A continuous wall of windows provided a panoramic view of the river and the George Washington Bridge. The sun was setting, casting a bright-orange glow over the calm surface of the Hudson River and the Palisades. A palette of white wicker chairs, seat cushions, sisal rugs, whimsically framed botanical prints and an abundance of flower arrangements and potted topiaries brought the outdoors in. Closing the distance between them, Kyle stood behind Ava at the windows.
“What are you doing?” she asked, when he touched her hair.
“Feeling your hair. How did you get it to curl so tightly?”
Ava smiled, but didn’t turn around. “It’s my natural hair. I usually flat-iron it then bump the ends.”
Kyle tugged on a curl. “You don’t relax it?”
“I have it relaxed when I let it grow because it takes too long to blow or flat-iron.”
“It smells like flowers and coconut.”
“My shampoo is…” Her words trailed off when a chiming echoed throughout the apartment. “Excuse me,” she said, rushing over to the intercom on the wall outside the solarium. Ava pushed a button. “Yes,” she said into the speaker.
“Miss Warrick, this is Roberto in the lobby. Miss Nelson and Miss Vargas are asking to see you. Should I send them up?”
“Yes, Roberto.” She released the button and found Kyle staring at her.
“Should I leave?” he asked.
“Please don’t,” Ava insisted.
She hadn’t realized how much she enjoyed seeing and talking with Kyle until today. At first she’d thought him pompous, arrogant, but she’d changed her assessment of him after listening to him talk about his brush with the juvenile justice system, and not wanting to disappoint his parents. She had clients with children who had begun their young lives as repeat juvenile offenders and who were now convicted criminals.
“Are you sure, Ava?”
She smiled. “Yes, Kyle, I’m very sure.”
CHAPTER 5
Ava opened the door to find her agency’s receptionist and a social-work intern flashing Cheshire-cat grins. Both were holding covered aluminum pans from which wafted the most delicious smells.
“Surprise!” they chorused.
“Come in,” Ava urged, stepping back as they made their way into the spacious foyer. She’d gotten calls from some of her colleagues asking how she was feeling or if she needed anything, but she hadn’t expected any of them to show up at her apartment.
Debra Nelson, the older of the two, had been with the New Lincoln Family Center for more than a decade, since it had opened its doors to provide mental-health counseling services to low-income Upper West Side residents.
Debra’s dark brown eyes narrowed as she stared at Ava. Her equally dark brown smooth face was framed by a profusion of salt-and-pepper twists. “Damn, girl, you look as if you ran into a fist.”
“It was an air bag.”
Maribel Vargas, one of two bilingual social-work interns on staff from Fordham University’s School of Social Welfare, shook her head while sucking her teeth. “You need to sue that car company. We took up a collection in the office and instead of buying flowers we decided food was a better choice. I called mi tío, who owns the best Dominican restaurant in Washington Heights, and told him to fix un poco algo for you.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Ava insisted, smiling. First Kyle, now her coworkers wanted to make certain she had enough to eat.
“Yes, we did,” Debra countered.
Ava reached for Debra’s tray. “Let me help you with that.”
Debra slapped at her hand. “Leave it be. You’re not supposed to do anything strenuous, and this is a little heavy.”
“Let me take it,” said a deep voice behind them.
Ava turned to find Kyle standing only a few feet away. She turned back to the two women. “This is my friend, Kyle Chatham. Kyle, these are my coworkers, Debra Nelson and Maribel Vargas.”
Kyle took the trays of food. “It’s nice meeting you, ladies.”
“Same here,” Maribel and Debra chorused, staring openly at Kyle.
He winked at Ava. “I’ll put them in the kitchen.”
“Thank you. Debra, Mari, please come sit down. I hope you’re going to stay long enough to eat.” She led them into the living room and waited until they sat on a tufted leather sofa before taking a matching loveseat.
“I can’t stay too long,” Debra said. “I usually give myself a facial on Monday nights.”
