this block, which appeared to be more commercial and, therefore, better kept, this edifice looked like it should have been condemned. I actually began to fear that it was, in fact, condemned until an older gentleman with snow-white hair and a corduroy jacket slowly and deliberately approached the steps carrying a brown paper bag with a loaf of bread protruding from the rim. He eyed us nervously.

  “Sir?”

  He fixed his eyes on me and clutched the bag tighter. “Yes?” he replied warily.

  “Does Estelle Barnes still live here?”

  As if I spoke some secret code, his eyes lit up, and a smile appeared on his face.

  “Estelle? Of course! Of course. Are you family?”

  I glanced at Jon. “Well, we have mutual friends.”

  He nodded jovially. “I see. Yes, Estelle lives here.” He lifted a sack of flour from the bag. “She had me pick this up for her knish. She doesn’t like going out in this weather. Terrible weather, really. I should have moved to Florida already, but what can I say? My kids are here, bless them, and my grandkids, too. I have five. Grandkids, I mean. I have two kids.”

  I nodded politely until a brisk gust of wind engulfed me, and I shivered thoroughly.

  “Oy, where are my manners? Come in, come in. It’s freezing out here.” He slowly walked up the icy steps and entered a four-digit key code on the keypad to the right of the door. A loud buzz informed us that he had entered the correct code, and he quickly pushed the door open. We followed him inside, and he shut it with a shiver. “Too cold,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  The inside of the building was dark and dated. The white squares on the checkered linoleum floor were a dark gray due to years of foot traffic. The evergreen wallpaper had lost its adhesive and hung off the walls in strips. The older gentleman slowly walked down the long hall, and we passed five sets of dark wooden doors numbered from 101 to 110. At the far end of the hall, there was an additional door on the right marked “Stairs” and an elevator on the left.

  “Which floor does Estelle live on?” I asked politely as we stopped in the middle of the hall between the two.

  “She’s in 402, across the hall from me,” he replied, walking toward the door to the stairs.

  “Don’t you want to use the elevator?” Jon interjected. The man looked back at Jon and laughed.

  “What’s wrong, boy? Your legs don’t work? Besides, that elevator hasn’t been serviced since Richard Nixon resigned, and I don’t plan to meet my Maker thanks to a freak elevator accident. But you’re welcome to try it.”

  I suppressed a smile and followed the man into the stairwell as did Jon but I thought I heard him muttering something about the man meeting his Maker sooner than he planned. After a silent climb, the man pushed open the door to the fourth floor. It creaked in protest. The noise alerted several tenants, and a few doors opened to see who had arrived. They were all elderly and smiled at the gentleman with the groceries but stared at Jon and me with growing suspicion.

  “Johnny! You actually went out in this weather? Oh, I opened the window a crack, and it almost did me in, by God. It’s too cold,” a woman with shoulder-length silver hair and cat glasses exclaimed.

  “It’s not so bad,” he replied, shrugging off her concern.

  “Did you remember my peaches?”

  He pulled a small can of peaches from the paper bag and handed it to her. She smiled so widely that the glasses made her face resemble an actual cat. She retrieved a little purple coin purse and counte
d out some change.

  “Thank you so much. Here’s two dollars and five cents.”

  He shook his head. “No, it cost two dollars and fifteen cents.”

  “Two dollars and fifteen cents? What? Are you charging me interest? It’s two dollars and five cents at Moynahan’s!”

  “I didn’t go to Moynahan’s. I went to Bodner’s.”

  “Bodner’s? That place is a rip-off I tell you, a true rip-off. I am not paying you an additional ten cents because you were too lazy to walk a few extra blocks.”

  The man nearly dropped his bag as he threw his hands up in exasperation. “A few blocks? A few? Edna, Moynahan’s is five blocks further. It’s freezing out there. That’s the last time I do you a favor.” He stormed away from her door, and she scrambled to pull something from her change purse. The next thing I knew, she threw a coin at him and slammed the door. It hit the back of his head before crashing to the floor and spinning several times before falling down flat. It was a dime. He whirled around in anger, and the other tenants quickly slammed their doors. He turned his attention to Jon as he slowly bent over to retrieve the dime.

  “Let me give you a little piece of advice: never try to help a woman. It’s not worth it. Don’t get involved at all.” He glanced at me. “I guess it’s too late for you, though.”

  “Oh no, it’s not like that at all,” I interjected. He raised his hand and pointed to me with a sad smile.

  “See what I mean? Not worth it at all.” He gripped the bag tightly with his left hand and dug in his pants pocket to retrieve a small key chain.

  “What about Mrs. Barnes’ knish?” I reminded him nervously. He stopped with the key halfway in the lock.

  “Right,” he muttered and turned around to face #402. He knocked lightly, and after a few moments, the door opened slowly. A small woman with deep wrinkles and deep, brown eyes stared at us from the other side. She was barely five feet tall and hunched over from the pains associated with age. She wore a light-pink dress and tan flats.

  “Hello, Johnny,” she greeted him quietly. “Who are your friends?”

  Johnny eyeballed us. “I thought these were your friends.”

  She squinted at us and shook her head. Realizing a bad situation was rapidly arising, I blurted out, “I’m here for Rick Michaels.”

  “Rick Michaels,” she repeated slowly. A smile appeared on her face, and she looked at Jon. “Ricky? Ricky is that you?”

  Jon stared at her but didn’t respond. She took his silence as an affirmation and embraced him. He glanced at me in surprise, but Estelle’s warm greeting caught us both off-guard. Johnny's concern dissipated, and I saw him exhale and wipe some perspiration from his brow. He cleared his throat. “I have your flour,” he reminded her. She nodded and walked over to a small end table beneath a mirror in her tiny foyer. From inside a drawer, she retrieved a black leather purse.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  Johnny rubbed his chin and replied, “Two dollars and sixteen cents.” He closed his eyes and appeared to be preparing for another financial argument. He opened one eye and realized she was not arguing but quietly counting her change. She handed him some coins, and he gave her the bag of flour.

