Harlequin Romantic Suspense March 2021

by Anna J. Stewart

  “Please, do call me,” Davis was saying. “I’d really like to speak with you, and your father, about your concerns. In fact...” He pulled a business card from his pocket and picked up a pen that had been left on the table. He jotted down his phone number and held the card out to her. “Here’s my private cell phone number. Call me at any time. My schedule is very flexible this week.”

  “We will,” Neema answered as she looked at the small card resting in the palm of her hand.

  Her father suddenly moved through the door, calling her name softly. “Neema! Do not bother the alderman. He’s an important man.” He smiled at Davis. “I hope that you and Mr. Balducci enjoyed your meal, sir.”

  Davis nodded. “Yes, sir. We did. Thank you kindly.”

  “We appreciate your business. It helps to have such important men like yourself supporting the small businesses in the community. Your father was here just last week. He’s an admirable man, your father.”

  “Thank you, sir. My father says the same thing about you.”

  Mr. Kamau grinned broadly at the complement. “Please, if you need to use the room a little longer, do not let us rush you. Mr. Balducci has paid for the entire evening. Perhaps you’d like coffee and dessert?”

  “No, sir. But thank you for offering. I was just heading out, but I wanted to make sure I gave your daughter my direct number. I look forward to speaking with you about your concerns.”

  Mr. Kamau clapped his hands together excitedly. “Thank you! Thank you so much for everything you do.” He tossed his daughter a look. “He’s a good man, our alderman. A good man!”

  Neema’s eyes widened, slightly embarrassed by her father’s enthusiasm for the young politician. The old man was gushing with praise and she could only imagine what Davis Black had to be thinking about the two of them. She felt Davis eyeing her and color flushed her cheeks. She moved to clear the dishes away, fighting to ignore the lingering look he was giving her.

  * * *

  With a nod of his head and one last glance toward Neema, Davis said his goodbyes and exited the building. Outside, he suddenly remembered the cache of money secreted away in his jacket pocket. Balducci was long gone, but something about their encounter left Davis with a bad taste in his mouth. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he sensed that favor, and Alexander Balducci asking for his help, wasn’t going to end well.

  The thought of everything that could possibly go wrong weighed heavy on his spirit like toxic waste flooding the late-night air.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was nights like this one that made Neema regret she still lived with her parents. Her mind was racing, and her father’s continuous warbling was beginning to wear on her nerves. It had been a good night for the business, the rental of the event space exceeding a normal night of income. He was still riding an emotional high about the guests he’d been able to serve and rub elbows with. Despite his enthusiasm, Neema understood that her father had no idea the significance of what they’d just witnessed.

  Davis Black and Alexander Balducci huddled in private conversation was huge! And what about the money she’d seen change hands? Because Neema was certain she’d witnessed Davis Black pocket an envelope of cash as the two had sat together at that table. Neema instinctively knew there was a story there and that it had dropped into her lap for a reason. Was the handsome alderman taking a bribe? In exchange for what? What could Balducci, a renowned criminal, be wanting from the city official? Was Davis Black corrupt? What degree of criminality had she stumbled upon?

  Neema needed to process what she knew with what she’d seen. She needed to do a little investigating to try to determine the connection between the two men. She had to figure out what they were up to. But in that moment, her father was making it hard for her to think with his humming and singing like it was midafternoon and not midnight.

  Neema groaned softly to herself. Her parents had been ecstatic when they’d purchased the Jackson Boulevard home. The nineteen-hundred square foot Georgian-style property boasted four generous bedrooms and three baths. The polished hardwood floors and renovated kitchen had sold it for her mother. Her father had lauded the garage bays and the oversize lot with its great curb appeal. But despite all its pluses, the walls were far too thin for Neema’s liking.

  She had followed them to Chicago because that’s what a good daughter did. When her mother had insisted she take the bedroom on the top floor with the faded floral wallpaper and shag carpet, Neema hadn’t argued because making the case for her own apartment would have caused a rift between them.