“I can only hang out for a little while because I have to go home and hit the books,” Maribel said. “I decided to take one course this summer,” she added when Ava gave her a questioning look.
“Didn’t you tell me you were going to take the summer off?” Ava asked Maribel.
“That was before I decided to break up with my boyfriend. He was taking up way too much of my time. Speaking of boyfriends,” Maribel said sotto voce, “where did you find Señor Delicioso?”
It took Ava a few seconds to realize Maribel was talking about Kyle. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Debra leaned forward. “Is he single?” she whispered.
Ava went completely still. Debra’s query made her aware that she knew very little about Kyle Chatham. He’d told her he was thirty-eight, an attorney and lived in Harlem. She didn’t know whether Kyle was single, married or engaged. He’d mentioned she was very different from a lot of other women he’d met, but that didn’t translate into he was available.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “As I told you, we’re just friends.”
“Do you want me to ask him?” Maribel questioned.
Ava stared at the graduate student. Maribel was strikingly attractive, with a mop of curly raven-black hair, rich olive coloring, delicate features and a pair of large hazel eyes that sparkled like precious jewels.
“Don’t you dare!”
Debra slapped at Maribel’s knee. “Behave yourself.”
“I….” Maribel’s response died on her lips and her eyes widened appreciably when Kyle walked into the living room. To say Kyle Chatham was drop-dead gorgeous was an understatement. When introduced to him, his intense, deep-set, warm-brown eyes seemed to look not at her but through her.
Maribel gestured to Ava to look behind her.
Ava shifted to find Kyle wearing his suit jacket. “Excuse me, ladies.”
Rising to her feet, she walked over to Kyle and took his arm. “What’s up?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“I’m leaving now.”
“But I thought we were going to share dinner?”
He dipped his head. “We’ll do it tomorrow. I put the steak away and turned off the oven. The potatoes will finish baking.”
Ava stared up at the man who’d promised to come to see her the following night even though she didn’t know whether he was committed to another woman. And if he was, then he was no different than the first man to whom she’d given her love and her innocence.
Reaching for his hand, she led him into the foyer. “I need to ask you something before I can agree to you coming back tomorrow.”
Kyle looked down at Ava, his gaze meeting and fusing with hers. “You want to know if I’m married, don’t you?”
A rush of heat stung Ava’s face as she averted her gaze. “Yes.”
His free arm going around her waist, Kyle pulled her closer, pressing his mouth to her ear. “I’m not married and I’ve never been married.”
She smiled. “Engaged?”
“No. Now do I have your permission to come back tomorrow?”
“Yes, Kyle.”
“Good.” He released her, then leaned down to brush a kiss over her parted lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Ava watched as he turned, opened the door, then closed it behind him. She had an answer to Maribel’s question. Kyle Chatham was a single man. No, she mused. At thirty-eight he wasn’t just a single man but a bachelor—a confirmed bachelor.
She returned to the living room. “There’s no way I’m going to
be able to eat all that food, so either you stay and eat some or I’ll make a couple of doggie bags.”
Maribel popped up. “I’ll stay long enough to eat some plátanos maduros and baked chicken.”
Debra pushed to her feet. “I love me some sweet plantains. I’ll stay, too.”
Ava smiled. “Follow me, ladies.” She wasn’t going to tell them about asking Kyle whether he was married because she’d always managed to keep her private life private. No one knew she’d been living with a man until after she’d moved out and he began leaving harassing telephone calls on the agency’s voice mail. That had ended when the medical director notified the police, who took the necessary action and the calls stopped altogether.
* * *
Ninety minutes later Ava closed the door behind her coworkers. She’d eaten Caribbean cuisine many times since moving to New York but none had surpassed the food Maribel’s uncle had prepared. The baked chicken was flavorful and tender, the yellow rice with pigeon peas fluffy and savory and the fried plantains sweet with crisp edges. She’d packed takeout containers for Debra and Maribel because there was no way she would be able to eat half of the trays of food before it spoiled.
