Cold Ambition (Jordan James, PI)
Page 23
“No, the client,” I replied sheepishly.
“Wait. Your client is driving you to New York to solve his own case? He’s not a psycho, is he? Where’s your assistant, Don?”
“Jon.”
“Whatever. His name's irrelevant if he isn’t helping you.”
“That’s not fair,” I protested. “He spent the entire day with me in New York yesterday.”
“Hold on, what? If you were there yesterday, why are you going back? Jordan, you’re killing me. What’s going on?”
I looked up at the gas station’s blue-and-yellow-colored mini-mart sign and saw Rick heading back toward the car with a plastic bag in his hand. “Listen, Rick’s on his way back so I have to go.”
“I’m not gonna see your face on the evening news along with a report that you were found floating in the East River, am I?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not laughing,” she replied curtly.
I took two deep breaths. “I didn’t call about work. I called about the engagement party,” I replied hastily.
“What?” I could tell from her tone that she was both annoyed and losing interest in our conversation.
“My mom invited Greg as my date,” I continued through gritted teeth.
“Again, guy drama.”
“I can’t talk right now, but I need help with this, Heather. I can’t stand that guy, and I don’t want to deal with him anymore. I thought I was through with this. Will you help me?”
After a few moments of silence, she muttered, “You know I’ll help you. Call me later.”
“Thanks, Heather. You’re the best.”
“I know. But if I don’t hear from you this evening, I’m calling your mother. No, make that your sister. Alicia is turning into a bona fide bridezilla, and if she thinks her maid of honor is missing, she’ll fly to New York to find you herself.”
“I doubt she’d waste money on airfare,” I scoffed.
“I never said she needed a plane to fly.”
I grinned. “Nice one.” Rick manually unlocked the driver’s door. “Gotta go. I’ll call you.”
“You better.” I ended the call and hastily shoved the phone back in my pocket. Rick climbed into the car and closed the door before he started the engine again.
“Wow! It’s colder in here than I thought,” he marveled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know or I would have left the car running. I just didn’t want to wake you.”
I rubbed my neck, vainly attempting to massage the crick away. “That’s okay. It isn’t that cold. How long was I out?”
He adjusted the temperature to the warmest setting. “Not long at all.”
I looked through the window. The sun was out and miraculously appeared to be melting some of the snow that had accumulated in random piles around the gas station’s parking lot. I turned back to him with a dubious expression. “Really? Where are we then?”
He blushed briefly, but it was quickly replaced with a toothy grin. “Bridgeport.”
My mouth dropped open in horror as soon as I was geographically centered. “Bridgeport? As in Connecticut? I almost slept through the entire drive! I am so sorry . . .”
“Why? You needed to sleep. You had an incredibly long day yesterday and didn’t get much rest last night. It’s fine. The drive has been relatively smooth so far, and I’ve only had to stop for gas twice.”
I pulled my wallet from my purse. “How much was gas? You have to let me pay for it.”
He shook his head obstinately. He was still grinning. “No, I don’t.” He reached into the white, plastic bag he had been carrying and pulled out two soda bottles and one cellophane-wrapped breakfast bar. He held out a soda bottle toward me. “Want one? I noticed your granola bar and thought you’d like something to drink with your breakfast. I was going to get you coffee, but they didn’t have any Dunkin’.”
I cringed inwardly at the thought of drinking soda in the morning but was genuinely touched by his kind gesture. I graciously accepted the soda, opened the bottle, and took a sip. He smiled in response and removed his breakfast bar from its wrapper. I reached in my purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and thrust it in his direction. He took a bite and chewed slowly, staring from the money to me and back before swallowing.
“What’s that for?”
“The drink, the gasoline, the ride,” I motioned around the car in exasperation. “I feel like I’m the client here! I probably owe you more money than you owe me!”
Rick was silent for a few moments. “You have no idea how much what you’re doing means to me,” he finally said. “I didn’t lose my dad when I was little–he was taken from me. That time was stolen from me. And the police—” he hesitated. “I know they tried their best, but without technology, without solid evidence, the case went cold. In less than a month, you’ve moved this case further along than they did in twenty years. I have faith in you. I know you can do this. And I just want to be there to help when I can. For my dad.”
I was stunned. Rick’s faith in my abilities was even greater than Jon’s. My parents believed I was wasting my time. I had my own doubts, but there were two people who barely knew me who believed in me wholeheartedly and without reserve. It was both a refreshing and a humbling feeling. I smiled in appreciation and attempted once again to give him the money, but his attention was now elsewhere.
“No, I’m not taking that,” he replied absently, buckling his seatbelt and putting the car into drive. While his attention was occupied with getting back on the road, I surreptitiously stuck the bill in his glove compartment. As childish as the act was, it made me feel a little better. I stretched and yawned slightly, watching the road as he increased his speed and merged onto I-95 South. I was anxious about returning to New York, but it was a positive, motivated anxiety. I knew we were going to find something and that it was going to provide me, finally, with some solid, indisputable evidence for this case. I had no idea what we would actually learn on that trip and how gravely it would affect our lives. If I had, I would have told Rick to turn around, to head back to Boston, and to never look back.