  Instead, she had paid for the renovations to make the space hers. Renovations that had included new plumbing, not only for her bathroom but the whole upper level. Now, the shag carpet was gone, replaced with a Persian rug that evoked Old World style with its rich colors and brilliant pattern. The walls were painted a soft gray and built-in bookcases flanked a restored fireplace. The decorative touches reflected her eclectic style and her parents had obliged her choices with nominal interference. Being a good daughter was an art form and between the move to Chicago and acquiescing to their demands, Neema had taken her craft to a whole other level.

  Neema paid her parents rent each month for the privilege of locking her room door without them taking issue with her needing her own space. But there was nothing she’d been able to do about the home’s sparse insulation that allowed sound to vibrate from room to room. So, her father singing slightly off key, his deep baritone voice echoing off the walls, was an annoyance she had to occasionally bear.

  After firing up her computer, Neema slid on her Bose wireless headset, canceling out every ounce of noise that wasn’t coming directly from of her speakers connected to a small sound system in the corner of the room. She pushed the play button on a reggae playlist and settled herself comfortably in the leather executive’s chair at her desk. Buju Banton was first in rotation and the rhythmic beat of the song “Destiny,” along with his deep, raspy voice wrapped around the lyrics, soon had her tapping her toe and bobbing her head in time to the music.

  She typed Balducci’s name into the Google search bar first, pulling up every public article she could find about the man. His philanthropic endeavors were numerous, his efforts lauded by many. One or two articles questioned his connection to his son’s arrest the previous year, but nothing pointed at any illegal ties. The most recent articles lauded his accomplishments on the city’s energy board as well as his stake in rebuilding Chicago’s west side.

  Neema shook her head as she noted the many committees and corporate boardrooms he’d been welcomed to sit on. Despite the rumors of his not so legal enterprises, it seemed he was well respected. He had also profited nicely in some of Chicago’s biggest real estate deals, responsible for most of the gentrification in the inner city. And in at least ninety percent of those news articles, police superintendent Jerome Black was likewise named, his actions mirroring those of Balducci’s.

  Neema googled Davis Black next. There weren’t nearly as many articles about the man and most had been written when he’d announced his candidacy for office. Fluff pieces about his likes and dislikes, him at ribbon cuttings, giving speeches at local high schools and pinning citizenship awards on senior citizens. There were numerous photos of him standing with family members as one or the other accepted an award, and a few pieces about his activism in the neighborhood.

  Nothing she read raised any red flags, the man’s actions not nearly as public as that of others in his circle of family and friends. But then, she thought, maybe that was the red flag she was looking for. Why wasn’t Davis Black doing as much as it seemed his siblings were? Was he being purposely low-key in his public dealings to not draw attention to himself or his actions? Neema realized she needed answers to questions that she hadn’t even begun to ask, and she wasn’t going to get them reading through old news articles. She set a reminder on her cell phone to call Davis Black in the morning.
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br />   Shutting down her computer, Neema moved to the queen-size bed, the headphones still engaged.

  Slipping between freshly laundered sheets, she flicked off the light on the nightstand and settled back against the rise of pillows behind her head. Closing her eyes, Neema allowed herself to settle into the rise of darkness. She breathed in and out slowly, every muscle in her body beginning to melt like warm butter. Her countenance was languid, and she could feel sleep starting to call her name. Yuna was in her ear singing “Crush” and when Usher joined in with a sultry falsetto in the upper range of his vocal registrar, Neema palmed her cell phone and pulled up the last image of Davis Black she’d saved on her phone.

  She drew her hand across the cell phone screen, the pad of her index finger slowly outlining his features. There was no denying that he’d been blessed with good looks. But pretty on the outside didn’t necessarily make him pretty on the inside and she didn’t have a clue what kind of person Davis Black was. If she went digging, what secrets would she discover about the man? Neema mused. Was it possible that she might unearth a dark secret he didn’t want exposed and, if so, what would she do then? She continued staring while Coldplay, Colby Caillat and James Morrison played sweetly in her ear.

