Cold Ambition (Jordan James, PI)

by Rachel Sharpe

  Rick narrowed his eyes and stared past Kim for a moment. Turning his attention back to her, he inquired, “Is anyone other than Wesley Martin authorized to check the box?”

  Kim raised her left eyebrow in response and stared at him before pointedly hitting each key on the keyboard as she searched the record. “Yes. There are two others authorized to view this box.”

  Rick nodded, a slight smile creeping across his face. “Are they Audrey and David Michaels?”

  After a pause, she muttered, “Yes.”

  Rick ran his fingers through his hair and leaned forward in his seat. “Ma’am, I know this bank is only open for another hour and a half today, but this is very important to us.” He pulled out his wallet and placed it on the desk. Removing his license, he handed it to her. “My name is Richard Michaels. David and Audrey Michaels are my parents. As you can see by my license, my middle name is Wesley. I have the key to that box. It is the original key, not a copy. We came all the way from Boston to get this box. Now, we’ll wait here as long as necessary so that you can check on me and check out my parents and whatever else you need to do. But I implore you, please let us see that box. It’s very important. Please.”

  Kim seemed to have not listened to Rick’s speech. Instead, her eyes were focused on the picture of Rick and his dad at Sunset Park. She reached across her desk and pointed to it. “May I?” Rick handed her the photo. She stared at it carefully. “I’ve seen this man,” she finally said. “I’m not good with names, but I remember faces. I do remember seeing him here.”

  Forgetting how this statement was beneficial to our case, I marveled, “How can you be sure?”

  Kim glanced up at me. “Because he rented a box from me the first week I was hired by First Town Bank.”

  Rick and I stared at each other, baffled. “When was that?”

  Without missing a beat, she replied, “In April of 1989.”

  Chapter 24

  I was still in a state of shock. As we followed Kim Jones out of her office and down a hidden corridor, which led to the bank’s vault, she discussed how David Michaels had come into that branch during the first week she was hired. He asked to rent a safety deposit box and open an interest-bearing account to automatically withdraw payments for said box, a procedure which she had not yet been trained to do. He was nice but appeared anxious during their transaction. His behavior concerned her because there had been a series of bank robberies in Brooklyn that spring, one of which led to a teller being murdered. She made a point of studying David’s features carefully as she opened the safety deposit box for him.

  Kim’s heels echoed on the tile floor as we followed her. When we reached the giant circular steel door, she typed a ten-digit code into the keypad on the wall to the left of the door before extracting a keychain from her blue blazer and manually unlocking it. When the door was open, she then had to unlock the cell door manually, blocking any prospective thieves if they actually managed to circumvent the electronic deterrent. As we entered the vault, I understood why the bank appeared so small when viewed from the outside; most of the space was dedicated to its vault.

  There was a central room filled with a table and boxes along the walls and two adjoining private viewing rooms. I surmised there were approximately one thousand boxes, ranging from small to large. Kim walked to the left wall, which held the smaller boxes. She stopped in front of David’s box and turned to us.

  “The key?”

  I extracted the key from my purse. She nodded and, using her key ring, unlocked the outer box for 805. She carried the shiny, oblong container to the center of the room and placed it on the table. It made contact with the table and clanged, a sound that echoed throughout the vault. She then walked back toward the entrance. Turning on her heels, she explained, “I’ll be out here. Take your time.”

  I turned to Rick, my heart suddenly racing. I could tell by his expression that his own anxiety and anticipation far outweighed my own. While this case had been the focus of my life for the past few weeks, Rick’s father’s death had impacted his entire life and the decisions he had made in life up to this point and possibly every decision from this day forward as well. I swallowed hard. The horrific thought occurred to me that the answer to this case might not be in this box.

  What if David’s will is in this box? I worried. Maybe this is a dead end. What I am supposed to do if this turns out to be nothing? I didn’t have long to ponder any more scenarios before Rick’s voice broke into my thoughts.

  “Are we gonna open it?”

  I offered him the key, but he held his hands up and shook his head.

  “No, you do it,” he suggested. Taking a deep breath, I turned my attention back to the box. The lock was located on the front side of the box in the center. A handle was attached to the same side, slightly above the lock. I turned the key over in my hand, chewing my lip. Finally, I took another deep breath and stuck the key inside the lock. It turned easily, as if it had been used only yesterday instead of twenty years earlier. Once unlocked, I lifted the box lid. Rick and I both leaned in to study the box’s contents.

  While I was initially expecting there to be files and briefs and stacks of evidence that would shed light on the reason for David Michaels’ murder, I was instead greeted with two items: a video cassette and a floppy disc. Although it was not what I expected, both items offered numerous possibilities since they had the ability to store a great deal of information. Rick picked up the videocassette tape and turned it over in his hands.

  “A VCR tape? What do you suppose this is for?” he wondered aloud. I picked up the floppy disc and frowned. While Rick was curious about the tape, my interest in the disc deepened.

  “Where am I supposed to find a computer that might be able to upload this information?”