  “That’s two dollars and twenty-five cents,” she stated.

  He put the money in his pocket and pulled out some nickels and pennies, shifting the bag with difficulty in an attempt to give her some change in return. She shook her head.

  “Johnny, don’t worry about it. It’s only a few cents. I cannot begin to thank you enough for getting my flour. If I went out in this weather, my arthritis would become so inflamed I wouldn’t even be able to make it down to the ground floor. Please come by later for a piece of knish. And thank you for bringing my friends in as well.”

  Johnny held his paper bag in one hand and Estelle’s change in the other, clearly wanting to repay her. Instead, he simply smiled, nodded, and walked across the hall to his own door. Estelle turned back to Jon and me and put her tiny arms around Jon.

  “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown!” she exclaimed. “Please, please come inside. We have so much catching up to do.”

  Chapter 20

  Estelle Barnes was disappointed when I explained to her that Jon was not Rick Michaels, but she remained hospitable.

  “Would you like some hot chocolate?” she offered, walking slowly through the living room and into a small kitchen.

  “Sure, that would be nice,” I replied, thankful she didn’t catch Jon’s contemptuous look.

  “I must say, hearing Ricky’s name certainly took me back,” she called. “I haven’t heard that name in twenty years.” She sighed loudly. “That poor family. I’ve thought of them often. What happened to Mr. Michaels . . .” She choked up, and I saw a tear run down her cheek as she carried an orange tray with three mugs into the room and placed it on the coffee table in front of us. I gratefully picked up a mug and took a sip. Jon was leaning on his elbow against the couch and frowned at the mugs. When Estelle walked around the table and grabbed a large, leather-bound photo album off a small, wooden bookcase, she had her back turned, and I took the opportunity to kick Jon’s leg. He sat up straight and grudgingly grabbed a mug.

  Estelle walked over to an orange chair and carefully sat down. I put my mug down and Jon did, too, almost too eagerly.

  “Estelle, how long did you work for David?”

  “Let’s see,” she replied. “Hepstadt & Lower hired me in 1974 as a receptionist. The company was much smaller back then. I think I was their first receptionist.”

  “So you didn’t immediately work for David?”

  She shook her head, still clutching the album. “No, I worked as a receptionist for almost a year before he was hired and I was reassigned.”

  “Wait, you said you were hired in 1974?”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  “But the company was created in 1975.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “I was working there in 1974. I remember the other girls and I were on our lunch break when the news broke that Nixon had resigned. That was quite a scandal.” She stared at me and blushed. “I’m sorry. When I say scandal, I’m referring to the Watergate scandal during which the Democratic National Committee headquarters was broken into in 1972. That scandal later led to President Nixon’s resignation.”

  I suppressed a smile. “Yes, ma’am. I know about the Watergate scandal. I was surprised because Hepstadt & Lower claim they began in 1975, and what you’re telling us contradicts that.”

  “Well, they’re mistaken. Mr. McCready hired me personally. I was working with him for Daniels & Aldridge when he left and decided to open his own company. He knew I was a hard worker and asked if I would like to try a new career. He had always been a nice man and offered me a pay increase, so I agreed.”

  “So you always worked as a receptionist?”

  “I was a receptionist at my previous job and, initially, yes, I was a receptionist at Hepstadt, too. But then I was promoted to secretary when they hired Mr. Michaels as an assistant accountant. Quite frankly, I was nervous because I had never been a secretary. Receptionists mainly answer phones and questions. Secretaries are responsible for a great deal of information. A secretary has to keep her boss’s career in order, but Mr. Michaels was so easy to work with. He quickly eased my concerns.”

  I waited patiently as she reminisced fondly about her former boss and his family. I noticed that Jon’s interest in this conversation had ended the moment we walked in the door. I politely picked up the hot chocolate and took another sip. As it was now tepid, I placed it down on the tray again.

  “So why didn’t you continue on as his secretary once he became CFO?”

  A deep frown exposed numerous unseen wrinkles as she recalled the bitter event. “I worked with Mr. Michaels from the time o
f his hire in 1975 until 1985. I think we made a good team. But,” she sighed deeply, “after the incident that led to him becoming CFO, the company felt it would be better if Mr. Michaels worked with the secretary who worked for the previous CFO and who knew the job.”

  “And who was that?”

  She picked up her cup of hot chocolate and took a sip. As she stared off into space, her frown deepened even more as she replied, “Janine Posey.”

  The name immediately brought to my recollection the steely-eyed blonde and my first pathetic attempt to speak with Hepstadt & Lower’s CEO. “Janine Posey?” I repeated, glancing at Jon. His expression verified that he recalled the name. “As in Gavin McCready’s executive assistant?”

  Estelle’s expression swiftly changed from surprise to disgust. “Yes, that would make sense, her working for him.”

  I glanced at Jon again. His interest in Ms. Barnes was increasing. “Why would that make sense?”

  She shrugged and took another sip of hot chocolate. “Sometimes you can just tell where something is going. Although why he hired a Communist floozy in the first place . . .” Her eyes lit up, and her face grew flush. “Oh, my. I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

  “Why did you call her a Communist?” Jon asked. This was the first time he had spoken since entering her apartment, and his inquiry took us both by surprise. Estelle glanced at him, and her face turned crimson.

  “That was wrong of me,” she insisted. “Just because she came from Russia doesn’t mean she was a Communist.”

  “When was she hired?”

  Estelle adjusted her dress and grabbed a shawl which was draped across her chair. Covering herself, she smiled at us. “Would you like some more hot chocolate?”