  As she thought about the handsome man and her next steps, Neema let Boney James lull her to sleep. Hours later Davis Black was skipping naked through her dreams.

  * * *

  When Davis sauntered into his brother’s office the next day, Mingus Black was staring at his computer. The expression across his face was affable, something humorous playing on the screen. Still in his feelings, Davis wasn’t interested in knowing what his brother found so amusing. He tossed the envelope of cash onto the desktop, the mailer landing with a resounding thud. Mingus lifted one brow as he tossed Davis a look.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ten grand that Alexander Balducci wants me to use to buy artwork. And he plans to give me another ten thousand next month and maybe the month after that.” Davis dropped into the upholstered chair in front of the desk, sinking into the cushions as if the weight of the world was holding him hostage.

  Mingus leaned back in his own seat. “And your problem with that?”

  “Where do I start? We both know this money is dirty!”

  “Do we?”

  Davis rolled his eyes skyward. “If it was legit, he’d go buy his own damn paintings and write a check.”

  Mingus laughed, shaking his head slowly. He pulled open the top drawer of the desk and lifted his business checkbook from inside. With the pass of an ink pen, he filled in the blanks, signed his name across the bottom, and tore the voucher from the book. As he slid the document across the desk toward Davis, he dropped the envelope of cash into a bank deposit bag and secured the zipper. With a flip of his wrist, it disappeared into the desk drawer. The transaction was as simple as the two trading a stick of mint-flavored gum for a handful of Tic Tac candy.

  Davis blinked, his eyes wide as he eyed the check made payable to him for the total sum of five thousand dollars and some change. On the comment line, his brother had neatly printed the words ‘Consulting Fee Deposit.’ He lifted his eyes back to Mingus, questions piercing his expression.

  “Homeland Security requires the bank to start asking questions if you deposit ten grand in cash at one time, or any amount the teller might deem suspicious. Since you don’t regularly deposit that kind of money, and you just look like you’re committing a crime, I suggest you not do that. This should make things a little easier for you. They will barely blink at a check written on a business account they know. In a day or two, I’ll write you a check for the other half. Feel free to send me an invoice, or not. That’s your choice. I’m good either way.”

  “And what are you going to do with the cash?” Davis finally asked.

  “Most of my business is in cash,” Mingus answered. “My clients aren’t interested in leaving a paper trail. I have a few accounts in multiple banks around town. I’ll spread it around and deposit most of it. Some of it I’ll use for incidentals.”

  Davis shook his head. “We’re both going to jail.”

  Mingus laughed again. “I’m sure I’ll see the gates of hell well before I ever see the inside of a jail cell.”

  “Well, I don’t have your confidence.”

  “Look, you worry too much.”

  “And you don’t worry enough.”

  Mingus chuckled again, the wealth of it gut deep. He spoke after composing himself. “Look, the old man just needs you to help with a family problem. No one gets hurt and you’ll actually be helping his daughter.”

  “You know?”

  Mingus shrugged. “I know enough.”

  “Then why didn’t he ask you to do it?”

  “You’re friends with Gaia. It wouldn’t draw any unnecessary attention. I tend to run in circles that might not be in her best interest. Besides, I have no doubt she likes you. Didn’t you two date or something?”

  “Or something. It wasn’t like that, though,” Davis said as he thought about his friend Gaia Russo. The two did have history, their connection going back to high school. But dating hadn’t been an option for them. Gaia had been head-over-heels in love with Carl King, her son’s father and one of Davis’s best friends. Carl had been an aspiring basketball player who could barely string a full sentence together. He’d been everything Davis hadn’t been; flashy, arrogant and the love of Gaia’s life.