  “Well, my mom still has my dad’s computer in storage,” Rick offered. “Maybe it still works.”

  I carefully put the disc in my purse and glanced at the tape. “She doesn’t happen to have a VCR, too, does she?”

  Rick smiled but shook his head. “No, she really doesn’t watch television. She prefers to read,” he added. Suddenly, his eyes lit up. “But I might know someone who has one that’s a lot closer than Winchester.”

  When we left First Town Bank in Brooklyn, Rick gave me no indication as to where we were going. When we parked the car in a garage and hopped on the F train, I realized we were headed to Manhattan. We rode in silence, each of us lost in his own thoughts. Although New York’s subway system was not all that different from Boston’s, it felt foreign, and I was uncomfortable during the ride. Rick must have picked up on my uneasiness because he sat close by the entire time.

  When the car stopped at 23rd Street and a group of monks wearing basic gray cloaks and sporting eight-inch long beards boarded, Rick glanced at me, turning the cassette tape over in his hands.

  “Uh, listen . . . at the bank, when I referred to you as my girlfriend, I hope I didn’t offend you. I know it was unprofessional, but I didn’t think that that manager would have talked to us if she had known what we were up to.” Rick’s mention of the term made me blush, and I tried not to make eye contact with him.

  “It's all right, really,” I blurted out. I paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “I believe you read her correctly. She was hesitant enough about letting us into the vault. I can't believe we were able to convince her to allow us to leave with the contents.”

  Rick grinned. “Well, it’s not like we made off with stocks and bonds, or even jewels. An unmarked video tape and a floppy disc look pretty tame.”

  I nodded in agreement. “But what’s on them may be more valuable than any bond,” I replied. Rick’s smile faded as he considered the implication of my statement. Moments later, the train pulled to a stop.

  “57th Street. This is us,” he declared. We walked down 8th Avenue until we r
eached West 61st Street. Despite the cold, there were a lot of people in Central Park. The few times I had visited New York were during the warmer months, and I had never seen Central Park in the winter. It was breathtaking. Nestled among great buildings in the city that never sleeps is a beautiful, massive park. No matter what time of year it is, there is always something going on there. As we approached an apartment building complete with a well-dressed doorman, we passed a little girl, probably five years old, with her mother. The girl wore a navy-blue wool coat and skirt, white tights and a blue and red hat. Her golden curls formed perfect ringlets and she excitedly gripped a small pair of ice skates as her mother led her to the park.

  I followed Rick inside the building as the doorman nodded politely to us. Rick walked through the massive lobby toward a wall of elevators. We boarded the last elevator on the left, and Rick pushed the button for the twelfth floor. Without a sound, the elevator began to rise. It beeped when we reached twelve, and Rick walked off with a confidence that led me to believe he had been a frequent visitor here. We stopped in front of a door marked 1203. He knocked on the door and took a step back. Slightly unnerved by my lack of control over this situation, I instinctively moved closer to Rick. When the door opened, I was astounded.

  Before us stood Ace Larkin, lead singer of the rock band Tarnished. Ace was a British rocker in his early forties with long, flowing brown hair and soulful, brown eyes. Although the group hit its peak in the late nineties, they still had a solid following. Most of the band’s publicity of late was the result of Ace’s drunken or drug-induced outbursts. In essence, watching Ace was like watching a train wreck in progress. He leaned against the doorframe, undoubtedly for support, and peered at us. Rick was unmoved by the man before him and waited patiently while Ace attempted to regain his bearings.

  “Uh.” That was all he managed to utter after two minutes in the doorway. Rick pointed to himself.

  “Ace, it’s me. Rick. Rick Michaels.”

  “Rick,” Ace repeated slowly, his red eyes vainly attempting to focus us. Finally, thanks to some kind of cognitive miracle, he made the connection. “Rick! Right. Hey brother, what’s up?”

  “Yeah, hi. Ace, do you have a VCR?” Rick spoke slowly, holding up the videotape.

  “VCR?” Ace repeated. I felt like I was watching Koko the gorilla when she was first learning sign language.

  “What’s wrong with this guy?” I whispered.

  Rick's jaw tightened. “He’s high again.” Rick reached back and offered me his left hand. Still baffled by the situation, I accepted it. He pulled me closer and put his right hand on Ace’s shoulder. “Come on, man. Let’s go inside, okay?”

  Ace half nodded and led us into an apartment that made my parents’ house look like a two-bit shack. It was richly decorated in black, white, and cream. The furniture and the framed artwork suggested a stately but sterile showroom rather than a warm home. While the apartment seemed too perfect to live in, it was obviously the work of a great interior designer and not an aging rocker. The massive living room had sixteen-foot ceilings, and the wall opposite the foyer was completely glass. It provided a magnificent view of Central Park. As we stood in the apartment, I made the connection between Rick, the apartment, and the stoned rock star.

  “Rick, is this—?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered as he helped Ace sit on one of the black suede couches. “This is my parents’ apartment.”

