I didn’t have a chance to react before Rick veered so suddenly onto the exit ramp that I feared the car would flip; however, it handled magnificently. It was obvious the SUV was not prepared or equipped for such a turn, and I watched as it continued down the highway until we were too far away to see the interstate any longer.
Chapter 27
It was nearly eleven by the time Rick found an obscure grove of oak trees five miles from I-95 outside of New Haven in which we parked. Because it was winter and the trees were bare, he was concerned that a Lamborghini would stand out like a sore thumb. My suggestion of a motel was met with equal opposition, and so we spent over an hour driving across unpaved, snow-covered roads in search of refuge. When Rick was finally confident that we would not be found, he parked the vehicle and exhaled slowly. The thought of spending the night in the cramped front seat of a sports car was not exciting, but under the circumstances, we were fortunate to be able to stop and rest at all. Once we agreed to leave by seven at the latest the next morning and said goodnight, I leaned the seat back and closed my eyes. Despite utter exhaustion, I was so troubled by the day’s events that my mind would not settle down enough to allow me to sleep.
If Darren Broadsmith had us followed from Back Bay Station Friday night, why did he see the need to wait until we were at Ace Larkin’s apartment the next afternoon to attack? And if he did want to get rid of us, why didn’t the dark man or his chubby associate fire at us when they had both the means and the opportunity to do so at Estelle’s place? These questions continued to plague me until they became an anxiety-riddled lullaby. I rested my head against the window and fell into a deep, fitful sleep.
I was ripped from the clutches of a particularly heinous nightmare when my cell phone rang. I opened my eyes but was disoriented. I was unaware of both the time and where I was, but I grabbed the phone, which was on the floor by my feet, and answered it.
“Hello?”
“Someone broke into your office.”
I sat straight up, suddenly wide awake. “What? Who is this?”
The caller groaned. “Jon. Who do you think?”
I must have slept with my neck at an angle as pain radiated through it. I pressed my fingers into the muscle and began to massage it. “What? What time is it?”
“I don’t know. Six something?”
“What are you doing up so early?”
“Don’t worry about it. You need to get over here soon so we can deal with this break-in. Now I have a question for you. Where are you and,” he hesitated, “is Rick there, too? He didn’t come back last night.”
“I’m in New Haven and, yeah, Rick's here.”
“New Haven? Why?”
“Jon, it’s a long story, and I promise to give you all the details, but first I need you to do me a favor. Contact Henry O’Neal at the police department and tell him we have some information on the case. Rick and I are heading back to Boston within the hour and need to see him immediately. I think we may be able to close this case today.”
“What about your office?”
“I thought the building was secure,” I trailed off, thinking. “Could you stay there? We’ll get there as soon as possible. Just please call Henry.”
“I’d rather go look for your police friend in person and have him meet all of us at the office. You need to file a police report for insurance anyway. They stole my laptop!” he exclaimed in a highly annoyed tone.
“All right, Jon," I conceded. "Whatever you think is best. I doubt there is anything left to steal anyway.”
There was an awkward silence before Jon muttered, “Just let me know when you’re in town.”
He ended the call, and I threw the phone on the floorboards. Rolling my shoulders back to stretch, I realized that I was very stiff and sore. I glanced over at Rick and found him sound asleep, his large frame cramped awkwardly into the small space. Carefully unzipping my parka and pulling the collar of my shirt away from my neck, I discovered that, although I didn’t break my shoulder during the fall as I had initially feared, I did do some damage. There was a large purple and blue bruise that stretched from my left shoulder blade to the humerus. I tried to ignore the pain as I woke Rick up. He was equally surprised to wake up inside the car and in a great deal more pain, it seemed, than I from being cramped for so many hours.
After driving for twenty minutes, he stopped at a gas station. We used the bathroom and fueled up before getting back on I-95 to head to Boston. I told him about Jon’s call and the break-in. He frowned. “I’m sorry I got you involved in all of this.”
“What're you talking about? This is what I wanted. To be an investigator. You have to take the good with the bad.”
“Let’s see–in the past twenty-four hours you’ve been in two car chases, were nearly killed, had your office broken into, and were forced to jump off a building. Now where is the good exactly?”
“The good is that we have the information that can nail Hepstadt & Lower, and we’re on the way to bring it to the police right now. We weren’t caught or hurt in the chases, either,” I added, failing to mention my colorful arm.
He didn’t reply but stayed focused on the road. It became clear that the SUV was no longer a threat, so we both relaxed a little. After an uneventful drive, Rick parked across the street from my office building. If there had been a break in at my office, the perpetrator had not found the need to cause any damage to the building itself. I crossed my arms tightly as we made our way across the street. Rick led the way, protectively. When we entered the building, Bob looked up from his post and smiled blithely.
“Hello Miss James. How are ya? How’s the arm?”