  Davis had been what he was with most women: a supportive friend and sounding board when things went wrong with their love lives. He’d been there when Carl hadn’t been selected in the NBA Draft Lottery and taken his frustrations out on Gaia. He’d been there when Carl had been recruited to play in Barcelona, promising a very pregnant Gaia that he would be there to support her and their son. And he’d been there when, leaving his life and family in the United States behind, Carl had married a Spanish barista named Lola. Davis had been a good friend and nothing more, Gaia wanting nothing from him and him having little else to give.

  What they had found in common was their commitment to the community. Their shared activism for the pursuit of change and their desire to be a part of that change for the betterment of others. Being of service to those in need had kept them tied to each other. They were friends, the simplicity of the relationship working for them even when it shouldn’t have. When Davis gave unsolicited advice that Gaia had no interest in hearing... When she hadn’t wanted a friend and he had still insinuated himself into her life... One more reason why Balducci’s request had him on edge. He never wanted to do anything to jeopardize the tenuous friendship he and Gaia shared.

  He changed the subject. “What do you know about Adamu Kamau?”

  “Who?”

  “The man who owns the African restaurant.”

  Mingus’s gaze narrowed ever so slightly, his broad shoulders reaching for the ceiling. “Nothing. Should I?”

  “I met his daughter last night. Her name’s Neema. She waitressed our table.”

  The slightest grin pulled full and wide across Mingus’s face. “So, do you want to know about the father or his daughter?”

  “I just...w-well...” Davis stammered, his face turning a brilliant shade of deep red. He realized he’d clearly opened the door for a wealth of teasing and suddenly wished for a deep hole to drop into and disappear. He shook his head, the two men locking gazes.

  Mingus laughed and Davis laughed with him.

  “She was gorgeous!” Davis gushed, meeting his brother’s stare.

  “So, call her. Get to know her. Unless you want me to do a background check on her and her family? I can do that for you.”

  “That’s definitely not why I was asking. I was just curious.”

  “Just curious?”

  Davis met his brother’s smug expression. “Don’t start, Mingus. It was just a question.”

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p; Mingus held his hands up as if he were surrendering. “Well, I look forward to hearing more about this Neema when you learn more.”

  “Yeah. Sure,” Davis said as he moved to his feet. He had turned toward the door when Mingus called his name. “Yes?”

  “Don’t forget your check. And cash it quick. I’m good for it today. No telling what might happen tomorrow,” he said with a soft smirk.

  Moving back to his brother’s desk, Davis picked up the check, folded it in two and placed it into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Thanks,” he said, giving his brother a nod of his head.

  “Whatever you need, little brother! Whatever you need.”

  * * *

  Minutes later, Davis was maneuvering back to his own office when his cell phone rang. The device connected with the Bluetooth in the vehicle, the call ringing loudly through the automobile. He didn’t immediately recognize the number that flashed across the dashboard, but that wasn’t unusual. For the briefest moment, he considered letting it go directly to voice mail and then changed his mind, engaging the call instead.

  “Hello?”

  A woman’s voice echoed out of the speakers. “Yes, hello. I was hoping to speak with Alderman Black. This is Neema Kamau calling.”

  There was a moment of hesitation, Davis suddenly feeling like he had conjured her up by speaking her name. Her calling surprised him; it felt like a moment of disbelief, good fortune, and maybe a little celestial magic.

  She spoke again. “Hello? Are you there?”

  Davis suddenly slammed on brakes, narrowly missing the back of a Ford pickup stopped at the red light. He felt his breath catch deep in his chest and shook away the reverie he’d fallen into. He took a deep inhale of air and held it just briefly before gusting the breath past his full lips.

  He stammered. “I-I’m sorry... Hello! Yes! This is Alderman Black... I mean Davis. Davis Black! Neema, hello! How are you?”

  He could feel her smiling through the receiver, or at least he imagined she was smiling because he was, his grin pulling from ear to ear. Moving after the truck, through the green light, he pulled off into an empty parking spot and shut down his car. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little surprised to hear from you.”