Walking across the living room, she climbed the staircase to the second floor. She went into the solarium instead of her bedroom. Whenever she wasn’t eating or sleeping Ava could be found reclining on the chaise in the solarium, listening to music, reading or just staring out the window at the bucolic views of the river. She didn’t want to think of the time when the Servinskys returned from their two-year assignment and she would have to look for another place to live.
She’d lived downtown, worked in midtown, and she now lived uptown. It was becoming more expensive to live in Manhattan, which meant living in one of the other four boroughs was becoming more of a consideration. Her first choice was Brooklyn, then the Bronx. Staten Island and Queens would be her last choices because they meant crossing a bridge or a two-fare zone to come into Manhattan.
A dull pain reminded Ava of her head injury as she closed her eyes. When she’d gotten up in the middle of the night she’d had to take two Tylenol within minutes of her feet touching the floor. After a breakfast of tea with a slice of buttered raisin toast, she’d gotten back into bed and slept until Kyle called her. It was more than twelve hours now since she’d last taken the pain medication and she was loath to swallow more.
Her high-school perfect-attendance award wasn’t because she’d never gotten sick, but rather that she’d refused to acknowledge when she wasn’t feeling well. She’d attended classes with sniffles, coughs, menstrual cramps and the occasional low-grade fever.
The swelling and bruising were fading rapidly but Ava knew it would take time for her headaches and dizziness to subside so she could resume her day-to-day routine.
* * *
Lines of frustration marred Kyle’s forehead as he studied four photographs taken by a closed-circuit camera. He’d spent a quarter of an hour staring at the same images of Rashaun Hayden pointing a gun, another of him hitting the store clerk with a gun, a third of his client jumping over the counter and a fourth of Rashaun with a fistful of money.
Setting aside three of the photos, he picked up the one with Rashaun with the handgun. Swiveling on his chair, he stood up and walked over to the window. His eyes narrowed as he perused the photograph. Rashaun had worn a hoodie during the robbery, yet it hadn’t concealed all of his face in three of the four photos. Enough of his features were visible to make him recognizable. However, it was the one with the gun where his features were hidden from the camera and it was Rashaun’s hand that garnered Kyle’s complete concentration.
“Kyle, there’s a Jordan Wainwright on the line asking to speak to you. Do you want me to take a message?”
He turned away from the window and returned to his desk, activating the speaker feature on the telephone console. “Yes, Cherise. I’ll talk to him.” The last time he’d spoken to Jordan, Kyle had told his former colleague to get back to him in two weeks for an answer to whether he would hire him. He’d given the notion of bringing Jordan on as a partner a great deal of thought. The country had changed dramatically now that it had an African-American as president, the racial demographics of Harlem were changing every day, and if his practice was to achieve success then his staff had to reflect the neighborhood’s demographics.
“Good morning, Chat.”
Kyle smiled. Most of the staff at Trilling, Carlyle and Browne had shortened his last name from Chatham to Chat. “How are you doing, buddy?”
“I’m good, Chat.”
“When would you like to sit down and discuss joining the firm?”
There was a swollen silence before Jordan said, “How about tonight?”
Kyle remembered he’d promised Ava they’d eat together. “Tomorrow is better for me.”
“Name the time and place.”
“I’m open, Jordan.”
“Do you like Japanese food?”
“Yes,” Kyle said, smiling.
“I’ll make reservations at Hasaki for seven. It’s on East Ninth Street near—”
“I know where it is,” Kyle said quietly, interrupting Jordan. “I’ll see you tomorrow at seven.”
He ended the call and returned his attention to the photograph. Then it hit him! Rashaun was wearing a ring on his right hand in one photograph, but it was missing in the others. Punching the intercom, Kyle buzzed his legal secretary.
“Cherise, please call Mrs. Hayden and have her get back to me ASAP.” He drummed his fingers on the top of the desk while waiting for Cherise to connect him with the teenager’s mother.
“Hold on, Kyle. I’m putting Mrs. Hayden through.”
