Because of You

by Rochelle Alers

  He felt like a caged cat, pacing the length of his home office until he called the garage where he stored his car and requested that it be parked in front. The temperature had dropped more than twenty degrees in twenty-four hours, and with the steel-gray sky and the forecast of rain mixed with sleet, he slipped into a ski jacket over a rugby shirt and jeans. Instead of running shoes, he’d selected a pair of rugged Doc Martens.

  Jordan wasn’t certain what had triggered his state of agitation but knew it wouldn’t be assuaged if he remained indoors. Instead of leaving his apartment through the high-rise lobby where the doorman monitored everyone coming and going, he left through the side door that led directly from the apartment to a side street.

  He hadn’t realized until after he’d purchased the maisonette how much he’d come to value his privacy. Although he had an apartment suite in the Wainwright mansion, Jordan had never invited a woman to spend the night there. If they did sleep together it was either at her place or in a hotel. Never one to kiss and tell, he also did not advertise or flaunt his affairs, which was why it had surprised him when he’d kissed Aziza where anyone could see them. He knew he’d shocked his parents when he’d revealed that he’d been seeing Natasha Parker, but whom he’d dated or slept with was not their business.

  He walked out to find Fifth Avenue a bustle of activity with post-holiday shoppers and out-of-towners crowding buses that ran along Central Park. Pedestrians with cameras stopped to photograph one another, using the park as the backdrop. Jordan turned down a side street to the east side rather than attempt to navigate the crowds strolling Museum Mile. The first day of the year had fallen on a Friday, which left Saturday and Sunday for everyone to recover from their revelry before beginning a new week.

  It wasn’t until he was seated behind the wheel of the black-on-black two-seater BMW roadster that he abandoned his initial intent to drive down I-95 to hang out in D.C. until Sunday, and he decided to go to his office in the brownstone in Harlem’s Mount Morris Historic District.

  Donald Ennis waited for Raymond Humphries to return to the phone. He’d heard Minerva Jackson’s voice in the background, so he assumed Raymond was at her place. He would’ve thought the real estate mogul would’ve been at home with his wife instead of with his secretary, who obviously was his mistress.

  Donald had spent the past two weeks shadowing Jordan Wainwright. There was nothing the young lawyer had done that had set off alarm bells, but that was only his opinion, and Raymond Humphries did not want or pay him for his opinion. He’d agreed to contact Humphries every other Friday. If something out of the ordinary happened, then he was to contact him immediately.

  “Sorry about that, Ennis. I had to tell Minerva something. What do you have for me?”

  “Not much. Wainwright went to his grandfather’s place Christmas Eve and hung out there for a couple of days. When he did leave it was with his sister and another kid about his sister’s age. They walked to the Met, stayed about three hours and then walked to 72nd and Third Avenue. He only interacted with the girls.”

  “He had to do more than hang out with a 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.”r />
  “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.”

  Nothing on Kyle Chatham moved, not his eyes, not his chest when he held his breath. He’d questioned himself when Jordan had come to him asking to join his firm. What he couldn’t fathom was why a Harvard-educated lawyer from one of New York City’s wealthiest families had resigned positions with his family real estate empire and a Park Avenue law firm to work in Harlem. Their clients weren’t remotely close to the well-heeled corporations they’d represented in the past.

  “Talk to me, Wainwright.”

  Jordan smiled for the first time since he’d woken up earlier that morning with a pounding headache. “They’re together as long as they’re students, but after graduation she expected to become Mrs. Robinson Fields. The script is flipped when he tells her that he’s moving on and dating someone else.”

  Pushing back his chair, Jordan stood. “On that note I think I’d better leave.”

  “How long are you going to hang out here?”

  Jordan shrugged broad shoulders. “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Just asking.”

  “If I don’t see you before you leave, then I’ll see you Monday morning.”

  He hadn’t lied to Kyle. He didn’t know how long he would be at the office when it came to researching cases. When he’d worked for Trilling, Carlyle and Browne, he had been second chair with two harassment cases, while workplace harassment at Wainwright Developers hadn’t been an issue. Wyatt Wainwright may have ruled his company with an iron fist, but he’d always generously compensated his employees for their hard work.

  Jordan walked into his office, touching the wall switch and flooding the space with light. Tossing his jacket on a leather chair, he rounded his desk and sat down. His personal secretary had stacked files on a side table for the Monday-morning staff meeting.

  Picking up a remote device, he pressed a button and music flowed from the speakers of a stereo unit concealed behind the doors in the mahogany armoire that matched the desk and tables. The melodious strains of a violin filled the office.

