couple of teenage girls for the past week.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” Donald snapped.
“Watch your tone, Ennis.”
The P.I. counted slowly to ten in an attempt to bring his temper under control. When he’d first done investigative work for Raymond Humphries, he’d had to remind the man that he wasn’t one of his employees who relied on him for a paycheck. Donald Michael Ennis was a highly regarded intelligence operative whose career had ended when he’d been diagnosed and had failed to seek treatment for Ménière’s syndrome. The recurring dizziness, tinnitus and slight loss of hearing in his left ear had led to early retirement. He’d allowed six months of feeling sorry for himself before deciding to set up a private investigation agency. He’d hired a streetwise friend and a cousin, both of whom had one foot in the criminal world.
“You pay me, Humphries. Not own me.”
“Point taken,” Raymond drawled.
“My man told me Wainwright returned to his place New Year’s Eve, then left again later that night. He went into a building where Brandt Wainwright owns a penthouse. He was seen again sometime after one when he was talking to a woman before she got into a limo.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“Not yet. But I have the limo’s license plate number. As soon as we track down the driver, we’ll know who she is and where she was going.”
“Where’s Wainwright now?”
Donald shifted on the park bench across the street from Jordan Wainwright’s apartment building, stretching out his legs and staring at the scuff marks on his boots. He pressed the cell phone closer to his ear for warmth. He’d spent the better part of an hour sitting on the bench after his friends reported that Jordan Wainwright had returned home earlier that afternoon. It wasn’t easy casing out a building facing the park because of ongoing police patrols. He didn’t want to be questioned about watching residents who paid seven figures for their condos and co-ops. Doormen were very protective of their tenants, but there were always a few who were willing to provide a little information on the comings and goings, if the price was right.
“My man just sent me a text that he’s heading uptown. If he goes anywhere other than his office, then I’ll get back to you with his whereabouts.”
“Who the hell works on New Year’s?”
“Doctors, cops, bus drivers—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Raymond intoned, cutting him off. “Just keep watching him. Let me know if you need more resources.”
“I’m good for now,” Donald replied.
He ended the call, pushing the cell phone into the pocket of his down-filled jacket. Blowing on his hands, he rubbed them together to generate heat. He’d forgotten his gloves—again. Standing and pushing his stiff fingers into the pockets of the baggy wide wale corduroy, he waited for the traffic light to change before crossing the street to wait for the bus to take him back uptown.
Jordan drove along Adam Clayton Powell Jr Boulevard, then turned on 121st Street. If he hadn’t called the garage to have his car ready, he would’ve either walked or taken a taxi to the office. Walking from 98th and Fifth to 121st Street was a workout.
Three boyhood friends who’d pooled their resources to purchase the three-story brownstone had set up their practices on each floor. Kyle Chatham, his former mentor and senior law partner, occupied the second floor. Financial planner Duncan Gilmore’s offices spanned the first floor, and psychotherapist Dr. Ivan Campbell counseled patients on the third floor of the nineteenth-century landmark structure that had been renovated for business use.
Miraculously, he found a parking space, maneuvering up to the tree-lined curb. He got out, locked the door and bounded up the staircase to the front door. Brass plates affixed to the side of the building indicated the location of each business.
Jordan unlocked the front door and punched in the code to disarm the security system. He reset it and walked past the elevator in the entryway and into the reception area furnished with comfortable leather seating, a wall-mounted flat-screen television and potted plants. Whenever the office was open during the winter months, a fire roared in the huge fireplace.
The soles of his shoes made soft squishing sounds on the marble floor when he made his way to the staircase. It wasn’t until he’d exited the last stair that he was aware he wasn’t the only one in the building. The sound of music floated down the hallway from the conference room.
Walking past his office, he stopped at the open door. Kyle Chatham sat at the conference table amid stacks of law books and legal pads. A pullover sweater, jeans and boots replaced his tailored suits.
“Happy New Year, Chat.”
Kyle’s head popped up, his eyes growing wider when he saw Jordan standing in the doorway. “Happy New Year to you, too. What the hell are you doing here?” It wasn’t often that he saw Jordan unshaven. “You look a little green around the gills.”
“Champagne and shots are a lethal combination.”
“What’s up with the frat boy antics?”
Jordan shook his head. “Don’t ask.”
“But I am asking, partner. I don’t remember ever seeing you overindulge.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Jordan angled his head. His partner and former mentor was quintessentially tall, dark and handsome. Women were drawn to his angular face with chiseled cheekbones, deep-set, slanting, catlike, warm brown eyes and close-cropped black hair with a sprinkling of gray. He and his fiancée, Ava Warrick, were to be married in Puerto Rico the next month.
“Brandt and some of his boys started challenging one another, so I had to get my cousin’s back.”
“That’s when you should’ve bailed, Jordan. You know you can’t hang with those guys. They’re twice your size and have hollow legs.”
“I discovered that when I woke up this morning.”
“Why, then, are you here instead of sleeping it off?” Kyle asked.
“I came to look up some decisions on workplace harassment for a friend.” His cousin had given him Aziza’s address and phone number. He planned to call her later that evening and confirm a time for his arrival. “Why are you here instead of home with your beautiful fiancée?”
Kyle massaged his forehead with his fingers as he stared at his junior partner. He and Jordan had worked together at Trilling, Carlyle and Browne where he’d become the younger man’s mentor.
“I wanted to go over some details on this attempted rape case that has been literally kicking my behind. I should’ve passed on this one, but I couldn’t leave this kid’s fate in the hands of a public defender who will probably get him to take a plea where he will spend the next eight to ten years of his life behind bars.”
Slipping out of his jacket, Jordan entered the room and draped it over the back of a chair and sat down. “You took on the case because the kid is innocent.”
Kyle ran a hand over his face. “But it all comes down to ‘he said, she said.’”
Kyle leaned forward. “If he puts her on the stand and she breaks down, then our client’s fate is sealed and he’s going to go away for a long time. His mother didn’t sacrifice working two jobs to send her son to college to have him become a felon.”
Jordan continued to peruse the file. When Kyle had set up K.E. Chatham Legal Services, he’d established a routine of Monday-morning staff meetings where open cases were reviewed and updated. But since he’d made partner, Jordan and Kyle alternated chairing the meetings.
“This case is not about rape, Chat.”
Slumping back in his chair, Kyle stared across the table at his partner. “You tell me what it’s about.”