“Mrs. Hayden, I’d like to ask you whether your son wears a ring?” he asked Rashaun’s mother.
“No. His father and I won’t let him wear any jewelry. Why?”
“In one of the photographs Rashaun is wearing a ring fashioned into a lion’s head.”
There came a beat. “I know for certain that Rashaun doesn’t own a ring like that, but I know who does.”
“Who, Mrs. Hayden?”
There was another pause. “He’s a boy I warned Rashaun not to hang out with.”
“What’s his name, Mrs. Hayden?”
“I don’t know his real name, but Rashaun calls him Boots.”
“Does Boots have a last name?”
“I—I don’t know it.”
Mrs. Hayden couldn’t give him a name but Kyle knew someone who could. He’d defended a young man charged with petty larceny and had convinced the judge to give him probation rather than jail time. His former client was familiar with enough neighborhood petty thugs to fill a book.
“I’ll call my son and ask him.”
“Don’t do that,” Kyle urged.
“Have you found something that will get my son off?”
“Mrs. Hayden, I’m going to be truthful with you. I believe Rashaun knows who robbed and beat that storekeeper.”
“But, he swore to me he doesn’t know who did it.”
Kyle heard the desperation in his client’s mother’s voice. He didn’t want to tell the woman he believed Rashaun was lying to her and had lied to him. “I know you want to believe your son, Mrs. Hayden, but as his attorney I don’t believe him.”
“What are you going to do, Mr. Chatham?”
“I’m going to do what I have to do to prove Rashaun’s innocence.”
“I’ve just about worn out my knees praying for Rashaun and praying for you, too.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hayden.”
Kyle clenched his teeth in frustration after ending the call. He couldn’t do what he actually wanted to do: get in Rashaun’s face and tell him flat-out that he knew he was lying, that he knew he was covering for someone, that he knew he didn’t want to snitch because he feared retaliation against himself or even family members.
Reaching for the telephone, he dialed the number to the cell phone he’d given his informant
. It took less than a minute for Kyle to tell him what he wanted. He made another call, this one to the A.D.A. handling the Hayden case. The day before he’d asked for photos and today he wanted a copy of the tape from the closed-circuit camera.
“Look, Chatham, you got the pictures. The tape is going to show the same thing,” the assistant district attorney said.
“I want the tape, A.D.A. Clarkson.”
“Lighten up, Chatham. Rashaun Hayden is nothing but a wannabe thug who should be taken off the street so he can’t hurt law-abiding citizens trying to eke out a living.”
“Save the summation for the courtroom,” Kyle shot back. “I’ll send a messenger to pick up the tape.” He slammed the receiver on its cradle in frustration. NY vs. Hayden would mark the fourth time Kyle was scheduled to face the arrogant, condescending assistant district attorney.
Kyle and Skyler Clarkson had attended the same law school, were in some of the same classes, and as the son and grandson of judges, Skyler had perfected an air of entitlement that irked those who worked with him.
He made one more telephone call to Cherise to tell her to contact a messenger service to pick up the video tape from the Manhattan D.A.’s office. He pushed the Do Not Disturb feature on the phone, then walked into a smaller inner office he’d set up as his inner sanctum. It was where, when he was working around the clock, he took power naps on a sofa that converted into a queen-size bed, and it was where he retreated when he wanted to be alone to think and clear his head.
Reclining on the sofa, his head resting on one arm while his long legs hung over the other, Kyle’s thoughts drifted to Ava Warrick when he should’ve been trying to identify a loophole in the D.A.’s case.
The assistant district attorney thought of Rashaun Hayden as a street thug while Kyle saw him as a gullible young man who’d chosen the wrong friends. Mr. Hayden had confided that once the trial was over he was relocating to his family’s ancestral home outside Charleston, South Carolina. James Hayden, a carrier with the postal service, had put in for a transfer and his clinical-dietitian wife had already secured a position with a skilled nursing facility.
Man of Fate Page 7