  I followed him into a large kitchen complete with a Wolf-brand oven while he searched the fridge for something other than beer and cheese. He poured Ace a glass of water and fixed him some toast, the only food Ace apparently kept in stock, and he told me about the apartment.

  “My parents never actually sold this place,” he began. “My mom wasn’t sure if my dad was planning to move back here or not because he had only rented it out. Ace rented this place from my mom back in the early nineties, right after Tarnished signed a record deal in the states. Ace wanted a place in the city for when he was in town on business, I guess. He’s got a place in L.A. and one in London, but he mostly stays here.”

  “When you first told me about the apartment, you implied they sold it,” I reminded him. Rick flushed. He turned away and busied himself by finishing the grilled cheese sandwich for Ace.

  “I know. I’m sorry,” he replied. “I made the mistake once of telling a girl about him, and I quickly discovered her only interest in me was the connection to Ace.”

  I walked toward the living room and peered in. Ace was lying on the couch, snoring loudly with his tongue hanging out. I rolled my eyes. “Oh yes. He’s such a catch.”

  Rick laughed as he walked past me with the sandwich and water. He put the food on the glass coffee table and shook Ace slightly. Ace offered one loud snore before his eyes flew open.

  “What?”

  “It’s Rick.”

  “Oh, hey brother. What’s up?”

  This guy is quite garrulous, I mused. I watched from the kitchen as Rick helped him sit up and gave him the sandwich and water. Once Ace was eating, Rick told him we needed to use his media room.

  “Okay,” Ace mumbled between bites. Rick motioned for me to follow him, and as I walked past Ace, he looked at me as if it were the first time he had ever seen me. He eyed me with a curious interest that made me incredibly uncomfortable. He swallowed a mouthful. “Hello, Love. Where'd you come from?”

  Before I could answer, Rick had me across the room and was gently leading me toward a long hallway. “Ace, cool it,” he warned as we walked away. While most apartments have relatively short hallways that might lead to two or three moderately sized rooms, this hallway was unusually long and led to five rooms: two on each side and one at the end of the hall. The walls held numerous framed photos of Ace, the rest of his band, and other celebrities. Rick walked to the second door on the right and opened it. He turned on the light and looked around before going into the room.

  “Were you expecting someone?”

  “To be honest, you never know who might be over here,” he muttered gravely. He carried the tape over to a large, black cabinet beside a seventy-two-inch LED flat-screen television. The cabinet contained everything from a BETA to a Blu-ray player. I walked to the opposite side of the room and sat down on the oversized, black leather couch. Beside the couch I noticed three guitars—a red Fender Strat, an acoustic Martin, and a teal Les Paul. While Rick set up the system, I continued to look around the room. When Rick referred to this as a media room, he wasn’t kidding. The room itself was the size of my apartment’s living room and dining room combined. In the far right corner of the room was a large array of studio-quality sound equipment. Above a soundboard I counted three platinum records and I saw two Grammys on a shelf beside it.

  “Does he record anything here?”

  Rick grabbed one of several remotes and took a step back, turning on the television. “Sometimes, but not often. The acoustics in here aren’t that good. He’s composed several songs in here, though. I know that “Midnight on the Line” was composed here.”

  “Really? He wrote that in this room?”

  Rick nodded absently while he pushed a few buttons and changed the input. “Yeah. Ace is really talented when he’s sober.”

  “I get the feeling you two are close?”

  Rick's dark brow furrowed and shook his head slightly. “‘Were’ is a better word for it. Ace is a great guy, but when Tarnished went platinum, he started getting into some really bad stuff. I check on the apartment for my mother from time to time, but it’s also to check on Ace. I wish he would quit partying so hard. Okay, I think I’ve got it now.”

  Rick placed the videotape in the VCR and pressed play before walking over to where I sat on the couch. Just as the tape began to play, my cell phone rang. I stood up and retrieved it from my pocket. Rick paused the tape and stared at me expectantly. An unfam
iliar number illuminated the screen. I cleared my throat before answering the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Jordan James?” A gruff, male voice inquired.

  “Yes, it is. Who may I ask is calling?”

  “This is Darren Broadsmith from Hepstadt & Lower. Ms. Maize informed me that you called yesterday evening about David Michaels. You said you have information?”

  “Yes, I do but—”

  “Let me make this clear, Ms. James,” he interrupted. “I don’t know what you know or what you think you know, but you need to drop this matter.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Michaels was murdered in Cambridge, but he was fired long before that happened. There is no connection here, and you need to stop looking for one. You have no idea what you’re messing with. I’m warning you. Drop this now.”

  Before I could say another word, he hung up. I stared at the phone in complete disbelief. Rick watched me with a concerned expression growing on his face.

  “What was that?”

  “I believe that was my first threat,” I finally replied. His eyes grew wide.

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tried to reassure him, although my voice cracked slightly. “It just means I might be on the right track here. Play the tape.”

  Rick was obviously troubled but obligingly pushed play on the remote control. It was instantly apparent this was a home video. On the screen was a dark room with cement walls and a large stack of plastic totes lining the left wall. A wooden chair had been placed directly in front of the camera.