I glanced at Rick. I was confused. I couldn’t figure out if Bob was a terrible security guard, slightly senile, or Jon decided to withhold my loss from him. I gave Bob the benefit of the doubt and assumed it was the third possibility. I offered a quick smile and friendly greeting. Rick and I made our way up to the sixth floor. As soon as the elevator doors opened, I raced to my office. The opaque glass in my office door had been smashed. I reached for the doorknob, expecting it to be unlocked, and was startled when Rick grabbed my hand. He put his finger to his lips and leaned forward, listening carefully. Satisfied, he attempted the knob, and it opened without hesitation.
Stepping over the shards of broken glass, we entered my office. It nearly brought tears to my eyes as I surveyed the damage. Not only was Jon’s laptop missing but also most of my psychology textbooks. Papers and the remaining books littered the floor. Desk drawers were left open after being searched, and my couch’s cushions were slashed and the old stuffing ripped out of them. Rick reflexively hugged me. I was surrounded by his strong arms for just a few seconds when a noise down the hall brought me back to reality with a sudden and jarring force.
“It’s not safe here,” I whispered. Rick let me go and nodded. “We have to get to the police station.”
We headed out the door and made our way back to the car. The Lamborghini’s appearance and the roar of the engine drew much attention that Sunday morning as we headed down the street. Before Rick had a chance to turn onto Brookline Avenue, he let out a groan. Instinctively, I looked back and was horrified to see the black SUV directly behind us. Rick cut the wheel sharply to the left and sped up as we drove down Beacon Street. My heart was pounding in my chest so hard I could hear each beat. I saw Boston Common approach us suddenly on my right.
Seconds later, Rick slowed the car to a near crawl as we neared Government Center. There was only one car between us and the black SUV. As we neared the Massachusetts State House, an idea crossed my mind.
“Pull over,” I instructed Rick. He looked startled.
“What?”
“Pull the car over here.”
He shook his head adamantly. “No, we need to find a way past this so we can get to the police statio
n.” Rick looked around. There were holiday shoppers out in full force, crowding the sidewalks and causing extended delays in traffic. I maintained composure, hiding my own fears behind confident eyes. “What’s your plan exactly?” he questioned.
I took a deep breath before speaking. “We split up.”
“No,” Rick interrupted, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “I’m not leaving you.”
I took another deep breath and waited a few moments, glancing in the side mirror. The SUV was trying to pass the car between us. “Rick, you need to pull over, and we need to split up. You take the documents, and I’ll take the disc and tape. We'll both try to lose them in the crowd and call the police. They won’t expect us to split up, and that'll give us an edge.”
“There are two of them,” Rick reminded me. “Where’s the edge? It sounds like a suicide mission.” He shook his head again. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
I stared out the window again. Going over all possibilities in my head, I surmised this was the best chance we had of getting the information to the police. Although I didn’t like the idea of leaving Rick, I knew Broadsmith wanted me. Therefore, the dark man and his associate would most likely come after me and my purse before they went after Rick. As another group of busy shoppers made their way across the street in front of the car and forced Rick to apply the brakes, I made a split-second decision. I pulled the documents from my purse and threw them in his lap. I then unbuckled my seatbelt and jumped out of the car. Behind me, I heard him yelling my name.
“I’ll call you!” I screamed over the roar of engines and throngs of holiday shoppers. As I ran down Beacon Street, I had the distinct feeling I was being followed. I glanced back several times but did not see either man in the sea of people. Maintaining both composure and a steady jog, I passed by the King’s Chapel and Burying Ground. The historic building, like almost everything along the Freedom Trail, had always evoked in me both a sense of patriotic pride and awe at the marvels of our forefathers. At that moment, my typical feelings were replaced with both anxiety and exhilaration as I mentally reviewed the safest route to the most public area of downtown Boston that I knew: the Faneuil Hall Marketplace. By the time I neared City Hall Plaza, I was so winded that I literally doubled over.
I straightened up and looked around. There were shoppers everywhere braving the frigid, New England winter air in hopes of finding the best Christmas deals. I looked back in the direction from which I had come. I didn’t see Rick, and although I didn’t see the men, I still had the uneasy feeling that I was being watched. Ignoring my stiff legs, I pushed on. When I reached Congress Street, I was forced to stop with a large group of shoppers and wait for the light to turn red before I could cross. I was undaunted by this minor delay because, in the distance, I could see the Marketplace. While standing near the front of the group, however, I felt someone pull on my purse and grab my right arm.
I turned in the direction of my attacker and was horrified when I saw who stood before me. With one sudden and extreme burst of energy and courage, I forcefully grabbed my purse and dashed across Congress Street. There was a steady stream of traffic heading in both directions, but I closed myself off to the wave of fear that threatened to wash over me. I heard car horns and screeching brakes surround me, followed by expletives from enraged, holiday motorists, but I did not stop until I crossed all eight lanes.
I ran along the thin, red line more commonly known as the Freedom Trail and crossed in front of the large, red brick edifice known as Faneuil Hall. Moments later, I found myself running along the length of the Marketplace. Cries of surprise and protest became my own personal leitmotif as I squeezed and shoved my way through the mass of unsuspecting patrons.