Chapter 23
“Welcome to Brooklyn.”
After making the remainder of the drive in silence, relief washed over me when Rick’s car finally passed beneath that green and white sign. I took in the scenery as he drove. I had never made it out to Brooklyn during my previous excursions to the city, so this was unfamiliar terrain. Rick, however, appeared at ease with navigating the streets, each block holding more buildings than the last. I was surprised when he slowed down near a six-story parking garage on Church Avenue.
It was a faded concrete structure located between two, brownstone apartment buildings. I was astounded when he turned into the concrete cavern. He glanced at me, amused by my expression. As soon as he entered the garage, a short, leathery man walked up to the car. The man looked emaciated. His jet-black hair and mustache were both slicked down. He stared at the car as he came closer, slowly studying the body from hood to trunk.
“Rick, I don’t know about this.”
Rick held up a hand and gave me a reassuring smile. He rolled down the driver’s side window, and the attendant leaned into the car. Within moments, the entire vehicle reeked of tobacco. He scratched his rough jaw and leered at me. I felt a chill run down my spine, and I looked away.
“Nice ride, man.”
Rick nodded. “Thanks. Do you have any spaces?”
The attendant nodded and pointed at the yellow, mechanical arm approximately twenty feet in front of the car. To the left of the arm was a four-foot tall, silver metal box with a parking ticket sticking out in the center.
“Yeah, man. Just take the ticket. We have some open spaces on level four. Follow the arrows on the ground, man.”
Rick thanked him. The attendant winked at
me again, and backed away from the car. Rick slowly pulled the car forward and was about to reach for the ticket when he hesitated. He leaned out the window and called to the man. He slowly ambled toward the car.
“Yeah, man?”
“Are there any First Town Banks around here?”
The attendant pulled a cigarette from a pack in his pocket and lit it. He puffed thoughtfully before replying, “Yeah, there are three around here.”
“How far?”
The man took another drag and blew it out. With the assistance of the wind, some of the smoke found its way into the car. I coughed and turned away, grabbing the soda. When I looked back, he was grinning at me, apparently amused. When he looked back at Rick, his smile vanished.
“Well, let’s see. There’s a branch in Queens. There’s one near Forest Park . . . hmm . . . and there’s one near Sunset Park.”
Rick’s eyes widened. “Wait, did you say Sunset Park?”
The attendant blew out some smoke. “Yeah.”
Rick’s hand tightened on the steering wheel. “How far is Sunset Park from here?”
The man dropped the cigarette on the ground and smashed it. He then pointed down the road. He gave Rick vague directions from where we were on Church Avenue to Sunset Park on 7th. When he finished speaking, he rubbed his nose and crossed his arms, shaking his left leg lightly. Rick pulled a twenty from his pocket. He handed it to the attendant and thanked him again. The attendant nodded and backed away from the car. I was thrilled that we were not parking in that garage. I waited until the car was safely two blocks away before I spoke.
“Why'd you decide on the bank near Sunset Park?”
Without taking his eyes off the road, Rick removed his worn, brown-leather wallet from his back pocket. He flipped it open and handed it to me. Inside, among credit cards, business cards, and his license, I saw a small photo. As I removed it from the wallet, I realized it was not a standard, wallet-sized photo. Someone had cut one small enough to fit in the wallet.
It was a picture of David Michaels wearing a gray NYU sweatshirt and blue jeans. He had a big grin on his face and in his arms was a small boy. David was holding the boy upside down on a grassy knoll near a tennis court. The boy was laughing, his mop of brown hair hanging as he stared at the camera upside down. Despite the age of the photo, I recognized the eyes instantly. The happy, laughing boy was Rick. In that photo was an immeasurable amount of love and happiness. I found myself smiling as I stared at Rick as a young child, so carefree and comfortable with his dad. I turned the photo over to see that someone had written “Sunset, September 1988.”
“So the picture was taken at Sunset Park?” I deduced, handing him the wallet once the photo was securely back inside. He nodded, turning right on 36th Street.
We found ourselves on yet another street filled with brownstones and parked cars covered in snow. We drove in silence the rest of the way. Less than ten minutes later, he turned on 7th Avenue, and within moments, there was a refreshing break from the monotony.
On my right was a park which was about three blocks wide. A row of oak trees, leafless and still from a hard winter, lined the perimeter of the park. They would offer protection and privacy during the warmer months from the bustling city. There were a few people walking around the park. As we drove by, we both looked out my side window. I glanced at him but was unable to read his expression. After a few moments, he shook his head slightly as if awakening from a dream and turned his attention back to the road.
“Keep an eye out for a First Town Bank,” he instructed. “It could be on this side of the park or one of the others.”
