CHAPTER FOUR
ADAM JONES
The wind nips at my heels today and I wrap my coat tighter around myself. It’s a chilly day – not yet cold enough to bring on the wrath of winter, but not warm enough to turn off the heaters or unwrap the coats. It’s my favorite time of year – it has a way of cleansing the city, leaving it feeling fresh and crisp in a way that I could never have imaged before coming here.
It feels like it is blowing away the soot and dirt of the world, and leaving it scrubbed fresh and new. I enjoy it and work seems to pick up around this time. I glance at the building in the distance. It’s a tall, imposing sort of building with mirrored windows. It is completely impersonal. Funny, because that’s the opposite of what I do.
I make my way into the building, the doorman nodding at me when I step inside. At the elevator, I push the button to the tenth floor and let it do its thing, grateful for the silence, for the fact that I am alone in this elevator. I turn and check myself in the mirrored walls. A little windswept. I smooth back my hair and straighten my jacket.
The elevator dings and I step out into the corridor, making my way to my office. It’s a small space, seeing as this is a privately rented office. But it works for appointments with my clients, and that is really all that I need it for. I unlock the door and step into the room. Simple waiting room space, leading into a clean office with minimalistic décor, clean lines and a desk with three chairs. One for me, two for my clients.
I flick on the coffee machine and let the scent fill the room. I take off my coat and drape it neatly over the back of my chair. A legal pad and a pen follow, placed on my desk.
I sit, unpack my laptop and fire it up. It doesn’t take me long to get into my emails, and I do a bit of digging on this job. It seems simple enough, and I am not feeling very worried about it. It seems like it will be straightforward. Easy money.
Then it’s just a case of waiting until they show up. I glance at the clock. A few minutes to go.
Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I take a moment to admire the artworks that decorate the wall. Simple, sedate landscapes that I am quite fond of, and my clients don’t deem as too emotive. This is meant to be a calm space, a relaxed and professional environment where my clients can speak to me in the strictest of confidentiality.
A knock on the door catches my attention and I set down my coffee with a small smile. Time to do what I do best.
I pull open the door.
“Mr. Jones’s office?” The man in front of me is an older gentleman, dressed in a suit that is obviously not cut to fit him. The watch on his wrist highlights wealth, as do the diamonds that drip from the woman beside him. His wife, I presume. It’s my job to be observant, very observant.
“Mr. and Mrs. Samuel. Please, come in.” I step back graciously to let them past, “Please take a seat in my office.” I lead the way to my desk, taking care to shut the door behind them. I pull out the seat for Mrs. Samuel.
“Coffee?” They both nod and I go to the machine and pour out two cups. The silence and the smell of coffee linger in the air. It’s comforting – to me at least. It also gives my clients time to collect themselves before we talk – take out any paperwork and that kind of thing.
It’s a ritual that works time and time again – the social connotations of talking over coffee. A way to ensure that my clients talk more, give more answers, let me into their motivations a little more. It just makes my job so much easier.
“Sugar and cream?” I enquire with a smile, glancing at them.
“No, thank you.” Mr. Samuel answers almost coldly and I make a mental note of it. Remember what he drinks and how he takes his coffee – you’ll come across as more personable later, which is just what I want.
“Cream and two sugars.” Mrs. Samuel answers. I hear an almost distressed edge to her voice and I understand that this is big deal for her, probably in more ways than one. I wonder where they both fit in to all this. After stirring the sugar and cream into Mrs. Samuel’s coffee, I set them both down on the table.
I grab my own coffee, giving them another moment, listening to the sound of clinking cups and the dull thud of one being put on the table, before I turn and take my own seat.
“Now… what can I help you with?”
Mr. Samuel purses his lips, “Mr. Jones, if I may speak very frankly…”
His wife glances at me, almost nervously. I can see the displeasure radiating from the both of them. “I am in charge of a trust fund for my nephew, and I have been for many years now.”
I nod, paying close attention to what he is saying, as well as how he says it. Reading people is an art, but it is vital in this business.
He continues, “However, I am… concerned about the validity of some of his claims.”
“The validity, you say?”
“Yes.” He answers stiffly, “There is a clause which states he must be married by the time he is thirty, in order to gain his full inheritance.”
“Is he married?” I ask in quiet tones.
He shakes his head, “No, but evidently he is engaged.” He frowns deeply, “This only happened very recently, mind you, and he is approaching his thirtieth birthday.” He looks at me in a knowing sort of way. I suppose he thinks that he is being smooth. I keep my own face collected and composed.
I nod my head in understanding, “So you believe he has entered into a fake relationship in order to gain access to this trust fund?”
“Exactly.” Mrs. Samuel hisses with such ferocity that I almost drop my façade. Almost.
She continues, “He’s never been interested in settling down before. Never! He’s had a string of one-night stands a mile long. It’s an absolute disgrace.”
I hide my smirk and nod seriously instead, “Of course, Mrs. Samuel, of course. It would be terribly distressing for you and your family.”
She nods and sinks back into the chair, seeming satisfied with her little outburst. Her husband continues on instead, “We want to make sure this relationship is legitimate. You understand?”
“I understand very clearly, Mr. Samuel.” He wants me to find some dirt on the two of them, and it couldn’t be clearer. He has something to gain from his nephew not getting the money and I have no doubt as to what that might be. I need to make sure that I find some way of disproving their relationship, in order to have success in this job.
“What is your nephew’s name?” I ask.
He hands me a stack of papers, and the name that appears time and time again is Cade Harlow. He’s the one I’m looking for. He’s the one I am seeking to undo. The pile of papers is huge and it will take me forever to skim through them all. I take a quick look through a few of them, before I set them down and look at them both dead on.
“I will do the best I can to make sure that this relationship is truly legitimate, to protect the honor of your… family.” The word ‘money’ lingers on my tongue but I do not say it. Instead, I stand, “May I keep these papers?”
“Of course.”
I nod in satisfaction as I see them both to the door. As we are walking, we discuss the contracts and the money. They will be paying me quite handsomely and I make a note to send over the contract to them as quickly as possible. I want this signed before I start with any of the work.
I have learnt the hard way not to trust anyone, especially not my clients.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Jones.” We shake hands and I smile.
“No, thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Samuel. I assure you that I will do everything in my power to get to the bottom of this.”
I see them out of the door. The name plate on the door glints in the light. Adam Jones. Lawyer. I smirk and shut the door behind myself. I might be a lawyer, but sometimes I feel far more like a private investigator, like someone who works on covert missions instead of someone who should be defending a man in court.
I sit down at my desk, taking a long sip of my coffee as I read through the information that they have provided me. It’s quite in depth. There’s the paperwork from the original trustee agreement, all the legalities and the clauses outlined perfectly. There’s proof of Cade’s birthday.
I read on, nodding slightly as my suspicions are confirmed. Yes, if he does not get the money, then they will. The two of them looked wealthy enough, and it’s not like they needed the money, but that’s not what it’s about.
If I expose Cade in a lie, then it’s hardly my fault if his world crashed around him. I’m just doing my job and he should be doing his. I file away all the paperwork, and lean back in the chair, staring out of the window.
I’ve been caught in the crossfire too many times in my life. Too many people who lie and cheat their way to the top. I’ve been trampled too many times in the process and, I swear, I will never let it happen again.
If Cade is lying, deceiving his family for his own personal gain, then he deserves everything that he gets. I feel the resolve harden in my chest as I pick up the phone, preparing to make the call.
I hope that Cade is ready for this.