  Jordan switched on his computer, and while waiting for it to boot, his cell phone rang. He answered it without looking at the display. “This is Jordan.”

  “Jordan, Aziza.”

  His heartbeat kicked into a higher gear when her sultry voice came through the earpiece. He knew the only way she could’ve gotten his cell number was if Brandt had given it to her. “What’s up, Zee?”

  “I hate to ask you to do this to you, but is it possible for us to meet today?”

  He hesitated for a few seconds. “Sure. Um…”

  “I just got a call from a client that her teenage son was arrested for a DUI. They’re not going to release him until he’s arraigned on Monday, so I want to meet with her Saturday to let her know what to expect.”

  “No problem, Aziza. I’m on my way.”

  Jordan ended the call. He reversed his actions when he turned off the stereo, computer, retrieved his jacket and turned out the lights. Half an hour after walking into the offices of Chatham and Wainwright, he was back in his car, leaving Manhattan for Westchester County.

  Chapter 5

  Aziza chided herself for asking Jordan to drive to Bronxville when she read the crawl along the bottom of the television screen. A winter weather alert was in effect for the tristate area. The day before, temperatures had been in the upper 40s, and within twenty-four hours it was now in the mid-twenties with a forecast of sleet and, in some of the northern counties, snow.

  It had been an hour since she’d called him, and during that time rain had changed over to sleet, and now it was snowing—heavily. Maybe, she thought, he’d changed his mind about driving up once he’d seen the weather forecast. She picked the receiver off the cradle in the kitchen and hit redial. It rang three times before his sonorous voice filled her ear.

  “This is Jordan.”

  She smiled. “And this is Aziza. I’m calling to tell you that if you haven’t left the city, then don’t. It’s snowing like crazy up here.”

  A deep chuckle caressed her ear. “It’s too late. I’m pulling into your driveway as we speak.”

  Her stomach did a flip-flop. “Don’t turn off your car. I’m going to raise the garage door so you can park inside.” She hung up, walked over to the door that led to an attached garage and pressed a button. The automatic door slid up and a racy sports car maneuvered next to her late-model Nissan SUV.

  Aziza wasn’t aware of how fast her heart was beating until she saw Jordan Wainwright emerge from his car. She’d spent all day trying to remember what he’d actually looked like. It was one thing to observe a person one-on-one, and another when they were around the other people. Even sitting with him in Brandt’s library had proven to be a distraction, because at any time someone could’ve walked in. What she hadn’t forgotten were his eyes. They were dazzling.

  “Where’s your coat?” she asked, stepping back when he walked into the kitchen.

  Jordan smiled. “It’s in the car.” Leaning over, he kissed her cheek. “How are you?” His eyes swept over her. Aziza Fleming was a chameleon.

  The night before she had been a sexy siren in a revealing dress and stilettos, and today she’d morphed into the girl next door in a pair of fitted jeans that showcased the womanly curves of her body, long-sleeve tee and black suede balle
t-flats shoes. A few wisps had escaped from her dark hair that she’d pinned up off her neck.

  Aziza inhaled his warmth and the lingering fragrance of a man’s cologne that was as bold and dramatic as the man standing in her kitchen. Jordan Wainwright appeared taller and larger than he had the night before. His tailored attire had artfully concealed a toned body that was incongruous with someone who spent hours sitting behind a desk. He hadn’t shaved, and the stubble on his lean jaw enhanced rather than detracted from his patrician face. In fact, she liked seeing him in jeans and a shirt, because it made him look less formal.

  “I’m good. I’m sorry you had to drive up here in the snow.”

  He waved a hand. “I learned to drive in snow after living in New England for seven years.” Raising his chin, he sniffed the air like a large cat. “Something smells good.”

  Slipping her hand in his, Aziza steered Jordan over to a table in a corner of the large eat-in kitchen. “It’s roast chicken. I decided to cook today because I’ll be tied up tomorrow. I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like something to drink?”

  Jordan was going to tell her coffee, but he’d already exceeded his normal two cups trying to counter the effects of the tequila shots he’d downed at the party.

  “I’ll have tea with lemon.”

  Aziza peered closely at him. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Sure,” he said much too quickly. “Why would you ask that?”

  “You look a little queasy.”

  Jordan swallowed. Kyle had mentioned he looked a “little green around the gills.” Did he really look that hungover? “I’m afraid I did overindulge last night,” he admitted.

  “You seemed okay when I left.”

  He closed his eyes. “It was after you left that I got into a competition where the guys were doing shots.”

  “That’s frat boy craziness,” she spat out.

  “You sound like my law partner.”

  “Then he must be a very wise man,” Aziza countered.