I nodded, took one last look at the park, and then turned my attention to the buildings nearby. I spotted the First Town Bank on 5th Avenue. We were actually able to park along the street, only two blocks from the bank, which completely surprised me. I zipped up my parka and grabbed my purse, checking to make sure I had the key with me. This bank did not match my usual image of a bank. It appeared to have been set up in a building that had once been a fast-food restaurant. Although there were no fryers or plastic-upholstered booths, the layout of the building gave me that impression. We were greeted with warm, stuffy air as soon as we entered. From the ceiling tiles hung advertising signs recommending checking, savings, and student bank accounts. Near the front windows was a six-foot-tall artificial Christmas tree adorned with red, green and gold plastic ornaments, and at the plastic base was a stack of pre-wrapped boxes, most likely empty. Very few people were at the bank when we arrived that Saturday morning, and when the door chimed, announcing our arrival, the two young tellers looked up from their stations.
“Can I help you?” they exclaimed in unison. I looked at Rick and he nodded at me. I stepped forward, addressing the female teller closest to the door.
“Hello, I need to check a safety deposit box.”
The young woman’s face fell. She sighed and told me a manager would be right with me before walking down a short hallway to a small, glass-enclosed office on the left of the building. The other teller, a man in his early twenties, ran his hand through his disheveled blond hair and informed us that we could have a seat in the chairs across from the Christmas tree. I followed Rick as we made our way to the blue plastic chairs. Within moments, an attractive, middle-aged Asian woman crossed the room and approached us. She offered a warm smile and held out her hand as I stood up.
“Hello, my name is Kim Jones. I heard you need to see a safety deposit box?”
“Yes, we need to see box 805.”
I don’t know if there was a guilty expression plastered across my face or if it was because of my silent exchange with Rick, but the manager suddenly had a scowl on her face.
“You can verify that this is your box, correct?” she inquired, staring at me before turning her attention to Rick. “We have to be very careful. Our number one priority is the safety and privacy of First Town customers.”
Before I had a chance to reply, Rick whipped out his wallet and produced his driver’s license. “My name is Rick Michaels, and box 805 is the safety deposit box of my father, David Michaels. He was murdered twenty years ago, and that’s why no one has been here to check on it.” He looked at me briefly, “My girlfriend and I recently found this key and discovered this box. I want to know what is inside and take its contents home to my mother.”
Kim’s expression softened slightly, but I could still tell she was moderately suspicious. Nonetheless, she obligingly led us past the tellers and down the hall to her office. She motioned for us to take a seat in the wooden chairs across from her. We did so and waited as she typed her username and password into the computer to unlock the workstation. Once unlocked, she opened a browser and typed the box number in.
“I’m very sorry Mr. Michaels, but this box was not rented by a Mr. David Michaels.”
My heart dropped momentarily, and my own feelings of frustration and disappointment were clearly mirrored on Rick’s face. Suddenly, a thought occurred to me. As soon as the idea crossed my mind, I turned and faced Rick.
“What’s your mother’s maiden name?” I asked hastily. Rick’s sullen expression turned into a quizzical one.
“Uh, Martin. Why?”
I turned my attention back to Kim. “Is that box registered to a Martin?”
Kim looked at me with both suspicion and intrigue. “Miss, this is not how we do business at First Town. I’m not going to play twenty questions.”
“It is registered to a Martin, isn’t it?” I exclaimed excitedly. She rested her cheek on her hand. I was clearly losing her. I stared at Rick again, determined to figure this out before we were escorted off the premise. “Out of all the First Town Banks, you knew your dad would pick this one because it was significant, right?” Rick nodded slowly, trying to follow my apparently erratic thought process. “Why was this area important?”
I nodded, trying to get into the mind of David Michaels. He clearly felt that whatever he had deposited here was crucial, and he didn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands. To accomplish this, he didn’t rent a box in Manhattan, which would be both logical and close, but one in his old neighborhood, out of the way in Brooklyn. To further protect his secret, he purchased the box under an assumed name that had family significance instead of using his own name. In the 1980s, banks probably didn’t require identification when someone opened a safety deposit box, so David could have used an alias without being challenged. The remaining question was, what name did he use?
“Is the box registered to Richard Martin?”
Kim’s mouth was tightly clamped, and the remnants of her patience with us appeared to be slipping away at a rapid speed. I searched the room, frantically thinking and grasping at a name David may have given. I felt desperate, not only concerned about failing my first case and possibly failing at this profession, but also at the thought of failing Jon, and especially, Rick. Turning my attention back to Rick, I blurted, “What’s your middle name?”
“Wesley.”
“Was that box purchased by a Wesley Martin?” I asked, staring intently at Kim. She glanced at the screen, clearly weighing her options before answering me. After a few moments of silence I persisted. “Was it?”
Kim tapped her long, pale-pink fingernails on her narrow oak desk, one nail at a time. It was a maddening sound. Finally, she replied, “Listen, I don’t know what your little game is. If this box is registered to a Wesley Martin, how can you prove you are authorized to search it? I don’t care that you have a key. That’s easy enough to steal.”