I ran the length of the red brick structure until I was nearly in front of the Hard Rock Cafe, hopeful I would come upon either a policeman or a secure place to hide. When no such person or place emerged, I turned around. I could see my pursuer was still in pursuit. I ran across Clinton Street where I was nearly hit by a psychotic motorist who must have thought I was playing a lively game of chicken. The incident shook me up, and I nearly broke down in the middle of the street. Luckily, I looked up and saw the Dawes Hotel at North End directly across the street.
I felt a great sense of relief when I first entered the hotel. The warmth and pleasant atmosphere managed to calm me down, although it did not change the fact that I was being chased and still in danger. Before that moment, I had never entered the hotel named after Paul Revere’s less-than-famous associate. The ornate lobby was richly decorated with mahogany furniture, vivid, red-and-gold rugs, and an indoor waterfall with the word “Dawes” illuminated behind the flowing water. Behind the waist-high desk stood a willowy woman with vibrant-red hair and green eyes. Her figure and appearance were so striking it left me even more intimidated about being inside the hotel. She glanced at me with slight curiosity.
“Welcome to the Dawes Hotel at North End, Boston’s finest luxury hotel and spa. How may I help you?” She recited the words in a manner which led me to believe she had uttered them quite often. In an unrehearsed manner, she added, “Do you have a reservation?”
Her statement brought me back to the present, and I was again acutely aware of the danger I was in. As my heart pounded and my fingers thawed, I considered my options. Without drawing attention to myself or getting thrown out of the hotel, I needed to find somewhere I could call Jon and check with Henry O’Neal about what Rick and I had uncovered in New York.
My inability to answer quickly led her to the conclusion I was not supposed to be there and a perturbed expression appeared on her porcelain face. She pursed her lips with such passion I couldn’t help but draw the conclusion she had some modeling experience. I was about to come up with a flimsy excuse for my being there, such as I was meeting someone for lunch, when the doorman opened the door and a strong gust of icy wind was ushered into the lobby along with a new patron. I glanced toward the door instinctively and was horrified when a triumphant smile from my assailant bore into me.
In retrospect, it would have made more sense to stay in that very public place and cajole the pretty desk clerk for some help, a request that I think she would have been glad to offer if the end result was that I was no longer scaring guests in her upscale establishment. The tense moment was interrupted, however, by the sound of a bell. I turned in the direction of the sound and saw the center elevator in a row of three, gold-plated ones open.
My gaze quickly shifted from the elevator to the clerk and finally rested on my pursuer, who was slowly moving toward me while my attention was diverted. Without a second thought, I ran inside the elevator and pressed the button to close the doors. I let out a sigh of relief.
“Going up?” a gruff, male voice inquired. The heat of the elevator left me instantly, and I was suddenly chilled to the bone when I realized whose voice I heard. Slowly, I turned around. Behind me, standing in the left corner of the large elevator, was Darren Broadsmith.
Chapter 28
I stared at him for only an instant before turning my attention to the elevator buttons. As I reached toward them, Broadsmith snapped, “I wouldn’t do that.”
I turned around slowly to face him once more. From beneath his large, black-wool overcoat, he extracted a thirty-eight-caliber revolver from the holster hidden inside his navy-blue, double-breasted pinstripe suit. He took a few steps toward me, his leather shoes clicking as he walked. He held the gun up to my face. I felt a shiver run down my spine as I stared into the barrel of the gun, perspiration trickling down my cheeks.
I backed away from him and leaned against the far corner of the elevator. “What're you going to do?”
He narrowed his brown eyes, menacingly, and offered a sadistic smirk in response. I turned my attention back to the elevator. Every few moments, another floor lit up on the row of gold-colored numbers above the doors. We were about to pass the t
welfth floor and only had three more to go. Suddenly, the elevator halted, and the doors opened. A young, laughing couple glanced at us and then at each other. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Broadsmith had concealed his gun beneath his coat.
“Going up?” he barked hostilely. The man raised an eyebrow and offered his companion a dubious look.
“That’s all right. We’re going down,” he muttered as he stepped back. The doors closed, as if on cue, and we resumed our journey. The elevator reached the fifteenth floor. When the doors opened, Broadsmith poked the gun into my shoulder blade.
“Let’s go.”
Without any other choice, I led the way out of the elevator and down the long narrow hallway. Like the lobby, a long, red-and-gold carpet decorated the floor, and the walls were papered in a light tan. There were gold-plated, decorative lights beside each door, which added to the elegant ambiance. Finally, we reached the stairwell at the far end of the hall.
“Let’s go,” Broadsmith growled impatiently. “We’re going up.”
I obeyed and took the stairs to the top. They ended in front of a door marked “Roof Access: Employees Only.” I tried the doorknob, but it didn’t budge.
“It’s locked.”
Broadsmith shoved me over in frustration and banged on the door with a balled fist. Almost instantly the door opened, and before us stood the pursuer I had tried so desperately to flee earlier: Janine Posey. She stared down at me with a contemptuous smile. A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the frigid air. Janine grabbed my right hand and forcefully dragged me out on the roof, nearly pulling my arm from its socket in the process.
Cold Ambition (Jordan James, PI) Page 27